marwyn-corbray

[marwyn-corbray]

𓅇 PERFECT PRETENDERS 𓅇

(Starter with @ruling-lady-daisy)

King’s Landing was meant to be a reprieve. A sabbatical. A gentleman’s escape.

Instead, it had become a matrimonial ambush.

Marwyn had barely stepped out of the ravenry before being flanked by three Freys, two Fowlers, and a determined Velaryon-adjacent who recited her bloodline back to Old Valyria before he even finished his tea.

He’d once faced down a knight twice his size with nothing but a stick and his hair tied back in a ribbon. That had been a better day.

Now, he was darting through the hallways of the Red Keep like a man pursued by assassins. Well, worse than assassins. Well-meaning mothers.

“Ser Marwyn!” someone called sweetly down the corridor behind him. “A word about your intentions!”

“I HAVE NONE!” he shouted over his shoulder as he bolted down the hall.

He took a corner too fast, nearly took out a page boy, and crashed straight into—someone.

A someone he hadn’t met, didn’t know, and could only assume wasn’t carrying a lace handkerchief with his initials pre-embroidered on it.

They hit hard. His arms went around her more out of panic than reflex, and before either of them could say a word, he hauled her into the nearest closet and shut the door.

Darkness.

Breathless silence.

Two hearts racing. One in sheer terror, the other possibly from being abducted mid-afternoon.

Marwyn pressed his back to the door, one hand over the stranger’s mouth, the other clutched to his chest like a dying bard.

“Please,” he whispered, face pale with desperation. “Please, just stay quiet. I think they’re close—”

He leaned in, listening. Voices outside. Silk skirts. Laughter. The death knell of his freedom.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered urgently, hand still across her lips. “They’re everywhere. I was cornered in a garden this morning. A garden. I had to leap a hedge. I don’t leap! I’m a very horizontal person!”

She blinked at him.

He blinked back.

“I know this is strange,” he added, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, “but I need you to pretend you’re with me. Courting. Madly in love. Maybe secretly eloped. Something dire and romantic. You can pick the details, I trust you.”

More blinking.

“What if you’re married?” he gasped suddenly. “Are you married? Please don’t be married. Or widowed. Or in mourning. Unless you want to be. I support that. Grief is very powerful. But if you’re any of those things and you give me away, they’ll know. They’ll know, and then it’s tea with the Buckwell sisters again and gods save me, they’re a unit.”

Outside, footsteps passed. A voice said something about dowries and eye color compatibility.

Marwyn looked at the woman. She hadn’t said a word. She hadn’t even moved.

“You’re being incredibly brave,” he whispered. “I mean that.”

He slowly removed his hand from her mouth. A bright lipstick mark bloomed red across his palm.

He stared at it.

Then at her lips—heart-shaped, though whether by pout or divine design, he couldn’t say.

Then, with the solemnity of a knight anointing himself before battle, he kissed the print, smearing it across his own mouth like war paint.

“Aha! Now we’re even!” He pointed at her triumphantly. “If you give me up to the mothers now, you’re marrying me. And I don’t think you want that. I come with too many siblings, a niece that bites, and a mother who would grade your fertility based on how fast you stand up after tea.”

From somewhere deep in the Keep, a voice cried, “He went that way!”

Marwyn flinched.

“…Unless you do? No. No, of course you don’t. Obviously. You’re too elegant. Too put-together. You smell like expensive soap and consequence.”

He leaned closer, not quite close enough to see her hair clearly, but he thought it was not quite red, not quite blonde, the shade of first light slipping through curtains.

Oh, he liked that one. He’d write that down later.

“Do we have an understanding? You stay quiet. You pretend we’re betrothed. And in return, I promise to write an absolutely scandalous poem about your eyes. They deserve it. They really do.”

Outside the door, voices passed. Silks rustled. A giggle echoed faintly.

Inside, the broom closet held its breath.

And Marwyn, lipstick-smeared, panting, grinning like a man losing his mind, whispered: “This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me. Please don’t ruin it.”

[marwyn-corbray]

𓅂 A TRUNKFUL OF TROUBLE 𓅂

(A starter with @lilacs-and-sunshine)

It began, as all the gravest threats to Marwyn’s freedom did, with Mother’s matchmaking book.

Lady Alyssa had emerged from her solar with the terrible tome cradled in one arm and the expression of a woman who had plans. That damned book—the one with the cracked spine and dog-eared portraits of noble daughters arranged like bounty posters—had resurfaced, and it was open. Wide open. Like a maw.

Ready to swallow him whole.

“Marwyn,” she said crisply, “sit. We’re going to make a few sensible choices.”

Marwyn, who’d been enjoying a perfectly innocent midday pear, froze mid-bite. “Sensible choices,” he repeated. “Mother, the last time we made ‘sensible choices,’ I ended up courting a woman who collected dead moths and believed in salt-based astrology.”

“She’s married now. Happily, I might add,” Alyssa replied without missing a beat. “To a cousin. So there’s still time for you.”

“Absolutely not. I’m going to the rookery. Urgent business. Feathers need fluffing.” He spun on his heel and made a break for it, pear flying from his hand like a fallen weapon.

Marwyn ducked into the corridor, heart pounding, breath shallow, cloak billowing behind him like a romantic tragedy. He needed an escape plan. A tunnel. A fast horse. A raven’s wing.

Instead, he found Corwyn and immediately launched into panicked signing:
Tell her I’m dead. Tell her I perished nobly in the courtyard, trampled by ambition and bad taste.

Corwyn raised one eyebrow and whispered back: “She’s behind you.”

Marwyn didn’t look. He simply bolted.

He made it to the library, his safe haven, his last redoubt, and threw himself behind a table. He could wait this out. He had dried fruit and a flask of wine. Maybe a little light reading on poisons for dramatic flair.

But then—doom.

Little footsteps.

Giggling.

The sound of small children sensing blood in the water.

“Uncle Marwyn’s hiding again!” Maddy announced in that sing-song betrayal children are born with.

“I saw him go behind the tapestry!” Quentyn added helpfully, lifting it like he was unveiling a prize hog at a fair.

“You tiny traitors!” Marwyn cried, scrambling to his feet. “You snack-sized Judas goats!”

“We get sweets if we tell Grandmother where you are!” Maddy declared proudly.

“You’ll get guilt!” he wailed, fleeing again as

Quentyn cheerily shouted after him, “She says you’re not getting out of it this time!”

Which is how he ended up in Leowyn’s solar, hair tangled, breath short, and head bowed like a man on trial. Leowyn was sitting by the hearth, polishing a blade with one hand and bottle-feeding a lamb with the other—of course he was. All while Alyssa loomed nearby like judgment given form.

“I’m not asking,” she said crisply. “You will wed. You will cease scandalizing me, and you will not fake your death again, Marwyn. I’m still apologizing to Maester Garick for the funeral bread.”

“She’s going to marry me off, Leowyn!” Marwyn burst out. “I’ve seen the book. I know the names. There’s a lady in there who drinks boiled turnip water and thinks ghosts live in spoons.”

Leowyn, deadpanned: “You’ve dated worse.”

“That’s beside the point! Listen, I have a proposal. Send me to King’s Landing. As your emissary. For diplomatic reasons.”

Kella, lounging nearby with embroidery and a knowing look, chimed in, “You just want to escape Angel Day.”

“False. I want to serve House Corbray. And also escape Angel Day.” He turned back to Leowyn, eyes wide with sincerity. “You can’t go! You’d miss it, and your whole family would riot. But I am expendable.”

“I’ll gut you myself before I let you weasel out of Angel Day again,” came Alyssa’s voice, slicing through the room like a sword through cream. Book in hand. Smile terrifying.

“I just think I’d be more useful elsewhere,” Marwyn said, slowly backing away. “I’ll do paperwork. I’ll write reports. I’ll learn the names of every smallfolk child in Flea Bottom if it keeps me unmarried until winter.”

“You’re six-and-twenty,” Alyssa snapped.

“I’m developing gracefully. Like cheese!”

Leowyn rubbed his face. Kella had started giggling into her needlework.

“And,” Marwyn added, pointing dramatically, “I swear on father’s grave, I’ll look for a wife while I’m there. Genuinely. Earnestly. One with a pulse, even.”

Leowyn groaned. “And when you get challenged to a duel by some Lannister minor lord because you made a joke about his vest?”

“I won’t! I’ll be good! So good! I’ll braid my hair and everything! Kings Landing will think I’m a diplomat of unmatched virtue and modesty!”

“You’re wearing boots with embroidered dragons eating each other.”

“It’s metaphorical!”

Leowyn looked at Kella, who was now wiping her eyes, then at Alyssa, whose expression said I am one sigh away from slapping you with this book.

He sighed. Then signed to Corwyn, If I let him go, Mother might actually sleep. Or kill someone. Possibly both.

Corwyn nodded gravely, signing back: I’d help her hide the body.

Marwyn dropped to his knees. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease—”

Leowyn waved him off. “Fine. Go. But if you bring shame to this house—”

“I’ll bring gifts!” Marwyn cried, already halfway out the door. “And probably lice, but that’s part of the adventure!”

Alyssa’s voice rang after him like a war horn: “I’M SENDING THE CARGYLL GIRL YOUR PORTRAIT ANYWAY!”

Marwyn didn’t even slow. “Make sure she sees my good side!” he yelled over his shoulder, hair flying behind him like a banner of glorious defeat.

From the hall, Quentyn murmured, “I hope she sends him a spoon ghost.”

And Maddy replied, “I hope she marries him twice.”

It was barely past noon, and already the air stank of perfume, ambition, and something unidentifiably wet. Marwyn was halfway convinced that was just how King’s Landing was, like a city-sized armpit with titles.

But he’d made it.

He was alive.

He was unmarried.

And he spotted his salvation in the form of a bear-sized Northerner with a braid like a noose and a face that said don’t talk to me unless you’re bleeding or offering beer.

“BENJEN!” Marwyn cried, arms outstretched like a martyr come home from the grave. “My dearest friend, my shield, my cover from predatory mothers!”

Benjen, who’d been trying to go unnoticed, groaned like a man who’d just stepped in something that squelched. “Seven hells. Not you.”

“Oh, don’t be coy. You missed me.”

“I thought they were sending Corwyn.”

“Surprise! You got the better brother.”

“The last time I saw you, I had to fight a duel. With a Farlow. Because you—”

“—accidentally seduced his wife. Listen, in my defense, she said she was a widow and very bored.”

“She was a widow,” Benjen growled. “After her husband fell down the stairs chasing you with a boot in one hand and a dagger in the other.”

“Love makes fools and corpses of us all,” Marwyn said sagely. “Anyway, how are you? You look... trapped.”

Benjen gave a long-suffering sigh, glancing around the courtyard like he expected someone to lunge at him with a marriage contract. “This place is a cage. Every hallway smells like old perfume and old regrets. I can’t go ten feet without bumping into someone I’ve—”

“—shown your longsword?”

“Don’t,” Benjen warned.

Marwyn grinned. “Tell me, is there a secret tunnel out of the keep, or do I just climb inside your cloak and live there like a tick?”

“I will shake you off,” Benjen growled.

“I will cling,” Marwyn said, ducking behind Benjen just as two well-dressed ladies paused mid-conversation to scan the courtyard like hawks searching for prey with good bloodlines and poor judgment. “You’re tall. Broad. Basically a mobile marriage shield.”

“I hate you.”

“And I adore you.” He peeked around Benjen’s arm. “Are they gone?”

“No.”

“I’ll die here. I’ll be buried in the godswood under a tree that smells like regret.”

They rounded a corner, and Benjen very nearly walked straight into a woman seated at the edge of a marble fountain. Lyarra sat in a posture of unstudied elegance, legs crossed, her dark hair pinned back with the kind of casual grace that usually took hours. She was flipping through a book with the leisurely confidence of someone who had either finished reading it or never intended to.

“Ah, Lyarra,” Benjen said without missing a beat. “If anyone asks—”

“You’re dead,” she replied automatically. “And if they say they saw you alive, I scream in horror.”

“You see why she’s my favorite.”

“Flattered,” Lyarra said, already amused. “And what are you doing here, Marwyn? Didn’t you fake your death last spring to avoid a dance?”

“It wasn’t a dance, it was an ambush. With roses and witnesses.” He beamed. “And I’m here to serve my house. Honorably. As a diplomat.”

Benjen snorted.

Lyarra raised an eyebrow. “You? Diplomatic?”

“I once negotiated peace between two dueling septas over pie selection.”

“And by peace,” Benjen muttered, “he means he stole both slices and ran.”

“Effective,” Marwyn said proudly.

Benjen rolled his eyes. “I’ve had enough of this. Come on. I need to see Lord Gyles about something actually important. If anyone asks—”

“You’re still dead,” Lyarra repeated, grinning.

Marwyn trailed after Benjen, hands clasped behind his back, skipping a little. “We make quite the pair, don’t we? The grumpy bear and the dashing rogue. A tale for the ages. The romance of it all.”

Benjen didn’t even look back. “You’re not my type.”

Marwyn gasped, hand to chest. “You wound me!”

“You’ll live.”

“You just don’t like men.”

Benjen paused. Then slowly looked over his shoulder.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t correct him.

“I don’t like you.”

Marwyn’s mouth fell open. “Well that’s just rude.”

Lyarra lost it. She was doubled over against the fountain, laughing so hard she dropped the book she’d been pretending to read.

Benjen just kept walking. Marwyn jogged to catch up, still sputtering. “I have excellent musical taste! And manners! And cheekbones!”

Benjen rubbed his temples. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re just old.”

“I’m one year older than you.”

“Exactly.”

Lyarra, breathless and gleeful behind them, called after: “You’re definitely his type, Marwyn. His favorite type of headache!”

Marwyn just gave a flourishing bow, walking backward. “Then I shall be the most charming migraine this court has ever seen!”

Lyarra just shook her head and picked up her book. She muttered to herself with fond exasperation as she settled back into place, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“Gods help the Red Keep.”

Benjen didn’t keep walking.

Instead, he stopped short with a scowl and hooked an arm around Marwyn’s neck, dragging him bodily toward a waiting cart stacked haphazardly with two traveling trunks and a battered chest reinforced in brass.

“You’re staying with me,” Benjen grunted. “Which means I’m not spending the rest of the day tripping over your baggage.”

Marwyn, red-faced and flailing, flapped his arms like an indignant bird. “I’ll have you know that trunk contains highly sensitive diplomatic materials!”

Benjen let him go with a shove. “It rattles like it’s full of spoons.”

“It’s props,” Marwyn said, dusting himself off. “Lady Florent is staging The Maiden’s Mercy in the rose courtyard. I promised her some of the Dornish costumes from that pageant I may or may not have crashed last year.”

Benjen raised a brow. “Does this have anything to do with the incident where you were chased across a rooftop dressed as a septa?”

“Define ‘incident,’” Marwyn said breezily, kneeling by the chest and fussing with the latches. “And ‘septa.’”

With a grunt, Benjen bent down beside him, jimmied one of the stubborn clasps open with a dagger, and together they heaved the lid up.

Then froze.

Silence.

Complete and total.

Even the birds seemed to stop chirping.

Benjen was the first to blink. He stepped back slowly, his expression unreadable.

Marwyn, however, went through all seven stages of grief in half a breath. His jaw dropped. His face drained of color. He let out the softest, most broken whisper:

“No.”

He leaned in, as if by getting closer he might see someone else instead. As if that might change reality.

But it didn’t.

It was still her.

Still Rowena.

His niece. His small niece. The one with sparkly pins in her hair and the unfortunate fondness for dramatic monologues and fairytales. The one who was supposed to be in Heart’s Home, learning embroidery and not hiding in trunks headed to the most dangerous place in the realm.

“Oh no no no no no,” Marwyn croaked, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. “Leowyn’s going to kill me.”

He dropped to a crouch, peering in like she might vanish if he blinked.

“Kella is going to kill me first. Slowly. With embroidery needles. And then Leowyn will kill what’s left.”

Benjen folded his arms. “You forgot someone.”

Marwyn groaned. “My mother.”

Benjen gave a solemn nod. “Alyssa’s going to kill you three times. One for each of them.”

“This is it,” Marwyn said faintly, pressing a hand to his heart. “This is how I die. Not from poison or scandal or a lover’s husband. But from parental wrath.”

“You earned it.”

“She must’ve climbed in at the last minute! I checked the trunk!”

“You checked…?”

“From the outside!”

Benjen snorted.

Marwyn buried his face in his hands. “I’m going to be disinherited. I’m going to be dismembered. I’m going to be dismemberited!”

Lyarra, now standing a few paces away, had her arms crossed and one brow arched so high it could’ve touched the sky. “Dare I ask?”

Benjen gestured at the chest. “Surprise cargo.”

Lyarra stepped forward, peeked inside, then blinked and covered her mouth with a gasp.

Marwyn didn’t lift his head. “Don’t say anything. Don’t say her name. The gods might hear.”

Lyarra’s shoulders shook with poorly-contained laughter. “Oh, Marwyn.”

He peeked through his fingers. “Do you think if I climb into the chest and close the lid, the world will forget I exist?”

Benjen bent down again, carefully lowering the lid without closing it all the way.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Rowie, dearest…” Marwyn scream-whispered, “why? Just why?”

[marwyn-corbray]

Love Between Fairy and Devil 苍兰诀 (2022) Dongfang Qingcang - best in hair award

[marwyn-corbray]

your honor ill tell you everything but you have to tell me a secret too