AN: So it's been a while hasn't it, far longer than intended. I could bore you with the details, but you probably don't want to hear about that. In the end it's just a lack of time and motivation really, and real life getting in the way. Turns out the world of A song of Ice and Fire is far larger and complex than I imagined, and filled with a lot of detail and events that a brushed aside in the tv adaption Game of Thrones. Which has slowed things slightly as I am taking elements that I like from both the books and the tv series and blending them into the version of the world I'm using. It's taking longer than I thought to get things right, especially as the story advances and more pieces start moving. So there you go a brief summary of why it's taken so log.
Either way, here it is, hope you enjoy. That said don't expect a huge amount of action yet, this chapter is about setting up events, developing and fleshing out characters, introducing news ones with a bit of fluff before things take a serious turn and the next arc begins with things hotting up in Essos and kicking off in the North.
That said, I will say a reread might be useful, just to familiarise yourself with the details.
That said here is chapter 30, I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review etc. If you have any questions or suggestions, please feel free to PM me, or if not join my discord. The link is in my bio, and at the bottom of the page.
Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson, Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire.
( - )
(Last Time)
"What is dead may never die!" Balon cried again, his own black eyes gleaming with enthusiasm as the body pushed the lank brown hair out of its face, revealing a cold, ghostly pale face. Its skin was so pale it was almost translucent. This only made the black veins and blood vessels that flowed beneath its skin stand out all the more prominently.
"But rises again stronger!" Yara Greyjoy, his daughter, rasped out seawater and black bile dribbling down from her mouth as she stood up and waded out of the ocean. Behind her, Balon could see her fellow captains doing the same.
"But rises again stronger!" Balon echoed with a giggle.
The Drowned God was with them now, in ways he had never been before.
( - )
Chapter 30
( - )
(With Percy)
That morning the citizens of the city, from the high-born to the low-born, awoke to the early morning sun bathing King's Landing, and the Red Keep, in its late summer glow.
Overhead seabirds rang out their morning greetings as they glided over the city, even as the ocean air wafted into the hot, densely packed city, momentarily easing the ever-present stench of the city with its fresh, bracing breeze.
Things could almost be called peaceful for denizens of King's Landing as they started their days, or as peaceful as things could ever be in the fasting-moving, hectic capital city.
In the Red Keep, however, things were less than peaceful.
Instead, the entire complex was a hive of chaotic activity as hundreds of servants and maids ran back and forth at the beck and call of the many dozens of nobles and dignitaries that were staying in the Red Keep, even as the stewards acted the part of grand marshals directing their battalions on the field of battle, as they rushed to finish the preparations for the upcoming royal wedding.
Down in the bowels of the castle things were already heating up as the keep's gigantic ovens were stoked back to life and preparation began for the upcoming wedding banquet, a banquet that would be one of the largest in recent memory with over six hundred people from all across the Seven Kingdoms and further afar in attendance.
Neither Lady Olenna Tyrell nor the Dowager Queen Cersei Baratheon knew how to keep things small-scale, despite the request of their king to do so.
Instead, the two women between them had almost seemed to make it a competition between themselves as they continuously tried to outdo and one-up one another with regard to the feast, the entertainment and the guest list.
They had both made it their mission in life to make the occasion one of the grandest and most extravagant spectacles that the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen; a visual example for all and sundry of the might of the Seven Kingdoms and its 'two greatest Houses', and of King Tytan Baratheon the Blessed's reign.
It was all, in Percy's opinion, very over the top.
Fortunately for the kingdom's depleted coffers, however, both Houses Lannister and Tyrell had already offered to foot the bill for the wedding between themselves.
Far away from all the hustle and bustle of the preparations within the Keep, and even further from the slowly awakening city and the rapidly gaining fervour that had slowly begun to grip the everyday populace as nobles and knights - those elite enough to be invited to the wedding, but too low to be offered rooms in the Red Keep - began parade their way through the rapidly awakening streets in their finest, was Percy.
His mind was racing a mile a minute as he ignored the goings-on in the background, and instead focused upon the here and now.
"How are you feeling?" Jamie asked from behind him, breaking Percy out of his thoughts. "Are you nervous?"
"Yes," Percy replied softly, his gaze not on his uncle but instead on the mirror in front of him.
He was dressed in some of the finest clothes he possessed; wearing a dark red and black doublet with golden embroidery over the top of an expensive white shirt, a pair of black, similarly gold embroidered, breeches and a pair of polished black leather boots. To accentuate his outfit, he had a gaudy ceremonial sword belted to his hip, and a similarly gaudy chain necklace made out of thick gold around his neck; upon which was the sigil of a crowned stag on display for all to see. To finish off his outfit, he also had a golden antlered crown balancing on his freshly cut dark hair.
To those around him, he probably looked the very image of a regal, powerful king.
In his own eyes, however, he looked more like a Renaissance fair reject.
Over the years, he had thought he'd gotten used to the fashion and culture of Westeros.
He'd got used to wearing breeches instead of jeans, doublets and hand-stitched shirts instead of factory-made t-shirts and hoodies, and just to the general medieval style they had going on in Westeros. He had even got used to feudalism and the idea of kings, queens and the nobility still being the ruling class. Hades, he'd even got used to shitting in a bucket.
But looking in a mirror now, he had a hard time reconciling the person he had been with the person he saw looking back at him in the mirror.
Before Tartarus, he'd been little more than a rebellious teen. He had little to no fashion sense and just wore what he was given, usually clothes his mother bought him from a thrift shop. He'd just been a run-of-the-mill kid really, just one with more power than sense and the weight of the world on his shoulders.
When he'd been on quests, or at Camp he had similarly kept it casual, either with jeans and a t-shirt, or on occasion, when the situation demanded it, armour.
In Tartarus, however, things had been different, and he'd had to make do with whatever he could find.
In the beginning, he'd just worn the clothes he'd fallen into the Pit with for as long as they lasted. After they'd rotted away or became too torn up to wear, he'd gone the Damasen route and had started crafting his own clothing from the spoils of the monsters he killed. Fashion and his own appearance had been the last thing on his mind down in the Pit, all he had cared about down there was surviving until the next day.
Here on Westeros, however, things were different.
For one, he had been born ludicrously rich compared to ninety-nine point nine per cent of those around him.
From the moment he had been reborn, he had always had servants waiting on him hand and foot, and attending to his every need. He'd also had weavers, armourers, tanners, seamstresses and merchants who could and would get him anything he wanted or desired. He'd had the freedom to do whatever he had wanted, and wear whatever he could acquire. From birth, he had wanted for nought in this world.
Compared to the hell that was Tartarus, and the lower working class drudgery that was his first life of sorts in New York, Westeros, for all its cultural and technological backwardness, was practically a paradise.
Yes, the technology of this world was limited. It was akin to maybe the technology that was available in Europe during the dark ages. Or so he thought, he'd not done much in the way of European history at school, and what he had learned had been so long ago, centuries from his perspective, that he struggled to even remember the basics. He knew about a few things in principle, but he couldn't remember the exact details, or how they worked. One thing he did know for sure, though, was that the world he lived in now was ass-backwards compared to the one he had originally been born into.
Despite that, however, he'd forged his own life here, and it was a life he now thoroughly enjoyed, or at least that was what he thought.
Sure he'd started this new life off rough; drinking and whoring himself into oblivion in his early years, after the enormity of what had happened to him had sunk in and the depression, exhilaration and manic fervour that had followed, had taken a grip of his mind.
He'd done the very same things he had later gone on to castigate his father, Robert, for doing; looking back at it now he'd been a hypocrite, and he knew it.
In fact, in some ways, considering his lifestyle during his early to late teens, it was a miracle he had even lived as long as he had.
Personally, he put it down to it being due to his demigod physiology, that or the magic that had, until recently, flowed sluggishly through his veins. The same remaining scraps of divinity that had protected his mind from completely shattering under the weight of his own memories and nightmares, had likely also protected his body from the abuse he had put it through.
Either way, he'd eventually found his way in this world, and had found ways to adapt. He'd had custom clothing made for him which made him feel more comfortable and less like a cosplayer, and had found freedom with the band of friends and companions he'd gathered for himself. He'd explored his new world, and taken advantage of his lofty position as much as he could to roam about freely, indulging himself in everything life had to offer. Perhaps overcompensating for all the years that had been taken from him while in Tartarus.
He'd also found happiness in the arms of a family that truly loved him.
He would never forget his mother, Sally. But Tommen, Myrcella, Jamie and even Cersei, were also his family now, and likewise, they all loved him just as much as he loved them.
Sure his mother had megalomaniacal tendencies, but her loyalty to her family was beyond doubt and for all her flaws, and she had a number of them, he knew for a fact that she loved him.
His now-deceased father, Robert, had also been his family. He might have been distant and callous, and also cruel in the way he had neglected his children and deliberately humiliated his wife and good brother, but in some ways, he'd still been a better father figure to Percy, than both Poseidon and Gabe. There had been a few fleeting moments where he had stepped up and been a father, a few small instances where he had dug deep and shown that he was, deep down, despite all his failures and flaws, a good man at his core.
Joffrey and Tywin meanwhile he knew were nasty little shits. But they were also still family, and so he had to learn to live with them. As for his uncles Tyrion and Kevan, well he didn't know either of them as well as he should due to differing reasons. But that was something he would be working on in the future. Just as he knew he would also endeavour to get to know Margaery, and her family, soon to be his family, better with time.
Added to his immediate family, there was also both Leaf and Oz. Who, aside from himself,were the only other truly supernatural beings he had met in this world. Both of whom had become important to him in ways he didn't even fully understand himself.
He'd found his niche in this world and had carved out a life for himself, and a good one at that.
Or, at least, so he had thought.
For some reason now though, wearing the clothing picked out for him by others and bearing a crown on his head that he only had through the fortunate circumstances of his birth, he felt like an imposter, a fraud, a stranger in his own skin.
He didn't feel like Tytan Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
But nor did he feel like Percy Jackson, the Son of Poseidon, Slayer of Titans, Bane of Giants, and Hero of Olympus.
He was neither of them, but instead something in between. He was almost a hybrid of the aspirational, young demigod with his whole life ahead of him, and the boozing, carousing Crown Prince who was far too jaded and cynical for his own good, and who had a ruthless streak a mile wide. Furthermore, he was closer in mindset to Tytan than Percy, but at the same time, he didn't feel completely like Tytan any more. It was an odd, dissociative feeling.
"You shouldn't be," Jamie said calmly, breaking Percy from his thoughts as he pushed off the wall and walked up behind him.
"Huh?" Percy replied articulately, tearing his gaze from the mirror and his own reflection, before smiling down at the seamstresses as they made their last-minute alterations, after which he then looked to his armour-clad uncle.
"You shouldn't be nervous. You're the king, Tytan. You literally tore the Eyrie down, a little thing like a wedding shouldn't bother you. Besides, Margaery Tyrell is a beautiful girl, one of the most beautiful in all the Seven Kingdoms. Men, both highborn and low, would cut off their right hands to be in your position." Jamie pressed on, a slight grin now on his face as he reached out and jostled Percy's shoulder with said right hand.
"He has a point," Ivar nodded, peering over at Percy with his pale blue eyes from where he leaned against the wall.
Martin, Luke, Matthias and Ubba all added their own agreement and encouragement.
His friends, his sworn swords, were all arrayed around the room, those on duty wearing gleaming black armour resplendent with the crown stag of House Baratheon. Those not on duty were wearing their own finery, and casually drinking and chatting amongst themselves as they waited for their friend, their king, to finish psyching himself up for his big day.
"You're not exactly a blushing virgin yourself anyway. There's no need to be nervous when you've done stuff like this before." Ivar continued.
"I've not been married before," Percy shot back.
"I doubt it makes much of a difference," Martin chuckled.
"Like any of you would know, none of you fuckers have ever been married before," Percy replied dryly.
"Well, yes, but that's because we're not as thick as pig shit." Ubba boomed out, his words bringing chuckles to the rest of the room.
"Did you just call your king stupid?" Percy asked calmly.
Ubba hummed in response. "No…"
"I didn't think so," Percy grinned, before shaking his head.
He was ready for this.
He had done much harder things in his life than this.
Compared to some of the things he'd done, marrying a beautiful girl he hardly knew would be a walk in the park.
Nodding to himself at that thought, and thanking the harried-looking seamstress, Percy turned away from the mirror and fully looked at his friends. He was done with this introspective bullshit, and questioning himself. It was time to look to the future. "Well, I'm ready."
"And don't you look beautiful," Ivar replied sarcastically.
"Shut up," Percy grinned, straightening his doublet for a moment before he started walking towards the door.
This day would be a long one, and a busy one too.
With it being a royal wedding it would be filled with far too much pageantry; a prolonged ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor, a lot of sitting around greeting and making small talk with the visiting hundreds of nobles; thanking them for their gifts and for attending, followed by a seven course feast and a night of revelry and entrainment.
It would be a miracle if he'd have enough energy to even perform when he finally made it back to his bedchambers.
Still, he was ready, he could do this.
This day would be a historic one after all, it would involve the union of the Houses of Baratheon and Tyrell and the crowning of a new Queen.
For the generations that followed, this day would be an important part of their history, one that young kids would be taught about for centuries to come.
Percy's mind flashed back to his intended, at that thought.
Margaery Tyrell.
She really was a very beautiful girl.
But more than that, she was also quick-witted and sharp too.
She wasn't just a pretty wallflower, there only to look good and make the occasional vacuous comment to appease the court.
No, beneath her demure façade, and her fake flattery, she had actual substance, she had a sharp mind, a mischievous sense of humour and a strong will. He'd seen glimpses of it while speaking to her. When he had cut through her bullshit with some of his more blunt comments, he had spied just who she truly was behind the carefully crafted veneer of perfection she wore, she was clever, wilful and full of good intentions and ideas.
She would be a good queen, and, he hoped, a woman he could very easily grow to love.
With that thought securely in mind, he strode across the room and burst through the doors in front of him, startling a passing servant even as he continued his journey down the corridors, his friends filing in behind him as he walked.
The big day was finally upon him, it was time to get married.
( - )
(With Margaery)
Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, Margaery Tyrell, soon to be Margaery Baratheon, quietly ignored the twittering and giggling of her friends and handmaids as she instead stared at herself in the mirror, completely lost in her own thoughts, even as they added the finishing touches to her gown.
Today was her wedding day.
It was the day she'd been waiting for ever since she could remember.
It was the day that all the plans her family had for her, the beautiful rose of Highgarden, would come to fruition.
Ever since she had been little more than a babe sitting at her grandmother's feet playing with her toys, she had known where her life would lead.
She would be a queen.
No, she had been born to be the Queen.
It was practically fated, after all at the time of her birth, Tytan Baratheon was already three namedays and was already making a name for himself at court due to his unnatural strength and intellect for a child his age.
Already, whispers had been going through the great Houses that he was blessed by the Seven. That he was a symbol of the Baratheon's divine right rule.
As such, her birth was also seen as a blessing to her House.
A daughter of the main branch of House Tyrell, born within a few years of the Crown Prince.
It was like the favour of the Seven Divines themselves had shone down on House Tyrell at the time of her birth.
Or at least that was the way her father and mother told it.
Her grandmother, however, as usual, had been more down to earth.
She'd immediately seen the opportunities and had already started making plans for her future.
While her brothers, Garlan, Willas and Loras were running amok, playing knights and generally having a happy, carefree childhood, wanting for nothing. She'd been stuck in classes, learning everything she needed to know to both be an elegant lady of the court, and the future queen.
She had learnt the politics of the kingdom, how to walk, how to talk, how to dress. Furthermore, she'd been schooled from the moment she was old enough to understand how to use every aspect of her being; her body, voice, words, and appearance to manipulate and enthral those around her. Countless hours had been spent learning dancing, singing, poetry and embroidery. She could still remember the Septa smacking her hands with a switch whenever she made a single mistake, or put a toe out of line.
Discipline, control, grace and poise. They had all been impressed upon her from the time she first learned to walk.
Where her brothers had been allowed to lead happy, untroubled childhoods, and had been allowed, not encouraged, to follow their dreams and interests. She'd been controlled and repressed. Even her eldest brother, Willas, her father's Heir, had had more freedom than her.
She hadn't even been able to have any dalliances or awkward fumbles with stable boys and squires like her cousins and Loras when she had been in that awkward phase between being a girl and being a woman.
Instead, she had had to remain as pure as untouched snow for this boy, this prince, who at the time of her flowering, she had never met. In fact, looking back now, prior to coming to their being betrothed she had only met the thrice before, and each of those had only been in passing at a tournament when she'd been lucky enough for their paths to cross.
Years of her life had been dedicated to this day, and yet now it was finally upon her, she was feeling nervous.
No, that wasn't right.
She was feeling… scared?
Her brow furrowed at that thought.
Tytan Baratheon was a handsome man, and he seemed a kind one too, or at least on the surface. She'd been in his company for a couple of months now and everything she had seen of him so far painted him to be a kind, friendly and affable person. He listened when she spoke, he encouraged her to speak her mind, and he bantered with her and made her laugh. But all of that could just be a facade, something that he could switch on and off in an instant.
After all, despite being charming and easygoing, he was also a ruthless killer.
Since coming to the capital, she had heard tales of his exploits and feats. Most recently with the destruction of both House Bolton when he travelled to the North with his father, the massacre of the conspirators that tried to usurp him upon his father's death, and the slighting of the Eyrie and decimation of House Aryan.
She could even remember joking with him at the time about how he had used his powers to topple the Eyrie. She had found his unnatural powers interesting, not fascinating. But at the same time, they scared her. Tytan was powerful, and he knew it. He was powerful and had exercised that power to wipe out an ancient House, one far older and more prestigious than her own, on a whim.
The blood of his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, flowed strongly through his veins.
More than that, her grandmother, a fierce and headstrong woman who she had always thought feared no one, was cautious around Tytan.
Where normally she laid scorn on those around her with her sharp tongue, lending credence to the moniker she had earned herself as the Queen of Thorns, with Tytan, she instead seemed to walk on eggshells. She called him impressive and warned her to be wary of him. Which, considering this was her infamously prickly grandmother speaking, told her all she needed to know.
Something had happened between them.
She wasn't sure what, but whatever it was had made her grandmother nervous around him, and from her experience, her grandmother never got nervous or scared.
Tytan Baratheon, her future husband, was a contradiction and a mystery to her. She'd known him for months now, and she felt like she had barely even scratched the surface of just who he was. He was unlike anyone she had ever met.
On the one hand, whenever she had spoken to him, he had been kind and polite. A bit distant at times, and prone to being blunt, yes. But always pleasant, and had surprisingly listened to her when she spoke and had even actively encouraged her to speak her mind. It had been a pleasant surprise.
More than that he had shared her interests in helping the commonfolk to better themselves, he'd talked of cleaning up the city, reducing poverty and starvation, and in actually teaching the commonfolk the skill they'd need to not only survive and thrive but to also benefit the kingdom. They hadn't been just idle words either, she had done some asking around and had already discovered several plans and schemes to do just what he said were already underway.
On the face of it, he seemed like the ideal husband, one she would barely have to try and work her charm on, and a potentially great king.
But on the other hand, his reputation preceded him. He was rumoured to be a drunk and a whoremonger. More than three years prior, back when they had last met at a tournament, she had witnessed what he was like. Back then he had drunk and caroussed almost as much as his father, and by the time she had left, he'd had been engaging in some heavy petting with both a pretty maid and a lady of a minor noble House.
He had not left a good impression.
On top of that, he also had a fearsome reputation as a deadly warrior and a ruthless leader. He listened to advice and counsel when offered, but he didn't always take it. He was headstrong and principled. Her grandmother advised caution around him, and her brother, Loras, thoroughly disliked him, even as his lover, Renly, feared his nephew.
More than that he had made a point by humiliating House Stark, and forcing the former Lord Paramount, Eddard Stark, to take the Black for his part in Ycelle, Varys and Baelish's coup. Only to then do an about turn a month or so later and offer the new Lord of House Stark, and Warden of North, Robb Stark, the hand of his sister in marriage.
With one hand he had cast them down, but with the other, he had raised them up and bestowed them with one of the greatest honours he could.
It was just like him as a person, confusing and contradictory.
She just didn't understand him.
It was hard for her to compare the two contrasting versions of Tytan in her mind.
This also meant it had been hard for her to decide on which approach to take when trying to seduce and manipulate him, as she was taught.
Did she play it safe, keep her head down and play at being a pretty, submissive flower, even as she gradually wormed her way into his confidence in a more covert manner? It was a possibility, considering how blunt and straightforward he acted, and how unpredictable he was.
Or did she approach him openly under the belief that he was a kind and caring man, and offer him her advice and counsel overtly? That seemed to be what he wanted. Before, when she had done what he had been taught, and had laughed at his jokes, smiled coyly at him and acted interested in his passions and interests, he had seemed… almost unimpressed.
She just didn't know, she didn't know how to act around him, or what to say.
She didn't know whether he had been being honest with her in their past conversations or had just been speaking pretty words.
There had been truth to his plans for improving King's Landing and the lives of the commonfolk, so did that mean that there was also truth in everything else he had said?
At the moment, in all their past conversations, she had allowed him to take the lead and had acted accordingly. She had been reactive for the most part. When given the opportunity to speak her own mind, she had done so, but in a reserved way that would not offend.
Margaery furrowed her brow again at that thought.
This marriage was going to be more troublesome than she had ever believed possible.
If Tytan had just been a drunk, whore mongering buffoon like his father. Well, she wouldn't have liked it, but she could have worked with it. As rumours of his tendencies had spread, she had been taught how to leverage those failings to her advantage. Similarly, if he had been a sadist like his brother Joffrey, or soft like his youngest brother Tommen, she could have easily dealt with it. He was none of those things, or at least not on the surface.
He was annoyingly complex, more so than any man had a right to be.
She wasn't used to it.
Unfortunately, however, she'd have to get used to it soon enough.
After all, today was the day. The day her whole life had been leading to. It was the day that would change everything, and either bring her happiness and joy, or condemn her to a life of misery.
Either way, she'd have to make the best out of it, this is what she had wanted ever since she was old enough to want something.
Under the eyes of the Seven, the king would soon be hers, just as she, the queen, would soon be his.
At that thought, she took a deep breath, and took one last moment to collect herself, before opening her eyes and taking her appearance in.
Her dress was gold and pale green and hugged her waist and upper thighs, accentuating her slender and seductive build. It was based on the style of Highgarden and had been flawlessly tailored to her form, hugging her every curve. The neckline was generous, revealing enough of her ample breasts to attract attention, but not so much so as to be obscene. Her hair had been twisted, coiled and plaited into an elegant style, with two twin bangs framing her face. Around her neck, she could see an elegant golden necklace, set with diamonds and engraved with prancing golden stags. Set in the centre of the necklace and resting between her breasts was a smooth emerald which was the size of a pigeon egg and nearly the exact same shade as both the king's eyes and his dragons'.
She looked like a queen.
Forcing a smile on her face at that thought, she took one last look at herself, before she turned and flung the doors open, her giggling handmaids and companions following along behind her as she left the room and headed for the carriage that would take her to the Great Sept of Baelor.
Let the games begin.
( - )
(At the gates to King's Landing)
Walking up the steps to the Great Sept of Baelor, with the rest of the contingent sent from the Citadel, Marwyn smiled as he saw the crowns of commonfolk jostling each other at the side of the street, desperate to get a good view of the attendees, mainly the dashing knights of renown and the famously beautiful women of the Court.
To the casual observer, he knew he was probably not much to look at. He was a short, squat man with enormous hands, a thick chest and a hard ale belly. His hair was thin, ragged and white, making him look far older than he actually was. Additionally, he was ugly, he had known that since he had been a child. His nose was squashed and misshapen, a result of it having been broken several times in his youth, his brow was heavy, and his teeth were yellowing and had been stained permanently red from too many years of chewing sourleaf.
Despite his ugliness, however, he still managed to fit in with those around him. His robes were dark black and made of the finest wool, and lined with silk. They cost more than any member of commonfolk would ever earn in their lives. Added to that he had his completed chain around his neck, designating him as a maester, and a highly educated one as well, as he had well over a dozen links on his chain, including a Valyrian steel link, signifying his expertise in the higher mysterious. Added to that, he held a staff in his hand forged from pure Valryian steel.
His body and face might look like it belongs to an ugly, vagrant, but his robes, chain and staff all denoted him as a man of importance, as one of the Archmaesters of the Citadel, or more precisely as the Archmaester of Magic.
To those in the know, he was an important man, one worth befriending, despite his outward appearance and the less-than-pleasant rumours that he knew trailed him.
Say what you will about the learned maesters of the Citadel, to him the majority of them were little more than gossiping grey sheep.
Shaking his head at that thought, Marwyn instead entered the Great Sept of Baelor with the rest of the contingent, his small, beady black eyes immediately taking in his surroundings as he walked through the large doorway and into the vast chamber within. The place was completely packed with guests. There were so many crammed into the vast Sept, that the stewards for the wedding had apparently decided to remove seating save for all but the most infirm, or the most important. For the majority, it was now standing room only, and even then it was busy.
These men and women were the most powerful in the land. Some of them, he knew, were great lords and ladies that held power over tens of thousands of peasants, and who in times of trouble could call to arms, armies of thousands.
Other meanwhile, the minority of those attending this, the most august of events, were minor nobles, landed knights or members of the gentry. They were those who ruled over hundreds, and who could levy barely a few score armed and trained men when the banners were called.
Either way, the majority of those present were the backbone of the Baratheon dynasty, these great lords and ladies with their armies of serfs and men-at-arms, maintained the King's peace in their lands, even as they managed their great estates and levied huge taxes on those that dwelled within them, both for their own enrichment and for the enrichment of the Crown.
But they were also, Marwyn noted cynically, just as much indentured servants to the crown, as the commonfolk on their land were indentured to them.
These powerful men and women won their power through the fortunate circumstances of their birth. Had they dropped from the crotch of a less important person, they would have been nothing. They would have been just like the commonfolk that toiled day in and day out, scraping a living, and always living on the very cusp of abject poverty.
These individuals only had power because their ancestors won that power with the edge of their sword, or on the point of their lance. They gained their influence and wealth through violence and ruthlessness, and most of the time they ruled the same way, through fear, and through strength of arms. Very few nobles were truly loved by their subjects, they were tolerated at best because to do otherwise, to oppose them, would be death.
Unfortunately, as was often the case, those that lived by the sword often also died by the sword. The only thing staving their deaths at the hands of the countless masses below, a countless mass that could easily drag them from their pedestal and rip them to pieces, were the two great pillars that acted as the strong, unbreakable foundations of their society; the Crown and the Faith.
The Faith gave the nobles the divine right to rule, imposed order, and in some ways indoctrinated the populace into following the law of men. The everyday man or woman would not want to endanger their immortal souls by going against the nobles and the Faith that supported their rule, especially when the septons laboured the point in their weekly sermons decrying any rebellion against the Blessed King Tytan and his loyal courtiers as heresy. Of course, to guarantee this support the nobles regularly paid money into the Faith of the Seven's coffers.
Religion and belief, Marwyn knew from experience, was a powerful tool. Without it, the people would start asking questions like 'why are we working day in and day out toiling in the fields, only to hand over the majority of our harvest to a fat, corpulent shithead that is barely able to stand?'.
The second pillar was the Crown. Without a king, a figurehead to lead them and gather the collective might of Westeros behind him, the noble would be isolated and alone. Together they were strong and could quell any rebellion, by themselves they were weak and vulnerable. Furthermore, without the king and his rapidly growing private army, and influence, the nobles would fall to infighting as human nature kicked in, and they started jockeying for position and power.
For their society to work, there needed to be a king and a defined hierarchy.
Without that, there would be chaos, and many hundreds of thousands would die as their society tore itself to pieces.
In the end, the nobles were reliant on the king to secure their power bases, just as the king in times past relied on the nobles to manage their lands properly and keep the peace.
Now, however, things had started to change, the nobility were now more reliant on him than he was on them, especially with the speed at which the strength of the Royal Army and fleet was growing. The king was the ultimate authority in the land, they always had been, and the nobles knew it. But where before they could exert pressure on the king and influence his decisions, now they were struggling to find the leverage. Things were changing fast.
Still, for the moment the king, the nobles and the Faith. They all had a symbiotic relationship, but also a parasitic one too, as from an objective point of view, they were mainly just men, only indistinguishable from the masses due to the circumstances of their birth. And yet despite that, they jealously hoarded the vast majority of the wealth and power in Westeros, even as the silent majority struggled to scrape by.
Then again, was the Citadel any different?
They hoarded their collective knowledge and only shared scraps of it when it benefited them. They leveraged comfortable positions for their maesters in every keep and castle across Westeros, including in the North.
The maesters, the grey sheep, the Citadel's agents had infiltrated nearly every Noble House, great and minor, in seven of the seven kingdoms, and held the ear of, and passed on their counsel to, each and every member of those Noble Houses. They even had a member of the Citadel on the Small Council.
It was all about control in the end.
Or at least that was what he had thought, right up until the moment that Tytan Baratheon had shown the world that he possessed true power, and that he was different from his father, and the kings that came before him.
Unlike his father and the Targaryens of the last few centuries, Tytan Baratheon had the gift of magic.
His mother and the Faith of the Seven might claim otherwise, denying that it was magic, and instead proclaiming to all and sundry that his gifts were something else, a divine blessing from the gods, and evidence of his right to rule, but he knew different.
The fact he had hatched a dragon, a magical being that had nothing to do with the Faith of the Seven, was evidence enough of that in his eyes, and that was why he was here.
Magic, the higher mysteries. They were his passion, they were what he had dedicated his entire life to trying to understand.
He had been mocked for decades for his beliefs and interests and had often been told he was chasing fairy tales.
But he hadn't let the mockery stop him.
For years now he had waited, studying what the Crown Prince could do from afar, and biding his time. Waiting for him to free himself from the clutches of the mother and the Faith; none of whom he knew would allow a 'crackpot' Archmaester of Magic like himself near him, not when he was still just the Crown Prince and so still under Cersei Lannister's gnarled, claw-like thumb.
He'd also been waiting for him to prove his power to the world, and now he had.
The shattered remnants of the Eyrie were proof enough of that.
But more than that, he was the king now. He was free, and, from what he had heard, would soon be leaving the confines of the Red Keep and instead heading North. To the land where the Faith had no power, and far beyond the grasping, clawing reach of the Lannisters'.
As such, he had come to finally meet him.
Marywn smiled to himself at that thought, even as he watched the nobles jostling for a prime position as they gathered to attend the wedding of Tyan Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell.
He himself had chosen to stay at the edges of the sunken room, as such as the bells overhead tolled he was able to comfortably watch as the beautiful Tyrell girl was led into the Great Sept by her father and walked through the cavernous room, and up the steps to where her husband to be waited, with just his golden armoured uncle and three black armoured warriors, his infamous swornswords, for company.
Tearing his eyes away from the back of the king's head, Marwyn turned his attention back to Margaery.
It was very sweet in a way, just how shy and demure she looked.
She still had the elegance and grace one would expect from a daughter of one of the Great Houses, but there was also an innocence to her too, which when combined with her beauty, and the way the sun shone down from overhead, also made her look like the Maiden come to life.
Chuckling to himself at that thought - as if the gods would ever deign to come to earth and walk amongst the mortals - he continued to watch as Mace Tyrell, with a bow to the king, then offered Margaery's hand to Tytan's, and then stepped back, even as the king and his bride walked up the rest of the steps until they stopped in front of the High Septon.
Looking around, he could see that there was a range of emotions present in the large room; many of those present were smiling, either genuinely or because it was expected of them. Others, however, he noticed, seemed to be holding back scowls, or kept unnatural taut smiles on their faces in order to hide their displeasure.
Doran Martel, perhaps predictably, was one of the ones who seemed to be holding back a scowl.
But Marwyn was able to identify others amongst the visible crowd, some of whom surprised him.
Just why was Tywin Lannister looking so cold on the day of his grandson's wedding, and also why was the mother of the king's smile so false?
Then there was Renly, why did the king's uncle look so sour?
It was always interesting, Marwyn thought, to observe people's expressions when they didn't realise they were being watched.
Turning his attention back to the ongoing wedding as he heard the High Septon drone on, Marywn watched as Tytan shrugged a large black and gold ceremonial cloak from around his shoulders, before with a smile he carefully placed it around Margaery's shoulders.
Margaery gave him a bashful smile in response.
With that done the couple then turned to face the High Septon, their hands now clasped even as he wrapped a ribbon around their hands, "Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Tytan of House Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul," he continued, his voice booming throughout the vast chamber, "Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."
With a slight smile, Tytan turned to face the audience. He looked every bit the powerful and regal warrior king he was, his shoulders broad even without armour and his build powerful. He practically dwarfed his wife to be, "With this kiss, I pledge my love."
With those traditional words said, he turned and kissed his new bride, the room quickly filling with applause, even as he slipped an arm behind her back, and Margaery raised her own hand to cup his cheek.
It was a very sweet and tender moment.
They looked like they would be a good couple.
Smiling at that thought, Marwyn joined in with the applause, his gaze roving the crowd once more as he did so before coming to rest on an unnaturally still-looking hawk that was perched on the ledge of one of the Sept's upper windows, it's golden eyes watching the ongoing ceremony indifferently.
Was it a sign? Marwyn thought as he saw it, his hands coming together even as his mind became pensive. He was not a deeply religious man; his research into magic and its mysteries had made him a cynic by nature. But he still believed in signs, and if this was indeed a sign –which it might be considering just how still it was, and just how attentive its attention was as it gazed at the couple-, what could it mean? What did the hawk represent, and if it was a sign, what did it mean for the king and queen's union?
( - )
(With Percy)
It had happened.
It was done.
The time had finally come, and now gone.
They were married.
Those were the thoughts that swirled through Percy's mind as he sat in his ornate, throne-like chair at the high table and watched as the wedding feast, held in his and his new wife's honour, took place in front of him.
The place was packed, and there were hundreds in attendance. The feast was large enough to fill the entirety of the Red Keep's vast, palatial gardens and courtyard. Tables were groaning beneath the weight of the sheer amount of food and drink that had been placed on them, and the noise from the attendees, and from the dozens of entertainers for the feast who wandered from table to table; fire breathers, mummers, conjurers, dancers, acrobats, musicians, was almost deafening.
It was all just so extravagant.
It was also a statement, a statement to all those in attendance, telling them; 'look at how wealthy we are!'.
Percy forced a smile onto his face at that thought, even as he raised his goblet to another toast in their honour, it was one of a dozen or so toasts now.
From beside him, he could see Margaery comfortably sitting on her own throne, a gleaming, gem-encrusted, golden circlet sitting comfortably on the top of her head, and a gentle smile on her face as she made small talk with those around her. Hanging heavily across the back of her chair, he could spy the thick black, ceremonial cloak he had placed around her shoulders earlier, the sigil of her new House, the crowned stag, boldly stitched onto the black wool and practically shouting out her new status to all those present.
She was now Margaery Baratheon, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and his wife.
Smiling at that thought, Percy brought the goblet to his lips and took a sip of the sweet Dornish wine within.
It was an odd feeling to be married.
In some ways, he didn't really feel any different from before, and as such felt foolish for feeling so nervous prior to the ceremony.
At the same time though, it was slightly daunting thinking of the future now, as no matter what, Margaery would now be a part of it.
They were bound together under the eyes of the gods of this world.
More than that, theirs was a political union too, one that was done for the good of the realm, bringing House Tyrell comfortably into the fold, even as the marriages of his sister would secure the allegiance of House Stark. All that would be left after that would be to secure the allegiance of House Martel and Dorne and raise up one of the noble Houses of the Vale to take up the role of Warden of the East, which in and of itself was an honour that would forever secure the loyalty of said House, he was currently thinking House Royce would be a good idea.
All things considered, events were running smoothly. That said, if things went sour in any of his schemes, including in his own marriage to Margaery, discontent could quickly spread, and whispers of rebellion could once again spread.
Not that he thought that things would go wrong. No, for the moment he was optimistic about the future. The campaign to invade the Stepstones was underway, and the wealth of his kingdom was booming, they were even beginning to pay off their debts. The majority of the Great Houses were content, and he had just married a beautiful girl. Today was a joyous day, after all, one for celebration and merrymaking.
Still, Percy thought, as he looked on at the revelry; when he had been much younger, this wasn't how he thought things would go.
Then again, back in his youth, he had always thought that he'd be marrying for love. Specifically, he thought he'd be marrying his girlfriend at the time, Annabeth.
Shaking his head at that, long suppressed feelings of loss momentarily raising their head, he took another sip of his wine.
There was no point dwelling on events and missed opportunities that had long since passed, not when his future was sat right beside him, a bright smile on her face as she looked over and met his gaze.
"How are you enjoying the feast?" Percy asked, struggling for what else to say at that moment.
"It's wonderful," Margaery smiled brightly. "The music, the dancing, the performances, it's just like I imagine. It's everything I could have ever dreamt of!"
Percy smiled at that, his gaze panning over the crowd. He could see that several of his friends were already several drinks in, and looking the worst for it. In fact, looking around, he could see more than a few lords and knights looked pissed.
Glancing at the half-empty goblet of wine in his hand, Percy's smile widened a touch.
There was a lot of wine on offer at the moment.
As a wedding gift, Doran Martel had brought with him over two hundred barrels of the finest Dornish wine.
Unfortunately, considering how much people were drinking, he very much doubted there would be so much as a single barrel left by the end of the night.
"It's good. It's more relaxed… than I thought it would be." Percy finally replied, his gaze back on his new wife. "Considering that both my mother and your grandmother had influence in its organisation, I expected far more…"
"Extravagance? Pageantry?" Margaery asked, her lips curling up into a knowing smirk.
Percy nodded.
"Yes, they did get quite competitive. Fortunately, I stepped in at the end when things seemed to be escalating." Margaery smiled. "I didn't think you would appreciate some of the things they were contemplating."
"I'm glad," Percy nodded. The event was already extravagant and over the top, he dreaded to think what else Olenna or Cersei could have added.
Margaery hummed in response, before speaking again, her smile fading slightly. "Are you still set on going to the North?"
Blinking at the sudden question, Percy took a moment to centre himself before nodding. "Yes, it's unavoidable, I'm afraid. Robb Stark sent me an urgent missive, one that I just can't ignore."
"It must be an important matter then," Margaery said softly, questioningly. Her dark brown eyes met his own, as she shifted in her seat to face him.
"It is, it's… it's something I need to see for myself. Once I return, I will tell you all." Percy promised, his smile slipping as he remembered the content of the missive and his reasons for heading North. It wasn't ideal, he'd rather not leave the kingdom unattended for too long, not without putting in some checks for those who might try to take advantage of his absence, but it was something he had to do.
It was not in him to let it rest.
Margaery smiled weakly. "Are you sure you don't want me to accompany you?"
It only took him a single glance to see how little she wanted to go to the North with him.
He suspected that she was only offering now because she thought it was her duty as his wife to do so.
"I appreciate the offer and would normally love to have you with me. But the journey will be a difficult one. We will only be a small group, and we will be moving very fast. I don't think it will be at all comfortable, besides which you'll need time to settle into your new life here at the Red Keep." Percy replied.
He liked Margaery, they got along well. He also appreciated her offer, it at least showed that she was as serious as him about making their relationship work.
But at the same time, considering his reason for going to the North, he didn't want her coming to Winterfell with him.
He'd be fully honest with her when he returned, but first, he needed to see the evidence for his own eyes and if it did turn out to be true, he needed time to process it and decide on his next course of action.
Margaery's smile widened slightly at his words, her eyes locking with his, even as her smile became slightly more mischievous. "It would probably be a lot easier to settle in with you here, husband." Her voice almost became a purr as she emphasised the final word.
"I know," Percy said softly, his smile growing at her insinuation. "But we'll have a week together at least, besides which I will only be gone for a month and a half at the most."
"And I plan to take advantage of that week," Margaery replied with a smile that promised many a long night over the next week.
Smiling at the implication, and also at the fact she seemed to be relaxing again he preferred this Margaery, he liked it when she was herself and acted confident, witty, and mischievous.
Before, during the wedding ceremony and at the beginning of the feast, she had been acting unusual. She'd been shy, nervous and demure. At times, she had even acted like she was scared, but of just what he wasn't sure of. Was she scared of marrying him, someone she had only known for a short while? Or was it the idea of marriage that had her nervous?
"Tell me, Margaery," Percy asked softly, his smile fading, "Are you afraid of me?"
Silence reigned between the two of them as the question settled in.
Margaery's eyes noticeably widened for a moment.
He knew he was sometimes too blunt for his own good.
"I don't know," She finally replied, meeting his gaze. "A little, I guess."
Percy looked down at his hands at her words, "I think I understand… There are rumours about me. About what I was like when I was young, and probably about what I've done since I became king. I imagine your grandmother's been less than complimentary."
Margaery let out a slight laugh at that. "I think she respects you if anything."
"Really?" Percy asked in surprise. His past meetings with Olenna Tyrell had usually been quite tense. He had long since got the feeling that she disliked him, disapproved of him, and maybe even feared him. To hear that she respected him, well Margeary had suggested something similar before, but it was still surprising.
"I don't know what went on between the two of you, but I've never seen her act as wary as she does when she is around you." Margaery nodded, a smile returning to her face. "But yes, for your other question, I've heard some… unsavoury things about you, and was, I'll admit, a bit worried."
Percy withheld a grimace. "I'll be honest with you, I was quite foolish and reckless before I was king."
"And now?" Margaery asked.
"I'd like to think I've grown up a lot. The responsibility has been good for me." Percy replied, honestly. "I'm not a perfect man by any means, I'm as flawed as any other, but I'd like to think I was at least a good, honest man."
"And I hope you are too," Margaery said.
"Well, I guess I'll have the rest of our lives together to prove it to you." Percy shot back.
"Is that a promise?" Margaery asked, her mischievous smile returning.
"Yes," Percy said bluntly. "I want to make this work, I want our marriage to be more than a political one. I want it to be one filled with love. I can't…, I can't promise you that you'll be happy, but I can promise you that I will try as hard as I can to make you so."
Margaery looked taken aback at his words for a moment, before she smiled shyly, genuinely. "That would be nice, and I promise to do my best to make our marriage a happy one."
Grinning back, Percy reached out and gently took her small, soft hand in his own much larger, rougher hand.
She did not love him at the moment, and he did not love her. But things didn't have to stay like that. They were married, and soon, tonight, they would be consummating that marriage.
He had meant what he had said before, he wanted their marriage to be one of love.
Leaning forwards, Margaery laid a kiss on his cheek before she sat back and lifted her goblet.
"To a marriage built on love, then." She said, raising her goblet a little higher.
Raising his own goblet, Percy clinked it against hers before draining it.
"More wine?" Percy asked as he saw that she had finished her own goblet.
Lifting her cup, she smiled. "If you would."
Grinning slightly, Percy reached out and drew on his power, his veins thrumming with power and his gut clenching, even as, with a flick of his hand, he smoothly pulled the wine out of a passing golden jug, the crimson liquid spiralling elegantly through the air, even as it was then deposited in their empty goblets.
Looking at him, her eyes filled with wonder, Margaery sent him a genuine smile, even as a dozen or so guests, those that had caught the display, exploded into applause.
"Again, show us some more magic, your majesty!" One of the drunk lords shouted.
A number of other inebriated guests took up the call.
Smiling slightly at the clamour his little bout of showing off had caused, Percy rose to his feet.
"Why not," He said loudly, his grin widening, even as he raised his hands like a conductor might to their orchestra, before without another word he reached out to all the wine in the immediate vicinity and started to work his magic.
Rivulets of crimson liquid danced through the air in spirals and helices, gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
Rivers of red swirled throughout the gardens from all directions, weaving around seated guests and standing servants and entertainers, before merging into a large globule of wine.
From around him, he could hear the guests, both drunk and sober, oohing, ahhing, cheering and clapping in wonder.
Digging deep, he formed the giant mass of wine into a vast crimson rose which floated a good three feet in the air, much to the delight of his bride.
Twisting his hands, he then transformed the rose into a giant stag that cantered across the gardens, its hooves hovering mere inches off the ground, a cloak of wine following behind it as it swerved through the crowd, growing smaller and smaller as wine branched off and filled every empty cup it passed, before finally, it made its way to the head of the table, before suddenly freezing solid.
With an intake of breath, those present looked on in awe at the gleaming, six foot tall crowned stag, with a garland of roses around its neck, standing before the high table, the sun that filtered through it making it appear almost ethereal to those that were watching and bathing those behind it in crimson light.
Taking a deep breath, and ignoring the bead of sweat he could feel trickle down the side of his face, Percy gave the cheering and applauding crowd another smile and a wave, before he sank tiredly back into his seat.
"That was incredible," Margaery said softly to him, the wonder in her eyes still visible.
"Thanks," Percy replied tiredly, his lips curling up into a genuine smile of his own. That level of fine control was tiring, incredibly so. But seeing the smile on his wife's face, and the excitement of the crowd, he knew it was worth it too.
"We'll have to see what else you can do with your powers later tonight." Margaery continued softly, her hand gliding along his thigh, before coming to rest on his crotch, even as she looked up and met his gaze with a smouldering look of her own. "And then I can show you what the gods have blessed me with."
Percy could only grin in response.
Life was good at this moment, he couldn't imagine anything spoiling it right now.
( - )
(In City of Braavos)
In a simple, austere temple that sat alone on a small island in the lagoon of Braavos, a man in a simple hooded grey cloak walked down a cold, barren stone corridor, his footsteps making no sound as he walked.
"A man has paid the price, and so the gift must be granted." Another grey cloaked figure said as the hooded man came to a stop in front of him.
"If the price has been paid, then this one will set out to grant the gift." The hooded man replied, bowing his head slightly to the bareheaded man in front of him. His gaze roved disinterestedly over the other man's plain features for a moment, before looking away. "Who is to receive the gift?"
"Tytan Baratheon," The other man replied simply.
"The price must have been great." The hooded man stated.
"It was equivalent to the task." The other man returned.
"Then I will see to it that the task is completed and that Tytan Baratheon receives the gift." The hooded man said simply, before without another word he strode past the unhooded man, and into the atrium. The moment he entered his gaze fell upon the three deceased bodies that sat propped beside the fountain in the atrium, but only for a moment, before without another word he walked past them and over to the front entrance; a set of doors, one made of ebony, the other of Weirwood.
This man had a job to do, and Tytan Baratheon had a gift to receive.
( - )
(At the docks of Mereen)
With a loud bark of laughter, Euron Greyjoy stepped off his ship and onto the wooden docks of Mereen, his single eye narrowed against the blazing sun overhead, even as the sea breeze rustled his long black hair and beard.
Today was going to be a good day.
With that thought in mind he began swaggering down the jetty, his own men, all bearing his personal sigil on their armour - a red eye with a black pupil beneath a black iron crown supported by two crows - filing in behind him. His men seemed to share in his good humour as they tramped their way down the dock.
"Oh, and it looks like they arranged a cockless welcoming party just for us boys." Euron grinned, not halting his stride for a moment, even as the two dozen Unsullied in front of him lowered their spears and raised their shields. Behind him, his men laughed.
"Halt, and identify yourself." A middle-aged Westerosi man with grey hair shouted as he shouldered his way through the unsullied. His own men, other Westerosi wearing chainmail, even in the baking Ghiscari heat, following behind him their own hands on their swords, even as the sigil on their surcoats, a crowned stage standing with a burning heart, on display for all to see.
Coming to a halt, Euron grinned wildly. "Why, I am the storm, my lord. The first storm and the last!"
( - )
(In the Far North, Beyond the Wall)
A pair of glowing, hoarfrost blue eyes opened.
Before him, a mass of undead wights numbering in the thousands shambled forwards, leaving the cover of the trees as they approached the gigantic wall of ice in front of them, chasing the last remaining living beings as they fled to the safety of the Wall.
From overhead, three horn blasts could be heard ringing out from the top of the Wall. The sound carried long and far, echoing through the dead forest.
Winter had come.
( - )
AN: So what did you think? Please leave a review, comment etc. If you have any questions or suggestions feel free to PM me.
Also I am on a discord with a load of other writers, so if you fancy popping over to ask questions or offer suggestions about this story, or any of my other ones, or to find new authors you might not have come across yet, please feel free to use this link: ueJFynDNGG
Also throwing it out there, I've been thinking of revisiting both my old PJO/GoT story, The Frozen Throne (see my profile), and potentially writing a new story, though this one would be a little niche, an Attack on Titan/ Game of Thrones story. Not that I've committed to anything though, just ideas that I've been ruminating on.
Thanks for reading, and I'll see you later.
Greed720.