Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1031100.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Cersei_Lannister/Lancel_Lannister, Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister,
      Oberyn_Martell/Ellaria_Sand, Qyburn/Grand_Maester_Pycelle, Aerys_II
      Targaryen/Jaime_Lannister
  Character:
      Cersei_Lannister, Lancel_Lannister, Rhaella_Targaryen, Viserys_Targaryen,
      Qyburn, Rhaegar_Targaryen, Jaime_Lannister, Oberyn_Martell, Ellaria_Sand,
      Daenerys_Targaryen, Robert_Baratheon, Rhaenys_Targaryen, Lyanna_Stark,
      Myrcella_Baratheon, Ser_Pounce, Lady_Whiskers, Boots, Brynden_Rivers,
      Shitmouth, Pycelle_(ASoIaF), Visenya_Targaryen, Maegor_I_Targaryen, Aerys
      II_Targaryen, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Drabble_Collection, Oh_Lancel_Lancel_Lancel, Impending_Religious_Fervor,
      Tragic_Adolescent_Torment, Cousin_Incest, Sad_Targaryen_Feelings, Mending
      His_Hurt, Creepy_Cousin_Cersei, Cute_Baby_Lion_Twins, Dorne_Is_Cool,
      Sadness_For_Everyone, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Crack, Celia
      Loves_Shitmouth, Qybueno, Qycelle_Best_OTP, Future_Fic, Aged-Up_Character
      (s), Masturbation
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-04 Updated: 2014-11-29 Chapters: 18/? Words: 7158
****** November Drabbles ******
by theelusiveflamingo
Summary
     A growing collection of ASOIAF/GOT drabbles written in the month of
     November (and possibly beyond!)
     Started in 2013, continuing in 2014!
     I have removed all Arya x Jaqen drabbles from this set. They can now
     be found at The_Arya_x_Jaqen_Drabbles. New ones will be posted there
     instead of in any other drabble set.
***** Cersei/Lancel *****
Lancel is Ser Lancel Lannister now that Jaime is gone, and he is pleased
despite the fact that he is a Lannister and ought to miss him. He’s not felt
much affinity for his older lookalike in years. He feels as though the gods
made him in Jaime’s image but then forgot to finish the task. Now,
miraculously, it seems they want to take another chance on him.
So he brushes his golden curls every morning and night, and stops shaving off
the blonde down that spots his upper lip. He finds himself praying for it to
grow faster, though he cannot think of the right god for such a thing, and so
passes the nights praying to a void.
He’s ashamed to admit the reason for his new rituals but really, words aren’t
needed. He knows why. The reason is in the flash of lonely want in his cousin’s
eyes when Jaime’s disappearance is discussed. The reason is in the prickle of
heat up the column of his neck when she seems to find him useful. The reason is
in the way that Task he carried out for her has made her skin look more radiant
by the day, despite her sadness.
After all, Uncle Tywin married his cousin. For love.
His heart and flesh and thoughts grow more fevered each time he casts his
prayers toward any of the Seven (but not the Stranger, never the Stranger) who
might listen. He knows not what he wishes for, exactly, until the day it
happens.
A fist raps on his door, and—
Her Grace requests your presence, ser.
The gods always listen, Lancel thinks.
***** Rhaella and Viserys *****
Mother has slicked back their hair with a sticky paste that is making Viserys’
forehead hurt and pulling his eyebrows up so he looks just the slightest bit
surprised.  He would like to share this with Mother, to make her smile, but her
lips are pressed together so tight they look like they’ve disappeared, and
she’s pushing back bits of hair from her forehead that aren’t even there
because they’ve been slicked back and hidden.  One of her thin, white hands is
holding Viserys fast against her side. The babe inside her kicks.
“You can take the hood off now, Your Grace,” says one of the men who is taking
them to Dragonstone.  “Yours and his, too.  There’s not a ship in sight, I
swear it.”
“They’ll stay on til we reach Dragonstone,” Mother says.  “But I’d like to go
on deck.  I need the air…”  She stands up slowly, so slowly.  The boat won’t
stay still.  Rhaegar used to read Viserys stories about ships, but the tales
never talked of how much the sea keeps going, of how it makes people stumble
and fall.  Viserys feels cheated.  “Will you come with me, my dragon?”
On deck the sun is setting over the Narrow Sea and the sky is full of colors.
“Your sister hurts me,” Mother says, her fingers spread across her belly.
“How do you know it’s a girl in there?”
“I don’t,” Mother says.   “I am only hoping.  If she’s a girl, you’ll be
married someday.”  Her smile is gone.  “You’ll keep the blood of the dragon
strong.”  Her nose is now wrinkled like she’s smelled something bad, but
there’s nothing out there to smell but salt.
Father spoke often of the blood of the dragon, Viserys knows, and he likes how
the words sound.  “Mother, isn’t Rhaegar the blood of the dragon, too?”
“Yes,” Mother says.  “But, sweetling, you must remember…Rhaegar is with the
Mother now.  You are next to be King.  You—”  Her voice shakes like the ship. 
She crosses her arms around herself.  Viserys clutches her hand.  He knows all
that Mother is saying is true, but at the same time, it seems like yet another
story, just one that Rhaegar has not explained yet.  He must ask.
“Mother,” he says.  “Am I to be like Rhaegar now?”
She nods, and her purple eyes are wet like the waves.
***** Cersei and Qyburn *****
The lion queen gets a look upon her face sometimes that Qyburn knows well from
his days as a young, unenlightened maester.  It once blemished his face, too,
long ago.  The dream-haunted people, they all have certain moments.  Their
faces freeze, their eyes grow cold, and they look so young, so young.  Just for
one moment—but that’s enough for Qyburn to tell they are haunted.  Their minds
crawl with shadows as an apple might with worms.  There is something on the
Queen’s mind, darkening her eyes and stealing her breaths.  Death.
Imagine, taking a Queen as an apprentice.
What Qyburn does is no less an art than a blacksmith’s forging or the finest
needlework.  His art has a purpose just like any other.  His art drives away
his nightmares.  He has not dreamed in years.  For Qyburn has seen death.  He
has heard its pleas, its cries, its rattle.  The more blood he sees in a day,
the calmer he feels.  To open up the body is to let the shadows out.  To
breathe into its cavities as it stills is to fill it once more with life.
 Qyburn wishes he could show her.  But he knows she must not see. 
***** Cersei and Rhaegar *****
Rhaegar catches a glimpse of Cersei Lannister in the crowd as he plays his harp
with fingers still sore from gripping his lance in today’s tourney.  She weeps
like the others do as his harp fills the hall with the sounds of the blackened
hulk of Summerhall, but her tears have a child’s innocence to them.  She cries
with her eyes open, her gaze never leaving Rhaegar’s harp and silver
hair.  Well, she is only—what?  Nine?  Ten?  One-and-ten?—Rhaegar
thinks.  There are many years between us, and many still til we are to be wed.
Rhaegar watches as she dries her eyes roughly with the back of her hand.  He
sees how she sits with her legs spread just slightly far apart, taking up more
room than the other highborn ladies in the hall, and would have smiled had his
music not been so sad.
She is only a golden-haired little girl, not yet a woman grown, fed by gold
mines and bathed by the Sunset Sea. What will she know of fire?  What will she
know of sorrow?
***** Cersei and Jaime *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Father is making Jaime practice his letters all alone in his bedchamber, even
though outside the sun is shining and dogs are barking and a warm wind is
blowing in through the window.  It’s cruel to have to sit inside and practice
all these curvy lines over and over, Jaime thinks. He wants to be a knight
someday, after all, and he doesn’t think knights need to write much.  He would
go explain this to Mother, but Father is so wroth with Jaime for not practicing
that even Mother cannot help.
So Jaime sits writing his name over and over; or, at least, he tries to, but
the shape of the J hurts his eyes and twists up his thoughts.  He will never
leave his bedchamber ever again; he is sure of it.  It might be time to plan an
escape.
There’s a scuffling noise at the door, and Cersei slips inside, barefoot with
her hair slipping out of its two braids.  She looks very beautiful this
afternoon, Jaime thinks.  How nice it would be to chase her up a tree and then
rescue her!  But he’s stuck indoors with this stupid parchment and
this stupid quill.
“Are you done yet?” she asks.  Cersei can already write her name, and many
other things besides.  It seems strange to Jaime that he can’t do this, too,
since she can do it so well.
Jaime sighs and kicks the table leg.
Cersei walks over to his desk.  “Is that supposed to be your name?  It just
saysAIME, and then there are stupid wiggly lines.”  She looks closer.  “That’s
not what J looks like.”
“I know,” Jaime says, rolling his eyes.  Just because Cersei is the oldest—! 
“I keep doing it wrong.  Let’s change places.”  He tugs at her skirts.  “You do
my letters and I’ll go outside and play with the dogs.”
Cersei shakes her head.  “Knights have to write their names too.  I asked
Mother.”  She lifts her skirts and climbs onto Jaime’s chair, slipping behind
him.  “I can help you.”  She puts her little hand over his writing hand, and
together they swoop the quill down and to the left, down and to the left, over
and over.  “That’s how you make J, look.”
Together they write a wobbly JAIME.
Cersei lays her head on Jaime’s shoulder.  Her breath is warm just like the air
outside. It tickles his neck.  “Do you know how to write my name?”
“Not all of it,” Jaime says, and he’s not sure why he ever cared about the sun
and the dogs and the wind outside, when this is so much more fun.  “Can you
help me?”
Chapter End Notes
     I'm not dyslexic, but I do have moderate dyscalculia, so I'm basing
     some of Jaime's thoughts off of my own when dealing with numbers. I
     hope there aren't any glaring inaccuracies!
***** Rhaella and Viserys, II *****
Viserys doesn’t understand it.  Mother is always botheringhim with the
stupidest of requests.  He’ll be running through the Red Keep, sometimes with
Rhaenys and her kitten Balerion (who is sweet as blueberries and cream to
Rhaenys, but always scratches Viserys whenever Viserys picks him up), when
Mother will appear.  It’s never one of her handmaidens.  Mother herself is
always the one who finds him.  Viserys can kick and threaten a servant if he
must, but he cannot run away from Mother.
And so Mother corners him today, finding him thundering down the corridors of
Maegor’s Holdfast pretending to breathe fire like Meraxes.  She catches his
wrists and takes him aside.
“Show me your hands, little dragon,” she says.  He keeps his fingers hidden,
his hands in little fists.  “Viserys, I need to see.”
He slowly uncurls his fists and Mother runs her fingers over each of his
nails.  “They need a little trim, Viserys,” she says.  “Just a little trim and
then you may play again.”  She always seems to have a pair of scissors hidden
somewhere in her violet cloak.
“Mother,” Viserys complains.  “You always make them so short.  Won’t you let me
grow them just a little longer?”  Mother’s eyes droop.  She never gets mad,
only sad.  Viserys knows this well.
“No,” Mother says, already snipping away at Viserys’ already-short nails.  “No,
I won’t.”
***** Ellaria and Oberyn *****
Oberyn bows his head in a gesture of mock deference that he hopes does not
betray the true deference he has been feeling of late before the sight of Lord
Uller’s bastard daughter.  “Good evening, Lady Ellaria,” he says.  “Forgive me
for saying so, but the Water Gardens look even more beautiful tonight now that
I am in your presence.”  He swears the wench rolls her eyes at him.  “May I
bring you more wine?”
“I’ll be drinking nothing from you,Red Viper,” Ellaria says, sliding her hand
over her glass of Dornish red.  The voice she speaks in is high, but there’s a
depth to it, similar to the way a good Dornish red tastes first of fruit but
then leaves a hint of tangy spices on the tongue.  Oberyn would like to make it
sing.  “A man famous for his choice of poisons going near my wineglass?  Do you
think me a fool?”  Her eyes are glittering.  Her smile curves wide across her
face, a viper in its own right.  “I am not.”
“How can I win you, Ellaria Sand?” Oberyn sighs.  He desires nothing more at
this moment than to slip his arm around her waist, to imagine her bearing his
children.  But he knows he must charm her with his words, not his touch.  This
is what she deserves.
“Would you really like to know?” Ellaria laughs.  She gestures with her
wineglass toward some lady of Vaith, who is speaking with another of his
brother’s guests.   “Her.  I’d like you to get me her.  She’s a beautiful
thing, isn’t she?”
“You want me to win that girl’s affections and bring her to you?” Oberyn is
surprised, but he cannot say he isn’t pleased.  “I’m sure I can manage that.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Ellaria says, her smile growing brighter still.  “We’ll
start there.”
***** Daenerys and Viserys *****
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warning for mentions of abuse.
It is a strangely hot day in Braavos and Viserys has taken Dany out so that Ser
Darry can have a nap.  He is getting too old to have a four year-old around the
house all the time, he says with an embarrassed smile, even a quiet one like
little Daenerys.
So they’ve taken refuge from the heat by nestling up against one of the stone
buildings nearby Ser Darry’s house.  The way it hangs over the roadway almost
blocks the sun, and the water in the canal somehow cools down the air.  Viserys
plays with the ends of his silvery-blonde hair; they’re splitting and look
dirty, straggly, not at all befitting his royal blood.  Dany is finishing up a
sweet.  It’s red and sticky and all over her pale chin.  She has Viserys’ hair
and her eyes are wide and light just as all who have blood of the Dragon have,
but she doesn’t look like Mother, not at all like Mother, and Viserys hates her
for that.
Ser Darry always treats Viserys like the king he should be—no, like the king
he is.  And if Viserys is King, why, Dany is Queen.  And Queens, he knows,
do not sit in public with sticky faces.  Not even if they are far away from
home in Braavos.
“Dany, let’s go,” he says, shaking her pale shoulder.  “Let’s go back. 
Quietly, so we don’t wake up Ser Darry.”
“I want another,” Dany says, slipping the last of her sticky sweet into her
mouth.
“No,” Viserys responds.
“But I want another!”
Viserys sometimes can’t believe he has to spend his days reprimanding a child. 
“I don’t have the coin for more, and I don’t want to ask Ser Darry for more
coin just to feed you sweets.  Let’s go, Dany.”
“But I want another!”
As if by magic, Viserys reaches and tugs Dany’s loose dragon-hair, hard.  He
tugs it so hard her head snaps back.  Her mouth closes and she scrambles
upright.  There are tears flooding her violet eyes, but she says no more.
That was easy, Viserys thinks.
***** Robert Baratheon *****
“These are the last of their things that remain, Your Grace.”
The knight holds out a pair of brown shoes, too small to be anyone but a
child’s, too delicate to be anyone but a girl’s.  Behind Robert, the pyres
crackle (burning them according to their dragon traditions, that’s more than
those savages deserve) and the scent turns even his warrior’s stomach.  The
sight before him does not make sense.
“Baby shoes?”
“Yes, just the shoes.  They were Rhae—the princess’s, I suppose.”
Robert considers himself a fighter and a lover equally, and he wonders what the
sense would be in burning a babe’s shoes.  After all, children do no harm, he
thinks.  They’re innocent creatures.  It wasn’t Rhaenys Targaryen who
kidnapped—
The dizzying smell and warmth of the flames is making Robert dizzy, unsteady:
suddenly he pictures the children he and Lyanna would have had.  Dark-haired,
light-eyed, strong things.  Lyanna Stark was a blaze of heat, as tough as the
wife of any proud Baratheon ought to be; she’d have borne him fine heirs, one
more perfect than the next.  He thinks of these babes who would never learn to
walk on their chubby legs, who would never need shoes of their own.
“Throw them in the fire.”
 “Your Grace—?”
“I said burn them, damn you.”
***** Cersei and Myrcella, Modern AU *****
Chapter Notes
     crossingwinter requested: a drabble about Myrcella and being allergic
     to cats...
The trip home from the allergist Dr. Pycelle sent them to is one of the saddest
times Myrcella can remember.  It is even sadder than all the nights the
teachers call home from school to say that Joff was bad and then Mother screams
things like You just don’t understand him because he is brighter than all your
other students, and then slams the phone down and uncorks the wine bottle and
calls Uncle Jaime.  The car is so quiet, it’s just her and Mother and horns
honking and the sound of her sniffling into a tissue.  Sniffling because she is
crying, of course, but also because her nose has been runny and clogged for
weeks and now they know why.  She is allergic to cats.
“Maybe we can get goldfish,” Mother says for the third time since they left the
doctor’s office.  “Would you like that?”  She pats Myrcella on the knee when
they stop at a red light.  Myrcella notices a few of her fingernails look
bitten off, even though Mother is always telling Tommen to stop biting his.
“No,” Myrcella sniffs, and a fresh wave of tears pours out of her hot-feeling
eyes.
“Cella, please,” Mother says, and the car behind them honks and Mother holds
her finger up the way Uncle Jaime and Uncle Tyrion also do when they drive.  It
is a special Lannister thing, probably.  “If you’re still crying like that when
Tommen gets home, he’llstart crying, and we all know he cries enough as it is.”
But why can’t he cry?  It’s his kittens I’m allergic to, Ser Pounce and Lady
Whiskers and stupid little Boots, Myrcella thinks, but Mother has a lot of
boring things to say about tears being a bad weapon for a woman, so Myrcella
wads the tissue up in the pocket of her jeans and drapes her long blonde curls
over her face instead.  She kicks angrily at Joff’s pair of soccer cleats that
are always lying on the floor of the red car, and Mother doesn’t tell her to
stop, not even once.
When they get home, Mother lets Myrcella watch Mulan even though there’s school
tomorrow and Myrcella has a worksheet on her 7 times tables.  They curl up on
the couch together and share a bowl of raspberry sorbet.  Ser Pounce and Boots
come to rub against Myrcella’s feet and Myrcella sniffles all over again.
“When I was little, maybe your age, I wanted to learn to fight with a sword.” 
Mother points her spoon at Mulan.  “Just like her.”
“Did Grandfather say yes?” Myrcella asks.  Grandfather likes swords. He has a
few hanging on the wall of his house.
Mother shakes her head, reaching up to undo her ponytail.  “No. He said little
girls didn’t swordfight, and big girls didn’t, either.  When Uncle Jaime asked
for the same thing, he said maybe someday.”  Myrcella pulls Ser Pounce into her
lap.  Mother sighs.  “So, Cella, what that means is sometimes we just can’t
have the things we want.  Even if we want them more than anything.”
Myrcella thinks that if Robb and Sansa’s mom were there, she would have given
Myrcella a hug.
When Tommen comes home from his pottery class, Mother pulls him into his room.
 Myrcella hears Mother talking softly.  Then Tommen wails.  He screams. 
Myrcella wonders if Mother is telling him we just can’t have the things we
want, or if she is giving him a hug.  And she cries into Lady Whiskers’ fur,
that fur that makes her sniffle and sneeze.
***** Bloodraven and Shitmouth *****
Chapter Notes
     This is pure crackfic written for crossingwinter. Pls to ignore :D
Shitmouth couldn’t sleep for the pain in his head.  The pain throbbed at his
temples and rattled in his skull because he couldn’t sleep.  He was a man
tortured, plagued by sleepless nights and crazed days.
It was that music, thatblasted buggering bloody fucking music, the likes of
which he’d never heard before in his life.  It sounded like music straight out
of the deepest depths of the Seven Fucking Hells, and it never stopped.  It
played by day; it played even louder by night as he tried to catch a bit of
rest.  He’d heard Harrenhal was haunted, but no one ever said the place was
haunted by a bloodysong.
“Shit,” he said one day to Dunsen as they walked the outer walls of the
castle.  “D’you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Dunsen grunted.
“That sound.  Shit, I’d rather be fucked up the arse by Gregor’s spear than
hear this music one second longer.”
Dunsen stared at Shitmouth sideways.  “There’s no music.  Music?  At
Harrenhal?”  He laughed.  “Not bloody likely.”
But Shitmouth knew what he was hearing and he knew it was real.  A pile of
horse’s dung was brighter than Dunsen, anyway, so Shitmouth didn’t even know
why he’d asked.
Determined to find out where it came from, one night Shitmouth began to follow
the sound, armed with just a candle and his nightshirt.  Strangely, that bloody
music got louder as he exited the warmth (a sad fucking excuse for warmth, but
warmth nonetheless) of Harrenhal’s stone walls and walked toward the godswood.
The sound was coming from the godswood?  “Well, fuck me sideways, “ Shitmouth
muttered.  “Trees that play music?  That could be worth more than whatever
falls down Tywin Lannister’s privy shaft.”
Entranced by the idea of some sort of magical tree that could earn him enough
coin to leave the Mountain’s service for good, Shitmouth didn’t notice a
particularly large tree root underneath his feet.  He tripped.  By the time he
hit the ground, letting out a large gust of air and an “Oh, FUCK it all!” his
candle had gone out.  It was dark.
And someone was laughing.
“Show yourself!”
The voice cackled like an old crone, and Shitmouth felt the front of his
nightshirt grow warm.  Such was his fear that he couldn’t even find it in him
to care that he’d pissed himself like a bloody half-wit.
“I said fucking show yourself,” Shitmouth wailed, “else I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” the voice said.  “You have nothing to do anything with. 
Besides, I’m just having a bit of fun.”
“Wh—Who are you?”  The voice was so loud, so everywhere.  It even sounded like
it was coming from the root he’d tripped over.  “What is this?”
“My name is Brynden, Brynden Rivers,” the voice said, “though I am known
throughout Westeros as Lord Bloodraven.”  Shitmouth felt his eyes widen.  He
thought that bloody freak had died years ago.  Hadn’t he?  “And I do hope you
enjoyed my music.”
***** Qyburn/Pycelle *****
Chapter Notes
     the one, the only, QYCELLE! requested by crookedneighbour.
Qyburn left the door to his small cell unlocked nightly.  It gave him great
pleasure to silently acknowledge his companion’s shameful weaknesses in this
way.  Qyburn knew the older man flushed red each time he slipped through the
door; he could feel the heat on the man’s cheeks in the dark.
The halls of the Citadel were left unguarded by night, as there was no reason
to distrust a building full of studious acolytes.  (Or so the poor fools
thought). Because of this, Qyburn knew who the footfalls belonged to as soon as
he heard them sounding from far down the stone corridor.  Pycelle.
Qyburn reached underneath his mattress (an excellent hiding place, he had
found, and one he used most frequently) for his sharpest, thinnest blade.
“Qyburn,” Pycelle breathed.
“Good evening,Pycelle,” Qyburn whispered, patting the mattress and smiling in
the dark.  Suddenly Pycelle was sliding into the narrow space next to him.  The
mattress was not made to fit two men, but comfort was not the purpose of these
evenings.  “Why is it that you wait til the hour of the eel to come see me?” 
He trickled his fingers over the stubble on Pycelle’s round cheeks.  “Dearest
Pycelle.  Why don’t you come sooner?  It can’t be that you feel ashamedof me,
can it?”
“Of-Of course not,” Pycelle said, and Qyburn pressed his bony fingers to
Pycelle’s neck.  His pulse hammered there.  Poor Pycelle.  His body would
always betray the Citadel’s conditioning.
“Perhaps it is just that you forget to come to me earlier,” Qyburn said.  “I
know how absorbed we both are with our studies.  Please roll up your nightshirt
for me—ah, yes, just like that.”  His fingers now traced the dip between
Pycelle’s collar bones as Pycelle rolled his nightshirt up to expose his
thighs.
Qyburn pressed his knife to the soft flesh there.  Pycelle whimpered for a
brief moment.  Qyburn waited til his moment of weakness had passed, and then
laboriously traced the form of a Q into Pycelle’s thigh.  The acolyte breathed
in and out, in and out.  Were there light to see by, Qyburn knew he would see
tears in the man’s eyes.  And he would also see—
“Now you won’t forget again,” Qyburn said kindly, his hand running over the
telling bulge underneath Pycelle’s nightshirt.  “You’ll like this, won’t you? 
You’ll like how your skin will always remember me.”
Pycelle whimpered like a child.  His hips thrust slightly, then insistently,
toward Qyburn’s open palm.
***** Ellaria/Oberyn, 1960s New York *****
Everyone within a couple-mile radius of Washington Square Park knew the stories
about Oberyn Martell.  Andy Warhol had offered to paint him; Oberyn had turned
it down.  Lou Reed had asked him to play recorder during his latest recording
session with the Velvet Underground; Oberyn had just smiled and said, That’s
not what I like to use my mouth for.  Oberyn had gotten arrested protesting
over in Union Square last month and wound up with three blond, blue-eyed Irish
specimens of New York’s Finest sucking his dick in the holding cell.
These stories didn’t impress Ellaria.  Lately in Greenwich Villagethese
pretentious types were about as easy to come by as references to Grace Slick’s
alcoholism on Jefferson Airplane’s latest album.  She had no time for that, nor
did she care to hear about someone’s dick—at least, not when she had so many
beautiful, high, blonde Midwestern girls ready to fuck the Establishment, I
wanna be free! in her arms at every party.
What impressed her was—well, she couldn’t say, exactly.  But whenever Oberyn
Martell with his thick black hair, slithery smirk and skin such a similar shade
to her own showed up on the scene, everything around her faded into the
background, and her body warmed in a way it never had for anyone else.
“May I have this dance, milady?” he’d say, bowing like he was a knight and 
these fifth-floor walkups were his castle, and he’d waltz Ellaria around no
matter what music was playing, spinning her and spinning her til she grew so
dizzy she forgot, for a while, anyone else existed.
***** Modern AU; Maegor and Visenya *****
He tries to play it cool.  Tries.  He guesses he looks cool, leaning back
against the sticky vinyl in their booth at Ihop in his old denim jacket with a
toothpick hanging out of his mouth.
But when Mom gets back from the bathroom, striding towards their booth in her
big, high boots with her long braid swinging behind her, he asks the question
for the fourth time.
"You’re sure no one’s gonna think it’s weird we’re not at his funeral?”
Mom sighs and rubs at her temples.  The waitress brings the check for Maegor’s
three orders of buttermilk pancakes, bacon and sausage, and Mom’s side order of
sausage and a fruit cup.  Mom pays her in cash, counting out the bills with her
quick fingers.  Only then does she bother to answer Maegor.  Probably because
she’s already answered Maegor three times today.
"I didn’t raise you to distrust me."
Maegor looks into her eyes.  He’s built just like Dad, born to fight (though
Dad doesn’t get how fighting can be fun, just pure fucking ecstasy) but he has
Mom’s eyes, and when he looks at her cold anger it’s almost like he’s looking
at himself.
"Aenys is not my son," Mom continues.  "He might be your brother, but he’s done
wrong to you.  Social graces might say we both have to be at his funeral, but a
Targaryen never lets what is polite get in the way of what is right.”
She reaches her fork across the table to Maegor’s last, half-eaten pancake and
cuts herself a piece.
"Are you telling me you don’t know how to handle someone who gets in the way?”
 The look in her eyes has changed, and Maegor can’t tell if she’s loving him or
making fun of him.  Mom’s always been tough to read.  ”My baby boy?”
"You’re right."  And Maegor feels better.  Sure, he might be a grown man who’s
bigger and stronger than everyone, but here where no one sees he’s still Mom’s
baby boy, Visenya Targaryen’s baby boy, and that’s all right.  ”Fuck Aenys,
man.  Fuckin’—”
Mom lets him see the laugh for a moment before she hides it behind her hand.
Maegor smiles and finishes his last pancake. 
Mom takes his hand in hers and stares down at his busted-up knuckles.  The
joints are all weird-looking from how many times he’s fucked his hands up.
 She hmms.  ”This mess is healing well.  All those guys Aenys financed will be
out of the way. You’ll be ready to fight again soon.”
"Yeah.  You think so?"
"I know so, Maegor.  It’s my job.”
She stands up, folding her leather jacket over her arm so no one can see the
Targaryen dragon stenciled on the back.  The logo of champions, Maegor thinks.
 It was once the logo of champions.  Now it will be again.
"This was nice, Maegor.  Now come on, drive your mom home."
***** Modern AU; Rhaella *****
she was tired of being the “good girl” and tired of being invisible.
in her family she was the “good girl”—she had to be.  mother was dead. father
tried his best but was too sick to be reliable.  she and her brother were so
close in age that they were always together, doing the same things at the same
time.  even their friend groups kind of intersected.  but because aerys had
more demanding behaviors, even as a kid, rhaella got pigeonholed into being the
“good” and “helpful” kid, and she hated it.
amongst her friends, especially her best friends joanna and loreza, her
personality is the least noticeable, or so rhaella thinks.  she’s just kind of
there, as bland as her pale skin.  rhaella has started to feel like, well…jo
and lor are both fun-loving and don’t take shit.  they work hard, they play
hard.  rhaella’s afraid they’re going to start think of her as someone to feel
sorry for instead of an equal.  she doesn’t have the tough personality they
have, and she’s embarrassed because they’re sexually active in ways she’s
not…comfortable being, though she doesn’t want to explain why.
this isn’t what she wants the rest of her teenage years to be like.  so she
goes to a shady shop to get her belly button pierced.  she wants to piss her
family off, to make her friends complain that it’s tacky.  she wants to do
something for HERSELF and something different than what would be expected of
her.  she wants to do something that will make people talk—that will make
people talk about rhaella targaryen.
maybe this action shouldn’t seem like a big deal—but to rhaella, it is.
***** 1930s Germany AU; Aerys/Jaime *****
The boy was dangerous.  He should have known.  He knew.  But he didn’t want to
understand.
-
Aerys was a painter from a vast legacy of the fuckers.  He was an
Impressionist, or a Cubist, or a finger-painter, depending on the day.  He
stood up close to his canvas and painted dragons with his fingers. Scrawled
their wings with his eyes closed.  Deconstructed the parts that made them whole
and painted them mixed-up scrambled-up on the canvas. The critics were starting
to misunderstand.  But the more their confusion buzzed in the columns of
theTageblatt, the more Aerys understood himself.  He was a dragon.  He painted
the parts of who he was so he could scrutinize them, so he could show off their
beauty.
But this did not pay the rent.  It did for his father, and grandfather and
everyone before, but the times were changing. The Republic was no more.  And
the new man in charge said it was time for practicality.
So he painted portraits.  He observed people the way he observed his dragons
and his dragon-self.  He fixed their hair and smoothed their clothes with his
claws. He tied his long silver hair back and talked and observed.  He felt as
though he’d observed nearly half of Berlin.
Then he met Jaime Lannister at the El Dorado, and he was blinded.
-
Jaime seemed too young to wear a uniform, but he did wear it well.  The red
armband he wore set off the green of his eyes in a way that looked like fire. 
The set of his chiseled jaw that the uniform inspired in him broke down in an
instant when Aerys stroked that jaw, cupped his smooth balls, stroked his cock.
Aerys hadn’t needed to observe Jaime when he saw him that night at the El
Dorado.  In the flickering lamplight, among all the other men whose faces were
pale and sallow, drunk and too ruddy, Aerys had seen, and he’d known.  Jaime
had looked as golden and glowing as the name El Dorado promised.  In the dim
light of Aerys’s studio, Jaime was golden.  In the dark, as they lay together
for those few precious hours, Jaime was golden.
“I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you,” Aerys would tell him.  “I am
like a dragon, with you in my hoard.”
“I have to go back,” Jaime would say.  “They’ll find out where I am.”  He would
kiss Aerys then, though, and the dampness of his cock against Aerys’s thigh
would remind Aerys of their lovemaking, and arouse him again.
“Just a little longer,” he’d say, not able to feel the foolishness or the
danger, so in love did he feel.  He was only a painter.  He’d be on no one’s
list.  “Just a little longer, my beautiful golden love.”
And he’d roll onto all fours, inviting Jaime to mount him again, and Jaime—so
young, so young he was—could not resist.
-
The sound of the door to the flat opening came as a shock.  Aerys imagined
wings rising up behind his back, ready to carry him away, ready to carry him to
battle.  He scrambled for his trousers.
Next to him Jaime stood naked, unbelieving, the shock widening his green eyes,
making them burn bright.
The commanding officer was not a man Aerys had painted, but he had observed
many like him.  He was disgusted, but his disgust was not personal.    He would
get this done fast.  Aerys was not afraid.  Part of him still imagined the
wings behind him, flapping, flapping.
The officer put the gun in Jaime’s hand.  He gave an order.
Jaime pointed the gun at Aerys, his hand trembling only slightly.  His lips
part, but he said nothing.
They’ll kill him too, they’ll kill him next, Aerys realized.  Only then did he
feel fear.
Jaime’s lips quivered.  He seemed to be trying to say something.  The officer
gave the order once more.  Jaime pulled the
 
***** Daenerys and Viserys, II *****
The grimy attic window lets very little light in, but Viserys and Dany still
wake early.  Even here where it seems safe, they are still used to traveling,
moving, running.
Dany has become a quiet child who listens well to her brother; still, Viserys
likes her best in the morning, for morning is when she is quietest and most
beautiful.  The grey Braavosi sunrises cannot lessen how her hair gleams.  In
only a bit of light, she still shines.  Theyshine. 
They shine, Viserys thinks, running his sleep-mussed hair through his fingers. 
He and Dany look the same.  They are of the same blood, of dragon’s blood, and
nothing, nothing can take their power and hide their glory.
He nudges Dany, who stirs next to him.  “Let me fix your hair,” he says.  “Then
you can fix mine like I’ve taught you.”
She nods and sits up without a word, bowing her head to make it easy for him.
The Braavosi merchant they are staying with has not yet made it possible for
them to bathe, and their hair feels dirty and grease-laden, but in the mornings
this does not matter to Viserys.  When he takes strands of Dany’s hair in his
hands to make two braids that encircle her head and meet at the back like a
crown, it feels to him like he holds Myrish lace and the finest Lorathi
textiles. He weaves the strands together carefully.  This morning, Dany gives
him no reason to pull or tug.
“You look like a princess,” he says when she is done, and she blushes and
thanks him.  Then he leans down so his sister can give him a braid-crown of his
own.  Her fingers are clumsy.  She is young, but she is learning.  Her
uncertain fingers still feel good as they brush against his scalp, as his
sister crowns him their king just as she does every morning.
 
***** Modern AU; Arya and Sansa *****
Staring at Arya over the small diner table, Sansa couldn’t believe how long it
had been since she last saw her sister.  Ten years, she thought, and Arya
agreed.  It had been ten years since Sansa had seen her, or spoken to her, but
not a second of that time had gone by in which Arya had not been on Sansa’s
mind.
It wasn’t like her disappearance was a mystery, or even a disappearance,
really.  One day Arya had had enough and was just gone.  She’d dropped out of
high school and hopped on a plane to Berlin with her boyfriend Gendry and that
was that.  She’d been in touch with Rickon, and Bran, and Jon, but no one told
Sansa anything, and at first she was all right with that because of how mad
she’d been and how envious she’d been.  Sansa could never do that, just pick up
and leave when she couldn’t take a situation anymore.  She was the type of girl
who stayed, wasn’t she?  It was her duty to stay.
And now they filled each other in, all the missing pieces of their ten years of
being estranged sisters.  Looking at Arya, Sansa noticed a wiry toughness about
her, and when Arya had taken off her black sweater, she’d pulled the neckline
of the huge men’s tshirt she wore (clearly not hers, Sansa thought) to show her
the wolf’s head tattooed between her shoulder blades. 
She’d been living in some performance art enclave in Berlin, dancing at their
shows, bartending to make some money, and doing jeet kune do and krav maga. 
Sansa hadn’t even heard of those.  Martial arts weren’t quite Sandor’s thing. 
There were too many rules.  Are you and Gendry still together?  Arya pulled out
her phone to show Sansa pictures.  They were somehow still together, living in
some sort of polyamorous thing with Aegon, who was a young, rich, English
runaway with bright blue hair, and Jaqen, who’d defected from East to West
Berlin in the 80s in some sort of crazy way, and held his red-and-white hair
over his face in the photo because he didn’t like having his picture taken. 
They’d all flown here with her yesterday, but only Gendry would be coming to
the funeral.
And how was Sansa?  Well, Sansa didn’t know what to tell Arya.  About her
independent boutique that was failing because Jeyne’s problems made her just
too unreliable to work with.  About the engagement ring on her finger that
still hadn’t turned into a wedding ring,still, because anytime she and Sandor
sat down to plan, they’d run into trouble, and their couple’s therapist said
they could make it but it would take work, and Sansa was so tired of all the
years of work, and—
“I’m fine,” is what she told Arya.  “Everything’s great.  I’m engaged.”  She
held up her ring.  Despite everything, every time she held the ring up to the
sunlight its glittering reminded her of Sandor when he’d proposed, how he tried
to be so gruff and played it so cool but had burst into tears when she’d said
her happy yes.
“Bran told me,” Arya said.  She emptied a sugar packet into her coffee, and
then a second and then a third.  “He wants to know when the wedding is.  I
said, why didn’t he just ask you?”
“That’s a lot of sugar,” Sansa said, simply because she didn’t know what to say
back.  “It’s bad for your teeth, Arya.”
Arya stared at her before raising the cup to her lips.  When she’d put it back
down, she said, “Everything’s really fine?  Mom dying must be hard for you.”
“It is,” Sansa said, staring down into her cup of watery earl grey.  “I’m so
sad but I feel like I have to feel guilty for being sad.  I—”
“You’re crazy,” said Arya, but she smiled when she said it, and she leaned in
close.  “The way you feel about Mom is your business.  The things Mom did
aren’t your fault.  I took care of it, y’know?  I showed her it wasn’t okay.  I
guess Jon did too, in his own way.”
“I should have said something.  I shouldn’t have—I didn’t appreciate you
enough.”
“But that was a long time ago.  We can’t do anything about it.”  Looking into
Arya’s face, the one she’d made fun of with Jeyne so often when they were kids,
Sansa realized how beautiful they were.  Both Stark sisters were beautiful.  It
was silly, how important this was to her, but it gave her comfort.
“You’re right.  We can just change the future, I suppose.  And I’d like to.” 
Sansa swallowed.  “I’d like you at my wedding.  You can bring all your
boyfriends.  My sister and all her boyfriends.”
“Oh please,” Arya said, grinning.  “You don’t want them all there, trust me. 
Jaqen is kind of creepy and chain-smokes, and Aegon never shuts the fuck up. 
And his blue hair won’t match your bridesmaids’ dresses.”
“So he’ll have to dye his hair to match them, you’ll have to make him.”  Sansa
had started giggling.  She couldn’t stop.
“I totally forgot what a piece of work you are,” Arya said.  “Everyone thinks
you’re so normal, but you’re totally weird.”  Her eyes were sparkling.  That
was the thing about her Stark grey eyes.  They could be severe, but they could
be beautiful, too.
“Oh, Arya.  My life is totally making me weird.  My business is falling apart,
my best friend has mental health problems I can’t fix, and Sandor and I haven’t
made any progress on planning our wedding.  I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t want
to tell you this.  Your life seems socool, and I—”
“Stop it.  You wouldn’t want my life.  When I was 19 Aegon and I got our
nipples pierced on a stage in front of 30 artsy Germans.  For Art.  It was a
bad decision.”
“Ew!”
“Exactly.  See?  Your life might be hard right now, but it has the stuff you
want in it. It’s gonna be okay.”  Arya took her hand and squeezed.  “It has me
in it too, I think.  If you want.”
“Of course I want.”  Tears welled in Sansa’s eyes.  Arya’s eyes looked suddenly
solemn.  “It’s hard not to have a sister.”
“You have a sister,” Arya said.  “You always did.”
 
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