Chapter Text
PROLOGUE - 2009 AC
The suite at the King's Landing Hightower overlooks the Blackwater, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed view of the bustling harbor district. But Margaery doesn't see the ships dotting the water or the afternoon sun casting golden light across the expensive furnishings. Sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed, her gaze is fixed on the emerald-cut diamond resting in her palm.
Two carats. Flawless clarity. Set in platinum with the kind of craftsmanship that promised sun-drenched yacht summers and cozy vineyard getaways in autumn.
She turns the ring again, this time letting it catch the light. It's exactly what she would have chosen for herself.
"Marge, you have to see this dress!" Her cousin Alla calls from the adjoining sitting room, where half the Tyrell extended family have been camped for the better part of an hour, sorting through gowns for tonight's military ball. "It's Valentino. I could die."
"It's a military ball. Not a Lyseni night club," Megga adds, followed by the rustle of silk and taffeta. "What about the navy Armani? It would look divine with your coloring."
The chatter washes over Margaery like background music—pleasant, yet forgettable. Her cousins arrived that morning from Highgarden in a flurry of garment bags and jewelry cases, transforming her hotel suite into a staging area worthy of a royal wedding. In a way, it is. Tonight, Prince Rhaegar will hand out medals to decorated officers for their service in the Three Daughters' War, including the handsome, headline-grabbing Young Wolf, Captain Robb Stark. Every marriage-minded girl in the republic will have their nets out tonight. Meanwhile, with a year and a half left in her studies at King's College, Margaery has already secured her catch.
Gyles Greene, son of a Lyseni ambassador, descended from a branch of the Gardner family that allegedly fled to the island when the Targaryens conquered the Reach. 6'2. Blonde. Body built through years of rowing. As close to a prince as she can get without marrying into the royal family.
A sharp knock at the door interrupts her thoughts, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone entering without waiting for permission. The cousins' chatter immediately dies.
"Girls," comes a crisp voice from the suite's entryway. "I need a word with Margaery."
On cue, her spine straightens.
"Grandmother," Alla squeaks. "We didn't know you were coming by."
"Clearly." Olenna Tyrell appears in the bedroom doorway, formidable as always in a charcoal Chanel suit that probably costs more than most people's cars. Her silver hair is swept into its signature chignon, and her eyes—the same shade of brown as Margaery's—take in the chaos of gowns and jewelry with obvious disapproval. "Looks like a hurricane hit a whore house."
"We're just helping Margaery get ready for tonight," Megga offers.
"How thoughtful." Her tone suggests she finds it anything but. "I'm sure you girls can occupy yourselves elsewhere for a few minutes."
It's not a request, and everyone in the room knows it. Within seconds, the cousins clear the room with the efficient panic of ladies-in-waiting who've just been dismissed by a queen.
"We'll be in Elinor's room," Alla murmurs as they file out, arms laden with silk and accessories.
The door clicks shut, leaving grandmother and granddaughter alone.
Olenna settles into the suite's plush armchair, back erect with legs crossed, her gaze immediately falling to Margaery's closed fist.
"Well?"
Margaery opens her palm, revealing the diamond. "Two carats. Flawless. From Gyles Greene."
"The Lyseni boy." Olenna's expression doesn't change. "I assume he wants an answer."
"Mother told me to bide my time."
"Good girl. And what are you inclined to tell him?"
Yes. Though, she has a feeling if that were the right answer, they wouldn't be having this conversation. "I don't know," she lies.
Her grandmother sighs. "Let me guess. You're suffering from the delusion that's infected your entire generation—that you can 'have it all.'"
Delusion? Margaery blinks.
"It's liberal poppycock. A pretty lie that fills young women's heads with nonsense and wastes precious years of their lives. You'll spend your youth chasing your tail and wake up at thirty-five wondering why everything you thought you wanted feels like utter shit."
Thinking of her aunts' medicine cabinets, the neat rows of amber Xanax bottles hiding behind designer face creams, the way her cousin Leonette's smile never quite reaches her eyes anymore. Her grandmother has a point.
"If you want to get anywhere in this world, you have to choose. Not bend yourself in a million directions for some fairy tale. Decide what you want more than anything else, then build a life in service to it."
"What if I want love more than anything?"
"Buy a dog."
"Grandmother, that sounds—"
"Listen to me, Margaery," her grandmother leans forward with expectant eyes. When Margaery meets her glare, she continues. "If you heed nothing else I say, remember this: men aren't the enemy but you must understand what they are. They serve and protect. It's why they have all those bloody sports teams, why they march off to wars, why they build governments and institutions. They need to serve something bigger than themselves.
"So you measure their love in service—not pretty words, or butterflies, or what they can do with their cocks. If your purposes aren't served? You aren't loved."
Setting the ring on the bedside table, Margaery considers this. Women weren't prime ministers when her grandparents married. "How did you know grandfather would serve your purposes?"
"I chose as best I could with what society offered me at the time. A rich lout with the right name who would walk himself off a cliff if I asked. So when the opportunity for more presented itself, I had what I needed to grab it."
"Gyles is handsome, well-connected, wealthy—"
"Fine qualities indeed." Olenna stands, moving to the windows that overlook the Blackwater. "But he's useless if you don't know what you want."
"I'm twenty-one—"
"And you don't know anything but parties and pretty dresses. You have advantages most women only dream of—the Tyrell name, your mind, your beauty, your education. Don't squander them on the first acceptable offer that comes along."
"But if I wait too long…"
"You'll still be Margaery Tyrell. All you need do is wink and men will go to war for you. Beauty doesn't fade as quickly as people pretend. And power?" Olenna turns back to face her, tapping her temple. "Real power only grows stronger with age and experience. Now, please," she says, assessing the room. "Tell me you have some decent drink hidden somewhere beneath all this nylon and nonsense."
Margaery rises and moves to the suite's minibar, her mind working over the word "power." She appreciates the ritual of making her grandmother's drink—two fingers of Arbor aged brandy, one ice cube. It grounds her as she considers, perhaps for the first time, what being powerful would look like.
She crosses back and offers the tumbler to Olenna, who accepts it with a slight nod of approval. A satisfied hum follows her first sip.
"Tonight's ball—half the republic's rising stars will be there. The Stark boy, certainly, but others as well. Enjoy yourself, but be a sponge. Study power in its various forms. What makes people tick. See what excites you."
"And Gyles?" Margaery asks, settling back onto the bed.
"Tell him you need more time. A year, perhaps two. He's a fine enough boy—enjoy him while you learn the ways of the world. Don't get pregnant. If he's worth having, he'll wait. If he's not…" Olenna shrugs. "Then you'll save yourself decades of regret."
He arrives in King's Landing a day early and tells no one.
Somewhere—on the plane over the Narrow Sea, the ride to the High Tower, in his room overlooking the old palace where he'll receive military honors in two days—he expects to feel like his old self. Back when he thought losing Father at 15 had made him a man. Before war proved him wrong.
The suite is larger than necessary, all marble and gold trim that speaks to the republic's eagerness to honor its war heroes. Robb drops his duffel on the polished floor and moves to the windows. Below, the Red Keep's ancient towers catch the late afternoon sun, tourist groups moving like ants through the courtyards where Targaryen kings once held court. In two days, Prince Rhaegar will pin medals on men who've seen things that would make those tourists wake up screaming.
He should call home. Check on Bran's physical therapy appointments, make sure Rickon hasn't gotten himself expelled again, see if Sansa needs anything for her upcoming semester at university. Be the responsible older brother who stepped up when their father died. The boy who held his family together through grief and guilt and the terrible calculus of suddenly being responsible for everyone else.
That boy feels like a stranger now.
Instead, he opens his laptop and scrolls through news coverage of the ceremony. The headlines make him want to put his fist through the screen.
"Young Wolf Returns Home Triumphant"
"Captain Stark Follows in Father's Footsteps"
"War Hero Brings Honor to Stark Name"
They paint him as some kind of noble knight, the worthy son of House Stark who fought with honor and came home clean. They don't mention the village outside Myr where his men were ambushed, where he had fifteen seconds to choose between following rules of engagement and watching his soldiers die. They don't write about the three prisoners he interrogated in that basement in Tyrosh, how efficiently he'd learned to break men without leaving marks.
They certainly don't mention how good he'd gotten at it.
His phone buzzes. A text from his mother: Safe travels, darling. We're so proud of you. Father would be too.
Father. Ned Stark, who'd taught him that a man's worth was measured by his honor, who'd warned him again and again about the darkness that ran through their family’s veins. “Wolf blood," he'd called it during one of their last conversations. "It's in you, Robb. In all of us. But a good man learns to think beyond it; keeps it caged."
He had tried. Gods be good, he'd tried. Right up until that first firefight when keeping it caged meant watching Daryn Hornwood take a bullet to the chest because Robb hesitated to make the call that would save his men's lives.
He'd stopped hesitating after that.
The problem wasn't that he'd done terrible things. The problem was how little it had troubled him. How natural it had felt to become something harder, more ruthless. How easily the wolf his father warned him about had taken root in his psyche.
He should feel guilt. Shame. Some kind of moral injury that proved he was still the man his father had raised. Instead, he felt... practical. Like he'd finally stopped pretending to be something he wasn't.
That was the part that terrified him.
Another text, this one from Jon: Saw the news coverage. Try not to let the hero worship go to your head, King Robb.
Robb almost laughs. If only Jon knew. If only any of them knew that their golden boy had discovered exactly what he was capable of when the leash came off.
He closes the laptop and reaches for the remote, but a knock at the door stops him. Room service, probably, though he hadn't ordered anything.
"Captain Stark?" The voice is professional, female. "I'm Mya Waters from WKLN. We were hoping for a quick interview before Thursday’s ceremony."
Of course. He'd turned down three interview requests, but that had never stopped ambitious reporters before.
"I'm not doing interviews," he calls through the door.
"Just five minutes, ser. The people want to hear from their heroes."
Robb opens the door to find a blonde woman in her thirties holding a camera crew at bay behind her. She's got the look of someone used to getting what she wants through sheer persistence, and when her eyes meet his, something shifts in her posture. Her smile becomes warmer, more personal. She steps closer than professional distance would dictate.
Heroes. There's that word again.
"Ms. Waters, I appreciate the interest, but—"
"You're exactly what Westeros needs right now," she interrupts, her voice dropping to something more intimate despite the crew behind her. Her gaze lingers on his shoulders, his mouth. "Young, courageous, following in your father's footsteps. It's inspiring."
Something cold settles in his chest. Not anger—something more dangerous. The same feeling he'd gotten when politicians visited their base, talking about honor and sacrifice while standing safely behind concrete walls. He notices how she touches her hair when she talks, how her tongue darts across her lower lip. The ring on her left hand marks her unavailable. Her body tells a different tale. It wouldn’t take much to remind her what having a strapping young lad between her thighs feels like. Send her to yoga, aerobics, or whatever fitness craze the King’s Landing socialites were on about these days with well-worn muscles and a satisfied smile.
"You don't know anything about what I did over there," he says quietly.
"I know you served the republic with distinction. I know you led your men safely through some of the worst fighting of the war. I know your father would be proud."
"My father is dead."
The words come out sharper than he intends, and he sees the reporter's eyes light up. She thinks she's found the angle—the grieving son, carrying on his father's legacy.
"Which makes your service even more meaningful," she says softly. "You're living proof that honor isn't dead. That there are still good men willing to fight for what's right."
Robb stares at her for a long moment. He could tell her the truth. Could explain that good men don't sleep soundly after doing the things he's done. Could describe exactly what "fighting for what's right" looks like when the cameras aren't rolling.
Instead, he finds himself nodding. "Five minutes."
Because maybe she's right. Maybe Westeros does need its heroes, even if they're more complicated than the stories suggest. Maybe he can be exactly what people expect him to be, and the other part—the wolf part—can stay buried.
Maybe he can choose which Robb Stark gets to live in the light.
The camera crew sets up quickly, efficiently. Mya Waters runs through her questions—softball queries about duty and sacrifice and the Stark’s history of pubic service. Robb answers them all, his voice steady and sure.
"Captain Stark, what would you say to young people who look up to you as a role model?"
He thinks of Bran, still recovering from the car accident that nearly killed him. Of Arya, fierce and principled and so much like their father it hurts. Or Rickon, young and wild and needing a man’s guidance.
"I'd tell them that honor isn't a burden," he hears himself say. "It's a choice. Every day, in every decision, we choose who we want to be. My father taught me that. It's the most important lesson a man can learn."
The interviewer beams. Behind the camera, the producer gives a thumbs up.
Robb Stark, war hero. Ned Stark's son. The twenty-one year old military prodigy. The Young Wolf.
He showers after they leave, letting his mind wander as scalding water pounds out the tension in his shoulders. What would have happened if he’d accepted what was obviously on offer from the reporter. He sees himself press her to the door, blonde hair spilling from his fist as she welcomes his tongue in her mouth. Imagines her body relaxing into pliant surrender beneath him. As his thoughts become more frantic and blurred—her mouth around his cock, her body bent over the bed with her skirt hiked in invitation–his hand answers the need pulsing through his body. He takes himself roughly, just as he would have taken her. And pants in exhausted relief as his release disappears down the drain.
He stands under the spray until the water runs cold, letting the fantasy wash away with the soap. In the mirror, his reflection looks exactly as it should. Like his father's son.
Night’s begun its descent over the city once he leaves the bathroom. He towels dry in the growing darkness of his suite and orders room service, grateful when it arrives with a woman who reminds him of Nann. She pays no mind to his bare chest, simply gets on with the business of setting up his tray. A mutton burger, cooked medium. Crispy onion rings. And a frosty Flynt Red Ale. A meal that feels like home.
Tomorrow, his family will arrive, proud and excited for him. The day after, Prince Rhaegar will adorn him with Aegon’s Star of Valor, call him a hero before an audience of fawning flatterers. And the cameras will capture it all.
He'll smile, accept their gratitude, and become the man they all need him to be.
His Stark blood runs true. His duty. His love for his family. The lessons learned at the feet of the father he lost much too soon.
The apex predator whose body sings in the heat of battle, whose growl heralds the threat of winter, can stay on his family’s crest—where it belongs.
After all, a good man keeps the wolf caged.
Sarella Sand walks into Ancient Mythology thinking about her thesis on water deities in pre-conquest Dorne. She walks out knowing she's been wasting her time.
Somewhere between Wyman Manderly's analysis of Robert Baratheon's exploitation of the Warrior archetype and his explanation of how Olenna Tyrell wielded the Crone to become Westeros's first female Prime Minister, it hits her. All the fragments she's collected in her two years at the Citadel—world history, ancient cultures, mythological patterns—coalesce into something more immediate, more alive. Something that has practical application in the arena that matters most. Where decisions are made. Where myths become reality.
And she wants in.
Which is why, three days later, she's sitting across from a hostess at The Crab Shack, sliding two hundred-dollar bills across a sticky table while Wyman Manderly's regular lunch reservation gets called in the background.
"Just text me when he arrives," Sarella says, ignoring the girl's curious stare. "You don't know me. We never met."
The hostess pockets the money with practiced efficiency. "And if he asks how you found him?"
"He won't.”
She spends the next hour practicing darts in her dorm room, trying to steady herself. This is insane. She's about to ambush one of the most successful political consultants in Westeros based on a single lecture and a ravenous hunger for something… New. Terrifying.
But when her phone buzzes with the text—he's here—she doesn't hesitate.
The Crab Shack smells like bay seasoning and beer, exactly the kind of place where a man like Wyman Manderly can eat messy food in peace. Sarella spots him immediately: massive frame folded into a corner booth, thick fingers already working on a pile of steamed crabs with the single-minded focus she recognizes in herself.
"Southron crabs," she says by way of introduction, watching him look up with mild surprise. "They're meatier up North but sweeter down here.”
The audacity of it—a uni student interrupting his private meal—should offend him. Instead, something like amusement flickers in his eyes.
"According to Marwyn," she continues, settling into the seat across from him without invitation, "no trip to Oldtown is complete for you without visiting this place. The hostess was very accommodating."
He studies her while cracking another crab leg. "Sarella Sand. Oberyn Martell's daughter. The one at the Citadel." Not questions. Statements. He's done his homework too. “You eat a lot of crab on the Isles?”
She attacks a crab leg with her mini-mallet, the familiar rhythm grounding her racing pulse. "Mostly in soups and stews. My xola makes a mean crab gumbo."
They fall into the dance of shared food and careful conversation, each measuring the other. She can feel him evaluating her—the way she handles the interrogation disguised as small talk, how she deflects his attempts to dismiss her as just another ambitious student.
Then he mentions relevant coursework, the standard brush-off, and she knows this is her moment.
"You were wrong about Princess Loreza Martell," she says quietly.
The reaction is immediate—eyebrows furrowing, the subtle shift that means she's caught his full attention.
"Excuse me?"
"In your lecture. You named Loreza with political figures who channeled 'The Mother' in their iconography." She keeps her voice steady, academic. "Easy mistake—the Faith has a decent following in Dorne—but if you're familiar with ancient Rhoynish culture, you'd know she invoked Mother Rhoyne, the water deity the Rhoynar prayed to for provision and protection."
She watches him process this, sees the moment he realizes she's not just correcting him—she knows something he doesn’t.
"Watch her public speeches," she continues. "Always staged with the sea behind her. The children in her state portraits at the Water Gardens weren't the point. Water was. You can see how that would be effective in a desert nation."
"So you know your grandmother," he says, but there's less dismissal in it now. He's testing her reaction.
"Not really. I was five when she passed." She takes a deliberate sip of water, lets the pause stretch. "I know her history the same way I know the Winter Crone archetype you used to get Barbrey Dustin elected—an egregious rip-off of Olenna Tyrell—won't work for Maege Mormont."
Wyman leans forward, eyes widening slightly.
Got him.
"She's a happy warrior," Sarella continues, fueled by the rush of her mind working at full speed. "Think Lyonel the Laughing Storm, with teats. That sounds absurd to you because you're limited by rigidly-gendered Westerosi mythology. But people respond to all manner of archetypes when they're effectively communicated. Let Maege be her smiling, shotgun-wielding mama bear self and she'll charm her way straight to Harrenhal."
“Huh,” Wyman responds, curiosity in his eyes as he returns to the spread before him. “Tell me more about my business.”
She rattles off her analysis of Anya Waynwood’s flailing fight for her incumbent seat in the Vale and offers suggestions for more youthful, vigorous replacements, each insight delivered with the casual precision of a Westerosi insider.
Then the TV behind the bar catches his attention. "Him." Wyman points to a young man in military dress uniform, auburn hair catching the light as he shakes hands with Prime Minister Baratheon. "How would you position him?"
Sarella follows his gaze to the screen. The soldier can't be much older than she is, but there's something in his bearing that suggests he's seen more than people twice his age. The camera loves him, that’s for sure—clean-shaven face, easy smile, the kind of natural charisma that can't be manufactured.
"For what?" she asks, though part of her is already analyzing the subtle confidence in his posture.
"Prime Minister."
An absurd suggestion, but she studies the handsome young man with new interest. He certainly has a story, something beneath the polished surface. The way he holds himself at attention, all broad shoulders and squared jawline, suggests strength. But there's weight in his eyes, an intriguing gravity that makes her want to know more.
"He's made for television," she says slowly, working through the calculation. "Posture instills confidence. And Westeros does love a war hero. I'd say the Warrior, but... he's too young. People might think he's a hothead." She gestures toward the screen where Prime Minister Baratheon dominates the frame. "He can pull that off, but I don't see that working with boy wonder."
She studies the soldier's face. "He's regal, but burdened. There's a story there. Whatever it is, use it to frame him as wise beyond his years." She lets her gaze linger a moment before turning her attention back to Wyman. “Who is he?" she asks.
"Captain Robb Stark. Just saw his twenty-first name day."
Stark. The name resonates, carrying weight she can't quite place. "Well, he's got the name for it."
"On both sides. Mother's a Tully. Father was a hero in the 2003 Bear Island Attack." Wyman slurps down a mussel, but his eyes never leave her face. "Ten, fifteen years, that lad will cruise into office. Maybe you'll be along for the ride.
“You're not a polywhateverthefuck nude-swimming swinger, are you?"
Oberyn. Of course. Even here, trying to forge her own path, her father's reputation precedes her. The humiliation burns, but not enough to throw her off course. She forces herself to stay calm.
"Then I'm assuming you know my mother's family as well? And their rich legacy as dedicated and accomplished public servants?"
Something in her tone must convince him, because he leans back and makes his offer. Forty-eight hours to write her positioning paper. Her chance to prove she belongs in his world.
Walking back to campus, she turns her mind to the task at hand. Forty-eight hours to explain how she'd position herself as a political advisor in Westeros. Five pages or less.
She's a bastard daughter from not one, but two foreign lands. She has no real political experience. And a father whose infamous exploits precede whatever room she walks into.
Still, Westerosi are people. And people respond to power.
The traditional Westerosi mantles are of no use to her. Family connections, institutional backing, inherited credibility.
But she has her mind. The ability to recognize patterns others missed. It’s a start, but not enough for people who traffic in results and dominance, not theories. She needs to combine intelligence with something more visceral, threatening. An image that will make people want to invite her in.
The short-haired, dart-throwing Citadel smartass will not do.
By the time she reaches campus, the solution takes shape. Not the Crone - too old and detached. Not the Mother - too nurturing, too soft. The Maiden is an absolute “no.”
She needs something that promises both strategic thinking and ruthless execution.
The Warrior. But not in its battlefield form. More like…
A clever little predator. A viper in the grass.
Like her mother and grandmother, the proud Qos of Ebonhead. Women who silenced rooms with the click of their heels and the quirks of their brow.
Viper. Warrior. Father’s cunning. Momi and Xola’s poised authority. It comes together as she passes the sphinx statues where novices play their drinking games, their laughter echoing off the ancient stone.
She makes a quick call to Nymeria, leaving a message when she’s—predictably—sent to voicemail. She’ll need her sister’s personal shopper. And suggestions for Oldtown salons that can make something of her hair.
Then, she’s at Peremore Hall, taking the stairs two at a time to her dorm room. Forty-eight hours for a positioning paper? Wyman will have it in twenty-four.
She flips open her laptop, heart pumping out of her chest as the words appear on the screen.
Sarella Sand: Warrior in a Suit.