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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.

Chapter Text

"This is Roslin Frey with your morning update from the Capitol at Harrenhal.

With Prime Minister Randyll Tarly's announcement that he will not seek a full term this fall, the race to lead the Republic appears to be narrowing to two candidates. People's Councilman Renly Baratheon of the Stormlands and Governor Kevan Lannister of the Westerlands have both filed official candidacy papers with the Electoral Commission.

Early polling from Beacon Research shows Councilman Baratheon with a commanding twenty-three point lead over Governor Lannister, with particularly strong support in his home region and significant gains in both the Crownlands and the Reach. Political analysts attribute Baratheon's early strength to his progressive policy platform and what many see as a generational shift away from traditional party politics.

Sources close to Prime Minister Tarly suggest an official endorsement could come as early as next week, potentially at Councilman Baratheon's planned rally in the Stormlands. Such an endorsement would be seen as a significant boost to the Baratheon campaign's momentum.

Governor Lannister's campaign declined to comment on the polling numbers, but released a statement emphasizing his executive experience and fiscal conservative credentials.

The general election is scheduled for the second week of autumn, with candidate registration closing at the end of next month.

This has been your WKLN morning update. We'll be back after these messages."

"That's the one."

Gods, Theon thinks. Don't let it be the $21,000 one. He flips the view on his phone so Sansa can inspect the selection of rings on the tray.

"Far right. 1.5 carat, round cut, white gold," she says. "It looks just like the one on her Pinterest board."

Of course.

He nods to Sabitha, the smiling saleswoman behind the counter. A mere six months ago, those tits peeking through her scandalously-buttoned white shirt would have compelled him to give her something more fleeting than the healthy commission she's about to collect.

He's in love, not blind—but neither Sabitha's turnips nor the significant dent in his credit card can cool the warmth in his chest imagining Jeyne's face when she sees this ring.

Theon Greyjoy. Betrothed. He's tempted to pinch himself.

You learn a thing or two watching your best mate spin out from a broken heart. Namely, you don't want to be the bloke who lets the girl—the One—get away.

Day two of their trip to wine country, having dinner on a balcony at Redwyne Family Vineyards as the sun set over rows of red grapes as far as the eye could see, when the light caught whatever Jeyne put on her face that evening to make her cheeks shimmer and all of a sudden he couldn't breathe, Theon knew.

He was done for. Over. So long to the Sabithas of the world.

Maestro, you can cue the wedding march…

The Riverlands' rains don't bother him —a walk in the park compared to the icy storms he grew up with. As far as he's concerned, it's 70 degrees and sunny as he whips his Tesla through the Capitol nodding to the sounds of Jaero Hovys. He became a fan while stationed in Tyrosh, sharing a base with Braavosi soldiers who couldn't get enough of Jae's layered, braggadocious rhymes. When you spent your days trying not to get your cock blown off by landmines, you took confidence where you could get it. For Theon, that meant chanting lines like "I will not lose" and "allow me to re-introduce myself" while waiting in the fields, rifle at the ready.

He generally prefers the earlier stuff to the recent releases with his wife, Bellegere Otherys. Since taking Jeyne to see the pair in concert, however, he appreciates the newer tracks. He doesn't even skip when "Boss" thumps out of his custom speakers.

"Everybody's bosses/ till it's time to pay for the office—"

Fucking hell. How does the phone always know to ring right before the best part of the song? His frustration is quickly replaced with a shit-eating grin when he sees the name flashing across his dashboard.

"Ms. Poole," he answers. He swears he can feel the ring burning a hole in his pocket, even though it's locked in his safe at home. She has no idea… he thinks. Or does she? Bloody hell, if Sansa spoiled the surprise—

"Are you seeing this thing with Arya and your uncle?"

He tries—actively—not to see anything about anyone in his family, except maybe Asha. But keeping the Greyjoy name out of his feeds is difficult of late. What with Euron emerging from bumfuck Asshai and casting himself as Westeros' new main character. Running around with Cersei Lannister. Going viral for shitposting celebrities and the government. Now, apparently he's arguing with Arya on Twitter.

Once he's at his desk, Theon goes through the tweets. All 319 of them. Arya listed the 318 victims of the 2002 Bear Island Attack, a name per tweet, and ended the thread with:

"The media wants you to forget, so they can use the theatrics of a suspected terrorist to boost their ratings. Please think of your Northern neighbors before you platform/share/boost Euron Greyjoy. Time changes many things—it doesn't bring back the loved ones we lost at Bear Island. #TheNorthRemembers."

587k reweets

In reply, Euron posted a photo from Robb's campaign with Theon featured prominently among the Stark siblings.

"Seems you aren't triggered by all Greyjoys. Just the ones who don't kiss your 'honorable' arses.

Westerosi elites use every trick in the book to censor me because I tell the truth. Don't let the sob stories fool you.

869k retweets

How long before his phone starts buzzing with requests for comment? Theon gives it two, three hours tops.

When he left Pyke to join the armed services at 18, he thought his days of explaining his family ties were over. He enlisted as Theon Harlaw with no plans to return to the western shores of the Narrow Sea. Once the Three Daughters' conflict settled, he'd find a local Tyroshi girl—a buxom waitress, bartender, or the like—and have a stable full of blue-haired sons who'd never hear their family name associated with words like "extremist," or "cult."

He was in Tyrosh a year when a new crop of cadets came over from the Military Academy at Storm's End, and the name "STARK" appeared over one of the bunks in his unit.

When the Bear Island Courthouse fell, he and Asha were already emancipated, having won their freedom with the assistance of their Uncle Rodrik. The national media knew of Balon Greyjoy, the Iron Islands governor who didn't publicly support the Church of the Drowned God, but—conveniently—never brought the full force of the law down on its extremist sect. They knew the masterminds behind the attack, and applied the term to Aeron and Victarion without irony. And they knew of the enigmatic Greyjoy brother whose "business" took him to Qarth—known drug and money laundering capital of the world—a month before the attack.

They knew little of the wife who divorced Balon ten years prior on grounds of spousal abuse. Or the pair of teenage orphans left to fend for themselves when she died.

His mother's surname let him and Robb coexist peacefully when he first arrived. As the legend of the Young Wolf spread, Theon stayed cordial, but distant. They worked together when duty called. Otherwise, Theon spent his leisure time with the Braavosi unit. With their music, brashness, and penchant for good liquor, they were more his speed than the boy scouts from the Military Academy.

Leave it to Balon to blow it to shit.

News of his father's stroke came via letter. Addressed to "Theon Greyjoy." Like it was bloody designed for shouting in the unit for everyone to hear.

Theon learned three things that day.

One: He wouldn't receive a penny of his trust fund without the Greyjoy name.

Two: Robb has literal bricks for hands.

Three: A fist fight can be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Moments like tonight—watching his name turn into a trending topic because he didn't just have "a" crazy uncle, but came from a family of hucksters who amassed power by deluding an impoverished region with the fantasy of subjugating women, never paying taxes, and attacking merchant ships in the Sunset Sea like a band of old time pirates—makes him wonder if being a Greyjoy is worth the money.

Hovys said it best. Take the good with the bad or throw the baby out with that bath water. Theon Harlaw couldn't drop $21k on an engagement ring.

Fuck waiting out the storm. He may as well steer into it. Smother this baby in the crib before it hits Robb's radar and turns into a real shit show. It's the last thing they need after that Westerling business.

And yes. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of his mind, Theon liked the idea of eye candy in the office when that bloke from the Lorathi embassy gave him her resume. How was he supposed to know Robb would lose his godsdamned head?

Before Jeyne—his Jeyne—not Slutty Fanfic Jeyne…

Well. Okay. Theon would've done the same. Or at least tried. But he didn't unzip Robb's pants and stick his cock in the girl. So, not his fault.

"WNTH. How may I help you?"

"Theon Greyjoy for Wylla Manderly."

Hound that she is, Wylla barely lets the phone ring. Gods save anyone standing between her and an exclusive. "Your uncle has half the republic calling you 'Theon Sheepboy.' Care to comment?"

Sheepboy? Oh. Wolves. Sheep. "Charming," Theon retorts, tapping his pen on his desk.

Time to earn his keep as comms director.

"I'd like to say, on the record, that I have been honored by the gracious warmth and welcome I've found within the Stark family, and stand ardently with them in support of the families and victims of the Bear Island Attack. Euron Greyjoy is a photo on a mantle in a house I barely remember. And I'd like to keep it that way."

"Got it."

"One more thing, Wylla…"

"Aye?"

"The headline is me and my uncle. The family's been through enough without Euron goading them into a brawl." Better Euron's army of bots calling him "sheepboy" than whatever vile shit they'll say to Arya.

"Careful, Greyjoy. People might start thinking you're gallant."

"Me?" Theon smiles. "Never."

It is entirely too early for whatever the fuck is happening downstairs.

Jon squints against the rays of sun cracking through his blinds. What time is it? Fuck, what day is it? His nights—the alleys, warehouses, basements, and bars—are distinguishable. The night his jaw got broken. The body blow that sent the big fucker from Thieves' Market to the ER with cracked ribs. The brunette bartender who blew him in a backroom after cleaning the wounds on his knuckles.

But days? Days are a monotonous blur of fighting the sun, avoiding his co-workers' concerned stares, takeout boxes, and making sure Ghost doesn't piss all over his loft.

Ghost. That's probably what that noise is. Though Jon's vaguely sure he walked him before he crashed around 6:00 AM. If he had the energy, he'd throw a sheet over the fucking blinds. A pillow over his face does the job.

Except.

Those are cabinet doors opening and closing downstairs. Definitely not Ghost.

The hand he swipes over his mouth does nothing to remove the tang of last night's Redsmith's on his tongue, but the brain fog clears a bit. An intruder wouldn't get past Ghost.

Unless Ghost is hurt…

His ribs still hurt like a bitch, so he tips gingerly down the spiral staircase, palming the cool handle of his Glock. Gods be good, whatever this is doesn't end in a fight. Sure, his instincts are keen. But between his whiskey-addled brain and bandaged ribs, he'll be sluggish.

He should be relieved to find Robb—not an intruder—elbow-deep in dishwater while Ghost happily chomps on a bowl full of food in the corner. Instead, he wants to ring his head like a bell.

"What the fuck, Stark?"

"Aye," his cousin says, shoulders flexing with the effort of scrubbing a particularly grubby plate. "The fuck? This place is a fuckin' pigs' sty."

Correction: was.

His living room, his second hamper for the last few months, is tidied to military precision. Hardwood floors swept and gleaming. Two neatly tied garbage bags at the door. A bright citrusy scent hangs heavy in the air.

Jon blinks again, placing his gun on the counter. The fuck?

He can only watch as his weird fucker of a cousin tackles the mess in his kitchen like it's personally offended him, failing to put the pieces together. Robb's here—from where? Winterfell? The Capitol? Either way, he came bloody far to… play housekeeper?

"The fuck are you doing here?"

Satisfied that he's scrubbed the plate into submission, Robb drops the rag in the sink with a wet "slap." "I need a break. You obviously," he says, motioning toward the dishes and takeout cartons still piled on the counter, "need a break. So we're going hunting."

"Hunting where?" Gods, tell him Robb didn't come down here to take him back to—

"The cabin."

Right. All the way back North.

Because he knew you wouldn't come on your own.

"You hate hunting."

"You don't feel like shooting something?"

At a glance, Robb looks like his meticulous self. Hair combed neatly off his face. Beard tamed in a close-cropped shadow over his jaw. But Jon spots his tells. The weariness around his eyes. The inability to keep his hands still as he scratches at a fleck of something on the sink.

He's as twisted up as I am.

"Aye," Jon shrugs. "Wouldn't hurt."

"Get dressed. We'll get breakfast on the way to the airport."

Where he'd usually throw a "King Robb" jibe at the command, Jon simply nods and heads up the stairs.

"And shave while you're at it," Robb calls. "You look like a fuckin' wildling."

Robb can almost hear his father's chiding about having his head too far up his own ass. Gods know he heard it enough in the pre-Bear Island days, when life revolved around hockey, girls, and school—in that order.

You'd think the sheer weight of life since then would have forged a better man. But when it came down to it, what had he been focused on? The games of politics. The legislature, more like high school than high school itself. And to his absolute detriment, women.

He should have checked on Jon months ago.

But that milk's been spilled, as Father would say. The best Robb can do is clean it up.

If the stench of sweat, whiskey, and dried blood didn't confirm his suspicions about how his cousin still spends his nights, the bandages on his ribs—that he pretended not to notice when Jon all but limped into the kitchen—did.

Watching him jerk awake every time he nods off on the drive to the cabin, the picture comes into focus. He saw it in some of the men under his command in the war. Nightmares haunting their sleep, waking them up in rushes of terror and violence next to terrified wives and partners.

And what could Jon do with all that fear and rage? Talk to a professional? Get a prescription? No. Stalk into the night fists first and get the shit kicked out of him.

Gods. Robb had well and truly fucked everything he touched, hadn't he?

"So…" Jon grumbles. "What bug's up your arse?"

Which gets to the dual purpose of this trip. Giving his cousin the space to open up by talking through the clusterfuck of his own personal life. Making Jon feel useful by presenting him with a problem he could see clearly while unloading the months of shit on his chest. It isn't a perfect strategy. But it's a start.

"I cheated on Roslin."

Jon blinks. "Next you're gonna tell me the sky is blue—"

"—with my secretary."

"You fucked Jeyne? Seven hells."

It takes a moment for Robb to realize which Jeyne he means. "Not Theon's Jeyne. New Jeyne."

"New Jeyne?" Sunlight catches Jon's face, making his dark gray eyes flicker with what almost looks like indigo around his irises. "What the bloody fuck are you on about?"

And so the sordid story unfolds. That first late night in his office, under the haze of scotch and those fucking photos of Sarella and Daemon Sand in the gossip rags. The second, third, and fourth times—minus the details about just how rough Jeyne allowed him to be with her. Fucked as it is, his mind sometimes conjures her devilish grin at the sight of her bruises and heavy lidded eyes as she begged for more until gradually, the body writhing beneath him is slender and brown, giving as good as she takes. And he's hard as a fucking wierwood stump. Like a sick fuck.

Instead he pivots to the bloody fan fiction about his cock and the dripping derision in Sarella's voice as she sliced through his soul like a blade through butter. “The dirty Dornish whore got you hooked on dirty Dornish sex." Is that how she thought of herself? He’d wanted to pin her to the wall for even thinking it—and gods save whoever put the idea in her head in the first place.

Jon whistles low. "You fucked it."

"It gets better. I was served yesterday. A termination of client services agreement from Tyene Sand, Esquire at Dayne, Dayne and Associates on behalf of Sphinx Consultants, Incorporated. Effective immediately."

"Shit!" The hint of laughter in Jon's voice has him shaking his head in spite of himself.

"Where's Roslin with all this?"

He wouldn't know. Two weeks came and went without one of her weekend visits. "Still wearing the ring." According to her morning news segments.

"Hm." Jon nods as if something's confirmed for him, and stares out of the window at the passing trees.

Indeed.

It isn't lost on him that this all started on a hunt. Four years ago in the Wolf's Wood, after siccing Grey Wind on the Great Jon and confessing his feelings to Sarella.

"You don't have to be Ned's boy with me. You can just be Robb."

Fuck all that got him.

"So what now, loverboy? You win back your woman? Your fianceé? Both?"

To the degree that he has an agenda, his cock is at the bottom of the list. First, Jon. Who would need a slip of Sweet Sleep in his beer and a solid ten hours of rest before putting a gun in his hands and traipsing into the woods.

Then, gods be good, he'd make his pitch for Jon to come stay with him in the Capitol for a while. He wasn't a therapist, but his home would be a safe space for Jon to work through his troubles. He could have a change of scenery, a new routine. Someone to talk to at night when the nightmares got the best of him. Once he proves he won't be a danger to himself, maybe they could pull some strings and get him on medication.

He'd accused Sarella of not knowing the difference between love and control, but had he been much better? Conspiring behind his family's backs and calling it protection?

It's high time he remembers how to be the Stark in Winterfell. Starting with taking care—real, hands on care—of his own.

"Now," Robb says, turning onto the long, narrow road to the family cabin. "We shoot shit."

Today calls for a little champagne. Margaery’s last for a while.

Usually, she orders a light lunch at the Hightower. The kitchen knows exactly how she likes her cod, with a hint of cayenne in the lemon butter for an extra kick over a bed of farm-to-table greens and herbs. She's a little…ravenous today.  And doesn't mind being seen before a spread of roast duck over fingerling potatoes and asparagus. The desert mousse is so heavenly, she orders another to go. For her husband, she lies.

Her server, Glendon, is one of her favorites on staff. Tall, blonde, and wiry with a warm smile, his charisma reminds her a bit of Loras. Or who Loras would be were he allowed to be himself.

"And how are things with the artist?" she asks as he pours her champagne. If she had her way, she'd treat herself to a Pentoshi varietal instead of the usual Gilbert Vineyards Vintage, but.

Appearances.

Glendon rolls his eyes. "Over. But I met a lovely craftsman at the farmer's market last week. He builds tables, so…"

"Hmmm. Good hands, then?"

"Divine."

She can certainly relate.

The tail end of Sansa's morning show is on the screen while Margaery waits for her check. It's good to see her friend looking well. Whoever wiped Joffrey off the face of the known world deserves a medal. She had a feeling Sansa wouldn't have the stomach to do it herself, but when she saw those garish bruises on her back…

Sansa needed to know she had options.

Glendon declines her gold card when he comes back to the table, announcing the check's been covered. "Courtesy of Ms. Sand."

Across the restaurant, Sarella Sand smiles over a flute of champagne.

"She also asked me to give you this," he says, presenting her with a green portfolio—Tyrell green, to be precise—with gold engraving: "For the Future First Lady."

Sarella Sand? Courting her? Her family doesn't employ outsiders, but she's always respected Sarella's acumen. The work she did with Robb—taking him from an orphaned boy scout to a rugged man of the people—was chef's kiss. And Sansa's discrete, well-managed divorce had her style all over it.

She recognizes the understated floral scent that precedes Sarella’s arrival at her table as Gucci Bloom. Classic. Lasting. Elegant, but not pretentious. And if she’s not mistaken, that light gray wool coat is vintage Dior. Impeccable taste, as always. Though, it must be a family heirloom. Spending $20,000 on a coat doesn’t gel with the fixer’s poised, pragmatic persona.

“This is gorgeous,” she says, running her fingers over the fine Dothraki leather. “Albeit, presumptive. When Robb turned down our offer for Deputy, I assumed you’d announce his candidacy any day now?”

“Councilman Stark is no longer a client.”

Now that she thinks of it, she’s heard whispers of a riff between him and Roslin. A blind man could see what he was doing with her, no matter how much Starks think themselves above the game. She’s suitable enough—his schtick doesn’t work with a bombshell on his arm—but there’s a beast beneath those Tom Ford suits. You can just tell. That girl probably bored him to tears.

“I see… And to what do I owe your generosity?”

“A token from a friend.”

She knows that sing-song lilt. It's the one Kojja, her good-sister, employs when she turns on the charm.

Uh-huh.

Margaery takes a cursory glance through what looks like a database of contacts. Stylists, makeup artists, designers. Media and policy advisors. Charitable organizations.

“Those are the best and brightest minds from the North, Riverlands, and The Vale. Diversifying your staff in Cregan Hall will go a long way toward welcoming the regions who may feel underrepresented in this election. I’d add Alys Karstark to your advisory team for health initiatives and look at some of The Vale’s up and coming designers for your inauguration gowns.”

Good moves. Great, in fact. She can’t help notice they’re designed to endear people to her—not Renly.

“Interesting…” she nods. “And wise counsel. Though, you’ll forgive my asking why you’d offer this for free? I’d ask if this is an audition, but…advising a First Lady is below your pay grade, no?”

“Is it safe to assume I know something about you?”

Margaery raises a brow. “Depends on what you’re assuming.”

Sarella leans on folded elbows. “Well. I’ll tell you my deepest, darkest secret."

A great love. Sacrificed because she knew what all ambitious women know: two suns can't occupy the same sky when one of them has a cock. Not in Westeros.

“I think we’re alike, Margaery," Sarella continues. "We see the board and put our end game above everything else—especially the things we’re supposed to want. Now, you’re adept at the long game. Of course you are, you were molded by one of the greatest political minds this Republic has ever seen. But you know you're playing from an outdated playbook. Why spend the next two decades as the Smiling Woman Behind the Man when you don’t have to?”

Sacrificed a great love…

Oh.

Oh.

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

Sarella's too shrewd, too proud to suffer Kojja's current fate: relegated to the role of exotic eye candy for a powerful man. But Kojja's already claimed her place on the world stage as a cosmopolitan It Girl—regardless of how conservative Westerosi media paints her. Sarella's still making a name for herself.

Oh, but what a pair she and Robb make. Striking. Powerful. And with a man you enjoy fucking… Margaery's almost jealous.

But passion and politics? Don't mix. A woman has to keep her head if she wants to accomplish anything of note. Grandmother taught her that.

There’s only one reason Sarella would tell her this. Whether or not she can prove it, she knows about Renly.

Mutually assured destruction. Well played, Ms. Sand.

Margaery swirls her champagne. “That’s quite a bit of information to share with me.”

“It is.” Sarella stands. “But you deserve to feel seen. Truly. And, because women like us are so rare, you might find comfort in my counsel—free of charge—should you need it in the coming years.”

“You’re aware my family has a skilled team of advisors—”

She smiles, tucking a slate grey Prada Saffiano in the crook of her arm. “Yes, but they aren’t me. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Margaery. And good luck in Cregan Hall.”

Thursday nights in Oldtown have become ritual.

Daemon slips through Sarella's apartment, dismantling equipment. The camera disguised as a smoke detector in the living room. The audio device hidden behind the kitchen backsplash. The tiny lens embedded in her bedroom mirror.

Though, unlike previous weeks, he won’t return them after Obara’s Friday surveillance sweep.

The apartment feels different tonight—too still, like the air before a sandstorm. His eyes dart around in the dark, looking for what could be out of place. He's halfway to the door when he sees it.

The shadows in the living room have shifted. Someone's sitting in Sarella's reading chair, legs crossed, perfectly still in the darkness.

"Daemon."

The voice freezes him in place. Warm honey over steel, instantly recognizable even after months of silence. Prince Oberyn Martell emerges from the shadows like something from the desert, his dark eyes reflecting the dim light from the street.

“My Prince,” Daemon's hand moves instinctively toward his weapon before he catches himself. Old habits.

Oberyn's slow smile is laced with warning. "Please. We're family."

The word lays heavy between them, a reminder of vows sworn in blood. Vows he—knowingly—broke.

"I wasn't expecting you in Oldtown."

Oberyn rises from the chair, moving with the deadly calm of a viper preparing to strike. "Tell me, Ser Daemon. What exactly did you think you were doing breaking into encrypted files?"

He’s had the answer in his head for days. He needed it for Sarella. For the mission. She had to believe he’d do anything for her. But before his lips can form the words, Oberyn’s eyes narrow to onyx slits.

"Because someone's been very busy. And I'd hate to think it was someone I trust."

Chapter Text

Despite growing up close in age, Robb rarely found himself in direct competition with Jon. Not formally, anyway.

Chapter Text

The mist rises over the Honeywine River like smoke from a dying fire, tendrils curling against the amber glass outside her office windows, blurring the familiar landmarks beyond recognition. Sarella takes another sip of her Dornish nutmeg coffee—extra strong this morning—and watches the gray haze swallow Oldtown whole in the early hours.

It’s been a fire drill of a week.

First, there was the business of severing ties with Robb. One phone call to Tyene was all it took to have a termination of client services agreement served via overnight delivery. She received Robb’s signed copy yesterday morning and with that, it was done. No more fighting herself, or warring with the voice in her head that sounded a little too much like him. For the first time since a moment of weakness led her back to that hotel in White Harbor, to his body on hers and his Valyrian steel on her ankle, she could hear herself think. Clearly.

And with that clarity, she could properly see the board.

The coming election was a wash. Lyanna Stark’s secrets made her absolutely unviable as a candidate. Yes, Sarella could make magic of anyone—could turn Edmure Tully from middling councilman to a household name, or persuade Governor Dustin from her powerful perch at the Northern statehouse—but she’d be settling. Instead she put her eye on a bigger prize: future First Lady Margaery Tyrell.

If the phone call she received yesterday means what she thinks it means, her gambit worked.

Telling Margaery about Robb was a risk, but Sarella bet on two things. Margaery, shrewd as she may be, is at heart a society girl. She may not have been threatened by Roslin Frey's attempt to ride Robb's coattails to the front of the line, but confirmation of her social climbing would give Margaery a sense of power over her. The bigger bet? The brazenness of the confession would earn Margaery's respect twice over. She'd appreciate the power play. And more, Sarella's drive to win at all costs. Even her heart.

The offer sat for a few days, then Sarella received a call from Elinor Tyrell at the Westerosi Women's League.

"Ms. Sand, would you be interested in sponsoring a table at our spring luncheon? Private sponsorships start at $25,000…"

It was the political equivalent of a woman raising her skirt—just so—as she sat to reveal a hint of ankle. Margaery wants to be courted. Discreetly, of course. Hence keeping Sarella's name off the program via private sponsorship.

Game on.

But there’s one more loose end that she hasn’t dealt with. Jon.

He’s been a liability since he murdered Joffrey. When he doesn’t show up to work hung over and bruised, he’s barely present. She could say she was being a good friend, giving him space to work through the consequences of his actions, but that’s a lie. She’s been too busy with her own shit to tend to his. And now, knowing what she knows about his parentage, and cutting off Robb…

He’s an unnecessary complication.

The thought sends her sinking into her office chair.

She told him, and Robb, to let her handle Sansa. The aftermath of Joffrey’s murder was their problem—not hers. She could have done more for him once she saw him suffering, but so could Robb. He’s the one who gave the order. Where was he when his cousin needed him?

Fucking his secretary. Because he can’t stand the woman you put in his bed.

Right.

A soft knock interrupts her spiral. "Come in."

Sam pokes his head through the door, holding a courier envelope. "This just arrived for you. Marked urgent."

She straightens in her chair, pushing the uncomfortable thoughts aside as she reaches for the package. "Thank you, Sam."

He lingers for a moment, studying her face with that careful concern. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," she says, already turning her attention to the envelope. "Just planning."

Sam nods and retreats.

Inside the padded envelope is a sleek black cell phone, its screen dark. A yellow Post-it note is taped across the front, blocking the camera. Typed in neat block letters are simple instructions:

1. WATCH ME 2. CALL ME: 555-0847

No signature. No return address on the envelope. Sarella peels off the Post-it note and presses the power button. The screen flickers to life.

Her stomach drops.

The footage is grainy, clearly shot from a security camera, but the audio is crystal clear. She watches herself lean back against Robb in the Winterfell library, watches his hands move over her body, hears her own voice—breathless, wanting—responding to his touch.

Robb’s campaign. The night after the Day in Winterfell photoshoot.

She closes her eyes as the words she remembers like yesterday echo back to her, as if from another life.

“Bend me over this chair and find out.”

She presses the off button and stares at the wall. For a minute. Maybe an hour. Time stands still as she waits for her mind to catch up to reality.

Security footage. It came from someone in Winterfell. Or someone who could hack the camera? Catelyn? No. Catelyn hates her, yes, but she wouldn’t jeopardize Robb. She’d sooner erase the footage from the face of the planet.

Robb? Only if his capacity for self-destruction has reached new, devastating lows.

Not out of the question.

Lyanna?

Lyanna’s flinty eyes over the table, warning Sarella and Wyman not to vet her.

Jon’s parentage.

She picks up the phone and dials. The Foreign Affairs Minister answers on the second ring.

“I see you’ve received my gift.”

“Minister Stark—”

“I asked you—politely—to stay out of my affairs. Now I’m telling you. My life is not a game, lass. I will fookin’ bury you.”

Something coils tight in Sarella's chest. Cold. Patient. The shock, the violation, the raw hurt—crystallizes into something dangerous. Something that pools behind her teeth like venom.

Something useful.

“Then I hope you have two shovels, Minister Stark.”

A pause on the other end. “You’re in no position—”

“Ask your precious little cub what he and your oh so honorable nephew did to Joffrey Baratheon.”

Lyanna doesn’t fill the silence that follows. Sarella smiles.

“That’s what I thought. So, here’s my counteroffer, Minister. I’ll hang up. And you, me, your nephew, your son, your entire insufferably hypocritical bloodline? We can all pretend we’ve never met. How does that sound?”

More silence. Sarella nods. “Good day, Minister.”

"Talk to your sister."

The command is akin to a superhero's signal flashing in the night sky, and the only command Obara Sand takes these days. When they need their Mother Hen, a shoulder to cry on, advice on some relationship drama that could be easily remedied by ending the relationship, or someone to make them up for some event or another, they call Nymeria. When they needed a heavier touch—a little fear of the Warrior to snap them out of their foolishness...

They still call Nym. Then Nym calls her.

Funny how they're her sisters when they fuck up.

She can't say she didn't feel this one coming. In a past life, she had to hear danger on the wind, smell it in the air. Much like one feels an oncoming storm before it cracks over the sky. Sarella's holding herself too tight lately. And Daemon may be fucking her sideways, but he isn't shaking it loose. Not if she's tossing Snow out on the street like yesterday's garbage.

She likes to put on an air of elegance. It's her version of armor. Inherited from her mother, it carefully cloaks the relentless single-minded focus beneath. But that's not what Obara sees when she walks into Sarella's office. This little show—the locked shoulders and feigned weariness—isn't Jolona. It's Oberyn. Right after he's decided you're a liability.

A feeling Obara knows acutely.

The thing about a father who raises you with the unshakeable belief that you can do anything? "Except disappoint me" is silent. That was how she ended up second-in-command at Viper shortly after her 30th birthday. And how she charged head-first into their riskiest assignments. With the blood of the viper, she was indestructible. Until she wasn't.

Until a blown cover landed her in Oberyn's Braavosi compound under crisp white hospital sheets. Machines beeping and whirring around her to regulate her breathing and fluids. So violently triggered by the sound of running water, she couldn't be bathed without sedatives.

Her first memory, as the drugs wore off and awareness dawned, was Oberyn's face. Its distinguished lines and piercing black eyes. She'd expected the face of a worried father, happy to see his darling girl alive and well. Instead, she saw a commander whose soldier botched the mission.

Then came the debrief. She planned enough agent evacuations to know they happened within 24 hours of losing comms. After 36 hours, chances of retrieval reduced 10% per hour.

According to the report, she was gone for five days. Tied to a concrete table in Pyat Pree's cellar, living what she remembers as one long drowning. At some point in her oxygen-deprived delirium, she realized Oberyn was taking his time. It took two years to infiltrate the Qartheen cartels—he couldn't compromise the mission. Not even for his first born.

Within a week of her rescue, Daemon was his new second-in-command. It was better that way, he said. What was he thinking, letting her rush into Qarth? He couldn't handle putting her in that kind of danger again. Those were his words.

His eyes, however, said she was useless.

She can give a fuck that Sarella "is ending her business relationship with the Stark family." She never understood her obsession with that godsdamned family to begin with and chalked it up to being cock blind. But Snow isn't just a Stark. He's one of theirs. The way Sam was before he learned to look people in the eye and compose declarative sentences. And Brienne before her rose-colored glasses fell off.

As she was after their father left her to die.

"'We don't abandon our own.' Your words, Sarella."

Her little sister continues to tap away at her keyboard. Telegraphing that this conversation isn't worth her full attention. "He has a trust fund and eight months' severance. He'll be fine."

"You packed his shit while he's on holiday—"

"—I'm sorry. Last I checked, I pay you for tactical consulting. Not human resources."

Last I checked, I pay you...

She must want her teeth kicked down her throat.

"I wipe my ass with what you pay me. I'm here because I give a fuck. Because you—" she points "—told me you give a fuck. You want to be little Oberyn? Get Daemon to do your dirty work. Cuz the next time you talk to me like that—"

Sarella sighs. "What, Obara? You'll beat me up? Cut my tongue out?" Then it's back to the clack clack clack of computer keys. "If  you'd like to stand in solidarity with Jon, I'll accept your resignation. Otherwise..." She looks to the door. "I have a company to run."

"I can't be worried about you in the field, Sweetling. I have a company to run."

Whatever Nym expected her to accomplish here isn't happening. Say nothing else for Oberyn, he taught her that when someone shows you they're a cunt, believe them.

Obara doesn't stop once on her way out of the office. Not for Brienne and Sam's confused stares or Nymeria rolling her eyes and stomping into Sarella's office. Her keys are in her pocket. Her bike, in the garage. The rest? Doesn't even need packing. Sarella can toss it. Burn it. She doesn't give a shit.

The apartment is dark when she turns the key, but there's a warm glow from the living room and the rich scent of Dornish spices drifting through the air. Sarella drops her purse by the door and kicks off her heels, already feeling some of the day's tension ease from her shoulders.

Thank the gods Daemon got her text. It’s been… a day.

"In here," comes a familiar voice from the kitchen.

She pads barefoot across the hardwood, following the smell of what has to be lamb tagine—a new favorite Daemon recently introduced her to. Exactly what she needs after the day from seven hells.

"You're a godsend," she calls out, loosening her hair from its bun and letting it fall around her shoulders. "I was starting to think this day would never—"

She rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops dead.

Prince Oberyn Martell sits at her small dining table, a spread of takeout containers arranged before him like pieces on a cyvasse board. He's traded his usual tailored suits for dark jeans and a simple black shirt, but nothing could make him look casual. Not with those calculating black eyes fixed on her face, cold and unforgiving.

“Father? What are you—”

He holds up a hand. “Sit,” he orders, motioning to the empty seat at the table. She opens her mouth to speak, but he stops her in tracks. “You will not speak until I am finished with you.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. Whatever this is can’t be good. Yet she can’t stop her pride from speaking for her. “Whatever this is—”

Oberyn slams his hand on the table, sending a bowl of dragon peppers shattering across the floor. “DO NOT. SPEAK.”

The thunder in his voice sends her reeling backward as he stands, advancing. “I will not ask again, Sarella Morgana.”

She sits. Hard. The chair scrapes against the floor with a harsh sound that echoes in the sudden silence.

Oberyn doesn't return to his seat. Instead, he begins to pace in front of her, his movements predatory and deliberate. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged viper considering its next strike. His hands are clasped behind his back, but she can see the tension in his shoulders, the coiled fury in every step.

The silence stretches between them, and that's when it hits her.

Daemon's not here.

The text. Back in town. Your place? Her response. Please. Bring food. It's been a day.

But Oberyn is here. With her favorite takeout. In her apartment.

Her blood turns to ice as the pieces click into place. Daemon didn't get her text because Daemon didn't send that message.

Oberyn did.

"Whatever you believe is happening here with Daemon, is not. He seduced you under my command. It is over at my command. Do you know why, Sarella? Because Daemon is a weapon. When he is a toy, he is so at my leisure. You do not wind him up and send him off to do your bidding in the name of that godsforsaken family you can't seem to disentangle yourself from.

"No matter how many times you let that Stark boy pump you full of seed, that is my blood—MARTELL BLOOD—running through your veins. Thank every god you know my sister loves me, or you'd be in a cell fifty feet under Dragonstone for the rest of your fucking life.

“Here I thought Robb was an anomaly—a momentary lapse. I thought a little fun with someone better suited to your life would disabuse you of your silliness. Instead you fell for a SPY. A MAN WHO LIES AS EASY AS HE BREATHES. AND YOU THOUGHT IT WAS REAL.”

"Look," he says, pointing to the open laptop on the counter. "He's been surveilling your apartment for months. He saw it all. Every time you spread your legs for Robb, every conversation, every fight. You thought he was devoted to you? That he 'just knew' what you needed? He worked you, Sarella.

"Imagine my surprise, learning the man I sent to do a job stole encrypted information from my server because my daughter infected him with what appears to be sexually transmitted idiocy. And then learning said daughter leveraged information that could ruin the lives of her own flesh and blood for some misguided attempt to put her uncle—THE KING's—mistress in the Prime Minister's seat WHEN THE WOMAN DOESN'T EVEN WANT IT.

"You want to wield power? To run with the big dogs? YOU THINK YOU DESERVE TO DECIDE THE FUTURE OF THE REPUBLIC WHEN YOU LOSE YOUR RIGHT MIND WHENEVER A MAN MAKES YOU A LITTLE WET IN THE PANTS?!”

The shouting stops.

Sarella stares at the broken bowl on the floor, at the scattered dragon peppers. Her ears are ringing. Her hands are shaking in her lap, and she can't seem to make them stop.

Everything feels muffled, distant. Like she's underwater. Like the world has been wrapped in cotton and she can't quite break through to the surface.

She's aware, dimly, that her father has stopped pacing. That the apartment has gone quiet except for the sound of someone breathing hard—his breathing, she realizes. Not hers. She doesn't think she's breathing at all.

The laptop. The surveillance. Daemon working her. Months of—

She can't even process it. Her mind keeps sliding away from the words like they're too sharp to hold.

The silence stretches. Somewhere in the distance, she hears the sound of fabric rustling, movement. But it feels like it's happening to someone else, in some other room, some other life.

Then he's there, directly in front of her. Kneeling. Bringing himself down to her eye level.

She can't avoid looking at him now. Can't stare at the broken bowl or the scattered peppers or anything else. His face fills her vision, and she sees herself reflected back—the same sharp widow's peak cutting into his forehead that she inherited, the same black eyes that earned them both the nickname "viper."

His eyes. Her eyes. Oberyn's eyes boring into her with an intensity that makes her want to disappear entirely.

For a moment, she's that eleven-year-old girl again, standing in the courtyard at Sunspear while he taught her to use a bow. "Steady, little viper. Breathe. Focus on your target."

But there's no warmth in those familiar eyes now. No pride. Just cold calculation and disappointment so deep it feels like disgust.

"As of now... you are no daughter of mine. Your trust, any rights at Sunspear, the Sand name... None of it is yours. You have proven yourself most unworthy.”

Oberyn straightens himself up, brushing invisible lint from his jeans with the same careful precision he might use to clean blood from a blade. He doesn't look at her again as he moves toward the door, his footsteps eerily quiet on the hardwood.

At the threshold, he pauses without turning around.

"My attorneys will be in touch."

The words are delivered with the same cold finality he might use to discuss the weather. No emotion. No lingering anger. Just business.

The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than if he'd slammed it.

Sarella sits alone in her kitchen, surrounded by the smell of lamb and the scattered remains of dragon peppers on the floor. The laptop still glows on the counter—months of surveillance, months of her life reduced to data points and strategic intelligence.

She stares at the closed door. At the space where her father had knelt before her, looking into her eyes with his own—their own—and erased her from existence.

The silence is complete now. No pacing. No shouting. No breathing but her own, shallow and uneven.

She doesn't move. Doesn't think about money or resources or what comes next. Doesn't think about Margaery or Robb or Sphinx or anything at all.

She just sits. Hollow and empty, in the ruins of everything she thought she was.