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novaursa · 9 days ago

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The Northern Heart (2/2)

- Summary: Your father, King Robert, gives your hand to Eddard's oldest son. A decision that might change the future of the North.

- Paring: baratheon!lannister!reader/Robb Stark

- Note: Be aware of the time jumps and angst.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1/2

- Alternative ending: you stayed

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The day of your wedding arrived under a sky shrouded with gray clouds, as if the North itself mourned the quiet hope that had once surrounded this union. The air in Winterfell was heavy, filled with the strain of anticipation, not of joy, but of waiting—waiting for news, waiting for Bran to awaken.

In the godswood, where your wedding ceremony would take place, the trees stood like solemn guardians, their branches bare and reaching into the somber sky. You were dressed in the finest gown the North had to offer, a deep forest green that complimented the surroundings, a delicate silver belt around your waist and a shawl lined with white fur draped over your shoulders. Your mother, Cersei, stood beside you, her expression unreadable as she adjusted the drape of your shawl, her gaze flickering with a mixture of emotions you couldn’t place.

“Remember, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice cool and steady, “a union like this is more than love. It’s duty.” She looked into your eyes, her hand lingering on your shoulder. “Bear that in mind.”

You nodded, though her words felt distant, almost irrelevant in the face of the sorrow that hung over Winterfell. Your thoughts were on Bran, the young boy you’d barely had the chance to know, now lying pale and unmoving under the Maester’s care. Yet, despite the sadness, a flicker of warmth remained when you thought of Robb, of the promises he’d whispered to you in the godswood, of a life you might build together.

As you stepped forward, the quiet murmurs of the small gathering around you faded into silence. The ceremony had been scaled back, out of respect for the dire circumstances, and though some guests were there out of duty, the faces of Winterfell’s people were shadowed with grief and worry.

Robb stood beneath the towering heart tree, his dark cloak draped over his shoulders, his face somber. His usually warm, easy smile was absent, replaced by a solemn expression that made him appear older, weighed down by a sense of responsibility he hadn’t known before.

As you reached him, his gaze softened, his eyes meeting yours with a depth of feeling that momentarily banished the sorrow. He offered his hand, and you took it, the warmth of his palm grounding you even amidst the cold and sorrow of the day.

The Septon stepped forward, his voice quiet yet steady as he began the words of the ceremony. You barely heard them, your mind absorbed by the feel of Robb’s hand in yours, the silent promises exchanged in each shared glance, each gentle squeeze of his fingers.

When it came time to speak your vows, Robb’s voice was steady but filled with an undercurrent of grief. “I, Robb Stark, take you, Y/N Baratheon, as my wife, to stand by my side in times of joy and sorrow. I promise to honor you, to cherish you, and to protect you… until the end of my days.”

You swallowed, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm you. Meeting his gaze, you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, “I, Y/N Baratheon, take you, Robb Stark, as my husband. I promise to honor you, to stand by you… and to hold Winterfell as my home… as long as we both shall live.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight that lingered between you. Robb’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted his cloak and draped it over your shoulders, the Stark direwolf sigil settling against the green of your gown. His fingers lingered for a moment, a gentle touch that offered both reassurance and shared sorrow.

Catelyn Stark stepped forward, her eyes red-rimmed but composed, her expression holding a quiet strength as she looked at you both. She managed a faint smile, though grief flickered in her eyes. “You are one now,” she said softly, her voice wavering just slightly. “Bound by honor and duty… and the strength of the North.”

Robb nodded, his gaze shifting from his mother to you, a silent promise etched in his eyes. He took your hand once more, and together, you turned to face the small gathering, where the royal family and the Starks stood side by side, united in somber witness.

As the ceremony ended, Cersei approached, her expression carefully controlled as she looked at you. “You’re bound now,” she said softly, her tone a blend of pride and resignation. “Remember who you are.”

“Yes, Mother,” you replied, your voice equally soft.

Robert clapped a heavy hand on Robb’s shoulder, his usual joviality absent. “Take care of her, boy,” he said, his voice gruff. “A Stark and a Baratheon… it’s a good match. We may not have joy today, but… there’s still hope for the future.”

Robb nodded, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly. “I’ll care for her, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice steady. “With all that I am.”

The feast that followed was a subdued affair, the usual raucous laughter and cheerful toasts absent. Servants moved quietly between tables, and the guests spoke in hushed tones, their minds undoubtedly drifting back to the small, still figure of Bran, lying somewhere in the castle.

You sat beside Robb, his hand resting over yours, his touch a constant reminder of the bond you’d just sealed. Every so often, his gaze would drift toward the doors, a flicker of worry crossing his face. You knew his thoughts were with his brother, as were yours, and despite the vows you’d just taken, it felt wrong to celebrate when Bran’s fate remained so uncertain.

At one point, Robb turned to you, his expression earnest. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low so only you could hear. “This isn’t… this isn’t how I wanted our wedding to be.”

You shook your head, managing a faint smile as you met his gaze. “It’s all right, Robb. We’re together, and that’s enough for me.”

His hand tightened around yours, his gaze softening. “We’ll have our happiness, someday,” he promised, a quiet determination in his voice. “When Bran wakes, and the darkness lifts… we’ll find our joy.”

“I believe you,” you replied, and in that moment, you knew you meant it. Despite the sorrow, the grief, the uncertainty, there was a strength in Robb, a resilience that made you feel, perhaps for the first time, that Winterfell could truly be your home.

As the feast wound down, the guests dispersed, the weight of the day settling heavily upon the hall. Robb led you back to the godswood, where the faint rustle of leaves and the quiet murmur of the stream offered a small reprieve from the grief that had followed you through the day.

Standing together beneath the heart tree, his arms wrapped around you, Robb pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, a quiet promise shared in the silence of the godswood.

“We’ll be fine,” he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet strength. “You and I.”

And as you looked up into his eyes, you knew that this bond, forged in sorrow and solemnity, would endure. The North was your home now, and Robb Stark, your husband, was your future.

The morning was shrouded in a gray mist as the royal family prepared to depart Winterfell. The air was filled with the sounds of horses being saddled, carts being loaded, and the quiet murmur of farewells exchanged in the courtyard. Snow flurries danced in the air, a reminder of the North’s unyielding chill even as summer lingered.

You stood to the side, watching as your family gathered their belongings, preparing to leave Winterfell behind. There was a strange ache in your chest, a mixture of longing and relief. This was goodbye to the life you’d known in King’s Landing, the world of your childhood, yet a new life awaited here in the North, beside Robb.

Cersei approached you first, her face carefully composed, though her eyes softened as she took in your winter garb. She placed a gloved hand on your shoulder, her gaze searching. “Remember what I told you, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice as cold and steady as the northern air. “If ever you find yourself… unhappy, if you ever decide that this place is not what you hoped, send word to me. I’ll send a raven, and you’ll be back in King’s Landing before they know you’re gone.”

You nodded, sensing her quiet desperation beneath the words, but you held firm, offering her a small smile. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll remember.”

Cersei’s hand lingered for a moment before she withdrew, the mask of the queen settling back into place. She gave you a small, almost reluctant nod, and then turned to oversee her children, leaving you with a faint chill where her touch had been.

Next came Myrcella and Tommen, their young faces full of both excitement and sadness. Myrcella wrapped her arms around you tightly, her soft voice muffled against your shoulder. “I’ll miss you, sister. Winterfell is so far away.”

You hugged her back, smoothing her hair gently. “I’ll miss you too, Myrcella. But you’ll write to me, won’t you?”

She nodded eagerly, her green eyes shining as she pulled away, clutching your hand for a moment longer. Tommen, who had tried to appear brave, stepped forward, his lower lip quivering as he hugged you quickly. “Goodbye, Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll keep practicing my sword skills, so when you come back, I’ll be strong enough to protect you.”

You smiled, ruffling his hair gently. “I look forward to it, Tommen. Be brave, all right?”

He nodded, his small shoulders squared as he stepped back beside Myrcella.

Joffrey approached you last among your siblings, his usual confidence subdued. He shifted awkwardly, his gaze flickering between you and the ground before he managed, “Well… I suppose this is goodbye, then.”

“Yes,” you replied, studying him as he avoided your gaze. The cool prince of King’s Landing looked almost uncertain here, his usual arrogance dimmed by the somber air of Winterfell. “Take care of yourself, Joffrey.”

He nodded stiffly, and after a moment, he added, “And… don’t forget what Mother said.” There was something almost grudging in his tone, as though he struggled to convey the sentiment, but you recognized it for what it was—a reluctant offer of support, or at least the closest he could come to it.

“I won’t forget,” you replied softly. He turned quickly, as if he’d revealed more than he intended, rejoining the group with a faint flush to his cheeks.

Tyrion approached next, a warm smile lighting his face as he looked at you. “Well, dear niece, I would say you’re off on a grand adventure, but the North is hardly the place I’d choose for one,” he said with a chuckle. “Still, it seems you have found yourself well suited here.”

You smiled back, appreciating his humor in the midst of the farewells. “The North has its charms, Uncle. Though it might not be quite your idea of a vacation.”

He grinned, raising a brow. “No, certainly not. But I imagine you will do well here. If you need a witty letter or a visit, you know how to reach me.”

“Thank you, Uncle Tyrion,” you replied, and he gave you a brief but warm embrace, patting your shoulder as he stepped back.

Jaime came next, his armor gleaming even in the dull light of the Northern morning. He gave you a smirk, the familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “Princess,” he said, his tone teasing but affectionate. “Are you ready for a life of snow and solemn Starks?”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “I think I’ll manage, Uncle. Robb has been a kind husband.”

He regarded you thoughtfully, a flicker of something protective crossing his features. “If you ever need anything—anyone here ever makes you unhappy—you know you can call on me.”

The sentiment in his words warmed you, and you squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Uncle. I’ll remember.”

He gave you a playful salute, though his eyes held genuine care, and then he joined Tyrion by the royal procession.

Finally, the moment came for the royal family to mount their horses. You stood to the side, your hand tucked in Robb’s as you watched your family prepare to leave. Cersei glanced back at you one last time, her eyes lingering on you, her expression unreadable, before she nodded and looked away. Tyrion offered you a small, reassuring smile, and Jaime gave you a wink, his usual swagger intact.

Lord Eddard, Sansa, and Arya moved to join the royal party as well. Sansa, looking composed and almost regal, met your gaze with a polite nod, her own excitement clear as she anticipated the wonders of King’s Landing. Arya, on the other hand, wore a scowl, clearly reluctant to leave her home and her brother. She cast one last, longing look back at Winterfell before clambering onto her horse beside her sister.

Jon Snow stood apart, dressed in black furs, his expression solemn as he prepared for his own departure to Castle Black. You caught his eye and gave him a small nod of acknowledgment. He returned it with a faint, respectful smile, his gaze lingering briefly on his family before he turned toward the road that led him to his new life beyond the Wall.

As the procession began to move, Robert bellowed one last farewell, his voice echoing through the courtyard as he raised a hand in farewell. “Farewell, Winterfell! Take care of my daughter!” he called, his gaze briefly meeting yours with a hint of fondness.

You stood beside Robb, his hand a steady weight in yours, grounding you as the distant echoes of horse hooves faded into the morning mist. You watched as your family disappeared down the winding path, the figures of your mother, father, and siblings slowly swallowed by the gray expanse of the North.

The silence that followed felt heavy, laden with both loss and anticipation. The final ties to your old life had been severed, and now, Winterfell stood as both your duty and your destiny. You took a deep breath, the cold Northern air filling your lungs as you turned to look at Robb.

He met your gaze, his face softened by a quiet strength. His hand still held yours, warm and reassuring, his grip firm yet gentle. “Are you all right?” he asked softly, his voice filled with concern.

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yes… it’s just strange, knowing they’re gone.”

Robb gave a small nod of understanding, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I understand. But you’re not alone, Y/N. You have me. And this is your home now, as much as it is mine.”

His words, simple and steady, offered a strange comfort. You could feel the warmth of the Stark family around you—their quiet strength, their loyalty, and their acceptance. You had become a part of that now.

Turning back toward the castle, you took your place beside Robb, your hand still in his, as you watched Winterfell’s gates close behind the departing party. The future stretched out before you, uncertain yet filled with promise, and as Robb’s hand held yours, you knew you had chosen to meet it here, together.

The air hummed with hushed whispers and solemn faces of the men marking the grief that weighed on everyone’s hearts. Eddard Stark was dead. News of his execution had traveled through the ranks like wildfire, leaving an ache that no one seemed to be able to soothe. But for you, carrying Robb’s child, it had been an especially bitter blow. Lord Eddard had accepted you into his family with the quiet grace of a father, and his loss felt like a gaping wound.

You sat in your tent, hands resting gently on the swell of your belly, trying to steady your breathing as sorrow and dread churned within you. Outside, the camp was unusually quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of wind through the tents and the distant murmurs of soldiers preparing for the next move in the war that had now become personal.

The flap of your tent was suddenly pulled open with force, and you looked up, startled, to see Lady Catelyn storming in, her eyes blazing with fury. Her face, usually a mask of composure and strength, was contorted in anger, her voice shaking as she spoke.

“You,” she hissed, her tone low but brimming with rage. “How could I have let you stand beside my son, knowing what I know now?”

You stood, heart pounding, uncertain of what she meant. “Lady Catelyn… I don’t understand.”

“Oh, don’t you?” she snapped, stepping closer. “My husband is dead. My son lies broken in Winterfell. And every shred of evidence points to your family. Your Lannister family.”

The accusation cut through you like a knife, and you took a step back, your hand instinctively moving to protect your unborn child. “Lady Catelyn,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “I had nothing to do with this. I grieve for Lord Eddard as you do.”

But Catelyn’s eyes remained cold, unyielding. “You expect me to believe that? You, a daughter of Cersei Lannister? Do you think I’m blind? The girl who grew up under her mother’s shadow, who has every reason to hate the North. And now, conveniently, you’re here, married to my son—carrying his child, no less. How do I know you’re not feeding information back to your family, plotting against us even now?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. The accusation was too sharp, too unfair, and it struck deep. You felt the sting of tears but held them back, meeting her gaze with as much strength as you could muster.

“I am loyal to Robb. To the North,” you said, your voice shaking but steady. “I left my family for him. I would never betray him.”

But Catelyn was unrelenting, her expression hard as steel. “Loyal? A Lannister knows nothing of loyalty,” she spat, each word laced with bitterness. “I was a fool to think I could ever trust you.”

Just then, Robb burst into the tent, his face tight with worry. “Mother!” he said, glancing between the two of you. “What’s going on?”

Catelyn turned to him, her expression softening only slightly. “Robb, she is a Lannister. Can’t you see what that means? Do you truly believe she isn’t still loyal to her family?”

Robb hesitated, his gaze flicking to you, and the silence that followed was more damning than anything he could have said. His face was conflicted, shadows under his eyes from the strain of war and loss. “Mother… I know what this looks like. But Y/N has stood by me. She’s my wife.”

You felt relief for a brief moment, but then he continued, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “But… given all that’s happened, perhaps it would be best if she gave us her word… to clear any doubts.”

His words struck you like a slap, and the shock left you breathless. “Clear any doubts?” you repeated, your voice trembling as the realization dawned. He didn’t fully trust you either. After everything you’d shared, after all you’d sacrificed, Robb still harbored doubts.

The silence in the tent was suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “You think… you think I would betray you? That I would harm your family?” you whispered, pain lacing every word. You took a step back, your hand resting protectively over your stomach. “After all we’ve been through, Robb, you still don’t trust me?”

Robb’s face softened, regret and anguish flickering in his eyes. “Y/N… it’s not that I don’t trust you. But with all that’s happened, can you blame us for being cautious?”

The heartbreak in his gaze only twisted the knife deeper. You felt your chest tighten, a surge of anger and betrayal rising within you. “I have stood by you through every trial, Robb. I left my family, my home, and everything I knew to be with you. And now, when I need you most, you doubt me?”

His jaw tightened, and he opened his mouth to respond, but you shook your head, the pain and betrayal overwhelming. Without another word, you turned and pushed past him, storming out of the tent, ignoring his calls for you to stop.

Outside, the cold air hit you like a wave, but it did nothing to numb the ache in your chest. You walked quickly, each step heavy with anger, with sorrow, with the weight of every accusation that had been hurled at you.

You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere felt better than being in that tent, surrounded by distrust and hurt. As you reached the edge of the camp, you stopped, pressing a hand to your stomach as you felt the first tear slip down your cheek.

The life inside you, the one that you had hoped would bring joy and unity, now felt like a painful reminder of the divide between you and the family you’d tried so hard to become part of.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and iron as Robb approached the makeshift cage where Jaime Lannister sat, bound and bloodied, his face shadowed but still holding that infuriating smirk that had become his signature. Grey Wind prowled by Robb’s side, a silent, menacing presence, his golden eyes trained intently on Jaime, teeth bared in a low, guttural growl that seemed to echo the barely restrained fury in Robb’s own gaze.

Jaime looked up as they approached, his smirk widening even as his wrists strained against the ropes that held him. “Ah, the Young Wolf,” he drawled, his voice tinged with amusement despite his bruises. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Robb’s expression was cold, his blue eyes piercing as he regarded his captive. “I thought it was time we spoke,” he said quietly, his tone even but laced with an edge.

Jaime leaned back against the bars of his cage, eyeing Robb with a sardonic tilt of his head. “And here I thought you’d just come to show off your impressive pet,” he said, gesturing toward Grey Wind. “Quite the beast, isn’t he?”

Grey Wind let out a low, warning growl, his fur bristling as he bared his teeth. Jaime held his gaze, unflinching, though a flicker of unease passed through his eyes before he looked back at Robb.

Robb took a slow step forward, crossing his arms as he stared down at Jaime. “I didn’t come here to discuss my direwolf.”

“No?” Jaime’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “Then what, pray tell, did you come here to discuss?”

Robb’s eyes narrowed, his jaw set in a hard line. “Your family,” he said simply, his voice steady.

Jaime’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something sharper in his gaze. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice softening as he looked up at Robb. “And by family, I assume you mean my sister… or perhaps my nieces and nephews?” His smirk returned, colder now. “How is she?”

Robb’s eyes flickered, a mixture of anger and something else lurking beneath the surface. “She’s as well as can be expected,” he replied curtly, his voice taut. “Given the circumstances.”

Jaime’s gaze sharpened, and he leaned forward slightly, studying Robb’s face with a hint of genuine interest. “You’re treating her well, then? Not as… shall we say, a prisoner?”

Robb’s lips tightened, his expression darkening. “She’s my wife, Lannister. And she’s carrying my child. I don’t treat her like a prisoner. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know who she is… or rather, whose she is.”

Jaime’s smirk froze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed Robb’s words. “Oh?” he said, his tone carefully casual. “And who, exactly, do you think she is?”

Robb’s gaze was unyielding, his voice low and dangerous. “We both know that she’s not Robert’s daughter,” he said coldly. “No more than Joffrey or Tommen or Myrcella are his.”

Jaime held his gaze, the amusement in his expression fading as his eyes turned steely. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, Stark. Especially with so many ears around.” He glanced meaningfully at Grey Wind, who was still growling softly, his hackles raised.

“I’m not afraid of the truth,” Robb replied, his voice firm. “I know exactly what she is. She’s a Lannister—a daughter of your house. And yet here she is, sworn to the North, carrying a Stark child.”

Jaime’s smirk returned, though there was a new edge to it, a cold amusement that glinted in his eyes. “So, you know,” he said slowly, as though savoring the words. “And yet… you keep her close. Tied to you.” He leaned forward, his gaze probing. “Tell me, Young Wolf, what exactly do you think you’ll do if she’s truly my daughter?”

Robb’s face hardened, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought to control his anger. “If she’s truly your daughter, then I’ll do what I must to protect my family,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, each word carrying a barely restrained fury.

Jaime’s eyes sparkled with something close to amusement. “Protect your family, you say?” He chuckled darkly. “You mean protect them from her? Or perhaps… protect her from you?” His voice dropped, his tone mocking. “How convenient, isn’t it? You don’t trust her any more than your mother does.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his silence only fueling Jaime’s amusement. “That’s what I thought,” Jaime murmured, his gaze sharp as he studied Robb’s face. “You married her, tied her to you with vows and promises… but you don’t truly believe she’s yours, do you?”

Robb’s fists clenched, his knuckles white. “She’s my wife. That’s all that matters.”

Jaime laughed, the sound low and scornful. “Oh, Robb,” he said, his voice laced with derision. “If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be here, would you? You’d be with her now, assuring her of your loyalty. But instead, you’re here, questioning me, looking for answers that only she can give you.”

Robb’s face flushed with anger, but he held his ground, his gaze unwavering. “She swore herself to the North, to my family. That’s the only loyalty that matters now.”

“Is it?” Jaime asked softly, his voice a mocking whisper. “Or is that just what you tell yourself, so you don’t have to face the fact that she could never truly be yours?”

Robb’s face hardened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might strike Jaime, his fists clenched, his breathing harsh. But instead, he stepped back, his gaze cold and unyielding as he looked down at the man who had sown so much pain in his family.

“Whatever you think, Lannister,” he said, his voice a low growl, “it doesn’t change the fact that you’re the one in chains, not her. And no matter what she is, she’s bound to the North now. She’s my wife. And the North protects its own.”

Jaime’s smirk returned, though it was tinged with a faint sadness as he leaned back against the bars of his cage. “If only you believed that,” he murmured, his gaze drifting off as though lost in thought. “If only she did too.”

Robb turned away, Grey Wind falling into step beside him, the direwolf’s growls fading as they left the cage. But Jaime’s words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind, each syllable a reminder of the doubts he’d tried so hard to bury.

You sat alone in your tent, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin. It was a silence you’d grown accustomed to over the past few weeks—ever since the accusations, ever since Robb’s words had driven a wedge between you that neither of you had been able to bridge.

You’d barely spoken since then, passing each other with brief, polite nods, or exchanging only the most necessary words. It was as if a gulf had opened between you, an invisible barrier that neither of you knew how to cross. And yet, here you were, sitting in that quiet space, waiting.

Finally, you heard the soft rustle of footsteps outside, and Robb stepped into the tent, his face half-shadowed but unmistakably weary. He paused at the entrance, his gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, the familiar warmth that once lay between you seemed to flicker back to life. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the animosity and the silence in its wake.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight as if he were unsure whether to approach or keep his distance. “I thought it was time we talked,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You nodded, your fingers tightening around the edges of the shawl draped over your shoulders. “It has been… a while,” you replied quietly, feeling the weight of the unspoken words settle heavily between you.

Robb stepped closer, his expression guarded, his gaze flicking to your stomach for the briefest of moments before returning to your face. “I didn’t want it to be like this,” he murmured, his voice laced with a hint of regret. “I never wanted… distance between us.”

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “And yet, here we are,” you said softly, the hurt you’d buried these past weeks slipping into your tone.

Robb looked down, his fists clenching briefly before he took a deep breath. “I know you’ve been hurt by… everything that’s happened,” he said, his voice strained. “I don’t want you to feel like… like you’re alone.”

“But I am alone, Robb,” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them. “Every time you look at me, I see it in your eyes. You don’t trust me—not truly.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his face as he shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” You met his gaze, your voice trembling with the emotions that had been bottled up for far too long. “I left everything behind for you. My family, my home, everything I knew. I made that choice because I believed that we could build something here together. But now…” You swallowed, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Now I feel like a stranger in my own life.”

He looked away, his shoulders tense, his hands curling into fists as he listened to your words. “You know the situation we’re in. Everything that’s happened—the war, the betrayal, the losses—it’s… complicated. I have to be careful, I have to protect my family, my men. I can’t just ignore—”

“Ignore what?” you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. “Ignore the fact that I’m a Lannister? That I have my mother’s blood in me?” The words tasted bitter on your tongue, and you forced yourself to take a steadying breath. “If that’s all you see, Robb, then maybe you never really saw me at all.”

The hurt in your words seemed to strike him, his face tightening as he finally looked back at you. “I do see you,” he said, his voice raw. “And that’s the hardest part, because I don’t want to doubt you. But I have to think of my people, of my family. And with everything that’s happened…”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of his doubt settle over you like a shroud. “I thought you loved me,” you whispered, almost to yourself.

“I do love you,” he replied, a note of desperation in his voice. “But…”

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze with a sadness that seemed to echo the empty spaces between you. “But you don’t trust me,” you finished quietly. “And without trust, what is love?”

He flinched, the pain in his expression undeniable, but he said nothing. The silence stretched between you, filled with the words neither of you could bring yourself to say. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between his love for you and the loyalty he held to his family, his duty. And in that moment, you understood.

Robb loved you—there was no doubt of that. But his love was conditional, bound by the walls of mistrust that he couldn’t bring himself to tear down. And it hurt, more deeply than any wound you’d ever borne.

“You think I could betray you,” you said, your voice trembling. “You think I could harm the family I chose—the family I swore to protect. And you think that because of my blood.” You looked away, the bitterness swelling in your chest. “But blood is not the same as loyalty, Robb. And I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

Robb took a step forward, his hand reaching out to you, but you pulled back, the pain too fresh, too raw. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret. “I never wanted this to happen.”

“Neither did I,” you replied, your voice hollow. “But here we are, standing on opposite sides of a war we never asked for, bound by promises that have become chains.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to die on his lips, leaving only the anguish in his gaze. For a moment, he looked as if he might reach for you again, but then he hesitated, his hand falling back to his side.

“I wish… things were different,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You nodded, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you looked at him one last time. “So do I,” you replied, your voice breaking. “But wishing doesn’t change anything, does it?”

Without another word, you turned and left the tent, the cold air stinging your face as you stepped into the darkness. The weight of his mistrust settled heavily over you, suffocating the hope that you’d once held so close.

You walked through the camp, the sounds of soldiers and the crackle of fires fading into the background as you tried to process the reality of your situation. Robb might love you, but that love was fractured, shadowed by doubts he couldn’t seem to overcome. And for the first time, you realized that perhaps… you could never truly belong here, no matter how hard you tried.

As you looked out over the camp, the fires casting flickering shadows over the tents, you felt the beginnings of a resolve take root within you. If Robb couldn’t trust you, then you would have to trust yourself. Because at the end of the day, that might be all you had left.

And as much as it hurt, you knew that you couldn’t keep waiting for him to see you—not if he refused to look beyond the name you’d left behind.

The camp was quiet as you made your way through the rows of tents, the early morning mist clinging to the air. The soldiers were still sleeping or stirring groggily, barely aware of your presence. You walked with purpose, your mind a whirlwind of doubt, hurt, and uncertainty. Robb’s mistrust weighed heavily on you, and despite all you’d given up to be here, you felt more alone than ever.

At the far edge of the camp, beneath the watchful gaze of guards, lay the makeshift cage where Jaime Lannister was held. He looked up as you approached, his sharp eyes glinting with curiosity and a touch of amusement, even in the dim light of dawn. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, yet he held himself with a casual arrogance that only Jaime Lannister could muster in such a situation.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning back against the bars with a lazy smile. “Look who’s come to visit.”

You folded your arms, keeping your expression guarded. “You’re not exactly in a position to be smug, Uncle.”

“Oh, but I am,” he replied smoothly, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You wouldn’t be here unless something was bothering you. And I’m willing to wager it has to do with a certain Stark boy.”

You stiffened, unwilling to let him see how deeply his words affected you. But Jaime was perceptive, and the small flicker of pain in your eyes did not escape him. He tilted his head, the lazy smirk giving way to something more serious, a flicker of understanding.

“Let me guess,” he said softly, his voice losing its mocking edge. “Robb’s questioning your loyalty. Treating you like you’re as much a prisoner here as I am.”

You looked away, the truth of his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” Jaime leaned forward, his eyes searching yours with a surprising amount of empathy. “You gave up everything for him, didn’t you? Left your family, your title, everything you knew. And still, he doesn’t trust you.”

You clenched your fists, a surge of resentment rising within you. “He says he loves me, but… love without trust? What kind of love is that?”

Jaime let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s the kind that makes you feel like you’re suffocating, like no matter what you do, you’ll never be enough.” He paused, his gaze softening as he studied your face. “You and I… we’re not so different, you know. Both bound by loyalty to families who would see us suffer before they’d let us be happy.”

You frowned, struggling to reconcile the man before you with the image of the arrogant Kingslayer you’d grown up around. “You speak of loyalty, yet you killed your king. You betrayed your own oath.”

Jaime’s smile faded, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—a hint of pain, of anger, of regret. “I did what I had to do,” he said quietly, his voice hardening. “Some oaths are worth breaking when the price is too high.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in as you considered your own situation. Jaime was a man who had been defined by the choices he made, choices that had earned him scorn, hatred, and the infamous name of Kingslayer. But beneath the arrogance and the sneer, there was a man who had made those choices for reasons only he could understand.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Because I see what’s happening to you,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “They’ll turn you into a prisoner of their war, of their distrust. And you’re too much your mother’s daughter to let that happen, aren’t you?”

You stiffened, his words striking a nerve. The mention of your mother brought a rush of conflicting emotions—loyalty, resentment, and a longing for the life you’d left behind.

Jaime’s voice softened, almost conspiratorial. “You could go back, you know. Back to King’s Landing. To your family. You wouldn’t be bound to this endless winter, this… constant doubt.”

“I chose this,” you replied, though the conviction in your voice was weaker than you’d hoped. “I chose Robb. I chose to be here.”

“But does he truly want you here?” Jaime’s question was gentle, almost pitying, and it cut through you like a knife. “Or does he see you as a pawn in his game, a piece that’s convenient when it suits him and expendable when it doesn’t?”

Your heart ached as his words struck closer to the truth than you wanted to admit. You thought back to all the moments Robb had hesitated, the doubt in his eyes, the subtle distance that had grown between you. It was as if no matter how much you tried, you could never truly be a part of this world.

Jaime watched you in silence, his gaze sharp and perceptive. “You’re not meant to be here,” he said softly. “You don’t belong among these people who see you as an outsider. You belong with your family, where your blood means something.”

You looked down, your hands trembling as you grappled with the reality of his words. You had tried so hard to be loyal, to be the wife Robb needed, to make a life in the North. But Jaime’s words stirred something within you—a reminder of the life you’d left behind, of the ties that had bound you long before you’d ever heard of Winterfell.

Jaime leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me go,” he said, his tone urgent. “Free me, and I’ll take you back to King’s Landing myself. Back to Cersei, to your brothers and sister. To a place where you’re loved, where you’re trusted.”

You looked up, your heart pounding as his words hung heavy in the air. There was a gleam of determination in Jaime’s gaze, an invitation—a promise. He was offering you a way out, a chance to escape the prison you’d unwittingly found yourself in, a chance to return to the world you’d left behind.

But even as the temptation washed over you, doubts clouded your mind. Could you truly abandon everything you’d chosen? Could you betray the family you’d tried so hard to make your own?

Jaime watched you, his gaze unwavering, his expression unreadable. “What will it be, Y/N?” he murmured, his voice a whisper that seemed to echo in the silence. “Are you truly one of them… or are you still one of us?”

The question lingered in the air, the choice hanging heavy between you. And as you met Jaime’s piercing gaze, the weight of his words pressed down on you, leaving you teetering on the edge of a decision that could change everything.

The tension in the war tent was crackling as Robb gathered with his bannermen, discussing the latest strategies and plans for their campaign. The low light from the candles cast shadows over maps spread out across the table, each marked with strategic positions and paths. Robb stood at the head of the table, his gaze focused and intense, while you stood behind one of the lords, quietly listening as the men argued and discussed. You felt the familiar weight of being an outsider, especially in moments like these.

Just as Lord Karstark was outlining a possible maneuver, the flap of the tent burst open, and a guard rushed in, breathless and wide-eyed, his face pale. “My king!” he called out, his voice filled with urgency.

Robb straightened, his brow furrowing. “What is it?” he asked, his tone sharp.

The guard hesitated, glancing between Robb and the lords gathered around him before finally finding the courage to speak. “The Kingslayer… he’s gone. He’s escaped.”

A stunned silence fell over the tent, and every eye turned to Robb, who stiffened, his face darkening with shock and fury. His gaze immediately swung toward you, the unspoken accusation in his eyes cutting like a blade. For a brief, terrible moment, you felt the weight of that suspicion settle over you, his silent question echoing in the depths of your heart: Did you have a hand in this?

But before either of you could say a word, the guard continued, his voice shaky. “It was Lady Catelyn, my lord. She… she freed him.”

The room erupted into an uproar, the lords shouting in outrage and disbelief. Lord Karstark, his face twisted in fury, slammed his fist onto the table. “Lady Stark? She freed the man who killed my sons? This is madness!”

“Your mother’s gone too far, Robb!” Lord Umber growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble. “She’s betrayed us all, and she’s released the only valuable bargaining piece we had.”

The tent filled with accusations and anger, each man speaking over the other, their voices rising in a chaotic swell of fury and disbelief. Robb stood in silence, his face pale as he absorbed the news. He looked stricken, a storm of emotions brewing in his gaze—shock, anger, and betrayal, all flashing across his face in an instant.

You lowered your gaze, the sting of his earlier suspicion still fresh in your heart. Despite knowing that the truth had been revealed, Robb’s silence, his initial reaction, lingered like an unhealed wound. The fact that his first instinct had been to turn to you, to wonder if you had betrayed him, left a bitter taste in your mouth.

One of the bannermen, his voice loud and furious, called out, “Your mother’s actions could cost us everything, Robb. If we lose because of this, it’ll be blood on her hands.”

Robb’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white as he struggled to maintain control. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice ringing out above the chaos. Silence fell as the lords turned to him, each of them brimming with anger and frustration.

Robb took a deep, steadying breath, his gaze hard and unyielding as he looked around the room. “I understand your anger. Lady Stark’s actions were… unexpected.” He hesitated, his voice thick with barely suppressed fury. “But she is still my mother. We will not turn on her.”

Lord Karstark, his face a mask of bitter rage, stepped forward. “My king, with all due respect, this isn’t just about you or your mother. This is about justice. Your father’s justice, which she’s undermined by letting that… that Kingslayer walk free.”

Robb’s gaze flicked to you for the briefest of moments, and you could still see the shadow of doubt lingering there, a remnant of his initial suspicion. The silent accusation was gone, but the sting remained, a reminder of the fracture between you that no apology could fully mend.

You kept your gaze lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. The anger of the lords and Robb’s initial reaction had cemented a sense of isolation within you, a quiet resignation that you might never truly be trusted here. Not as a Lannister. Not as his wife.

Lord Umber turned to Robb, his voice softer but no less intense. “What will you do, then? How will you salvage this?”

Robb’s jaw clenched, the weight of responsibility bearing down on him. “I’ll send men after Jaime,” he said, his voice cold and resolute. “I’ll do everything I can to bring him back.”

The lords muttered amongst themselves, some nodding, others still simmering with anger. Robb turned to the guard. “Have all patrols doubled. Every man we can spare will search for Jaime Lannister. He won’t make it far.”

The guard nodded, bowing quickly before leaving the tent. The lords watched Robb carefully, their gazes sharp and unforgiving. They were looking to him to make a decision, to show strength, but you could see the toll it was taking on him.

In the charged silence that followed, Robb turned to face his bannermen fully, his expression steeled. “I know this seems like a betrayal,” he said, his voice steady, though there was a slight tremor beneath the calm. “But we can’t let this tear us apart. We’ll recover from this. We have to recover from this, or we’ve already lost.”

The lords murmured their reluctant assent, though the bitterness in their gazes remained. As they began to file out, some cast sidelong glances at you, their expressions a mix of suspicion and disdain. It was clear that for many of them, a Lannister among the Starks would always be viewed as a potential threat.

Finally, the tent cleared, leaving you alone with Robb. The silence was heavy, his back turned to you as he stared at the maps on the table, his hands gripping the edges tightly. His knuckles were white, and you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the quiet fury simmering just beneath the surface.

You took a tentative step forward, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Robb…”

He didn’t turn, his voice low and raw. “You knew, didn’t you?”

The accusation stung, and you flinched, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know she would do this. I only spoke to Jaime once—”

“You spoke to him?” He turned, his eyes blazing, the hurt and betrayal clear in his gaze. “After everything, you went to him?”

“I went to speak to him, yes,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “But I didn’t know she would let him go. I swear it, Robb.”

For a moment, he looked away, his expression torn, and you could see the struggle in his eyes as he fought to reconcile his love for you with the doubts that had festered between you. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair as he looked back at you.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he murmured, his voice laced with exhaustion. “My father is dead, my brother is crippled, and now my mother has freed the one man who could have given us leverage. And then… there’s you.”

The weight of his words settled heavily on your chest, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek, quickly brushing it away. “I’m not your enemy, Robb. I wanted this to work. I wanted to be part of your family, of this… but I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough.”

He looked at you, his expression softened by the faintest glimmer of regret, but the doubt still lingered, a shadow that neither of you could banish. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I don’t know how to trust you.”

The ache in your chest deepened, and for a moment, the distance between you felt insurmountable. You nodded, turning away from him, feeling the weight of all that had gone unspoken settling heavily on your shoulders.

In the silence, you left the tent, leaving Robb alone with his doubts, the wound between you left unhealed and festering, the echoes of mistrust lingering in the cold Northern air.

The night was cold as Robb stormed into his mother’s tent, his face set in a hardened mask of fury and disbelief. The shadows cast by the flickering candlelight danced on the canvas walls, giving his expression an almost spectral intensity. Catelyn sat at a small table, her face pale but composed, as if she’d been waiting for this confrontation.

She looked up as he entered, her eyes steady, but Robb could see the quiet resolve and sadness in her gaze. She rose, meeting his gaze head-on, even as he struggled to contain the storm of emotions brewing within him.

"Why?" His voice was low, laced with betrayal and anger. "Why did you do it, Mother?"

Catelyn’s expression didn’t falter. She clasped her hands together, taking a deep breath. "I did it for your sisters, Robb. For Sansa and Arya."

His jaw clenched, and he took a step closer, his eyes blazing with a barely restrained fury. "You let the Kingslayer go. You released the one man who could give us leverage against the Lannisters, who could help us end this war. You went against me, against your king. All for what? A promise from Jaime Lannister?”

Catelyn’s face softened, but she held her ground. "You weren’t there, Robb. You didn’t see Sansa’s letter. You didn’t hear the desperation in her words. She’s trapped in that viper’s nest, held by the very people who murdered your father." Her voice wavered slightly, though her gaze remained resolute. "And Arya… we don’t even know where she is. If there’s a chance that Jaime’s freedom could bring them home, I had to take it."

Robb shook his head, disbelief etched in every line of his face. "A chance? You traded our best leverage for a chance? And what of the lives lost in this war? The men who followed me, who died believing we’d bring justice to our family, that we’d make the Lannisters answer for what they did?”

Catelyn’s expression faltered, a flicker of pain crossing her face. "Do you think I’ve forgotten that?" she whispered. "Do you think I’ve forgotten the men we’ve lost, the sons and fathers who’ve given their lives for this cause? But they did it for more than just vengeance, Robb. They did it to protect our family, to bring your sisters home. And if freeing Jaime means I have to make sacrifices, then so be it.”

"Those sacrifices weren’t yours to make," Robb shot back, his voice rising. "You put everything at risk. You put us at risk. Your sons, your people, our cause… all of it thrown away for a promise that Jaime Lannister might help us? Did you think of what it would cost us if he betrays us?”

Catelyn’s composure slipped, and her voice rose in response, tinged with frustration and sorrow. "And if I did nothing? What then, Robb? Leave Sansa in the lion’s den, to suffer at their mercy? Let Arya’s fate remain unknown, just a shadow in our minds? I couldn’t sit idly by, not when there was even a glimmer of hope."

"Hope?” Robb’s voice was sharp, his gaze unyielding. "Hope that the man who threw Bran from a tower, who killed Karstark’s sons, would suddenly grow a conscience? Did you even stop to think of the betrayal that would bring upon us all? Or was that outweighed by a promise Jaime made while bound in a cage?”

The words hung between them, thick with accusation, and Catelyn’s expression softened with regret, but she did not back down. "You weren’t there, Robb," she repeated, her voice quiet but firm. "Sansa is my daughter, your sister, and I will do anything—anything—to bring her back to us."

Robb’s face twisted with a mix of anger and pain, and he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to contain his emotions. "And what of me, Mother? Do I mean so little to you that you’d defy me, ignore my command, and risk everything we’ve fought for?”

Catelyn’s eyes softened, her own voice breaking as she spoke. "You are my son, Robb. My firstborn. I would do anything for you, you must know that." She took a step toward him, her voice pleading. "But you’re also a king now, and kings must make hard choices. I didn’t do this to defy you—I did it because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing any more of my children.”

Robb’s gaze was hard, but a flicker of understanding, of shared pain, crossed his face. “I am a king, yes. And as a king, I have to answer to my bannermen, to the people who follow me. And now they question me because of what you’ve done. They’re angry, furious that you would release the man who killed their kin. I cannot lead if my own family undermines me.”

Catelyn’s face fell, and for a moment, she looked vulnerable, her strength faltering. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Robb. But as a mother, I couldn’t stand by any longer. The Lannisters hold so much power over us… they hold our children, our family, and they’ve taken so much from us already. I just… I wanted to bring some of them back.”

Robb’s expression softened for the briefest of moments, a flicker of sympathy breaking through the storm of his anger. But he quickly steeled himself, his face hardening once more as he took a step back, putting distance between them.

"Do you realize what you’ve done?" he asked quietly, his voice cold. "You’ve cost us our advantage. You’ve sown doubt among my men, our allies. You’ve put everything I’ve built at risk, all for a promise that might mean nothing.”

Catelyn’s gaze wavered, but she held his gaze, her face etched with sorrow. "Then I will bear that burden," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I will live with the consequences of my actions, Robb. But I did what I thought was right, as a mother.”

Robb’s eyes filled with pain, and he shook his head, his voice raw. "Right or wrong, you’ve betrayed me, Mother. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and final, and Catelyn looked away, her expression crumbling as the weight of his accusation settled over her. She took a shaky breath, struggling to hold back tears, but she did not try to defend herself further. She simply nodded, accepting his words, knowing that nothing she could say would change his mind.

Robb turned, his face as cold as the Northern wind, and without another word, he left the tent, leaving his mother behind, her shoulders slumped as she sank into a chair, the quiet grief settling over her like a shroud.

Outside, Robb took a deep breath, the anger and sorrow swirling within him, leaving him feeling hollow and adrift. He had lost his father, he had lost his trust in his wife, and now… he had lost faith in his own mother.

And as he stood alone in the darkness, he wondered how much more he could lose before there was nothing left of him at all.

The morning sun was a pale, cold light filtering through the muted haze that settled over the camp. It did little to warm the chill that seemed to grip Robb as he strode toward the war tent, the echoes of the previous night’s confrontation with his mother weighing heavily on him. His heart felt raw, torn between duty and family, and now he had to face his men, men who questioned his leadership, men who waited for him to set things right.

Inside the war tent, his bannermen were already gathered around the table, their expressions grim and expectant. Lord Karstark was there, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with anger, while Lord Umber stood with his arms crossed, his face hard and unyielding. They turned as Robb entered, offering him a nod of respect, but the tension in the room was palpable.

Robb took his place at the head of the table, looking out at the men who had pledged their loyalty to him, who had sacrificed for him. He could feel their resentment simmering, the weight of his mother’s betrayal casting a shadow over his authority. He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he prepared to address the situation.

“We’ve lost Jaime Lannister,” he began, his voice firm, though he kept his tone measured. “I won’t pretend that this isn’t a setback. We lost a valuable bargaining piece, and I understand your anger. But we cannot allow this to break us.”

Lord Karstark scoffed, his voice filled with bitterness. “A setback? Your mother has let the very man who murdered my sons slip through our fingers. This is more than a mere setback, Robb.”

Robb clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his composure. “I understand, Lord Karstark. I share your anger. But Jaime Lannister is gone. Wasting time on anger won’t bring him back.”

Lord Umber leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Then perhaps it’s time we consider other options, my king.”

Robb’s gaze flicked to him, his brows furrowing. “What other options?”

Umber exchanged a look with Karstark, then turned back to Robb, his expression calculating. “The Kingslayer may be gone, but we still have… another Lannister close at hand.”

Robb’s heart stilled, a flash of unease tightening his chest. “What do you mean?”

Karstark’s mouth twisted into a grim smile, his voice cold and unfeeling. “Your wife, my king. She carries the name Lannister in her blood as much as the Kingslayer did. If you want to draw Tywin Lannister out, what better way than to use her as bait?”

Robb’s face paled, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled to comprehend the enormity of what his bannermen were suggesting. “You’re speaking of my wife,” he said, his voice low, dangerously quiet. “The mother of my child.”

Lord Karstark shrugged, unperturbed. “She’s also a Lannister. Do you think Tywin would stand idly by if he knew his granddaughter is in our hands?”

Lord Umber nodded, his tone practical, almost cold. “Think about it, Robb. This is war. Your personal feelings can’t come before the needs of the North. If using the girl could give us an advantage, then we should consider it.”

Robb’s fists slammed onto the table, his face contorted with anger as he looked from one man to the next, his voice shaking with fury. “She is not a pawn. She is my wife. She is carrying my child. And you would suggest using her like a bargaining chip?”

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but Lord Karstark remained defiant, his gaze unwavering. “With respect, my king, this isn’t a game. We’re fighting for our survival, for justice. If we have a weapon we can use against the Lannisters, we should use it.”

Robb’s voice was ice, a low growl that cut through the room. “No. I will not hear any more talk of this. My wife is under my protection, and she is a part of this family, as much as any of you.” He turned his gaze to each of them, his eyes fierce. “If any of you even consider acting on this suggestion, I will see it as an act of treason.”

Silence fell, the men visibly taken aback by the ferocity in Robb’s voice, but Karstark refused to back down entirely. “You’re a young man, Robb,” he said, his tone bitter. “A young man who has let his heart cloud his judgment. War requires sacrifice. You cannot afford to place one person above the entire North.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with barely restrained rage. “I know the cost of war, Lord Karstark. I’ve buried men I’ve called my brothers, seen lives destroyed, families torn apart. But I will not sacrifice my wife and my child on the altar of your vengeance.”

Lord Umber’s voice softened, though there was still a note of caution. “We’re only suggesting that we consider all options, my lord. No one wants to see harm come to your lady, but if we’re to win this war, we need every advantage we can get.”

Robb took a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger as he looked around at his bannermen, his voice tight with restraint. “I understand the risks. But we will find another way. I will not allow my wife to be used as a tool in this war. This discussion is over.”

The lords fell silent, some looking away, others muttering under their breath, but none dared to argue further. Robb could feel the weight of their disappointment, their doubt. But he stood firm, unwilling to compromise on this matter, no matter the cost.

Lord Karstark shook his head, his voice a quiet mutter filled with disdain. “You’re a fool if you think you can win this war with a conscience, Robb. This is a mistake, and it may well be the death of us all.”

Robb’s gaze hardened, his eyes like steel as he met Karstark’s glare. “Then so be it,” he replied, his voice unyielding. “I’d rather face death with honor than live knowing I betrayed the people I swore to protect.”

The lords exchanged glances, some nodding in reluctant acceptance, while others looked away, their expressions a mix of anger and disappointment. Robb could feel the rift growing between him and his men, the chasm widening with each hard choice he made. But he knew, in his heart, that this was the right decision.

As the bannermen began to file out of the tent, Robb stood in silence, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he struggled to steady himself. The weight of his choice pressed heavily on him, and he felt the creeping isolation that came with command, the loneliness of standing by one’s principles in a world that demanded compromise.

When the last of the lords had gone, he let out a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping as the anger drained from him, leaving only the ache of weariness in its place. He had chosen to protect you, to keep his promise, but at what cost? His bannermen’s loyalty was waning, and the unity he had once relied on was beginning to fracture.

Yet he knew, as surely as he knew the North’s bitter winters, that he could not—would not—allow harm to come to you. Not even for the sake of his war.

...

The early morning mist clung to the ground as you stood in the quiet edge of the camp, saddling your horse with hands that trembled only slightly. The air was cold, stinging your skin, but it felt like a balm to the storm raging in your heart. Each buckle, each strap you tightened, was a silent answer to the questions you hadn’t been able to voice aloud. You knew this wasn’t a decision that could be made lightly, but after days—weeks—of silence, mistrust, and feeling like a stranger in your own life, it was a decision you had to make.

The quiet was broken by the sound of footsteps behind you, and you paused, a chill running through you that had nothing to do with the air. Turning slowly, you saw Robb standing there, his face pale, his expression etched with disbelief and something close to panic. Behind him, at a distance, Catelyn had stopped, her gaze fixed on you with a mix of sorrow and regret.

“What are you doing?” Robb’s voice was low, strained, as if he could barely bring himself to ask the question.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you turned to face him. “I’m preparing my horse, Robb. I think it’s time… I think it’s best if I leave.”

The words seemed to hit him like a blow, his face paling further as he took a step closer, his voice shaking with urgency. “You’re leaving? But… you’re heavy with child. You can’t just ride out like this.”

Your hand instinctively moved to rest on the curve of your belly, a reminder of the life growing inside you, of the love you had once shared so freely with the man standing before you. “I have no other choice,” you replied, your voice quiet but firm. “You doubt me, Robb. You’ve doubted me for weeks, maybe even longer. I can’t stay where I’m not trusted. Not like this.”

Robb’s expression crumbled, and he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours. “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered, his voice thick with desperation. “I know… I know I’ve made mistakes, that I’ve let my own fears blind me. But please, don’t do this.”

You looked away, struggling to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “How can I stay, Robb? How can I raise our child in a place where my loyalty is constantly questioned? Where every glance feels like a reminder that I don’t belong?”

Robb’s hand found yours, his grip gentle but firm as he held you close. “Because I love you,” he said softly, his voice filled with a raw vulnerability you hadn’t heard in weeks. “I love you more than I can say. And I know I’ve been a fool. But… please, don’t punish me for that by leaving.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and the anguish in his eyes struck deep, stirring memories of the love you’d shared—the warmth, the laughter, the quiet moments of solace and comfort that had once filled your life together. But those memories felt distant now, like echoes of a life that had slowly slipped away.

“I’m not punishing you, Robb,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m trying to protect myself. And our child. I can’t… I can’t keep waiting for you to trust me when every day feels like a test I’m doomed to fail.”

Robb shook his head, his grip on your hand tightening as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “No. You’re not doomed to fail. You’re the woman I chose, the woman I love. And… you’re the mother of my child.” His voice broke, and he looked down, swallowing hard before meeting your gaze again, his eyes filled with tears. “Please… don’t take that away from me.”

The words hung between you, heavy with the weight of everything you’d both lost, everything you still had yet to say. You could feel his desperation, the silent plea in his gaze, begging you to stay, to forgive, to give him one last chance. Behind him, Catelyn watched silently, her face shadowed with regret and sadness, but she said nothing, merely bearing witness to the fracture between you and her son.

You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand against yours, the familiar strength and comfort you’d once found in his touch. But there was still the lingering ache, the wound of betrayal that hadn’t yet healed, the knowledge that even now, doubt lay between you like a dark chasm.

“I don’t know if love is enough, Robb,” you whispered, opening your eyes to meet his gaze, your voice trembling. “Love without trust… what kind of life would that be for us? For our child?”

Robb’s face crumpled, and he took a shaky breath, his voice raw. “Then let me earn your trust back,” he said, his words filled with a quiet, desperate hope. “Give me that chance. Stay. Please.”

The silence stretched between you, the decision hanging heavy in the air. You looked at him, at the man you’d once given your heart to, the man who had given you hope, love, a new life. But now… now there was so much pain, so much mistrust, that you couldn’t tell if those promises still held the same weight.

Your gaze drifted to the road beyond the camp, the path that would lead you back to your family, to the life you’d left behind. And then back to Robb, his eyes filled with silent pleading, his hand still holding yours, a reminder of everything you’d built together, of the future you’d dreamed of.

And as you stood there, torn between two worlds, the decision loomed, uncertain and unresolved, like the misty dawn stretching before you, waiting for you to choose which path you would take.

There will be another part with the ending if Y/N decides to stay. 😉

#game of thrones #house of the dragon #hotd #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #asoiaf x reader #got/asoiaf #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got robb stark #robb stark #robb x reader #robb x you #robb x y/n #house stark #house lannister #house baratheon

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novaursa · 1 month ago

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The Flames We Loved

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it.

- Summary: There are many stories about the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, and whispers still exist about their bloody deaths written in the tomes of Fire and Blood. And then there are those who were there to witness it all.

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: The reader is Rhaegar's twin sister and they were both born at Summerhall on the day of its tragedy. This chapter contains various characters and their retellings of deaths of Y/N and Aerys.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Next part: to wake a dragon

Robert and Eddard

Robert Baratheon sat in front of the hearth, the flicker of the flames casting shadows across his face as he stared into the fire. His large hands gripped the mug of wine tightly, his knuckles white, as if he could crush it between his fingers. The years had not been kind to Robert. His once broad, powerful frame had grown soft, his face ruddy with drink, and his eyes—once filled with the fire of rebellion—now carried a deep, bitter weight. But even with all the years that had passed since the rebellion, since the sack of King’s Landing, one memory lingered in his mind, haunting him still.

Ned Stark sat across from him, his own expression quiet, as always, waiting patiently for Robert to speak. He had heard this bitterness before, seen the weight that sat on his old friend’s shoulders whenever the past was brought up. But tonight, there was something heavier in the air, something darker.

Robert took a long, hard swig of wine, letting the burn of it warm his throat before he finally spoke, his voice thick with bitterness. "You know, Ned," he began, his words slurred slightly with drink, "there’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about that day. The day we took King’s Landing. When we… found them."

Ned said nothing, letting Robert speak at his own pace. He had never been comfortable speaking of that day either, but he knew Robert needed to unburden himself, and so he listened, his grey eyes steady.

Robert’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t shake the memory. "Aerys… the Mad King. We all expected him to be in a pool of his own blood, lying on his damned Iron Throne, dead and done for. And he was, thanks to Jaime Lannister. But what I didn’t expect… what I couldn’t have expected… was finding her there too."

"Y/N," Ned murmured quietly, filling the silence that hung between Robert’s words. The name of Aerys’ daughter, Robert’s own cousin, carried a weight all its own. The truth of her end, and what had happened in those final moments, had been a point of pain and fury for Robert ever since.

"Aye," Robert spat the name out like a curse, though there was a strange conflict in his voice. "Y/N. The gods-damned daughter of Aerys. You know, I almost pitied her once. They said she was a beauty—Targaryen through and through, with that silver hair and violet eyes. But when we found her…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as the memory overwhelmed him.

Ned knew what Robert was going to say. He had heard it before, but it still made his heart heavy. He had been in the Red Keep that day as well, seen the destruction, the carnage that had been wrought.

"When we found her," Robert continued, his voice quieter now, but still filled with venom, "she was lying there in a pool of blood, her throat slit, and Aerys was holding her like she was some damned treasure he’d lost. Even in death, he clung to her like a man drowning in his own madness."

Robert’s grip tightened on his mug, his knuckles turning white. "Tywin’s men were the ones who did it, of course. Slit her throat right in front of the mad bastard, just to break him. And break him they did. The great Mad King, the last dragon—reduced to a sniveling wreck as he watched his own daughter bleed out at his feet." He let out a harsh laugh, one devoid of any real amusement. "Justice, some would call it. For what he did to your father, to your brother. But it didn’t feel like justice. It felt… wrong."

Ned’s eyes flickered, his expression grim. He had known Y/N, not well, but enough to know she had not deserved the fate that had befallen her. She had been swept up in her father’s madness, a victim of Aerys’ cruelty and obsession. "She was with child, wasn’t she?" Ned asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

Robert nodded, his face twisting in disgust. "Aye. She was with child when they killed her. A third Targaryen brat. They didn’t even give her a chance. Not that it matters, though. She was as much Aerys’ as the rest of them—his lover, his daughter, his whore. Gods, Ned, what kind of monster beds his own blood like that?"

Ned stayed silent. He knew Robert’s hatred for the Targaryens ran deep, but there was something more in Robert’s tone, something that went beyond mere disgust. There was bitterness there, a wound that had never fully healed.

"I remember walking into that throne room," Robert continued, his voice low, as if the memory still played in his mind like a nightmare. "Aerys was already dead—Jaime Lannister had run him through—but he was still clutching Y/N’s body, holding her like she was the last thing that mattered in the world. Her blood was everywhere, staining his robes, the floor. I wanted to kick the corpse, make sure the bastard knew he’d lost everything, but Tywin…"

Robert shook his head again, a deep scowl settling on his face. "Tywin wouldn’t let me. Said it wasn’t right to leave them like that. He insisted they be burned together, in the same position we found them. Like some gods-damned lovers’ pyre. I wanted to see them tossed into the dirt, but I let him have his way. Even now, it sickens me to think of it."

Ned took a deep breath, his thoughts heavy. He remembered that day too well—the scent of fire and blood, the sight of Aerys and Y/N, dead together as the Red Keep crumbled around them. It had been a fitting end for the Mad King, but Y/N… she had been something else. A tragedy caught in the crossfire of her father’s madness.

"You think often of them," Ned said quietly, his voice steady. "Aerys and Y/N."

Robert snorted, lifting his mug to his lips again. "Think of them? Aye, Ned, I think of them more than I’d like. They haunt me. But it’s not just them, is it? It’s everything—their damned legacy. I killed one dragon, but the others are still out there, waiting to strike. Viserys, Daenerys… they’re still Targaryens. And you know what Targaryens do, Ned. They burn everything in their path."

Ned nodded slowly, understanding the depth of Robert’s hatred. It wasn’t just Aerys or Y/N—it was the entire Targaryen line, the fire that had claimed so many lives, including Robert’s own family.

Robert stared into the fire again, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I’ll see the last of them dead before I rest easy, Ned. Every last one of them."

Ned said nothing, his heart heavy with the weight of Robert’s words. The rebellion had ended years ago, but the ghosts of the past still lingered, haunting the halls of power, and those who had survived the flames of war.

Jaime and Tyrion

The sun dipped low over King’s Landing, casting a golden light over the Red Keep as shadows stretched long across the city. In one of the keep’s smaller courtyards, Tyrion Lannister walked alongside his brother, Jaime, savoring the warm breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. The day’s heat had finally begun to ease, leaving a comfortable coolness that made it almost pleasant to be outside. Almost.

Tyrion glanced up at his brother, noting the tightness around Jaime’s eyes, the way his jaw clenched as if he were biting back something unpleasant. His golden hair caught the light of the setting sun, but there was a darkness in his expression that was at odds with the warmth of the evening.

“Now, now, brother,” Tyrion began, his voice light with practiced humor as he adjusted his grip on his wine cup. “You look as if you’ve swallowed something bitter. Surely even the great Jaime Lannister can manage to smile on such a fine evening? Or is there some poor soul I should apologize to on your behalf?”

Jaime’s lips twitched, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He glanced at Tyrion, then turned his gaze back to the city sprawling out beneath them, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. “Not every day can be a jest, Tyrion,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. “Some things aren’t so easily laughed off.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his expression sharpening as he studied his brother more closely. Jaime was no stranger to brooding, but there was something different in his mood today—something heavier, like a shadow that clung to him and would not be shaken. Tyrion took a sip of his wine, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment before he spoke again, his tone softening.

“True enough, I suppose,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “But I know you, Jaime. You brood when you think no one is looking, but you’re usually better at hiding it. What’s on your mind?”

Jaime’s shoulders tensed at the question, his expression tightening as if he wanted to brush it off with a laugh. But then he sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of old memories, and ran a hand through his hair, turning away from the view of the city. His gaze drifted over the courtyard, over the stone walls that had stood witness to so many secrets and betrayals.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said at last, his voice rough, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “It’s... it’s something I can’t shake, no matter how many years go by.”

Tyrion watched him closely, his curiosity piqued. Jaime rarely spoke of the past, especially the parts of it that haunted him. But there was a rawness in his voice now that Tyrion had rarely heard—a vulnerability that made him pause, setting aside his usual jests in favor of something more serious.

“Try me,” Tyrion suggested gently, taking another sip of his wine. “You might be surprised at what I can understand. And if it helps ease that troubled look on your face, well, consider it my good deed for the day.”

Jaime shot him a look, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it quickly faded. He seemed to wrestle with something inside himself, his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words. Finally, he turned back to face Tyrion, his expression somber, his voice low and raw.

“It’s the throne room,” he said, the words coming out like a confession. “I still have nightmares about it. What happened that day, when I killed Aerys... and Y/N. The way they looked when I... when I saw them together.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted, his flippant demeanor slipping away as he took in the pain in Jaime’s eyes. He had heard bits and pieces of what had happened on that day during Robert’s Rebellion, the day Jaime Lannister earned the name “Kingslayer.” But Jaime rarely spoke of it in detail, and there was a haunted look in his eyes now that made Tyrion set aside his usual barbs.

“Tell me, then,” Tyrion said quietly, leaning closer, his voice filled with a rare seriousness. “What is it you see in those nightmares, Jaime?”

Jaime swallowed hard, his gaze distant as if he were looking at something far beyond the walls of the Red Keep, beyond the years that had passed since that day. He rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the memories that clung to him like old blood. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of things long left unsaid.

“I see them, Tyrion. Aerys and Y/N, lying there on the throne room floor, their blood pooling together on the cold stone. I see the way Aerys looked at her even as he died, like she was the only thing left in his world. Like... like he thought holding her would somehow make it right, even with a sword through his back.”

He paused, his throat working as he tried to find the words. “She was already dead when I got there. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat before Aerys’s eyes, and he just... he lost what little was left of his mind. He was screaming for fire, for his pyromancers to burn the city. But all he could do was hold her, cradling her in his arms like she was some broken doll. And when he looked up at me, just before I... before I put my sword through his back, he looked like a man who’d already died.”

Tyrion’s grip tightened around his wine cup, the seriousness in his brother’s voice cutting through the usual banter that defined their conversations. He had never heard Jaime speak with such rawness, such naked pain. The image Jaime painted—the mad king and his daughter, bound together in death—was one that sent a chill through him, making him understand, perhaps for the first time, the true burden Jaime carried.

“And the nightmares?” Tyrion asked softly, his voice filled with a gentleness that he rarely showed. “What do you see, Jaime?”

Jaime’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles going white. He turned away, his expression twisting with something like self-loathing. “I see her eyes, Tyrion,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Y/N’s eyes, wide and empty, staring up at the ceiling as if she couldn’t believe she was dying. I see the blood on my hands, on my sword, and I hear Aerys’s voice, echoing through the hall, calling for fire. It’s always the same. I wake up, and it’s like I’m back there, standing over their bodies, with the whole world burning around me.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and pained. “They call me Kingslayer, but that isn’t the part that haunts me. It’s the way he held her, like she was the last piece of his soul, even when everything else had gone to hell. It’s the way I felt when I put my sword through his back—like I was ending something that should have been over long before it ever came to that.”

Tyrion listened in silence, his heart aching with a strange, unexpected sympathy for his brother. He had always known that Jaime carried the weight of his actions, but he had never truly understood the depth of the scars they had left. He reached out, placing a hand on Jaime’s arm, offering a small gesture of comfort.

“You did what you had to, Jaime,” he said softly, his voice filled with a rare earnestness. “Aerys would have burned the city if you hadn’t stopped him. And Y/N... whatever she was to him, she couldn’t have changed that. You spared King’s Landing from a fire that would have consumed us all.”

Jaime shook his head, a hollow, humorless smile twisting his lips. “Maybe I did,” he murmured, his voice raw. “But it doesn’t change what I see when I close my eyes. It doesn’t change the fact that I stood in that throne room with blood on my hands, and I couldn’t save them. Not her, not the child inside her... and not myself.”

Tyrion squeezed his brother’s arm gently, offering what comfort he could, even though he knew that some wounds could never truly be healed. “The past is a heavy burden, brother,” he said quietly. “But it’s not one you have to carry alone.”

Jaime met his gaze, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something like gratitude in his eyes. He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he turned his gaze back to the distant city, the shadows lengthening as night began to fall.

And as they stood there together, in the fading light of the Red Keep, the ghosts of the past lingered between them—unseen, unforgotten, but perhaps just a little less heavy in the presence of a shared understanding.

Varys and Petyr

The throne room was quiet now, save for the soft, measured footsteps of Varys as he glided across the cold stone floor, his hands tucked neatly into the wide sleeves of his robe. The Iron Throne loomed in the center of the room, its jagged metal spikes casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight. The grand hall felt emptier than usual, almost hollow, as though the weight of history still lingered in the air, thick and oppressive.

Varys had always found it strange how even after years had passed since the rebellion, the specter of Aerys Targaryen and his tragic end still clung to this place, like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest. And not just Aerys—his daughter, Y/N, whose death had been just as shocking, just as poignant in its cruelty.

He approached the throne, his eyes drifting up to the twisted mass of swords that made up its formidable structure, a reminder of power and the price it demanded. But today, Varys wasn’t alone.

Littlefinger stood near the base of the throne, his back turned to Varys, his fingers lightly tracing one of the throne’s twisted metal arms as if he were considering it for himself. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but Varys knew better than to be fooled by such nonchalance. Petyr Baelish was never without calculation, never without purpose.

"Lord Varys," Littlefinger said smoothly, not bothering to turn as Varys approached. "I trust you’ve come to share some new secret, some whispered truth from your little birds?"

Varys smiled slightly, though the expression never quite reached his eyes. "I find it curious, Lord Baelish, that you seem to think I’m the only one with secrets in this city. You, after all, have a few of your own, do you not?"

Littlefinger chuckled, finally turning to face the spymaster. His eyes glittered with amusement, but behind that amusement was something far more dangerous. "Oh, we all have secrets, Varys. That’s what makes this game so interesting, don’t you think?"

Varys raised a brow, his gaze drifting from Littlefinger to the throne itself, a symbol of everything they both sought to control. "Indeed. But some secrets," he said softly, "carry far more weight than others."

Littlefinger's smile didn’t waver, but there was a sharpness in his gaze now. "And what secret, pray tell, weighs on you today, my dear spider?"

Varys moved closer, his hands still tucked into his sleeves as he regarded the throne with a look of quiet contemplation. "I was just thinking," he began slowly, "about how this throne has seen so much bloodshed, so much betrayal. And yet, the events of Robert’s Rebellion still echo the loudest within these walls, do they not?"

Littlefinger tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Ah, yes. The Mad King. His death was certainly… memorable."

Varys nodded, his expression grave. "But it wasn’t just Aerys who met a tragic end that day, was it? His daughter, Y/N… Her death was far more personal. And far more devastating."

At the mention of Y/N, Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed. "Y/N Targaryen. A beauty, they said. A daughter caught in her father’s madness." He paused, his voice softening just enough to hint at something deeper. "And his lover, if the rumors are to be believed."

Varys inclined his head slightly. "More than just rumors, I’m afraid. Y/N’s fate was sealed long before the rebellion reached King’s Landing. Aerys’ obsession with her was well-known, though few dared to speak of it openly. She was both his daughter and his most prized possession, and in the end, it was her death that drove him to his final madness."

Littlefinger leaned against the throne, his fingers lightly drumming on the armrest as he considered Varys’ words. "I’ve heard the stories, of course. How Tywin’s men stormed the Red Keep, how they found Y/N at Aerys’ side… and slit her throat before his eyes." He gave a small shrug, as if the brutality of the act meant little to him. "It’s always the innocent who suffer, isn’t it?"

Varys’ gaze darkened, and for a moment, his usual composure faltered. "Y/N was pregnant at the time," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "With Aerys’ third child. They didn’t just kill her—they killed the unborn child as well. Aerys watched it all happen, and it broke him. When Jaime Lannister finally put an end to Aerys, he was holding Y/N’s body, clinging to her as if she were the only thing left in the world that mattered."

Littlefinger’s eyes flickered with interest. "A tragic love story, then," he mused, though his tone was devoid of sympathy. "One could almost feel sorry for the man, if not for the fact that his madness nearly destroyed the realm."

Varys looked away, his expression unreadable. "There was a time when Aerys was a king of great promise. But power… power corrupts even the best of men. And for those born with fire in their veins, that corruption can become something far more dangerous."

Littlefinger smiled, the gesture cold and calculating. "It’s always the Targaryens, isn’t it? Fire and blood, madness and greatness—two sides of the same coin, as they say."

Varys sighed softly, his eyes fixed on the throne. "Perhaps. But the deaths of Aerys and Y/N were more than just the end of a dynasty. They were a warning, a reminder of what unchecked power can do. Of what happens when love is twisted by madness."

Littlefinger stepped away from the throne, his gaze lingering on Varys as he moved closer. "And yet, the game continues. The throne still stands, and new players take their turn. Power will always draw those willing to do whatever it takes to claim it."

Varys smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. "Yes, my lord. But it’s worth remembering that even the most powerful can fall. And when they do, the consequences are far-reaching."

Littlefinger’s smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. "You’re right, Varys. Everyone falls eventually. Even kings and queens." He paused, his gaze drifting back to the throne for a moment. "But until then… the game must be played."

Varys nodded, his expression calm once more. "Indeed, Lord Baelish. The game never truly ends."

As Littlefinger turned to leave the throne room, Varys remained where he stood, his eyes fixed on the Iron Throne, the weight of history and tragedy settling over him like a shroud. The ghosts of the past still haunted this place, and though the players had changed, the stakes remained the same.

And somewhere, in the depths of Varys’ mind, the memory of Aerys and Y/N—two lives consumed by fire and madness—lingered, a reminder of the price of power.

Cersei and Tywin

Cersei stood by the window of her chambers, staring out at the city below, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The years had passed since Robert’s Rebellion, since the Mad King and his daughter, Y/N, had met their fiery end, but the bitterness that lingered within Cersei had never truly faded. The memory of that day, of her father’s decision to allow them to be burned together on the pyre, still made her blood boil.

Tywin Lannister entered the room without ceremony, his presence commanding as always, though there was a distinct chill in the air between them. Cersei didn’t turn to greet him. She didn’t need to—her father’s shadow always loomed over her, even when she wasn’t looking.

"You summoned me," Tywin said, his voice as measured and cold as ever. It wasn’t a question, but a simple statement of fact. He never spoke without a purpose, and Cersei knew he had no patience for games.

She didn’t respond right away, her eyes still fixed on the city below, the weight of her resentment pressing heavily on her chest. Finally, after a long silence, she spoke, her voice sharp and filled with the bitterness she had carried for so long. "I still don’t understand why you did it."

Tywin’s brow furrowed, though he didn’t move from where he stood. "Did what?"

Cersei turned then, her green eyes flashing with anger, with something that had festered in her for years. "Why you allowed Aerys and her to be burned together," she spat, the venom in her voice unmistakable. "Y/N Targaryen, the whore who thought she could cling to her father’s madness and get away with it."

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Watch your tone, Cersei," he warned, his voice low but firm. "I did what was necessary for the realm, as I always have."

Cersei laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "Necessary for the realm? Or necessary for your own pride?" She took a step toward him, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. "You should have left their bodies to rot, to be thrown into the dirt like the traitors they were. But instead, you gave them the dignity of a pyre, as if they were worth something."

Tywin’s eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over Cersei. "I gave them a pyre because it was the right decision," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Aerys was the last Targaryen king, and Y/N was his daughter. Their deaths had to be handled with care, or the realm would have descended into chaos. The rebellion may have ended, but the legacy of the Targaryens was not something that could be dismissed so easily."

Cersei’s lips curled in disdain, her anger barely contained. "You gave them too much," she hissed. "Y/N deserved worse. She stood by Aerys, even as he destroyed everything, even as he lost his mind. She was no better than him. And yet, you allowed them to die together, to be honored as if they were some tragic lovers."

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, though his gaze bore into her with cold intensity. "Y/N was a pawn in Aerys’ madness," he said, his voice calm but authoritative. "She was manipulated, used, and ultimately destroyed by her father’s obsession. Her death was part of a greater tragedy, one that needed to be handled delicately."

Cersei scoffed, shaking her head. "You speak of delicacy, but all I see is weakness. You could have crushed them completely—destroyed any trace of the Targaryen name. Instead, you gave them a pyre. You gave them dignity. And for what? For the sake of appearances?"

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. "You forget your place, Cersei," he said coldly. "I made the decisions that were best for House Lannister and the realm. Do not presume to question me."

Cersei’s eyes blazed with fury, her resentment spilling over. "I will question you," she snapped. "Because you’ve never seen it from my side. You’ve never understood how much I hated her. Y/N, with her silver hair and violet eyes, thinking she could claim the love of a king and still be seen as innocent." Her voice trembled with rage, old wounds that had never healed. "She was no better than her father. And yet, you allowed them to be remembered together, as if their deaths were some tragic ending to a noble house."

Tywin’s gaze hardened, and he stepped closer to her, his voice low and dangerous. "Y/N’s death was a necessary part of ending the Targaryen reign," he said slowly, each word deliberate. "But even in death, she held a place of importance. The realm needed stability, and allowing her and Aerys to be burned together ensured that no one questioned the finality of their fall. The last of the dragons, reduced to ash."

Cersei’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "And yet you still gave them more honor than they deserved."

Tywin stared at her for a long moment, his eyes cold and calculating. "You let your hatred cloud your judgment, Cersei," he said quietly. "Y/N was nothing more than a victim of her father’s madness. Aerys destroyed everything, including her. But in the end, they were both just pieces in a larger game. A game I played, and won."

Cersei’s fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with the weight of her anger, her resentment, and the memories of all the years that had passed since that day. She had always hated Y/N—hated the way her father had shown her even a shred of respect, hated the way the Targaryens had been allowed to die with any semblance of dignity.

But she said nothing more. The conversation had reached its end, and as always, Tywin had the last word.

Tywin turned away from her, his expression unreadable as he walked toward the door. "Let this go, Cersei," he said, his voice quiet but commanding. "There is no point in clinging to old hatreds. The Targaryens are gone. We are the future of the realm."

As the door closed behind him, Cersei stood in the middle of the room, her chest heaving with the weight of her fury. She had hated Y/N then, and she hated her still—even in death. The pyre that had consumed the last of the Targaryen legacy had not been enough to quell the fire of her hatred.

And she knew, deep down, that it never would be.

Daenerys and Barristan

Daenerys found herself standing on the balcony of her chambers in Meereen, the warm breeze carrying the scent of the sea and distant fires from the city below. It was a strangely comforting smell, reminding her of her childhood in exile, of the nights spent staring out over the Narrow Sea, wondering what lay beyond. But tonight, her thoughts were far from comforting. The truth that had come to light—her true parentage—had set her mind spinning with questions and memories she had never thought to revisit.

It wasn’t just the knowledge of her parentage, but the way her mother had died—brutally, violently, in front of her father. The thought of it haunted her, and she had so many questions, questions only a few people might answer. And there was one person in her service who might have been there, who might know the truth of what happened on that fateful day.

She sent for Ser Barristan Selmy, the loyal knight who had served both her father and her family for years. He had been there, in King's Landing, in those final moments, she was certain of it. She needed to know what he had seen—what he could tell her about Y/N, her true mother.

When Ser Barristan entered her chambers, his expression was calm, though his eyes were laced with concern as he watched the girl returning inside. He had always been able to sense when something weighed on Daenerys’ mind. He bowed before her, his white hair gleaming in the candlelight.

"You sent for me, Your Grace?" he said, his voice steady, as always.

Daenerys nodded, gesturing for him to sit across from her. For a long moment, she simply studied him, wondering how to begin. Ser Barristan had always been forthright with her, but this was different. This wasn’t about strategy or battle. This was about the past—their shared history.

"Ser Barristan," she began softly, her voice carrying the weight of the question she was about to ask. "I have learned the truth… about my mother."

Barristan’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He nodded, as though he had expected this conversation eventually.

"I have been told that my true mother was not Queen Rhaella, but Y/N Targaryen," Daenerys continued, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "Is this true?"

The knight was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded. "Yes, Your Grace," he confirmed. "Y/N was your true mother. Rhaella, your grandmother, raised you as her own after Y/N… after what happened in King’s Landing."

Daenerys felt her heart tighten at the mention of it. The story Viserys had told her of Y/N’s death was brutal, and though she had always imagined her father’s end, she hadn’t known the details until now. She looked down at her hands, suddenly feeling small in the enormity of the truth she had uncovered.

"And what happened to her?" she asked softly, her voice filled with quiet sorrow. "Were you there, Ser Barristan, when she was killed?"

There was a pause, and Daenerys dared to glance up at him. The old knight’s eyes were filled with something she rarely saw in him—regret, deep and profound. He shifted in his seat, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, and he spoke slowly, deliberately.

"I was in King's Landing when it happened," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "But I was not there in the throne room when your mother was killed. By the time I arrived, the Lannisters had already breached the Red Keep, and the city had fallen into chaos. Jaime Lannister…" His voice tightened. "He killed your father. But it was Tywin Lannister’s men who killed your mother."

Daenerys’ breath caught in her throat, and she leaned forward slightly, hanging on his every word. "How?" she whispered, though the answer already chilled her.

Barristan’s face darkened. "Your mother was with child when it happened. She stood by Aerys’ side until the very end, trying to calm him, trying to stop the madness. But when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, one of Tywin’s men grabbed her, and… he slit her throat, right in front of Aerys. She died instantly."

Daenerys closed her eyes, her heart breaking at the thought. Her mother, Y/N, had died fighting for her family, standing by Aerys even as the world crumbled around them. And she had been pregnant, carrying another child—another sibling Daenerys would never know.

"And my father?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ser Barristan shifted again, his expression grim. "Your father… Aerys… he was consumed by madness at the end, Your Grace. He screamed for his pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of defiance. But Jaime Lannister killed him before he could give the order." Barristan’s voice grew quieter, almost reverent. "He died holding your mother’s body, clinging to her even in death. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together."

Daenerys sat back, her chest tight with the weight of everything she had just learned. Her mother and father, burned together on a pyre in the ruins of King’s Landing. It was a cruel, tragic end to a story she hadn’t even known was hers. She had been whisked away to Dragonstone, just an infant, and now, years later, she was finally learning the truth of her family’s downfall.

"They died together," she whispered, more to herself than to Barristan.

The knight nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. They did."

Daenerys stared into the flickering flames of the candle beside her, her heart aching with the loss of a mother she had never known, and the father she had never truly understood. The stories of her father’s madness had always been in conflict with the image she had carried of him—a dragon, fierce and proud. But now, knowing how he had clung to her mother in the end, she wondered if some part of him had still been capable of love, even in the depths of his madness.

"Thank you, Ser Barristan," she said quietly, her voice steadying as she processed everything. "For telling me the truth."

Ser Barristan rose from his seat, bowing his head respectfully. "You deserved to know, Your Grace. And I am sorry… for all that you have lost."

As he left the room, Daenerys remained seated, her mind swirling with the ghosts of her past. The truth had been revealed, but it did nothing to ease the ache in her heart. Her parents, her true parents, had died in a fire of madness and betrayal, and now the only thing left to her was the path forward—the one that would lead her back to Westeros, to the Iron Throne, where she could reclaim the legacy of House Targaryen.

And for Y/N, her true mother, she would rise from the ashes and make the realm remember the blood of the dragon.

Viserys and Illyrio

Viserys paced back and forth in the low lit room, the rich tapestries and fine silks draped over the walls doing little to calm the storm that had been brewing inside him for days. His heart beat heavily in his chest, anger simmering just beneath the surface as he mulled over the many slights and indignities he had suffered. But it wasn’t just the loss of his birthright that weighed on him tonight. It was something deeper, something far more unsettling.

He had always known that Illyrio Mopatis had secrets—he could see it in the man’s calculating eyes, in the way he spoke of the past with a vague, elusive familiarity. But what the magister had promised to reveal tonight went beyond anything Viserys had ever imagined.

"Are you ready to hear it, Your Grace?" Illyrio’s voice, smooth and persuasive, broke through Viserys’ thoughts. The large, imposing figure of the Pentoshi magister loomed nearby, his gold rings glinting in the candlelight as he poured two cups of wine. "The truth of your birth. Of who you truly are."

Viserys stopped pacing, his silver-gold hair falling into his eyes as he turned to face Illyrio. He had been impatient for this conversation, had demanded answers about his family, about the whispers that had haunted him since he was a boy. But now, standing on the edge of knowing, he felt an unexpected tremor of unease.

"What truth?" Viserys asked, his voice sharp but betraying the hint of uncertainty that had begun to creep into his mind. "What are you talking about, Illyrio?"

Illyrio handed Viserys one of the cups of wine, gesturing for him to sit. "Please, Your Grace. You should be seated for this."

Viserys remained standing for a moment, defiant, before slowly sinking into the chair, his eyes fixed on Illyrio. The magister took a seat across from him, his heavy frame settling into the cushions with a groan, his expression thoughtful.

"You were born as Viserys Targaryen," Illyrio began slowly, his voice gentle but deliberate. "You were told you are the son of King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella, the last true scions of the Targaryen line. That much is true in part, but not entirely."

Viserys narrowed his eyes, suspicion flaring up in his chest. "What do you mean ‘in part’? My father was Aerys. My mother was Rhaella. My sister, Daenerys—"

Illyrio raised a hand, silencing him. "Daenerys is your sister, yes. But your mother was not Rhaella. Nor was she Daenerys’ mother."

Viserys stared at him, his mind reeling. "What are you saying?"

Illyrio took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "Your true mother was Y/N Targaryen. Aerys’ daughter. She was your father’s… favorite."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and Viserys felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath him. He stood abruptly, knocking the cup of wine from the table, the liquid spilling across the floor in a dark stain.

"That's impossible!" Viserys shouted, his voice trembling with rage and confusion. "Y/N was my sister, Aerys’ daughter—she couldn’t have been—" He stopped, unable to form the words, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief. "She wasn’t my mother."

Illyrio remained calm, his hands resting on his large belly as he watched Viserys process the revelation. "I know it’s difficult to accept, but it’s the truth. Y/N was your mother, and Aerys was both your father and your grandsire."

Viserys turned away, his hands running through his hair as his breath came in ragged gasps. It felt as though the world was spinning, as though everything he had ever known had been shattered in an instant. "And Daenerys?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "Is she…?"

"She is Y/N’s daughter as well," Illyrio confirmed. "Y/N gave birth to Daenerys on Dragonstone, just as she had you. After the fall of King’s Landing, Varys whisked her away with you across the sea, to keep you both safe from Robert’s wrath."

Viserys collapsed back into the chair, his body trembling as he tried to make sense of the information. His mother… had been his sister. The thought made his stomach twist, his mind rebelling against the idea. Aerys, the father he had idolized as a child, the man who had been revered as the last true king of Westeros, had kept this dark truth from him all along.

After a long silence, Viserys turned to Illyrio, his voice quieter but filled with barely suppressed emotion. "Tell me how they died," he whispered, his hands clenching into fists. "Tell me the truth."

Illyrio sighed, his face taking on a somber expression. "Aerys was betrayed. You know that. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, drove a sword through his back as he gave the order to burn King’s Landing. But before Aerys was killed, Y/N…" Illyrio hesitated, as if the words were difficult to say.

Viserys’ heart pounded in his chest, his breath catching as he waited for the truth he had long feared.

"Y/N was killed first," Illyrio continued, his voice softer now, as though the memory pained him. "She stood by his side when Tywin Lannister’s men stormed the Red Keep. One of them… slit her throat. Aerys watched it happen."

Viserys swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as the weight of the words hit him like a blow to the chest. He could picture it—the Red Keep in chaos, fire and blood, his mother, his sister, standing before Aerys, her life snuffed out before his eyes. "And he… he didn’t stop it?"

"Aerys tried to fight," Illyrio said quietly, shaking his head. "He screamed for the pyromancer to burn the city, to destroy everything in a final act of madness, but Jaime Lannister killed him before the order could be given. Aerys died holding Y/N’s body in his arms. Even in death, he clung to her. When Tywin found them, he allowed their bodies to be burned together on a pyre, much to Robert Baratheon’s disgust."

Viserys was silent for a long time, the shock of it all settling over him like a suffocating weight. His mother—Y/N—had died in front of his father, and he had never known. He had never been given the chance to mourn her, to understand the truth of what had happened.

The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the crackling of the hearthfire. Illyrio watched Viserys carefully, knowing that the young Targaryen’s mind was now filled with questions, doubts, and a deep, simmering anger.

Finally, Viserys spoke, his voice low but filled with a quiet, burning intensity. "I will take back what is mine. For her. For all of us."

Illyrio nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And you will have your chance, Your Grace. The realm still remembers the dragon, even if it trembles at its memory."

But Viserys wasn’t listening anymore. His thoughts were consumed by the image of his mother and father—dying together in a ruined throne room, their legacy lost to fire and blood.

Joffrey and Margaery

The Sept of Baelor loomed over them as Joffrey guided Margaery through the grand, stone hallways, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. The flickering light of candles cast long shadows across the walls, and the scent of incense hung heavy in the air. It was a place of reverence, where the bones and ashes of kings and queens were laid to rest, but there was something unsettling about Joffrey’s demeanor as he led his bride-to-be deeper into the heart of the sept.

Margaery, ever composed, smiled softly at her king as they walked, though she could sense the tension in his movements, the excited energy that simmered beneath his boyish grin. She had learned quickly how to read Joffrey, to anticipate his moods, and today, something darker lurked beneath the surface.

"This is one of my favorite places in the city," Joffrey said suddenly, his voice sharp and high with enthusiasm. "A place where the history of Westeros is written in bones and ash."

Margaery tilted her head, feigning interest. "It is a place of great history," she replied gently, her voice measured. "Many kings and queens are honored here."

Joffrey nodded, clearly pleased by her response. "Yes! The great monarchs of House Targaryen, those so-called dragons." He spat the word, a sneer twisting his lips as they approached a series of alcoves where urns were kept, marked with plaques of names long since forgotten by most. "They once ruled everything. Fire and blood, they said. But in the end, they burned like anyone else."

They stopped before an alcove near the end of the row, where two intricately carved urns were placed side by side. Joffrey’s smile widened as he gestured toward the urns, his voice filled with glee. "This is where they keep the ashes of the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, and his daughter, Y/N. They were burned together after Robert’s Rebellion. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?"

Margaery’s eyes lingered on the urns, her mind racing as she tried to follow Joffrey’s sudden shift in tone. She had heard the stories, of course—everyone had. But there was something unsettling in the way Joffrey spoke about it, as though it were a tale of triumph, of cruelty rewarded. She smiled softly, keeping her voice calm. "Yes, Your Grace. They are well-known."

Joffrey laughed, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet of the sept. "But do you know the real story?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light. He took a step closer to the urns, his voice lowering conspiratorially, as though sharing a secret meant only for her. "Aerys was mad, of course. Everyone knows that. He wanted to burn the entire city, to let the wildfire consume everything. But it wasn’t just him, you know."

He gestured toward the urn that held Y/N’s ashes, his smile twisting into something darker. "His daughter, Y/N, she was just as mad as he was. She stood by him, loyal to the end. They say she loved him in ways a daughter shouldn’t love her father. It’s sickening, isn’t it?"

Margaery swallowed, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown as she tried to keep her expression neutral. "That… is not how I have heard the story," she said carefully, her voice measured.

Joffrey waved a hand dismissively. "Of course not. They want to make her a victim, but she wasn’t. She stood by him, even when the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep. When Tywin’s men found her, she was still defending that madman, even though he was raving about burning them all alive." He leaned in closer, his eyes wide with glee as he recounted the tale. "Do you know what they did to her?"

Margaery shook her head slightly, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized where this was going.

"They slit her throat right in front of him," Joffrey said with a grin, as if sharing a delightful joke. "Aerys was covered in her blood, holding her like she was his lover. And even then, all he cared about was burning the city. Can you imagine? Watching your daughter die in your arms, and all you can think about is setting everything on fire."

Margaery’s breath caught, her stomach twisting in revulsion at the way Joffrey seemed to take pleasure in the gruesome details. He stepped back, looking at the urns as if they were trophies, a reminder of his family’s triumph over the Targaryens.

"They burned together, in the end," Joffrey continued, his voice gleeful. "Grandsire had their bodies placed on the same pyre, like some tragic love story. Isn’t that sweet?" His smile faded for a moment, replaced by a scowl. "But they weren’t lovers. They were mad. And they died like the madmen they were."

Margaery forced a smile, her mind racing as she tried to keep her composure. "A tragic end, indeed," she said softly, her voice betraying none of the turmoil she felt inside.

Joffrey’s mood shifted again, his smile returning as he turned to her, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "One day, I’ll be the one they remember, Margaery," he said, his voice filled with pride. "The one who put an end to the last of the dragons."

He reached out, taking her hand in his, the pressure of his grip uncomfortably tight. Margaery smiled up at him, her heart pounding, knowing full well that Joffrey’s thirst for cruelty and power would only grow with time. But she had learned how to play this game, how to survive in the dangerous world she had chosen to inhabit.

"As you should be, Your Grace," she said softly, her voice smooth and practiced. "You will be remembered as the greatest king Westeros has ever known."

Joffrey beamed at her words, his grip loosening just enough for her to pull her hand away without him noticing. He turned back to the urns, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if the ashes of Aerys and Y/N were nothing more than relics of a forgotten era—one that had been crushed beneath the weight of the Iron Throne.

And as they left the Sept of Baelor, Margaery couldn’t shake the cold knot of dread that had settled deep in her stomach, knowing that Joffrey’s thirst for power and cruelty would only continue to grow.

The servents

The soft murmur of servants echoed through the halls of the Red Keep as the younger attendants went about their duties, the clang of dishes and the shuffle of feet filling the air. In the far corner of the kitchen, an older servant, her back bent with age, quietly polished a stack of silver plates. Her movements were slow but precise, the wisdom of years in her every gesture. Her gnarled hands moved with practiced ease, though her eyes—cloudy with age—seemed far away, as though seeing something beyond the present.

A younger servant, a girl no older than sixteen, stood nearby, wiping her hands on her apron nervously. She had been with the royal household for only a short while and had heard the whispers, the stories that floated through the Red Keep like ghosts from another time. But today, with her curiosity gnawing at her, she decided to speak.

She stepped closer to the old servant, her voice hesitant as she broke the silence. "Old Nan," she said, addressing the woman with the name the younger servants had given her, though her real name had been long forgotten by many. "Is it true? What they say about the Mad King and his daughter?"

Old Nan paused for a moment, her hands stilling over the silver plate in her lap. She didn’t look up immediately, but the girl could see the tension in her fingers, the way they tightened just slightly over the plate. When she finally spoke, her voice was raspy, like the creak of old wood, but there was a weight to her words, a heaviness that made the younger girl lean in closer.

"You’ve been listening to the wrong sorts of people, child," Old Nan muttered, setting the plate down with a soft clink. "There’s always been talk about the Targaryens. Fire and blood, they say. And madness runs in their veins, or so the lords and ladies tell themselves."

The younger servant bit her lip, shifting nervously. "But… I’ve heard the other servants say strange things. About King Aerys. And his daughter, Y/N. They say…" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "They say she wasn’t just his daughter. That he… did things to her. That she stood by him even when he went mad."

Old Nan finally looked up, her eyes narrowing as she studied the girl. There was a long, heavy silence before she spoke again, this time with more steel in her voice. "Be careful what you say, girl," she warned. "There’s truth in some tales, but not all of it."

The younger girl swallowed hard, but she pressed on. "But you were here, weren’t you? You served in the Red Keep when King Aerys ruled. You must have seen things."

Old Nan sighed, her eyes drifting to the distant shadows of the kitchen, as if the past were playing out in front of her once again. "Aye," she said quietly. "I was here. I served him, just like all the others. But what I saw… it’s not a story you’d want to hear."

The younger servant’s heart pounded in her chest, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear. "Please," she whispered. "I need to know."

Old Nan was silent for a long moment, her mind clearly caught in the web of memories she had long tried to forget. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, as though she were afraid the walls might hear her.

"King Aerys was mad, that much is true," she said slowly. "He was once a proud man, a king with ambition, but something dark took hold of him in the later years. He trusted no one. He saw enemies everywhere, even among his closest friends. The burnings…" She shook her head, her voice trailing off. "I saw them. I saw what he did to those who displeased him. He called it justice, but it was madness, plain and simple."

The younger girl shivered at the thought of the burnings, of the terrible things she had heard whispered about the Mad King’s cruelty.

"And what about Y/N?" the girl asked softly. "What happened to her?"

Old Nan’s expression hardened, and for a moment, it looked as though she wouldn’t answer. But then, slowly, she began to speak again. "Y/N…" she said, her voice heavy with something deeper than just sorrow. "She was the light of the court once. A beauty, they said. The jewel of the Targaryen line. But she was her father’s daughter, through and through. He doted on her, more than was proper, more than was right. She could do no wrong in his eyes."

The younger servant leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. "Did he… love her? In that way?"

Old Nan’s gaze darkened. "He loved her in a way no father should love his daughter," she said bluntly, her tone sharp. "There were rumors, of course. Whispers in the halls, behind closed doors. But it wasn’t until the rebellion, when the end came, that the truth became clear."

The girl’s hands trembled slightly, but she couldn’t stop now. "What happened in the throne room? Is it true… that they died together?"

Old Nan’s face twisted with a mixture of anger and sadness. "Aye. They died together. But it wasn’t some grand tragedy, no matter what the lords and ladies say. When the Lannisters stormed the Red Keep, they found Y/N standing by her father’s side, even as he raved about burning the city. She stood by him until the end, just like he wanted. One of Tywin’s men slit her throat right in front of him. She was with child when it happened."

The girl gasped, her heart pounding in her chest. "She was pregnant?"

Old Nan nodded grimly. "Aye. With Aerys’ child, no doubt. She was loyal to him until the very end, even when it cost her everything."

The younger servant’s stomach turned at the thought, her mind racing with the terrible realization of what had truly happened in that throne room all those years ago.

"And King Aerys?" the girl asked, her voice trembling.

Old Nan’s gaze fell to the floor. "He died holding her body," she said quietly. "Even in death, he clung to her like she was all that was left of his madness. Jaime Lannister put an end to him, but by then, Aerys was already lost."

The younger girl felt a cold shiver run down her spine, the weight of the truth settling over her like a heavy cloak. She had heard the stories, the rumors, but to hear it from someone who had been there, who had seen it all unfold—there was a horror in it that words could barely capture.

Old Nan sighed, her hands resuming their slow, methodical polishing of the silver plates. "The Targaryens were fire and blood, child," she said softly, her voice filled with the weariness of age. "But sometimes, that fire burns too bright. And when it does, it consumes everything in its path."

The younger servant stood in stunned silence, her mind reeling from what she had just learned. The story of the Mad King and his daughter was not just a tale of madness—it was a tragedy born of twisted love and the ruin it brought to those who lived in its shadow.

As she turned to leave the kitchen, the weight of the past heavy on her shoulders, Old Nan’s voice called out to her once more.

"Remember this, girl," she said quietly, her eyes dark and solemn. "No matter how much fire you carry in your blood, it always leaves ashes behind."

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