#game of thrones rewrite

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 1 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter One: The Devil's Trumpet

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, 

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Sooooooo… I don’t know a lot of Game of Thrones lore… so I ask for your patience and kindness when it comes to this fic, cause I know there will be some inconsistencies. I would stay up late at night, staring at the ceiling of my bed, constantly imagining that I could save Oberyn Martell from the Mountain. This is the story that I have been dreaming about for almost two years now. This fic is loosely based off The Glory on Netflix, it’s a show all about revenge which felt fitting for a Game of Thrones fic. There’s not a lot of Oberyn Martell yet in this chapter… but the next one for sure he’ll be there ;)

Song: as good a reason by Paris Paloma

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DRAGONSTONE, WESTEROS — 280 AC

From the moment your mother bartered you away to the Targaryens, you harbored no illusions about your worth in her eyes. Born to a minor lord, your father's coffers were never overflowing, and upon his death, your mother wasted no time in casting you aside like a discarded toy. It was a transaction as cold and calculated as any.

As a mere girl, you were thrust into servitude within the Targaryen household, your days filled with menial tasks and fleeting moments of respite. Your mother's indifference had left you with a bitter taste in your mouth, yet you dared not dwell on the past, for in the world of kings and queens, survival was a luxury afforded only to the cunning and the strong.

So, you learned to keep your head down, to swallow your pride and obey without question. In the grand tapestry of courtly life, you were but a humble thread, weaving your way through the intricacies of power and deceit with the practiced ease of one who knows their place in the hierarchy of the Seven Kingdoms.

News of the betrothal between Princess Elia Martell and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen spread like wildfire through the streets of King's Landing, igniting whispers of anticipation and speculation among the common folk. And when the day of their union finally arrived, the Great Sept of Baelor bore witness to a spectacle of unparalleled grandeur, as the noble houses of Westeros gathered to witness the marriage of two powerful dynasties.

In the wake of their wedding, the newlyweds departed for the ancient seat of Dragonstone, leaving a wake of excitement and intrigue in their wake. Within the stone walls of the island fortress, the air crackled with anticipation, as servants bustled about in a frenzy of preparation for the arrival of the newlyweds.

In the hushed corridors of Dragonstone, amidst the flurry of activity that heralded the arrival of the royal couple, you found yourself singled out from the bustling crowd of servants. With a sense of unease mingled with awe, you were ushered into the inner sanctum of Princess Elia's chambers, thrust into a position of unexpected privilege.

As you navigated the opulent surroundings, your heart pounded with a mixture of apprehension and determination. The eyes of the court seemed to follow your every move, their silent scrutiny a constant reminder of your newfound status.

Perhaps it was Princess Elia's keen observation or her innate sense of compassion that led her to notice the subtle cruelties inflicted upon you by your fellow servants. The older maids, with their twisted smiles and mocking jests, seemed to take pleasure in your misfortune, their actions a reminder of the harsh realities of life within the walls of Dragonstone.

Yet, in the presence of your new mistress, you found solace and sanctuary, a refuge from the cruelty of those who sought to belittle and demean you. With each passing day, as you tended to her needs with a quiet diligence, and you felt a sense of belonging that had long eluded you.

As Princess Elia's pregnancy progressed, you remained steadfast by her side, attending to her every need from dawn till dusk. With each passing day, the weight of responsibility rested heavily upon your shoulders, as you labored tirelessly to ensure her comfort and well-being.

When the time finally came for Elia to bring forth new life into the world, you stood beside her, a silent witness to the agony and ecstasy of childbirth. Her cries pierced the air like a dagger, each shriek a testament to her strength and determination. And though fear gripped your heart with each painful contraction, you remained steadfast in your resolve to see her through this trial.

With the arrival of Princess Rhaenys, the air seemed to shimmer with joy. As Elia cradled her newborn daughter in her arms, her eyes alight with love and exhaustion, you offered words of comfort and admiration.

"You have brought forth a beautiful child, Your Majesty," you murmured softly, your voice a gentle reassurance in the flurry of the birthing chamber. "You have done marvelously."

A weary smile graced Elia's lips as she gazed down at her precious daughter, her fingers tracing the delicate features of the babe's face. "Thank you for your kindness," she replied, her gratitude evident in every word.

And so, with the birth of Princess Rhaenys, a new chapter began in the lives of the Targaryen dynasty. As the babe was presented to Rhaegar's parents at court, the halls of Dragonstone echoed with the whispers of anticipation, a testament to the enduring legacy of House Targaryen.

As Queen Rhaella cradled her granddaughter with tender affection, her eyes alight with joy and pride, King Aerys the Second stood apart, his expression twisted with disdain. With a sneer of contempt, he recoiled from the child, his words dripping with venom.

"Smells Dornish," he remarked, his voice laced with disgust.

Your jaw clenched with suppressed anger at his callous words, a silent witness to the depths of his cruelty and madness. In that moment, as you beheld the scene unfolding before you, it became abundantly clear that the king's heart was as black as obsidian, his soul consumed by the darkness that lurked within.

TOURNEY AT HARRENHAL, THE YEAR OF FALSE SPRING, WESTEROS — 281 AC

At Harrenhal, nestled in the verdant heart of the Riverlands, Lord Walter Whent played host to a grand tournament, a celebration that spanned ten days and drew lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms. Within the storied halls of the ancient castle, whispers of intrigue and ambition mingled with the clinking of goblets and the strains of music, each moment pregnant with the promise of both glory and treachery.

Amidst the throng of nobility, you moved with the silent grace of a shadow, your keen eyes and sharp ears attuned to every murmur and gesture. As a mere servant, you lingered on the periphery of the festivities, your presence all but unnoticed by the illustrious guests who reveled in the splendor of the occasion.

On the first night, as the Hall of a Hundred Hearths blazed with the warm glow of torchlight and the scent of roasted meats hung heavy in the air, you observed the comings and goings of the noble houses with a keen eye. From the stalwart Starks to the enigmatic Howland Reed, the northern lords mingled with their southern counterparts, their alliances and rivalries simmering beneath the surface like a pot ready to boil over.

Amidst the revelry, the figures of legend and lore moved with an aura of mystique and allure. Brandon Stark's easy charm drew Lady Ashara Dayne to the dance floor, while the shy Eddard Stark found himself swept up in the rhythm of the music. Benjen Stark's playful banter with his sister Lyanna elicited laughter and teasing, a glimpse into the bonds that bound the Stark siblings together.

And then, amidst the swirling throng of dancers, you caught sight of him: Prince Oberyn Martell, the embodiment of charm and charisma, his laughter ringing out like silver bells in the night. As he twirled Lady Ashara Dayne in a graceful waltz, his smile illuminated the room with its brilliance, casting a spell over all who beheld him.

But you knew better than to linger on such fleeting distractions, in the glittering spectacle of courtly intrigue, shadows were lurking in the corners, secrets waiting to be uncovered. And so, with a determined resolve, you turned your attention away from the beguiling prince and towards the task at hand, knowing that one must always be vigilant, lest they be consumed by the machinations of power and ambition.

The tourney at Harrenhal stretched across ten days, a spectacle of martial prowess and pageantry that captivated the hearts and minds of all who attended. In between the clash of swords and the thunder of hooves, champions emerged and legends were born, each contest a testament to the valor and skill of the knights who jousted and fought in the name of honor and glory.

From the seven-sided melee to the fierce competition of the joust, the tourney boasted a variety of events to entertain the crowds, including archery contests, axe-throwing competitions, and thrilling horse races. Yet, amidst the revelry and excitement, a sense of foreboding lingered in the air, a whisper of uncertainty that hinted at darker forces at play.

As the final moments of the tourney drew near, all eyes turned to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the golden-haired champion whose prowess in the joust had earned him victory over four knights of the Kingsguard. Yet, it was not his triumph in the lists that would become the stuff of legend, but rather the fateful decision he made in the aftermath of his victory.

Standing amidst the gathered nobility, you watched in disbelief as Prince Rhaegar bypassed his own wife, Princess Elia, and bestowed the crown of blue winter roses upon Lyanna Stark, the betrothed of Lord Robert Baratheon. This was the moment all smiles died. The air crackled with tension as murmurs of confusion and outrage rippled through the crowd, a clear sense of unease settling over the festivities like a shroud.

In that moment, as the fragile peace of the realm hung in the balance, you felt a chill run down your spine, a premonition of the chaos and bloodshed that would soon engulf the Seven Kingdoms. For in the blink of an eye, the seeds of war had been sown, and the fate of Westeros hung in the balance.

DRAGONSTONE, WESTEROS — 282 AC

In the dimly lit chamber of Dragonstone, the air was thick with anticipation as Princess Elia fought through the pain of labor, her strength waning with each passing moment. Beside her, you stood as a silent sentinel, offering words of encouragement and support as she braved the trials of childbirth once more.

With each command to push, Princess Elia's resolve hardened, her determination a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf her. Yet, it was evident that her delicate health posed a formidable obstacle, her frailty a constant reminder of the challenges she faced.

And then, amidst the hushed whispers of the attending maesters, the sharp cry of a newborn babe pierced the air, a herald of new life amidst the shadows of uncertainty. With a ragged sigh of relief, Princess Elia's weary frame slumped backward, her brow glistening with sweat as she drew in ragged breaths.

"It's a son," the maester announced, his voice ringing with reverence as he presented the newborn prince to his exhausted mother.

A flicker of joy illuminated Princess Elia's weary features as she reached out trembling hands to cradle her newborn son, her touch gentle and reverent as she welcomed him into the world. With tears of gratitude glistening in her eyes, she pressed her lips to his tiny forehead, whispering words of love and devotion as she held him close to her heart. 

Prince Aegon was born.

KINGS LANDING, WESTEROS — 283 AC

Chaos erupted across the realm with the dawn of the new year, as news of Lyanna Stark's abduction by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen near Harrenhal spread like wildfire, igniting the flames of conflict between rival houses.

In the Vale of Arryn, the clash of steel and the cries of battle echoed through the mountain passes, as Lord Jon Arryn marshaled his forces to defend his homeland against the encroaching storm of war. Meanwhile, in the coastal city of Gulltown, the once-impregnable defenses crumbled under the relentless assault of Robert Baratheon and his forces, with the valiant Marq Grafton falling in the heat of battle.

With Gulltown secured, Robert Baratheon wasted no time in rallying his own banners to his cause, sailing swiftly to his ancestral seat of Storm's End to muster his forces for the coming conflict. Yet, even as he prepared for war, Robert's gaze turned to the stormlands, where the first major battle of the campaign awaited him.

At Summerhall, within the ruins of the ancient keep, Robert Baratheon faced his foes in a brutal clash of arms, his skill and valor turning erstwhile enemies into staunch allies. With Lords Grandison and Cafferen, as well as Silveraxe, pledging their fealty to his cause, Robert emerged victorious, his path to the north now clear as he prepared to join forces with Jon Arryn and the northern lords in their quest for vengeance.

All throughout the chaos of war, you bore witness to the dark machinations of the Mad King as he conspired to unleash destruction upon King's Landing itself. Ser Jaime Lannister, his white cloak billowing behind him, stood witness to the sinister plot hatched by the Alchemists' Guild, while the rest of the Kingsguard were scattered, their loyalty divided amidst the brewing conflict.

In the midst of this turmoil, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Hand of the King, emerged as an unexpected ally, his friendship and concern for your safety a beacon of hope amidst the shadows of fear and uncertainty. Yet, as whispers of the king's treachery reached his ears, Lord Chelsted's conscience could no longer remain silent. With courage and conviction, he confronted the Mad King, pleading for mercy and reason in the face of madness.

But mercy was a foreign concept to Aerys Targaryen, his mind consumed by the flames of paranoia and tyranny. In a cruel and chilling display of power, he condemned Lord Chelsted to a fate worse than death, his screams echoing through the halls of the Red Keep as the flames consumed him.

In the wake of this horror, you found yourself thrust into the cruel embrace of the king's wrath, your cries of anguish falling upon deaf ears as the searing pain of the iron rod seared your flesh. Bound and helpless, you endured the agony of your punishment, a silent testament to the cruelty of those who held power over life and death.

When consciousness returned, it was to the gentle touch of Princess Elia, her soothing words a balm to your wounded soul. With tears of shame and gratitude, you sought to apologize for your weakness, but the kind princess silenced your protests with a gentle shush, her compassion a beacon of hope in the darkness.

"Rest now, dear child," she murmured, her voice a soft melody of reassurance. "You have tended to me with care and kindness. Now it is my turn to watch over you."

In the warmth of her embrace, you found solace amidst the pain, your heart heavy with the weight of your suffering but buoyed by the kindness of one who saw beyond the scars to the strength within. And as sleep claimed you once more, you whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Seven for the gift of Princess Elia's compassion in a world consumed by cruelty and strife.

The rest of House Targaryen remained blissfully unaware of the dark schemes brewing within the walls of King's Landing. Queen Rhaella Targaryen, her eyes veiled to her husband's descent into madness, remained preoccupied with her own concerns, while Prince Rhaegar Targaryen marshaled his forces for the impending conflict.

In the depths of the city, hidden from prying eyes, the pyromancers of the Alchemists' Guild toiled in secrecy, their hands guided by the whispers of their mad king. Thousands of jars of wildfire, that volatile substance capable of unleashing unimaginable destruction, were meticulously placed in strategic locations throughout the city. From the shadows of the Dragonpit to the hallowed halls of the Great Sept of Baelor, and even beneath the very foundations of the Red Keep itself, the city of King's Landing was a powder keg awaiting the spark of war.

As the flames of conflict spread across the realm, each battle leaving its mark upon the land, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms hung in the balance. Amidst the chaos of the Stoney Sept, where narrow streets became blood-soaked battlegrounds, Prince Doran Martell grappled with the weight of his decision. Bound by duty to his king yet driven by love for his sister, Princess Elia, Doran reluctantly pledged his support to Prince Rhaegar's cause, his heart heavy with the knowledge of the dangers that lay ahead.

Following the fateful clash at the Trident, the Mad King's grip on power grew ever more tenuous. In a desperate bid to consolidate his rule, Aerys named Rossart, his favored pyromancer, as his new Hand of the King. Yet, his reign of terror would be short-lived, as the flames of rebellion engulfed the realm. With his wife, Queen Rhaella, and their young son, Prince Viserys, sent to the safety of Dragonstone, Aerys's grip on reality slipped further into the abyss, his madness driving him to unspeakable acts of cruelty and betrayal. Locked within the walls of King's Landing, Princess Elia Martell and her children, Rhaenys and Aegon, remained prisoners of a king consumed by paranoia and fear.

MAEGOR’S HOLDFAST, THE RED KEEP — 283 AC

Lord Tywin Lannister, who had stubbornly refused calls to arms from both the loyalists and the rebels until that point, appeared at the gates of King's Landing with an imposing army of twelve thousand men, mere hours before Eddard Stark would arrive. Lord Tywin professed his unwavering loyalty to King Aerys, and while Lord Varys, the cunning master of whispers, counseled Aerys to keep the gates locked, the king chose to heed the advice of the manipulative Grand Maester Pycelle, ordering the gates to be opened to Tywin's men. With the arrival of the forces from the westerlands, the city of King's Landing became a target for plunder and destruction.

As the realization that all was lost sank in, Aerys, driven by madness and desperation, commanded Rossart, a pyromancer, to unleash the hidden caches of wildfire throughout the city, hoping to reduce Robert's forces to mere "ashes and bones".

In a final act of cruelty, he tasked Ser Jaime Lannister, the eldest son of Lord Tywin and the sole remaining knight of his Kingsguard present in the city, with killing his own father and presenting his head as a gruesome gift. However, Jaime, torn between loyalty and reason, defied the mad king's command. Instead, he turned his blade on Rossart, knowing that Aerys would simply find another pyromancer to carry out his destructive plans. Realizing the imminent danger, Jaime rushed back to the Red Keep and put an end to Aerys' life in the throne room, just moments before soldiers from the westerlands stormed in.

Meanwhile, Ser Gregor Clegane, known for his massive size and brutal nature, accompanied by Ser Amory Lorch, made their way into Maegor's Holdfast. Their mission was to eliminate the remaining members of the royal family, solidifying Robert's claim to the throne and demonstrating House Lannister's complete abandonment of the Targaryens.

The resounding crash of the door being forcefully shattered reverberated through the room, punctuated by the shattering of glass and the piercing screams that filled the air. You, trapped in that room, could do nothing but bear witness to the horrific scene unfolding before your eyes. Gregor Clegane callously hurled you towards the fireplace, the searing heat scorching your skin, as he believed you would perish amidst the flames. Bleeding and disoriented, you lay on the floor, your vision blurred by the pain that engulfed you.

In the middle of pandemonium, you watched in horror as Princess Rhaenys, a mere toddler, was dragged from beneath her father's bed by the monstrous Clegane. The screams of the innocent child echoed through the room as she was mercilessly stabbed over fifty times. Aegon, Elia's son and the last hope for the Targaryen line, suffered an equally gruesome fate as Gregor brutally smashed his head against a wall. With Aegon's blood and brains still staining his hands, Gregor proceeded to rape Elia and ultimately ended her life by crushing her skull. 

As Gregor and Amory callously departed, their hands stained with the blood of their heinous acts, they paid no heed to your crumpled form, assuming you were dead. Silently, you feigned death, your battered body lying motionless on the floor. The sound of their heavy footsteps slowly faded away, their hearts devoid of remorse, as they never once faltered or looked back.

With fresh burns scorching your body, the searing pain and stinging sensations intensified, causing you to vomit on the side of the bedroom, overwhelmed by the horrifying sight before you. The people you held dear, the ones who reciprocated your affection, were now lost and lifeless, torn away from you forever.

In a state of despair, you crawled and stumbled, driven by an unknown force or perhaps a touch of divine intervention. Miraculously, you managed to navigate the treacherous secret passages of the sacked city, escaping the clutches of danger. The reason for your survival remained a mystery, lost in the chaos that surrounded you. Perhaps it was your unwavering determination or the small flicker of hope that compelled you to keep moving forward, to honor Elia's memory and the children who were denied the chance of a life.

You couldn't recall how you found yourself on the shores near Blackwater Bay, gazing out at the vast expanse of the Narrow Sea. Kneeling in the cool, wet sand, you felt the water recede, stinging your burns and prompting an uncontrollable urge to scratch, causing fresh blood to flow. Your bruised stomach throbbed with pain.

Exhausted from the relentless pursuit of survival, you yearned for respite, for an end to the constant struggle. Slowly, you began to crawl toward the ocean, knowing that the cold embrace of the water would bring solace, relieving the incessant itch of your scars. What more could you desire? This, perhaps, was the only path left.

But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Standing at the precipice, you let out a piercing cry, releasing your anguish into the air. With every ounce of strength, you struck your arms, the very arms that bore the visible reminders of your torment.

In that moment, you chose to defy the darkness that threatened to consume you, refusing to succumb to despair. At the edge of the world, you stood tall, your cries echoing across the empty beach, a testament to your resilience and determination to get revenge.

BRAAVOS, ESSOS — 287 AC

In the ancient city of Braavos, where secrets whispered through the narrow alleys and the canals flowed with mysterious tales, you found solace amid the chaos. Once a believer in the gods, you had come to realize that their existence was nothing more than a facade, a comforting illusion for the masses.

Having scraped together enough coin, you secured passage on a ship departing from Blackwater Bay, leaving behind a turbulent past and seeking refuge in the anonymity of Braavos. The city welcomed you with its vibrant streets and diverse inhabitants, offering a chance at a new beginning.

From baker to cleaner, nurse to animal keeper, and occasionally even a tutor to minor Ladies, you took on any job that would sustain you. Your tireless work ethic caught the attention of the nobles, who saw value in your dedication and entrusted you with their precious steeds. However, the privilege of working for the Lords came at a cost, as some would cross boundaries and attempt to take advantage of your vulnerability. Yet, you stood strong, extracting your payment and moving on.

Throughout the years, you meticulously saved every coin, seeking out the teachings of various assassin guilds and skilled swordsmen. Disguised as a boy, you delved into the secrets of High Valyrian, honed your swordsmanship, and mastered the art of poisons. The guilds taught you to discern truth from lies, and to control your facial expressions, laying the groundwork for your vengeful plans.

As you went about your duties in the bustling stables, you tried to steal moments to study the intricate notes on potions, mumbling the descriptions to yourself. Suddenly, a sharp smack landed on the back of your head, causing you to wince in pain. "Quit your foolishness and focus on your work!" your employer reprimanded.

"Don't be too hard on her! Look at all the burn scars on her legs and arms," one of the older stableboys interjected, coming to your defense. Gritting your teeth, you offered a quick apology, knowing that it was best to comply with your employer's wishes.

Resuming your tasks, you discreetly tucked away the notes into your pocket, their pages smudged with the grime of your surroundings. Your determination burned within you, fueled by the scars that adorned your body, a constant reminder of the pain and suffering that fueled your quest for revenge.

BRAAVOS, ESSOS — 294 AC

The scent of salt hung heavy in the air, you had grown up immersed in their language and customs. Fuelled by a thirst for knowledge, you clandestinely absorbed every morsel of information you could gather about the events unfolding in Westeros. Alongside your studies, you dedicated yourself to the art of combat, honing your skills with weapons and tirelessly toiling in a variety of jobs that allowed you to pursue your clandestine education.

As the boat that would carry you away from Braavos was being prepared, one of the enigmatic faceless men, who had taken an interest in your journey due to the scars that adorned your flesh, approached you. His hooded eyes locked onto yours as he inquired, "Are you prepared for what lies ahead?"

A mixture of determination and uncertainty danced in your gaze as you responded, "They seek servants for the Red Keep. The time is drawing near, and I must gather further intelligence on a select few. It appears that more than just the Lannisters are entangled in this web of power." The faceless man nodded, acknowledging the complexity of the situation.

With a silent understanding, the boat began its departure, carrying you across the waters of the Narrow Sea. Standing at the bow, your eyes fixated on the horizon, a sense of purpose and anticipation surged within you as you braced yourself for the unknown challenges that awaited.

RED KEEP, KING'S LANDING, WESTEROS — 298 AC

In the hallowed halls of the Red Keep, where whispers of power and deceit echoed through the stone, you had spent years serving as a humble maid, donning long-sleeved dresses regardless of the season that enveloped Westeros.

Maintaining a low profile was imperative to the success of your clandestine plan. As you arranged your quarters, a haven of secrecy, you opened a worn journal containing a meticulously compiled dossier. Every page adorned with detailed sketches and meticulous notes on the individuals implicated in the tragic demise of Princess Elia. Royals, lords, and ladies from every corner of Westeros found their place within those ink-stained pages. Their routines, preferences, lovers, and dark histories were meticulously chronicled, forming a tapestry of knowledge that would fuel your pursuit of vengeance.

Locking your quarters behind you, you ventured into the mist-shrouded gardens, a white datura flower delicately cradled in your hand. As you spun the delicate bloom, the devil's trumpet, between your fingers, a solemn chant escaped your lips, carried away by the ethereal fog. "Anyone who inflicts harm upon their neighbor shall bear the same injury."

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A fracture for a fracture. The concept of just retribution swirled in your mind, the very embodiment of justice. Yet, a subtle smirk tugged at the corners of your lips. Was such fairness truly fitting? Was it not too generous, too even-handed? After all, fairness is a fleeting concept in this treacherous game, isn't it?

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

[deiarchiescott]

Rhaenyra deals with Aegon and Viserys

This is an excerpt from 2x06 of my HOTD Rewrite Project. An update to the script is available on ao3 now!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61699606/chapters/158311582

@almondmilktargaryen

[mydairpercabeth]

hotd writers are being so real bc i too ignore that last season of got. yes daenerys is the princess that was promised. yes she sits the iron throne in the end. nothing else happens but that.

[climbdraws]

so many video essay youtubers with their 2 hour long rewrite videos when they should be posting on ao3 instead

[woodchipp]

So there was a post I saw saying Omori should've properly talked and been a snarky little shit. I agree - IMO Sunny should've talked as well - but I also think that idea could be used to develop a plot point. It'd be neat if Sunny and Omori's "arcs" were opposite of each other.

In my rewrite's case, I suppose Omori would be less the embodiment of Sunny's depression/shame/suicidal ideation/whatever and more a part of Sunny that's still mentally frozen at 12 years old because, well, that's how old he was when Mari left him the way she did :) To Sunny, not thinking about her would feel like insulting her memory - he'd be afraid he'll forget her as a person if he ever tries to move on from her death (hence Something's prominence in Headspace)

But then Sunny goes outside. And the more steps he makes towards recognizing that Mari's death wasn't ultimately his fault, the more he attempts to rekindle his friendship with his group, the more petulant Omori becomes to his friends (and probably to the Headspace NPCs lol). Sunny develops because that's what he needs to do to live a life; Omori regresses because internally, Sunny is still terrified of change.

And then this cognitive dissonance keeps growing and growing over the course of the game until, well

[kingsmakers]

Cyrena Stark in Crown of Thorns

In Winterfell, the old gods still hold sway, and Cyrena Stark finds comfort in the godswood as much as she does in her books. At fifteen, she is expected to find a match sooner rather than late, and Cyrena's dutiful nature battles something stranger and darker taking root within her. As the politics of the south descend upon her home, Cyrena feels a change in the air. In Dorne, Aegon VI Targaryen has been raised in secret by his mother's family. Proud of his Dornish blood despite his Targaryen looks, he has been trained to one day seek revenge upon those who murdered his mother and sister. The time of dragons has long since passed, but some say there is a creature that takes to the skies after nightfall, silent on the wind. As Cyrena and Aegon's paths converge, the realm will learn what it means when ice and fire come together.

Forever tag: @juliaswickcrs @thatmagickjuju @starcrossedjedis @darkwolf76 @akabluekat

@drbobbimorse @mystic-scripture @iron-parkr @asirensrage @rhaenyraslaena

@arrthurpendragon @hiddenqveendom @ofbriarandrose @emilykaldwen @themaradwrites

[vicontheinternet]

The little I know abt daenerys is how I see daphne. I haven't watched got but I had a friend who was deep in the fandom and we used to talk. I view daphne as a tough take no shit girl who was raised by parents who were leaders of the company of light

[ball-of-butter]

as someone who has never dabbled in the got verse can someone please please tell me what the appeal is when shipping an older man with his younger NIECE like why is daemon and rhaenyra so popular i genuinely don’t understand

[samieree]

Dawn of the North || Game of Thrones

Robb Stark x OC

(masterlists in the end) -> Chapter III ''Walder Frey''

Chapter IV ''Dilemmas''

She should be happy they crossed the bridge, that they managed to convince Lord Frey. After all, he was certainly happy about it, it was one step closer to saving his father -  that's why he went to war. But she couldn't be happy. Since the negotiations were successful, Walder Frey must have gotten what he wanted. There was mainly one thing she could think of that he might want: for Robb to marry one of his daughters.

She expected it to end like this. After all, even if it weren't for that, Ryledia was right, she's nobody. Someone like Robb Stark would never marry her. There are certain expectations for him that he must meet, even if he has feelings for her, he will put his duties first.

Maybe Ryledia was right about them leaving as well? Continue on their way, maybe even get on a ship to Essos and start a new life there. Away from the problems of Westeros, where she wouldn't have to hide her hair. What awaits them here? Ryledia has never bothered about marriage, and Amalthea can only count on one of the lesser Lords or a common man. She had the opportunity to talk to many, usually sitting around the fire, and they seemed more interested in her than she would have liked. It wasn't their attention she counted on in this camp, but she remained polite. The important thing is that they weren't too pushy.

She still hadn't heard an apology from Ryledia, so their relationship remained frosty, devoid of more than a few words a day. So she had no one to talk to about her thoughts and feelings, and as a result she came up with more and more possibilities and only felt worse. It didn't help that Robb seemed to be paying more attention to her than before, and she had already established in her head that he was promised to another. She didn't bother to check her suspicions, after all, according to her, it couldn't be otherwise, she had to be right. And she definitely wouldn't be talking to Robb about it.

Because of this, she just didn't know how to treat him approaching her. He doesn't care about his promises? There was honor in him, so something wasn't right. Or maybe he wants to take advantage of the freedom he has left before he gets stuck in a marriage?

Well, if she hadn't accepted her guesses as facts, she would have easily solved the riddle - and then it wouldn't even be a riddle. Even though Catelyn indicated in her conversation with Robb that she did not consider his interest in Amalthea to be love, but only a fleeting feeling, she stood by his side and saved him from a promise that would be difficult for him to keep. His mother also advised him against acting rashly in the emotional sphere, as well as in warfare.

"You shouldn't marry her."

She had told him this shortly after he had admitted to her that he loves Amalthea. What she meant then was not only that the girl did not belong to any significant family and such a marriage could be perceived as an insult by some Lords who had nubile daughters, but also about how quickly this 'feeling' developed.

She asked him a simple question: 'What do you know about her?' and that was enough to confirm her belief that it was just infatuation. Of course, she's not saying that it can't turn into true love one day, but currently, even if they love each other, it only concerns their imagination of each other. It's way too early to make a lifelong commitment, which is what marriage is. Maybe she shouldn't be the one to talk about it, because when she married Ned they practically didn't know each other at all, but this was a different situation. A political marriage she couldn't avoid. They both found themselves in it and they both decided to build their happiness, piece by piece. Not only for themselves, but also for their children. The situation was different here, they didn't have to get married, they had time to get to know each other, to discover if they really fit together.

Late that evening, Amalthea couldn't sleep and eventually she finally got up and lit a candle, thinking that maybe she could at least read if she couldn't find any rest. When she and Ryledia left home, they took a few books with them - okay, that's a bit too much to say. Amalthea took with her a book of poetry in valyrian and a small book about a certain part of the history of Westeros. Probably if it weren't for the fact that most people can't read, they wouldn't have had the latter a long time ago. But she wouldn't get rid of the poetry book. Every time she opened it, she remembered her father who taught her this language. He was the one who gave her the book, he got it from his mother.

Lored - or at least that's how everyone called him after the war - tried to also teach Ryledia  valyrian, but she wasn't willing enough to learn. She learned some phrases, sentence structures and individual words, but she was not fluent in them. On the one hand, she didn't care about it, but on the other, she knitted her eyebrows or rolled her eyes when she saw how good Amalthea was doing. The important thing is that she knew common tongue. And she also picked up a bit of another language from her mother, but in this case too she looked angry when Amalthea was doing better.

Ryledia rolled over and squinted at the candle flame, even though it was faint. She was perfectly aware of Amalthea's condition lately, but she still didn't apologize to her, even though she knew she should. That word had always stuck in her throat, ever since she was a child. She felt like she could count on one hand how many times she had said it in her life - or at least the times she remembered.

She wanted to huff in dissatisfaction and tell Amalthea to blow out the candle, as she had already done the previous few nights, but she sincerely doubted he would listen to her. Several times she pretended not to hear her until Ryledia got up herself and blew out the candle or extinguished it between her fingers, telling her to go to sleep. Sometimes it worked, other times after a few minutes Amalthea lit the candle again. Or they began to quarrel.

"Are you pregnant?" she asked, rolling onto her back. It was a question Amalthea would definitely not ignore.

"Excuse me?" she said it with surprise, but not the kind Ryledia was used to. Usually, Amalthea's surprise was accompanied by a short snort, emphasizing how ridiculous was the thing she had just heard. This time her voice was cold, even, expressing the anger she felt towards her.

And it's all because of one boy... - Ryledia thought to herself, shaking her head.

"You look like even one bad word could make you cry or rage, and besides, you know I've noticed you can't sleep." she explained, trying to adopt the same tone as Amalthea, but she was much better at screaming than with cold stares and a bone-chilling tone of voice. "Are you feeling sick too?" she turned her head to the side to look at her. "Sometimes I feel like you can barely walk."

She didn't take her question entirely seriously, but since she had a lot of time to think, she began to consider this possibility. Unlike Amalthea, she confronted her guesses with a person who could confirm or deny them. Who knows, maybe she'll accidentally guess why her friend hasn't forgotten about their argue yet. After all, the conflict between them should have ended a long time ago, it always has. Why was it different now?

"Have you suddenly started to care?" she muttered, as if avoiding answering the question.

"I'm always worried about you."

Silence fell between them, broken only by the sounds of soldiers on guard in the camp and horses. Amalthea stared at the candle flame, feeling Ryledia's gaze fixed on her, analyzing every element of her expression.

The only thing she could worry about was not her current condition, but the fact that any day now there would be a battle, Robb's first in this war. She knew he was afraid, of course he wouldn't tell her that directly, but she could see it in him. She wished she could embroider a scarf for him that he could wear on his chest for good luck. It wouldn't make her worry less, but at least he certainly wouldn't forget about her - if he accepted such a gift. Unfortunately, she had neither a scarf to embroider nor anything to embroider with.

"I'm not pregnant." she replied after a long, awkward silence, her voice as firm as before, and cold. She didn't like how she was treated by her friend and she was bad at controlling how she showed it.

"Are you sure about it?"

"Who do you take me for?" she snorted again, reaching into her bag for a book of poetry that was so dear to her and opening it on a random page, looking for the beginning of any poem she came across, just to be able to read and stop paying attention to the person on the other side of the tent.

"A girl in love, and such a girl is easy to get into bed."

She couldn't ignore her after words like that.

"Nothing like that happened!" she raised her voice, closing the book with a bang. "You pay so much attention to me and watch me, and yet you don't know that he didn't even kiss me."

"What a pity." she said sarcastically, as if mocking her feelings, before adding suggestively: "I can't know what goes on in his tent or when he takes you for a ride."

She wanted to shout something back, say something that she might regret later, but at least it would hit her hard. But she didn't, Ryledia liked to have the last word, so be it. She won't speak at all, she will kill her with silence until she comes to her senses and apologizes to her.

She blew out the candle and lay back down, even though she knew she wouldn't find sleep.

"If you don't say anything, there must be something going on."

She also didn't respond to this taunt, even though hurtful words came to the tip of her tongue. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. Guess she would rather her accusations were true than be in the same tent with her right now.

* * *

The camp was unusually quiet as most of the soldiers went into battle. Ryledia seemed unable to bear the tension in the tent, so Amalthea was left alone in it. Not that she would take any benefit from being alone. For a long time she sat and stared into the void, running the fabric of her dress between her fingers, while mentally begging all the Gods she knew to make sure nothing happened to Robb. She wasn't a believer, but in moments like these you do anything to calm your thoughts.

Finally, with a heavy sigh that she seemed to be holding on for far too long, she stood up and walked over to the small mirror. Dark red hair cascaded down her shoulders, but it wasn't her hair, it was her mother's. Naturally, she didn't remember what Umya looked like with short hair, because in the first memories she had, her hair had already grown out a bit. The last time she saw her they were over her hips, just like hers now.

She glanced behind her, made sure no one was looking into the tent, and reached up to her head, carefully removing the wig. She set it aside and then pulled out the pins that held her hair in braids near her head. Then she untangled them. Due to all this, her hair was even wavier than it was naturally. She placed them more or less equally on both of her shoulders.

She had become so used to her appearance with red hair that she felt strange now. She had a fair skin and her amber eyes were also light, so the silver hair matched her delicate beauty, but out of habit something seemed off to Amalthea. Red hair gave her character and sharpness, but her eyes were lost in it.

Will she have to hide her natural hair for the rest of her life to hide her true origins?

Ryledia liked her silver hair, although the last time she told her about it was when they were still at home, yet her feelings had not changed. She wondered if Robb would have noticed her if she didn't wear a wig... Or maybe she loses her charm without it? She isn't beautiful anymore?

But she can't hide them forever... What if he sees them one day? He will surely associate the facts quickly and there will be questions that she will not want to answer. A secret is a secret for a reason. This is how it has to be and that's the end, there's nothing she can do about it. Although... Even if she told him the truth, what would happen? Would he want to kill her just because she belongs to an overthrown dynasty? It was King Robert who hated the Targaryens, why would Robb think the same? Who knows, his father was Robert's friend... What if he wants nothing to do with her? He tells her to leave? How will she deal with it? That along with her eye color, she couldn't have inherited her mother's hair...

Why does she even assume that she and Robb have a future? He will never marry her, even if he wanted to, even if he has been spending as much time with her as he can lately and she has already been asked about it several times by soldiers.

Maybe Ryledia is right and he wants only one thing from me...? No, Robb is not like that! Right? I only want him to come back safe and sound...

She sighed again and began to braid her hair so that she could hide it back under the wig.

Robb returned victorious from the Battle of the Whispering Wood, bringing with him captured Jaime Lannister.

It's just a pity that the day after this victory, Eddard Stark lost his head in King's Landing and reality hit Robb harder than when he called the bannermen, when they went to war, when his first battle began. He did all this to save his father and sisters, so that they could all return to Winterfell, to their old lives.

There were no more dreams of returning to the past. All that was left was pain, anger and fear.

~

-> general masterlist -> Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon masterlist

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 5 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Five: Witness The Wreckage Of My Life

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge, Panic Attacks, Anxiety Attack,

Word Count: 7.9k

A/N: Hi there! Tbh I thought no one would read this fic lol that’s why it’s been in the backburner for monthssssss. 

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Hurt by Sleeping At Last

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MAIDENVAULT, GUEST CHAMBERS 

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — EARLY MORNING

The faint chirping of birds drifted into your consciousness before you felt it—fingertips brushing gently along your arm, tracing the curve of your skin with a soft, languid motion. A slow inhale filled your lungs as your eyes fluttered open, the room around you coming into focus. The unfamiliar surroundings of Oberyn Martell’s chambers. 

Your breath hitched, and your body stiffened as realization dawned on you. Oberyn’s body was warm and close beside you, his arm draped loosely over your waist. Panic seized your chest, thoughts racing faster than you could process them. You quickly glanced down. Your nightgown was still on, but that didn’t stop the rush of anxiety building in your throat.

Did we…? Oh gods, what did I do?

Oberyn stirred beside you, his dark eyes opening lazily as a slow grin spread across his lips. He didn’t move away, though his hand continued its lazy tracing of your skin. “You treat it as if sleeping with me would be the worst thing in the world,” he chuckled, his voice deep and teasing. “Many people line up for the privilege of getting into bed with me.”

You rolled your eyes, your heart pounding still. “Oberyn—” you started, your voice strained with embarrassment, but then you paused, the tension rising again as you remembered who you were. A servant. And here you were, lying in the bed of a prince.

Your stomach twisted with guilt as you quickly tried to sit up, but Oberyn’s arm tightened around your waist, preventing your escape. “I… I shouldn’t be here,” you stammered, fumbling with the covers as you tried to get out of bed. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Stop,” Oberyn said, his voice gentle but firm, his hold on you unwavering. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Your heart raced faster, your mind protesting even as your body relaxed against his touch. “I shouldn’t be calling you by your name,” you said, the propriety drilled into you for years clawing its way to the surface.

Oberyn chuckled again, his grip remaining strong as he turned you slightly so you could meet his gaze. “We are far past proper,” he murmured, his lips quirking into a playful smile. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You stared at him, your cheeks burning with the mix of emotions swirling inside you. The absurdity of the situation, the intimacy, the way he seemed so unbothered while you could hardly keep your composure.

And then it happened—a laugh bubbled up from your chest, unbidden and uncontrollable. The sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, surprising even yourself. It was a laugh that hadn’t surfaced in years, a genuine, melodic sound that filled the space between you and Oberyn like music.

He stilled, his eyes widening slightly as he looked at you, captivated. There was something in his gaze you hadn’t seen before—something soft, something tender. He let out a low hum, as if savoring the moment. “You should laugh more often,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in years.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, this time not from embarrassment, but from the way his words lingered in the air. Oberyn’s smile softened, and his hand moved up to gently cup your cheek. “I’d kill armies of a thousand men to hear that laugh again.”

His words were spoken with such conviction that for a moment, you almost believed he would. The truth of his promise hung in the air, pulling at something deep inside you. But you quickly smothered that feeling, pushing it down before it could surface.

“I don’t think Ellaria would be so pleased to hear such a statement from you, your grace,” you said, forcing a teasing tone into your voice, hoping to deflect some of the tension. 

A smirk tugged at Oberyn’s lips as he pinched your side playfully, making you squirm under his touch. “You’re using titles again,” he said, his aquiline nose brushing against yours, a soft, teasing gesture that made your breath hitch. “We’ve already discussed this—no ‘grace,’ no ‘proper.’” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “And Ellaria? She knows. She’s out enjoying herself at the brothels right now, likely tangled with a lover of her own. We have an understanding.”

His words were casual, delivered with a smile, but they landed like a stone in your chest. Your heart sank, a dull ache forming where only moments before there had been warmth. Of course, Ellaria knew. Of course, they both had other lovers. That’s how it always was with people like him, free and untethered. You were just another fleeting moment.

You swallowed the sudden rush of feelings and buried them deep, plastering on a faint smile to hide the sting. “Of course,” you said, your voice steady despite the tightness in your throat. “You both live quite... freely.”

Oberyn’s eyes flickered, his smile softening as if he sensed the shift in you. His hand moved from your waist to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Don’t misunderstand,” he said quietly. “I take many lovers, yes. But none like you.”

Oberyn’s words lingered in the air, pulling at you with a subtle, intoxicating pressure. The way he so effortlessly drew you into his orbit—without even a kiss exchanged between you—made it hard to remember where you stood. His lips grazed your forehead again, soft and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. For just a moment, you let yourself forget the distance between your lives, the dangers lurking in every corner of King’s Landing.

But you didn’t dwell on the meaning of his words, or the fact that he had practically claimed you as his without any physical bond. It felt dangerous, even foolish, to hold on to such fleeting warmth in a world that offered little safety.

Oberyn pulled away, giving you a long, lingering squeeze before he stood, his movements unhurried as he dressed in the dim morning light. His tunic draped over his broad shoulders, his belt fastened with the casual elegance only someone like him could manage. You sat up, the sheets pooling around your waist as you watched him, torn between the urge to stay hidden in the folds of the night and the reality of the day ahead.

"I have a meeting with the Small Council," Oberyn said, fastening his leather bracers with nimble fingers. His tone was light, almost conversational, but there was something in his eyes that made you feel as though he was gauging your every response. "I suppose you'll be coming too, to be nearby? Or do you want me to tell you what I've learned later?"

You raised an eyebrow at him, teasingly. “And how will you find me later to tell me such important news?”

He paused in the middle of tying his belt, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, I have my ways.” He rounded the bed, leaning down as his lips pressed against your forehead once more, this time with a lingering softness that made your heart stutter. "Remember the day of Joffrey’s wedding?" he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I found you setting up by the Sept, looking flustered as ever." 

Heat rushed to your cheeks at the memory, the sight of him approaching you on that fateful day etched in your mind. You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide, your face betraying you anyway.

Oberyn chuckled as he straightened, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. "You were adorable then. You still are," he said, stepping back toward the door. "I’ve asked for breakfast to be left by the door. Help yourself to whatever you like. You must have been tired; you didn’t even notice when I brought it in while you were still sleeping."

Your heart gave a small flutter as he moved to the door, giving you one last look before pulling it open. “Be sure to eat,” he added, his voice softer now, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

And just like that, the room felt empty again, save for the fading scent of him and the quiet remnants of your own thoughts, still spinning from the morning's encounter. 

KING'S LANDING, RED KEEP — AFTERNOON

The day had taken on a surreal quality since you’d left Oberyn’s chambers. The fact that nothing happened, and yet everything had changed, weighed on you. You had snuck out, slipping back into your long-sleeved servant gown as though it could shield you from the memory of the man whose side you now found yourself on. A part of you felt guilty, as though you’d crossed a line, even though no line had truly been crossed.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you busied yourself with the day’s tasks, the monotonous routine serving as a distraction. Cleaning, fetching, ensuring every corner of the Red Keep was prepared for the endless parade of courtiers and nobles. Your mind was on everything but the day’s duties. It was hard to ignore the shift within you—the knowledge that Oberyn was on your side. That he believed in your quest for justice, or perhaps vengeance. It was a dangerous alliance, but one that filled you with a strange sense of hope.

The sun had begun its slow descent when you found yourself alone in a secluded hallway, carrying a basket of linens. You were just about to return to your duties when you heard a soft clink, followed by another. Glancing toward the window, you spotted Oberyn, standing in the courtyard below, tossing pebbles at the window with a mischievous grin. His eyes sparkled with amusement when your gaze met his.

For a heartbeat, panic seized you—what if someone saw? But the corridor was deserted, and no guards or servants were in sight. Oberyn motioned for you to join him, his grin widening as you hesitated.

Setting down the basket, you quickly made your way outside to the gardens where he waited. His presence seemed to fill the space, larger than life as always. The scent of freshly bloomed flowers hung in the air, and the sound of the fountains provided a soothing backdrop to the moment.

“I didn’t expect you to be so bold,” you said, handing him a small loaf of bread and some fruit you’d tucked away earlier.

Oberyn accepted the food with a wink. “I promised I’d find you later, didn’t I?” He tore off a piece of bread and took a bite. “Besides, I’d rather be here with you than dealing with the Small Council any longer.”

Your curiosity piqued, you glanced at him as you both strolled through the gardens. “What happened in the meeting?”

He took a deep breath, stretching his arms before speaking. “A lot of posturing and little else. They discussed the trial, of course, but also news from the east. Daenerys Targaryen is in Meereen now, ruling as queen. Tywin thinks the dragons won’t be a problem, but he’s too proud to see the threat for what it is.”

“Dragons?” you asked, handing him a piece of fruit. “Do you really think they could pose a threat to the throne?”

Oberyn gave a half-shrug, though his eyes were serious. “Dragons haven’t won a war in centuries, but Daenerys has an army—Unsullied, sellswords, and advisors who are no fools. Tywin’s dismissing her, but the girl is no simpleton.”

His casual mention of dragons and armies made your heart race. The idea of such power was overwhelming, but Oberyn seemed unfazed by it. He continued recounting the meeting, filling in every detail as though it were simply gossip from a tavern, not the strategic planning of the most powerful people in Westeros.

"They even discussed the Hound," he added, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Apparently, he's out there somewhere, swearing at the crown and slaughtering men. Tywin's offering a hundred silver stags for his head now."

You couldn’t help but smile at Oberyn’s nonchalance. “And what about you? Did you offer your expert opinion?”

He grinned, recalling the way he had brought up the Unsullied with the council. “I told them how impressive the Unsullied are in battle. Less so in the bedroom, though.”

Your eyes widened in shock, but you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips. “You didn’t…”

“Oh, I did,” he replied, his smile growing wider. "Tywin wasn’t amused. But Varys—he found it interesting. We had a chat afterward. He’s a strange one, isn’t he?"

“Varys? I wouldn’t know,” you said with a shrug. “He doesn’t speak to people like me.”

Oberyn’s gaze softened. “You’d be surprised. He listens more than you think. Just like I do.”

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, you sat down on a stone bench, enjoying the quiet moment with him. Oberyn leaned against a tree, looking at you with that same intensity you had grown used to.

"Thank you for the food," he said, his voice lower now, almost intimate. "I thought about bringing something for you, but I didn’t know what you’d like."

You smiled, the tension of the day melting away in his presence. “I’m not picky.”

His expression turned playful again as he tossed the last piece of bread into his mouth. "Good. Because I intend to share more meals with you. That is, if you don’t mind.”

The warmth in his eyes was undeniable, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel—contentment. For just this moment, here with Oberyn, you felt at peace.

“You know those moments? Those moments when you’re allowed to like someone? If those moments mean that you’re alive, then how many days do you think I have really lived?” Your voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the rustling of leaves in the nearby garden. Yet, Oberyn heard every word, his gaze unwavering.

He didn’t respond immediately, his expression shifting to something unreadable, a mix of intrigue and concern. His silence invited you to continue, and so you did, despite the heaviness settling in your chest.

You knew how this would end. It was already written in the stars, in the fates that controlled your path. Oberyn would return to Dorne, back to Ellaria, to his daughters, to his life—a life you could never be part of. And you would stay behind, here in King's Landing, with only the memory of this fleeting peace. 

It was bittersweet, knowing you could never truly have him. Yet, the happiness you felt now was real. So real, it almost hurt.

You glance down, watching as the breeze played with the fabric of your dress, the cool air brushing your skin. You’d known from the start that this was temporary. That whatever spark had ignited between you would burn out as quickly as it had begun. And when that time came, you would let it.

Because you would be happy. Finally. You wish to be happy enough that you could die. You want to be happy just by that much.

All of this wouldn’t last, just as this peace would slip through your fingers like sand. The realization settled within you, hollow and aching, but you knew it was the truth. 

Oberyn, unaware of your internal turmoil, reached out, his thumb grazing your jaw, bringing your attention back to him. His touch was warm, grounding you in the present. You looked up at him, the faintest smile playing on your lips, and for once, you let yourself exist in the moment—here, in his embrace, even though you knew it wouldn't last forever.

“You are living now,” he finally murmured, his voice a low, steady hum. “And sometimes, that is enough.”

KING'S LANDING, THE IRON THRONE ROOM – DAY

The trial felt like the closing of a noose, tightening with each step Tyrion Lannister took as he entered the room. For a moment, your breath caught. The Iron Throne room was oppressive today, the tension palpable, thick in the air like the pressure of a storm ready to break. You stood to the side, far enough from the public but close enough to feel the malice that filled the room. 

Tyrion’s face was a mask of calm, though you knew it was a facade. He had always been on trial—his whole life judged for what he couldn’t change. His height, his sharp tongue, his wit that often cut too deeply. The crowd barely concealed their disdain for him, whispers rippling through the chamber like the hiss of a snake.

A door creaked open, and Jaime Lannister entered with Tyrion, the Kingslayer leading his brother to what felt like his doom. Tyrion walked with slow, deliberate steps down the aisle, his chains clinking softly against the stone. 

“Kingslayer!” someone jeered from the crowd, and your heart clenched. How easy it was for them to shout from the shadows. Tyrion’s every move was watched, every breath a crime in their eyes. A part of you pitied him—not for the crimes they claimed he committed, but for the life he had been forced to endure. 

As Tyrion was led to the accused dais, his wrists freed, you cast a glance toward the Iron Throne. Tommen Baratheon sat there, looking far too small for the burden that had been thrust upon him. His grandfather, Tywin Lannister, loomed at his side, a figure of calculated power. To the right of the throne stood Oberyn Martell and Mace Tyrell, both set to judge this farce of a trial.

Tommen rose from his seat, signaling for all to stand. The room echoed with the shuffle of robes and armor as everyone complied, including Margaery, Loras, and Cersei, their faces masks of feigned grace.

"I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby recuse myself from this trial." His voice wavered, though he tried to sound regal. "Tywin of the House Lannister, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm, will sit as judge in my stead. And with him Prince Oberyn of the House Martell and Lord Mace of the House Tyrell. And if found guilty... may the gods punish the accused."

Tommen quickly descended from the dais, walking past both Tyrion and Jaime without a second glance. The crowd stirred, uneasy, as Oberyn and Mace Tyrell took their places beside Tywin. Your eyes lingered on Oberyn for a moment—his expression unreadable, though you knew him better. He would play the game today, but his thoughts, you suspected, were far from the politics at hand.

Tyrion stood alone, a figure dwarfed by the grandeur of the hall, but his defiance remained intact. You couldn’t help but admire it, though it would cost him dearly. He looked small, but he commanded the room with nothing more than his presence.

Tywin’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Tyrion of the House Lannister, you stand accused by the Queen Regent of regicide. Did you kill King Joffrey?”

Tyrion’s reply was immediate, almost bored. “No.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, but he remained calm. “Did your wife, the Lady Sansa?”

“Not that I know of,” Tyrion answered, his gaze unwavering.

“How would you say he died, then?” Tywin pressed, leaning forward ever so slightly.

Tyrion's lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Choked on his pigeon pie.”

A murmur of disbelief and irritation rippled through the room. Tyrion continued, unbothered by the multiple of the stares boring into him. "So you would blame the bakers?" Tywin's voice had a dangerous edge now, but Tyrion remained unfazed.

“Or the pigeons,” Tyrion added with a shrug. “Just leave me out of it.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to ice, his patience clearly wearing thin. “The crown may call its first witness.”

As the room shifted in anticipation, your gaze drifted to Oberyn once more. His expression remained unchanged, but you knew him well enough to sense the amusement lurking behind his eyes. This trial was nothing more than a performance, a game of thrones played on the backs of the innocent and guilty alike.

And you, standing in the shadows, couldn’t help but feel as though you too were being judged—not for crimes you committed, but for your mere existence in this cruel and twisted world.

The load of the accusations hung heavily in the air as Ser Meryn Trant took the stand, his voice dripping with self-righteousness as he recounted his version of events. You stood in the shadows, just beyond the throng of onlookers, your gaze flicking between Tyrion, ever defiant, and the cold, unyielding faces of the judges.

“Meryn Trant,” Oberyn had once called him, “a dog who serves cruelty.” Today was no different. His testimony was venomous, laden with exaggerations designed to paint Tyrion as a monster.

“Once we’d got King Joffrey safely away from the mob, the Imp rounded on him,” Trant declared, his voice rising for dramatic effect. “He slapped the king across the face and called him a vicious idiot and a fool. It wasn’t the first time the Imp threatened Joffrey. Right here in this throne room, he marched up those steps and called our king a halfwit. Compared His Grace to the Mad King and suggested he’d meet the same fate. And when I spoke in the king’s defense, he threatened to have me killed.”

You watched Tyrion’s eyes narrow, the tension building in the lines of his face. His hands twitched slightly, barely restrained as the lies continued to spill from Trant’s mouth. Then, Tyrion spoke, his voice sharp and cutting through the silence like a blade.

“Oh, why don’t you tell them what Joffrey was doing?” Tyrion's voice echoed through the hall, daring anyone to challenge him.

Tywin’s voice, cold as ice, immediately followed. “Silence.”

But Tyrion would not be silenced. His voice rose again, and this time, it was filled with fury, with the truth that no one else dared to speak aloud. “Pointing a loaded crossbow at Sansa Stark while you tore at her clothes and beat her.”

The room gasped collectively, whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire. You could see the faces of the nobles twisting with confusion, some in disbelief, others in silent acknowledgment. The truth was an ugly thing, one they preferred to ignore.

Tywin’s command rang out, harsher now. “Silence! You will not speak unless called upon. You’re dismissed, Ser Meryn.”

As Trant exited, he shot Tyrion a venomous look, but you knew his words had left an impression. The seeds of doubt were planted, even if only a few dared to show it. 

The oppressive atmosphere in the throne room had only thickened when Grand Maester Pycelle took the stand, his droning voice listing off a litany of poisons that seemed to stretch on endlessly. You could barely suppress your irritation, the corners of your lips twitching in response. Across the room, Oberyn shared your sentiment, leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowed as he interrupted the Grand Maester.

“I think you’ve made your point, Grand Maester,” Oberyn drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You have a lot of poison in your store.”

You couldn’t help but smirk too, admiring Oberyn's ability to undercut the tension with just a few words. His eyes flickered toward you, the smallest acknowledgment of your shared amusement.

“Had, Prince Oberyn,” Pycelle corrected, his tone defensive. “My stores were plundered.”

Tywin's attention sharpened, his eyes narrowing in on Pycelle like a predator locking onto its prey. “By whom?”

“By the accused, Tyrion Lannister, after he had me wrongfully imprisoned,” Pycelle declared, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.

The room stirred again, unease rippling through the masses. Tyrion stood there, as composed as he could be under the circumstances, but you could see the frustration seeping into the lines of his face.

“Grand Maester,” Tywin’s voice commanded silence once more, “you examined King Joffrey’s corpse. Was it without question poison that killed him?”

Pycelle gave a solemn nod, as if delivering a final verdict. “Without question.”

The crowd reacted, a low murmur spreading like wildfire. Pycelle reached into his robes and produced a necklace, holding it up for all to see. The glint of the delicate chain caught your eye, and your heart dropped. It was Sansa’s necklace—the one she had worn the day of the wedding.

“This was found on the body of Dontos Hollard, the king’s fool,” Pycelle continued, his voice slow and deliberate. “He was last seen spiriting Sansa Stark, the wife of the accused, away from the feast. She wore this necklace the day of the wedding. Residue of a most rare and terrible poison was found inside.”

Tywin’s eyes darkened. “Was this one of the poisons stolen from your store?”

“It was,” Pycelle confirmed with a nod. “The Strangler. A poison few in the Seven Kingdoms possess. And used to strike down the most noble child the gods ever put on this good earth.”

The murmurs intensified, a wave of collective horror and fascination washing over the crowd. You could feel the tide turning, the accusations tightening like a noose around Tyrion’s neck. And yet, in that moment, as Pycelle’s words rang through the hall, you couldn’t help but wonder who in that room truly believed the lies being spun—and who was merely playing their part.

You stood to the side, concealed in the shadows, watching the spectacle unfold as Cersei Lannister took the stand. Her voice was calm, laced with venom, as she recounted her brother’s supposed threats.

"I will hurt you for this," Cersei declared, her voice cutting through the hushed murmurs of the crowd. "A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth. And you will know the debt is paid."

Her words echoed in the vast hall, casting a chill over the proceedings. You couldn’t help but shudder at the coldness of her tone, the way she wielded those words like a weapon—sharpened and aimed directly at Tyrion.

Mace Tyrell, seated beside Tywin and Oberyn, leaned forward, his voice tinged with curiosity. “Your own brother said this to you?”

Cersei nodded, her face a mask of bitterness. “Shortly before the Battle of Blackwater Bay. I confronted him about his plans to put Joffrey on the front lines. As it turned out, when the attack came, Joff insisted on remaining at the battlements. He believed his presence would inspire the troops.”

Oberyn’s sharp gaze never left Cersei as he interjected, “Tyrion said, ‘And you will know the debt is paid.’ What debt?”

Cersei’s eyes flickered briefly, a flash of something darker beneath her calm demeanor. “I discovered he'd been keeping whores in the Tower of the Hand. I asked him to confine his salacious acts to the brothel, where such behavior belongs. He wasn’t pleased.”

From your vantage point, you saw Tyrion shake his head ever so slightly, a bitter smile curling his lips. It was a performance, all of it—a calculated attempt to paint him as the villain in her twisted tale. The truth, as always, was far more complicated.

Tywin Lannister, ever the stern patriarch, inclined his head. “Thank you, Your Grace, for the courage of your testimony.”

As Cersei stepped down from the stand, you could feel the tension ripple through the room. Her gaze lingered on Jaime for a fraction of a second, their unspoken connection palpable even amidst the disarray of the trial. You watched as their eyes locked, a silent exchange passing between them before she returned to her seat.

Varys, the ever-watchful spider, took the stand next. His presence always unnerved you—his calculating eyes saw too much, knew too much, and yet revealed nothing.

Mace Tyrell spoke first, leaning forward with an air of forced politeness. “Do you remember the precise nature of this threat?”

Varys’ expression remained neutral, his voice soft but clear. “I’m afraid I do, my lord. He said, ‘Perhaps you should speak more softly to me, then. Monsters are dangerous, and just now, kings are dying like flies.’”

A faint murmur spread through the crowd, the tonnage of Tyrion’s words settling in. The tension was palpable. You felt it in your bones, in the way the air seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment.

“And he said this to you at a meeting of the small council?” Mace pressed, as if drawing out the damning words would somehow ease his conscience.

“Yes,” Varys confirmed with a nod. “After we received word of Robb Stark’s death. He didn’t seem gladdened by the news. Perhaps his marriage to Sansa Stark had made him more sympathetic to the northern cause.”

You stood still, listening as the crowd shifted, their whispers swirling around you. Every accusation, every witness testimony felt like another nail in Tyrion’s coffin. The trial was nothing more than a spectacle, a farce to mask the truth, and everyone in the room knew it. But no one would dare say it aloud.

Tywin’s voice rang out once more, commanding the attention of the hall. “You’re excused, Lord Varys.”

Varys, ever the obedient servant, bowed his head and exited the stand with practiced grace. Tyrion’s eyes followed him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and betrayal.

“Father,” Tyrion spoke suddenly, his voice laced with bitterness. “May I ask the witness one question?”

Tywin regarded him coldly. “One.”

Tyrion turned to face Varys, his voice steady but full of accusation. “You once said that without me, this city would have faced certain defeat. You said the histories would never mention me, but you would not forget. Have you forgotten, Lord Varys?”

Varys paused, his gaze unwavering as he responded. “Sadly, my lord, I never forget a thing.”

Tyrion’s face fell, and you could see the force of those words settle on his shoulders. Varys bowed once more and exited the room, his footsteps soft but echoing in the heavy silence that followed.

Tywin, Oberyn, and Mace Tyrell stood, their judgment hanging in the air like a guillotine about to fall. Tywin's voice was cold and final. “We will adjourn for now. Toll the bells in an hour’s time.”

“Clear the court!” the guard called, and the crowd began to disperse, a mass of nobility and onlookers eager to gossip about the day’s events.

You remained where you stood, off to the side, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched the scene unfold. The tension in the room had affected you more than you realized. Unconsciously, your fingers had drifted to your arms, scratching at the scars you had long tried to forget. Only when you felt the dampness of blood seeping through the sleeve of your gown did you stop, the pain a reminder of just how fragile control could be.

Across the room, Jaime and Cersei exchanged another glance, their eyes filled with the weight of a thousand unspoken words. The Lannisters had built their empire on secrets and lies, and it seemed their legacy was unraveling before your eyes.

As the last of the crowd filed out, you looked toward Tyrion. He sat there, dejected and weary, his once sharp gaze dull with the knowledge of how this trial would end. For all his wit and cunning, he was still a pawn in his father’s scheme—a scheme that only seemed to grow bloodier with each passing day.

And you, too, were trapped in this  labyrinth of power and betrayal. The scars on your arms ached, a constant reminder of the past, but also of the future that awaited you in this city of ashes.

Suddenly, a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you out of your daze and through a concealed passage near the edge of the hall. You barely registered the movement until you found yourself in a dim, hidden alcove, the noise of the trial muffled behind the thick stone walls.

Oberyn.

His presence alone was enough to make your heart race, but now, standing this close, away from prying eyes, his gaze burned with intensity. He looked down at you, his lips curving into that familiar smirk, though there was a seriousness in his eyes.

“Spend the afternoon with me,” he murmured, his voice deep, pulling at the knot of tension in your chest. You shook your head, flustered.

“Oberyn, people will see… they’ll talk.”

“Let them,” he said, his tone unconcerned as if the entire court could collapse and he would stand unbothered. “What do I care for their whispers? I care only for you, here and now.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, his words unsettling something within you. “If this is all really that important to you, then…” Your breath caught in your throat as you met his eyes, the boldness of your next words surprising even you. “Then let’s try being romantic.”

His expression shifted, softening as a genuine smile spread across his face. He tugged you deeper into the room, where a small table had been set, food and wine waiting as if he had planned it all along. You sat down, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for a cup of water, needing something to calm the storm of emotions that had begun to churn inside you.

Oberyn, ever perceptive, reached across the table, his fingers brushing over the fabric of your sleeve. You hadn’t even noticed, but his sharp eyes caught the faint stain of blood. His brow furrowed in concern.

“What is this?” he asked softly, lifting your arm gently.

“It’s nothing,” you replied quickly, trying to pull away, but his grip remained firm, his thumb stroking the fabric as if he could soothe away the pain beneath it. “I didn’t even notice—just an old wound.”

His gaze darkened, a rare flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. “Old or new, it matters. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

You laughed nervously, trying to shake off his concern. “I’ve had worse, trust me.”

But Oberyn wasn’t convinced. He leaned closer, his voice low and filled with something deeper than just care. “You’ve bled for this city, for people who don’t deserve you. I won’t let it happen again.”

You swallowed hard, the intensity of his words lingering in the air between you. This was more than just a fleeting moment of tenderness; it was a promise. But promises in King’s Landing were as fragile as the alliances that held the court together. And yet, here, in this quiet room, with Oberyn’s eyes locked on yours, you dared to believe in it—just for a moment.

The silence between you and Oberyn stretched, heavy and thick, as you paced the narrow room. You couldn’t look at him, not when the consequence of your question pressed so deeply into your chest. The words tumbled out, quiet at first but gaining strength with each step you took.

“When you first saw me—before you ever noticed my scars—you didn’t even flinch. You didn’t question what I’ve done, what I’ve had to endure.” You paused, your back to him, fingers tracing the rough stone of the wall. “Why? Why do you trust me so blindly? Why would you do anything for me? What makes you so sure?”

The air felt charged, thick with unspoken truths. You waited, breath caught in your throat, as Oberyn’s gaze bore into you from across the room.

“I’ve told you before,” he began, his voice deep and smooth, like the rich wine of Dorne. “What I feel for you is far more than blind trust. I lived through a season of darkness, of violence. And then I saw you.” His words were measured, each syllable drawn out as if he wanted you to feel them in your bones. “I realized—this woman, you—you are my salvation.”

The words struck you harder than you anticipated, sending a shiver down your spine. You turned to face him, meeting his eyes, searching for the flicker of madness or arrogance you had grown used to in the courts of King’s Landing. But instead, you saw only the stark truth.

“At some point,” he continued, rising to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, “one must choose the kind of person they wish to become. I’ve chosen to be your partner in crime. To stand at your side, no matter what may come. It suits me well.”

You took a step toward him, disbelief twisting in your chest. “And what of the others? The whispers… people say you’re mad.”

A smirk danced across his lips as he moved closer, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features. “Let them say what they will,” he said, his voice rich with the confidence that had always surrounded him like armor. “I plan to live as I choose—even if that means living like a madman.”

He stopped just before you, his hand reaching for yours, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let me be mad, so long as it is with you.”

Your breath faltered, caught in the pull of Oberyn’s unwavering gaze. His eyes, dark as the shadows that danced around you, held a promise—one made without words, sealed in the silence between you. Here, in this hidden alcove of King’s Landing, where secrets whispered through every crack in the stone, Oberyn’s reckless devotion felt like the only anchor in a world built on lies and betrayal. The madness that clung to him, the very thing whispered about in the halls of the Red Keep, was the only thing that felt real.

Then, the bell tolled.

The low, resounding chime cut through the stillness, a reminder of the trial that awaited, of the deadly games unfolding beyond this hidden moment. The Iron Throne beckoned. 

“We should go,” you whispered, the significance of duty settling back onto your shoulders like a familiar cloak. Yet even as the words left your lips, part of you wanted to remain in this stolen fragment of time, where nothing but the two of you existed.

Oberyn’s hand lingered at your wrist a moment longer, his thumb brushing against your skin, as if reluctant to let you slip away. “Then let us go,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, “but remember, this madness is ours.”

You nodded, heart heavy with the knowledge of what awaited you both beyond the walls of this room. Together, you stepped out of the shadows and into the labyrinth of power, where every step felt like a descent into the unknown. As you made your way back to the Iron Throne room, the cold walls of the Red Keep felt more oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and unseen eyes.

The crowd had already begun to file back in, and you could feel the tension rise with every step closer to the throne. Oberyn’s presence beside you was like a shield, his gaze steady, even as the treacherous court awaited the next act in this cruel play.

With a deep breath, you entered the chamber, the Iron Throne looming ahead, cold and sharp like the future that awaited. You could still feel the heaviness of Oberyn's promise, unspoken yet burning in your chest, as you took your place beside him once more.

The Iron Throne room was heavy with the scent of judgment, the air thick with the oppressive weight of expectation as you stood off to the side, watching the proceedings with a mix of dread and fascination. The crowd stirred as Tywin, Oberyn, and Mace Tyrell entered, their mere presence enough to command the attention of all in attendance. You, too, were drawn into their orbit, though your vantage point remained deliberately shadowed, a place where you could observe without being seen.

Your eyes flickered toward Jaime and Tyrion as they shared a brief, wordless exchange before Tyrion nodded. The crowd, tense and whispering, settled as Jaime took his position to the side, ever the loyal guard even now. Tywin’s voice cut through the stillness.

“The crown may call its next witness.”

The sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, and the moment Tyrion turned, his face drained of all composure. Shae. She stepped into view, her posture small, head bowed as if already defeated, but her presence sent a ripple of shock through the room.

Tywin’s voice rang out again, cold and unyielding. “State your name.”

“Shae,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tywin’s question came sharp and unforgiving, “Do you swear by all the gods that your testimony will be true and honest?”

“I swear it.”

You stood still, feeling the tension rise within you as much as it did in Tyrion. Shae, once his secret, now stood against him. What did Tywin have over her? Why betray him now, in front of so many?

“Do you know this man?” Tywin asked, motioning toward Tyrion.

Shae’s eyes flicked to Tyrion, but they were empty, drained of any warmth you might’ve once seen. “Yes. Tyrion Lannister.”

“And how do you know him?”

“I was handmaiden to his wife, Lady Sansa,” she replied. The formality of her words felt rehearsed, distant.

The next question felt like a blade being sharpened, preparing for the killing blow. “This man stands accused of murdering King Joffrey. What do you know of this?”

“I know that he's guilty,” Shae said, her voice louder now, cutting through the hall. The crowd gasped, and you felt your heart lurch.

“They planned it together—he and Sansa,” she continued, and the room erupted with murmurs of disbelief.

Tywin’s booming command of “Silence!” quelled the noise, but inside, you felt the storm brewing. Tyrion’s face was a mask of disbelief, shock twisting his features. You could barely hold your breath, the lies Shae spun as deadly as poison.

“She wanted revenge for her family, and Tyrion was happy to help. He hated Joffrey, the Queen, and even you, my lord.” Her voice dripped with venom, each word a calculated dagger.

You clenched your fists, anger rising within you. You knew these words were false, spun from fear or manipulation. Shae’s lies poisoned the truth, but they were crafted to strike where it would hurt Tyrion the most.

Oberyn, standing near Tywin, raised a brow and asked, his voice cutting through the tension, “How could you possibly know all of this? Why would he reveal such plans to his wife's maid?”

Shae’s voice hardened as she responded, “I wasn't just her maid. I was his whore.”

The murmurs rose again. You could hear the gasps from those seated nearby. The shame, the betrayal, it was all laid bare. Your heart sank with the weight of it, feeling as though the very air around you thickened with judgment. Oberyn, never one to let a moment of discomfort pass without seizing it, looked at Shae but then glanced subtly toward you, a glimmer of mischief in his eye. His lips curled into a small smirk as he asked, “And did you?” His voice was laced with innuendo. “Did you fuck him like it was his last night in this world?”

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the brazenness of his words. Even now, in the midst of this trial, Oberyn’s audacity remained unshaken. He winked at you, and you felt a flicker of surprise, but also something else—a recognition that even in confusion, Oberyn’s attention was always sharp, always focused. You shook your head slightly, hiding the faintest hint of amusement at his lack of propriety.

Shae’s reply came in a voice void of emotion, “I did everything he wanted.”

The crowd erupted once more, laughing at the salacious details. You, however, felt no humor. This wasn’t the truth; it was a distortion meant to strip Tyrion of his dignity, to paint him as something monstrous when you knew better. As Shae’s words continued, painting Tyrion as possessive and cruel, you couldn’t help but feel disgust twist within you. This city, this court—it thrived on the downfall of others.

When Tyrion finally spoke, his voice was filled with a raw, desperate kind of fury. “Shae, please don’t.”

But she continued, relentless, her words carving into him, stripping him of what little humanity he had left to claim in the eyes of those around him. Every word she uttered was another stone thrown, and Tyrion, for all his wit, could do nothing but watch.

As the crowd clamored, you stood, feeling your own heart beating in time with the tension in the room. Tyrion’s next words came like a battle cry, an admission of truth wrapped in bitterness.

“Father, I wish to confess. I wish... to confess.”

The silence that followed was thick with anticipation. The entire room held its breath as Tywin’s voice echoed in response, “You wish to confess?”

Tyrion, no longer defeated but filled with a fire you hadn’t seen in him before, turned toward the crowd, his voice rising. “I saved you. I saved this city and all your worthless lives. I should have let Stannis kill you all!”

The shock rippled through the room, but you could see the righteousness in his anger. His truth, raw and ugly, spilled out for all to hear, and you felt every word cut through the falsity of the trial.

When Tywin asked if he had anything to say in his defense, Tyrion’s response sent a chill through you. “I did not do it. I did not kill Joffrey, but I wish that I had.”

You smirked at the irony of it all, your eyes flicking to Tywin. The calm, calculated facade he wore was slipping, even if only slightly. The cracks in his control were beginning to show. Tyrion’s words, his defiance, had shifted the balance, if only for a moment. You looked at the man who had ordered the death of Princess Elia Martell and thought, You stand on ruins now, Tywin. The walls you’ve built will crumble, and when they do, you will stand alone in the dark.

As Tyrion demanded, “ I will not give my life for Joffrey's murder. And I know I'll get no justice here. So I will let the gods decide my fate. I demand a trial by combat!” The room exploded in chaos, but you stood there, breathless, knowing that this was only the beginning. Tywin’s grip on power was faltering, and you couldn’t help but wonder which one of you would ignite the final spark that brought his empire crashing down.

TAGLIST:

@greenwitchfromthewoods @shessweetsour @christinamadsen

[deiarchiescott]

HOTD Rewrite Project: Episode 2x05 excerpt

Link to full project on ao3:

You can read the full rewrite project on AO3:

I wanted to try my hand at rewriting season 2 of House of the Dragon. I've already rewritten the first 4 episodes, and this is my attempt on episode 5, one of my least favourite episodes of the show. My rewrite changes a lot of things about the show (first off, a 10 episode season instead of an 8 episode one) and includes cut characters like Nettles, Black Aly, Sabitha Frey, Daeron, etc. Also includes battles that we haven't gotten to see (or didn't see onscreen) like the Burning Mill, Bitterbridge, the Honeywine, etc. Also Jace spends most of the season flying round the realm — first in the Eyrie, then White Harbour, then at Winterfell with Cregan and Sara.

The challenge for this rewrite is that I have to approach it the way the actual writers of S2 would have — with all of S1 as canon. So no changes are made regarding the first season, and I only continued on from 2x01. Also feel like a big thing missing from the second season were character interactions (Rhaena and Jace never interact, Jeyne Arryn was a nonentity, Helaena and Aemond say one line to each other before episode 8 ...) and I sought to rectify that. Blood and Cheese, Rook's Rest and most other events are completely changed.

The structure of my rewrite:

✅️ 2x01: Blood & Cheese

✅️ 2x02: The Cargyll duel

✅️ 2x03: The Burning Mill (full battle + Black Aly, the Brackens, etc)

✅️ 2x04: Rook's Rest (no anime villain Aemond)

✅️ 2x05: Cooldown after Rook's Rest, Alicent and Aemond's factions scheme to secure the regency

2x06: The Red Sowing (the sowing is the entire episode, not just the last 10 mins), also a battle at the end (Silverwing, Vermithor, Syrax & Seasmoke vs Vhagar and Dreamfyre)

2x07: Honeywine, Baela in Bitterbridge, etc

2x08: The Gullet

2x09: Battle of Bitterbridge (Baela vs Daeron) and the Fall of King's Landing

2x10: Aftermath of the Fall

Big thanks to anyone who decides to take a look!

[atopvisenyashill]

it’s too bad i’m incapable of enjoying these tyrion scenes bc of how they botched the landing of shae’s story.

[ailurocide]

Welcome to Ailurocide, formerly known as Old Faces, New Dawn!

Drawing heavy inspiration from the works of many Warriors rewrites (@bonefall | @troutfur | @cats-of-eden-valley), alongside published works such as Guardians of Ga’hoole, Wings of Fire, Fallout, Game of Thrones, as well as Warriors, Felidae, and Tailchaser’s Song, Ailurocide has, over the years, evolved into an independent story and universe.

Inspired especially strongly by Warriors’ messy canon material, Ailurocide attempts to acknowledge, handle, and guide these themes in a far better manner. The darker topics overseen in this narrative can be found HERE, but featured within the story itself are: Unique Lore, Solid Characterizations, Casual Representation, Fantasy Elements, Fantasy Cultures and Religion, Solid Naming Mechanics, amidst much more!

You can call me Spotty! I’m a 20-year-old disabled trans man, using he/him pronouns exclusively.

If you enjoy my work at all and are able to help out, please consider buying me a Kofi!

Blood Spilt, Blood Shared, Blood Spurned by Blood… Braved by a blaze that may burn it all away.

[INTRO to AILUROCIDE]

[Text Dividers by @cafekitsune!]

[dipperscavern]

DIPPY!! I want to write something based on that one anon thing that someone sent you about the injured wanking hand. I wanted to do it when Jon burnt his hand during Ike's first or second season, and the reader, another male recruit of the night watch, figures out why he's so frustrated and in a sour mood and teases him about it before eventually lending Jon a much-needed hand. The only thing is, I don't quite know how to go about dialogue. There are so many different fics out there where dialogues are made differently. I want mine to be sorted of humorous and fluffy yet accurate for the timeline and whatnot. Any advice on going about this??

- 📵

HII BROKEN PHONE ANON!! that sounds like a wondrous idea n i’m so excited at the prospect of u writing something goodnigjt

ANYWAYS. dialogue dialogue dialogue… u tricky beast. not to toot my own horn but i haven’t much struggled with dialogue, as it’s one of those things that comes fairly easy to me (usually), but i definitely understand the struggle at first!! i would say it’s important to put emphasis on the timeline they’re in, but to also remember, they’re only human. yeah, instead of “You really think i’d do that?” it’s more like “You truly think me so capable?”, but it’s also not over complicated all the time. there’s still convos like

“Don’t know what’s gotten’ into him….”

“Aye, that lads off his rocker.”

yk? so i’d say be mindful but don’t beat yourself up over it! also, rewatching scenes/episodes of got could also help you get a feel for/reminder of how everyone (jon especially) talks :3 the dynamic and dialogue is yours to choose, so don’t worry about how other people characterize him. i wish i could provide more specific examples on how to help it be humorous n fluffy but i’m drawing blanks :( i think as you get into the zone of writing it’ll come pretty naturally, and if it doesn’t, my dms & inbox are always open if you’d like any help !! happy writing my love <3

[cjbolan]

My Proposed Solution to Jaime's Character Regression in Season 8:

Instead of dying to save Cersei who really doesn't deserve it, he dies killing Cersei in an effort to save King's Landing from her tyrannical reign. Heck instead of Sandor you could've had Jaime fighting the Mountain to get to Cersei, and just when Mountain has the upper hand Sandor could come in to kill Mountain and save Jaime.

[ficfinding]

#fic find

#game of thrones #song of ice and fire #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #au fic #rewrite

Hi! Im looking for a game of thrones/song of ice and fire fanfic that i read a year ago but it seems to have banished off the earth

It was mainly about the jon snow and daenerys ship but the plot was amazing. I dont remember all the details but the plot began with Rhaegar somehow surviving the battle of the trident, Daenerys being raised by the Starks in Winterfell and falling in love with Jon. From that point on all of the characters change their path, for example Robb escapes the red wedding and tries to become a faceless assassin, Jon becomes leader of the golden company and meets Tyrion and Oberyn, Daenerys takes control of the khalassar with her dragons i think and Rhaegar tries to find the three eyed raven.

It had everything: smut, fluff, adventure... and the writting was consistent but i can`t seem to find it anywhere, any help is appreciated.

.