Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11870613.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Multi, Other
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&
      Related_Fandoms, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jaime_Lannister/OC, OC/OC, Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark, Jon_Snow/Daenerys
      Targaryen, Arya_Stark/Gendry_Waters, Catelyn_Stark/Ned_Stark, Talisa
      Maegyr/Robb_Stark, Khal_Drogo/Daenerys_Targaryen, Daario_Naharis/Daenerys
      Targaryen, Tyrion_Lannister/Shae, Jaime_Lannister/Brienne_of_Tarth,
      Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister, Joanna_Lannister/Tywin_Lannister, Tywin
      Lannister/OC
  Character:
      OC_-_Character, Jaime_Lannister, Cersei_Lannister, Tywin_Lannister,
      Tyrion_Lannister, Sansa_Stark, Robb_Stark, Jon_Snow, Daenerys_Targaryen,
      Arya_Stark, Gendry_Waters, Sandor_Clegane, Gregor_Clegane, Oberyn
      Martell, Margaery_Tyrell, Olenna_Tyrell, Petyr_Baelish, Catelyn_Tully
      Stark, Walder_Frey, Rhaegar_Targaryen, Lyanna_Stark, Bronn_(ASoIaF), Ned
      Stark, Theon_Greyjoy, Stannis_Baratheon, Renly_Baratheon, Robert
      Baratheon, Lysa_Tully_Arryn, Khal_Drogo, Daario_Naharis, Ellaria_Sand,
      Sand_Snakes_(ASoIaF), Obara_Sand, Nymeria_Sand, Tyene_Sand, Qyburn_
      (ASoIaF), Varys_(ASoIaF), Pycelle_(ASoIaF), Brienne_of_Tarth, Bran_Stark,
      Night_King, Wights_-_Character, White_Walkers_-_Character, Dragons_-
      Character, Other_Character_Tags_to_Be_Added
  Additional Tags:
      Canon_-_TV
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-21 Updated: 2017-09-07 Chapters: 15/? Words: 37765
****** The Age of Lost Heroes ******
by Alyssane_Targaryen_007
Summary
     "You cannot do anything worse than what has already been done to me."
     She had said this to a burnt man a very long time ago, and now, as
     the years have passed by, she couldn't help tasting the bitterness of
     the truth in them.
     Here, as she stood in the Great Sept, speaking lies to the man who
     butchered her whole family, Tywin Lannister himself, she tasted
     victory mixed with a touch of loss.
     Her name is Saphhira Blackthorn, and she is the queen of Athenos, a
     country that lies in all her sovereign glory, free from the antics of
     the rulers on the Iron Throne, in between the North and Bravos on the
     Narrow Sea.
     And she has chosen to marry the Old Lion himself, because she lusts
     for her revenge and to play the Game of Thrones.
     A story of ambitions, dark powers, magic, lust and love, The Age of
     Lost Heroes is a retelling of the TV show (in references to the
     books) from the perspective of a new player in the game.
Notes
     So after a lot of deliberation, I finally decided to write this
     story.
     I have been developing this canon-inspired story for ages actually,
     since 2011, now that I think about it.
     I shall be going into further details as the chapters commence,
     specially regarding the location of Athenos (the new country that I
     have decided to add in the Map of the Known World) and the culture,
     food, and clothing that the Athenosi are known to have.
     This will be a long fic, I hope. Because I have given a lot of
     thought onto each detail and events that I plan to transpire in this
     story.
     I am extremely excited to be doing this, and I hope every one of you
     love the new characters and enjoy the canon characters along with the
     storyline, as much as I am enjoying writing this.
     I shall be including picsets for clothes, food, etc in the upcoming
     chapters to help you visualize the characters and plots further.
     So, without further ado, let's do this!
***** The Night of Fire *****
She ruminates as the vibration of the lance in her hand throbs between her
fingers to the symphony of the crowds cheering outside.
It is dark here. And she finds that she quite likes it.
She has always liked the darkness you see, always.
Since that night. Since that night the fire burnt.
She doesn’t like the light anymore. Perhaps a part of her fears it even.
She closes her eyes and breathes, letting the cold flow through her body,
through her blood and onto her hand. When she opens her eyes again, there is a
tiny ball of ice in her hand. Smirking, she crushes it beneath her feat.
Adrian sits beside her, lost in thought.
‘Scared, Sapphira?’ he asks.
‘Should I be?’
‘No. You know I am too weak to ever bring myself to hurt you. You will be the
queen today. I promise you that.’
She smiles, her eyes twinkling like sparkling blue stars, and stares at Adrian
for a little while longer. He is a man now, of twenty and four. How the time
has passed, she wonders.
As she stands up, she lets her fingers caress the soft scar that still remains,
cutting straight through his left eyebrow, a reminder from a play fight a long
time ago.
Kissing his cheek, she whispers now, their lips not even an inch apart.
‘If you go soft on me, my love, I promise I will disembowel you,’ before
walking away.
As she steps into the arena, the cheers go louder.
She lets her eyes stray towards the amphitheatre, the great lords and ladies of
Essos and Westeros have arrived today. In the front, there is King Victorian
Blackthorn, her father, and on his right sits the noble lord and protector of
Bravos. To his left, he sits, the proud old lion himself, Tywin Lannister, his
sinister green orbs so reminiscent of the pots of wildfire that sit peacefully
stored in the underground cellars of Starfall, the capital of her beloved
country, Athenos.
She smirks.
Let the games begin.
 
She was a Northerner, or so she believed in the simpler summer days. Her mother
would call her, her summer child, and she, with all the foolish naivety
expected of an eight-year-old would believe her words like gospels of truth.
No one spoke of how winter lured in her skin, in her blood. No one would even
whisper how when she closed her eyes and thought of the winter winds and snow-
clad mountains, ice would form in her fingers. Only her little brother, Rubius,
he was her companion to her little secrets.
In the Great Hall of the Grey Keep, when all the lords have finished her meals
and endless discussion about the politics of the Seven Kingdoms, the two
siblings would creep in softly and she would arise winter in her palms. She
would bring out ice and they would play with it for hours at end, building
snowmen in summer days. And when they were done, she would only wish them away
and sad snowmen and the snow knights and their snow queens would melt into
nothing but water.
Her brother called her Ice Queen. And although she hated the nickname, she
couldn’t help but relish the power it seemed to hold in its name.
Sometimes Sapphira lets her mind travel to those sweet summer days, but often
they end as nightmares when the Night of Fire rips through all the happy
memories and shows only charred corpses.
 
In the Night of Fire, her lady mother had taken her two children to bed in
their tower as per usual. And as was their tradition, the siblings sneaked out
of their beds the minute they realized their lady mother had left them.
Lighting a candle, Rubius started reading the story of the knight that they had
left off the night before, Sapphira faithfully perched on his right, her chin
resting on his shoulder.
It was silent till the hour of the wolf, only their whispering voices piercing
the silence of the night, as if it was a little too loud.
And that was when the fires broke.
She doesn’t remember the details of the night, not really. They come in hazes,
of red-and-gold armored soldiers, of the shrieking of men and women alike, of
the clash of swords and the throbbing sound of blood gushing out of opened
throats.
First, the soldiers burnt the tower of their parents.
In the chaos, her lady mother had found them, running in her bloodied night
clothes towards her children. She had embraced her mother, her brother still
shaking in fear by her side. And she remembers the warmth of her father’s blood
on her mother’s dress, the saltiness of its scent still a memory that refused
to go.
And then the footsteps came.
Their mother had hidden them below the bed, making them promise that they won’t
so much as breathe, no matter the consequences of what happens to their mother.
Brandishing the family sword, her lady mother stood guard then, the siblings
hidden underneath the bed, their heartbeats ringing in the same rhythm.
Her mother was able to kill of three of the assailants, stabbing one through
the eye while using his dagger to twist into his companion’s gut.
That was when they hit her in the back of her head.
She remembers those voices too. Perhaps they were much worse than the night
itself.
‘The fucking Lady Grey! Come here, you little whore. Women shouldn’t be playing
knight with their dead husband’s swords!’
‘I’d die before I let you touch me.’
‘Aye, you’d die alright. But first, I will have my fun,’ the solider said,
pulling her mother by her beautiful golden hair.
‘Oye, Ansel, stop fucking around, you buggering fool. Ser Clegane will be here
soon. Kill the bitch, it’ll be a mercy,’ one of the soldiers said.
‘I’ll show her mercy,’ the other one replied.
She remembers her mother’s face after, as she lay on the ground, in all fours
like the she-dogs in the kennels, while the soldier rutted into her again and
again. Underneath the bed, she could see her face, her lady mother’s eyes
glassy and dead, staring straight at her, as if she could see her soul. She
could feel the wetness in her brother’s eyes as he lay holding her with all his
might.
When the soldier was done, he pulled her mother by her hair one last time, and
exposing her swan-like neck, he opened her throat with a dull dagger.
It should have ended then. All of it. The castle was burning, their liege lord,
the oh-so-honorable Lord Eddard Stark, nowhere to be found when they needed him
him the most.
But Rubius couldn’t stop the wail that broke out of his throat as his mother’s
blood wet his palms.
It happened only a moment after.
The bed was thrown out in one stroke by a giant of a hand, and when she looked
up, she witnessed the hugest man she had ever seen.
She never saw his face, not really, but she knew he was the Mountain.
With one easy tug, he first extricated her brother from her arms and before she
could even find her voice, he had cut the boy in half.
When she travels to these memories, she sometimes thinks he had shared the
better fate. It was a brutal kill, but it was quick. It ended faster than the
hells they showed her after.
Even now, she doesn’t let her mind travel to the events that followed after.
Of the hands groping her innocent childlike skin, of those roughened palms
putting their fingers in between her legs, pinching her pinkish budlike
nipples, and then making her get on all fours beside her mother’s corpse as
something entered her repeatedly, as the Mountain’s eyes kept boring holes into
her skin, never leaving her face as he watched her be fucked by his men, while
stroking his manhood.
There was pain, yes. Of course there was.
But the numbness was pervading over it all.
When they were done, someone stabbed her from the back and everything turned
black.
 
When she woke up after, she had no wound, and her body felt like it was made of
crystal, fragile and breakable but not bleeding anymore.
She felt cold, oh so very cold, and when she rose up and walked towards the
mirror, she was shocked to see ice covering all of her body, like an armor made
only for her. Her eyes appeared different too, bluer and brighter, as if they
could pierce the darkness of the night and her hair had turned completely white
in the night’s turn. Slowly, she left the mirror and clothed her in one of her
dresses, a simply grey wool-spun gown that had been her nameday gift a few
months prior.
When she heard footsteps, her hand channeled out the sharpest icicle she had
ever seen instantly, before she could react already thrown it at the giant of a
man who stood at the door now, its sharp end lodging itself squarely onto his
shoulder blade.
Cursing, the man said, ‘Are you trying to kill me, you buggering girl? I have
come to save you, you little fuckwit.’
‘Half your face is burnt. Why?’ She had asked.
The anger in his eyes seemed to provoke her to be petrified, but after the
night before, she realized she was incapable of being scared of anything. Hell,
they could throw in a pit of dragons and she would still feel nothing. After a
while, he said, ‘My buggering brother, little wolf. I am sure you met him last
night, the Mountain,’ the rage in his eyes slowly dwindling.
‘And why would you want to save me?’
‘Because little girls deserve better than getting raped and butchered by cunts
who call themselves men. So, will you come with me?’
She hadn’t spent much time to think, after all, what was left of Grey Keep
anyway? Ashes and bones, and nothing more. ‘Alright, I will. But where should
we go?’
‘Winterfell, perhaps? Your father’s liege lord is there.’
‘No, we won’t go there.’
‘Then where, girl? I cannot take you to the South. Tywin Lannister wants your
pretty head there.’
‘Who is Tywin Lannister?’ she had asked, curious.
‘Do you know nothing, girl? He is the old lion himself, the richest man in
Westeros and the man who ordered the siege of Grey Keep.’
‘Why? What did my father do?’
‘It was not your father who got everyone killed, little girl,’ he said, softly
this time, and added before looking away, ‘It was you.’
‘What do you mean, me?’
‘You are not a Grey, child. Never was. You are born of the blood of wolves and
dragons, the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You do know about
them, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but, how?’
‘Look at yourself, little girl. You have the hair of Valyrians and the eyes of
the Stark beauty herself. You are living proof of King Robert’s wrath. Tywin
Lannister had planted the maester, a Lannister spy, in your keep and kept watch
on you for days, after one of your mother’s handmaidens came to Casterly Rock
selling this information in exchange of some gold dragons.’
‘I don’t care who I am, or who the bloody dragons and wolves are. Why couldn’t
Tywin Lannister just kill me and let my parents, my little brother, be?’ she
asked, slipping into the floor with the weight of the truth.
‘Because he is a Lannister, that is why. The lions are known for a lot of
things, kindness ain’t one of them.’
When she had looked up, there was pity in his brutish eyes. Something that had
enraged her after the moment’s surprise fleeted away.
‘One day, I will return.’
‘But where will you go now?’
‘Starfall. I will go to Athenos. The kind man, he said his name was Victorian
Blackthorn, he had come last summer and he had said there will always be a home
for me in his castle. Perhaps he could do something?’
After muddling for a moment, he said, ‘That is your best shot, for now. I’ll
take you to White Harbor then, from there, we will board a ship and I shall
take you there myself.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Girl, why do you trust me?’
‘Because you cannot do anything worse than what has already been done to me.’
Nodding his head, the man had only replied, ‘They call me Hound. You can call
me Sandor, if you wish,’ before looking away.
‘I will, Sandor,’ she had answered, smiling.
***** The Face of the Enemy *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘I might, but I will kill a lot more before I fall. I can promise you
     that much. And yes, it will be my crown. By this time tomorrow, my
     lord, I promise you, you shall be calling me “Your Grace”’ she
     assured him, her eyes now burning like twin blue flames.
Chapter Notes
     Hello, everyone!
     Thank you for your wonderful feedback. I love the kudos. And it
     pushed me to bring out this chapter today itself.
     I guess I could not hold myself back after actually planning this
     story for so long.
     I hope to be this frequent with all my chapters, but I am not so sure
     because the further we go, the longer the chapters will become. But
     either way, I plan to post two chapters per week, at least.
     I hope you guys enjoy reading this chapter as much as I loved writing
     it.
     It is in a non-chronological narrative, however you actually get to
     know an introduction to the history and politics of Athenos in this,
     alongside the actual events of the story.
     Also, can someone tell me how to attach a picset to the chapter? I
     don't want to post a link to some blog. I have already made a picset
     and now I just want to attach it as an image that can be viewed with
     the chapter. I would be really grateful for this help. Thank you very
     much!
     P.S, I am extremely apologetic for the enormous images I have attache
     to this chapter, but here are the information regarding each image:
     1. The blue one-shouldered dress is the dress Sapphira wears to the
     ball.
     2. The hair is dressed with intricate central braids with star-like
     ornaments to go with her dress.
     3. The twin swords are the Valyrian steel swords of Sapphira
     4. The brown-and-black leather beaten armor with snake-skin hand
     covers is her battle dress for the War of the Bastards.
     I shall post a picture of how I imagine Sapphira to look like in the
     following chapters. Also, Sapphira's costumes are an essential part
     of her growth as a player in the game of thrones. So, I shall be
     trying to find a correlating visual imagery to most of them, as far
     as possible.
     Enjoy!
 [Sapphira Blue dress] [Sapphira armor] [Sapphira hair] [Twin Swords]
She had waited to see the Old Lion’s face for more than a decade now.
Which was strange, because she had met every one of his children, the Golden
Twins and the Dwarf.
Stranger still was to see the face of the man who butchered her family. In her
childhood whims, she had imagined him to grow horns, have talons, and eyes of
molten red. And she couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that his eyes
were a shade of wildfire green instead of the molten red she had dreamed of.
She hated to refer to herself as Sapphira Blackthorn, because she was a bastard
still, only a Star. Sapphira Star. But her mind would have none of it, having
already placed the diamond-encrusted Athenosi crown on her head a long time
ago.
On the amphitheater, two of the competing “bastards” were swatting at each
other with their swords. They were talented, yes, and matched equally in
stamina, prowess and creativity in their modes of attack. But one of them would
spill his blood and die on the sands today. Around them, the corpses of
previously defeated competitors lay, men and women she had studied with, played
with, spent nights by a campfire with. Now they were nothing but blood and
bones, their innards spilling onto the sand, the bloodied guts laced with dirt
and their eyes open, glassy and hollow, just like her mother’s were that night.
Athenos lived by her own rules. And even if said rules were ruthless to say the
least, it was the only reason the country has survived the woes of time
untainted for this long.
The first known ancestors of Athenos were a section of Valyrians who fled
sometime before the Doom of Valyria. They had mostly been comprised of slaves
who had worked and been tortured to gruel underneath the Fourteen Flames by the
noble houses of Valyria, the Targaryens, Velaryens and the Celtigars, to name a
few. And having spent decades dying and rotting and slaving in the depths, the
slaves had understood the end of the Valyrian stronghold was quiet near when
the volcanic pits started bubbling with fire, molten lava and death more so
than ever.
And so hoards of such lowly commoners, men, women and children, farmers,
slaves, miners, daily-wagers, blacksmiths, ironsmiths who forged hundreds of
Valyrian steel swords by the day, sellswords, maesters, food sellers, beggars,
poor businessmen, much like the crowds that dirtied the streets of Flea Bottom,
only more civilized, fled across the Narrow Sea, far from the death and pain.
Many died in the process. Their slaver lords having discovered their little
ruse, hundreds were tortured, burned and given to the dragons as fodder. It was
only by the unhindered stubbornness of a certain few that they were finally
able to escape the Valyrian stronghold and discover the much younger land of
Athenos.
Athenos was almost of the same size as the Westerosi North itself, mostly
uninhabited, its land made of a fallen star from a thousand years prior. Rich
with minerals and iron, and a fertile land for crops and fodder, it had
established a growing connection with Essos, particularly Bravos, and the North
over a century preceding Aegon's Conquest. A sovereign land with its own ruling
monarchy, its only connection to the politics of Westeros, at least under the
sun that is, was the stationed Blackthorn emissary who sat at the Small Council
and managed the economic and social affairs between the two empires.
In the country’s history, in spite of its richness in land and value, Athenos
flourished slowly, but steadily. Yet their population faced constant decline
because of the fewer number of survivors that came in the first place.
So unlike the Targaryens, the Athenosi spread their genetic pool by mating with
the preexisting races of the Andals in the West, the First Men in the North,
and the Rhoynar in the South. Over time, their unique silvery hair and violet
eyes were replaced by the features of Westerosi men and women, with only a few
exceptions cropping once in a decade or two, an anomaly really.
But even if she could have fit like a glove with her silvery white hair and
bejeweled blue eyes, her father, the king himself, had decided that she must
disguise herself. And so the maesters had made her a foul-smelling concoction
of muddy black dyes that refused to leave her scalp by simply applying soap and
water to hide who she really was.
She had been coloring her hair, disguising herself, since she was eight. She
often remembers fondly of the days when the black hair felt alien to her, the
silvery white somehow a truer feature to who she was instead of the darkness of
her locks.
Now, though, she was grateful at the foresight of her father, because the Old
Lion would have slaughtered her without wasting a word if he had seen her
silvery white mane.
Every thirty years, there’s a tournament held in Athenos, something called the
War of the Bastards, and it is just what it sounds like. Athenosi men and women
don’t particularly believe in marriages, and neither the inheritance of the
monarchy over generations. In the beginning, when their ancestors settled in
the land, there were several deaths in the ploy to decide who truly would sit
as king to the throne. And that was when generations prior, one of her
ancestors devised a simple yet ruthless law. If the citizens wanted their
children to be rulers, then they would have to send their children off to study
with the maesters, practice swordsmanship with the best soldiers and knights of
the country, learn the art of poison-making, from the age of six itself. And if
they survived these grueling survival tests until sixteen, the best of the lot
were sent to train in the House of Black and White to become a Faceless
assassin. There was a choice of course, after. One could simply decide to
settle into a life of being a Faceless or come home to settle into a social
life in the country, in whatever role that was best suited to him or her, as a
knight, as a noble in the court, as a maester or simply a part of the common
folk, or, he or she could come home and pursue his dreams to rule the country
by participating in the final test, the War of the Bastards. The one who was
left standing, victorious, in the end would be the king or queen. The one who
was defeated in the last battle of the war is often left to survive and is made
the Blackthorn emissary, a quasi-second-in-command, in King’s Landing. And the
third, the one chosen by the most high ranking of maesters, is sent to be the
Hand of the King or Queen, thus making the Triumvirate of Athenos. Together,
the three rule for decades to come.
She had been late in her initiation, late by two years. But she had bled and
struggled to stand where she was at this moment just the same. Many of her
fellow-mates chose the path of wisdom and knowledge, deciding to settle in and
learn the science of knowledge as maesters in the Athenosi Citadel in Starfall.
And so many more were dead, buried as heaps of meat on top of the other,
forgotten. Often, mothers never found their children in their arms again, once
they gave them away to the capital. And yet, the women of this country were
brave enough to send their children off to train every year by scores of
hundreds and thousands.
When she was younger, still a little idealistic about the ways of the world,
she had promised herself that she would abolish this cruel law of choosing the
monarch by war. She would find love, even if she had seen darkness, and she
would have children who would grow up to be kings and queens. As she thought of
her idiocy now, she couldn’t help but laugh a little.
Her eyes seemed to fleet every time towards the Old Lion though, as if he were
a magnet to her iron, drawing her amidst the listless voices that surrounded
them, white noise that meant nothing to either of them.
She could feel his eyes on her the night before. And she prayed to the Many-
Faced God in hopes that she had played her cards right.
The night before the final battle of the War, the Athenosi king hosts a ball
for the gathered guests who come from all over the Known World to witness this
bloody matches, along with the surviving bastards who would stake a claim in
the finale.
As was tradition, her father too had hosted the ball and carefully had one of
his concubines choose a beautiful sapphire blue dress of a sparkling sheer
material for her. There was a beautiful metal belt, the color of gold, around
her waist to hold the simple one-shouldered dress hold tightly beneath her
bosom, making her appear comely in spite of the scars she had received in her
arms during the War. Her hair was braided from the center by one of the
handmaids her father had decided to spare on her for the evening, her black
mane running thick with ringlets around her ears and over her buttocks.
When she had finally appeared with Adrian in the ball, she could feel the eyes
of the nobles upon her. Yet, swaying lightly from the crowds, she had found her
target soon enough.
‘Greetings, my lord. I hope you have been enjoying your stay in Starfall.
Everything is to your liking, I reckon? I am Sapphira Star, the bastard of King
Victorian.’
Tywin Lannister was a man not often surprised, and yet he couldn’t help but
gaze at the raven-maned beauty who seemed to boldly approach him out of the
blue.
With a cringe of his golden eyebrows, he replied, ‘Ah, yes. You have made quite
the name for yourself, my lady. What with your prowess in swordsmanship and
your bravery in Pyke some years ago. They say you led only a handful of fifty
Blackthorn bastards to the Iron Islands and sacked the capital in a night,
changing the rebellion’s course altogether. But then again, sending a handful
of assassins in the dead of the night has never been of my tastes.’
‘You are too kind, my lord. The stories are always spoken in excess. There were
fifty-five of us, actually,’ she quipped back, smirking, ‘And your son was
equally brave too. The Golden Knight, they called him. Charging the Greyjoy
ships with gusto in Lannisport, only a lion could do that. We eagles, we have
always given more attention to strategy than bravery. Forgive us, but we prefer
the Many-Faced God give the gift of death to our enemies instead. Mayhaps that
is why we have survived this long, won’t you agree? And if not send a handful
of assassins, what is your battle tastes, my lord? Slaughtering houses because
of the audacity of one lord, perhaps? I must confess, I do adore the melody of
the song.’
She could feel his eyes raging with green flames, and when he stepped a little
closer to her, he almost whispered, ‘I could slaughter you in your bed for your
words, my lady.’
Yet she only smiled, her sapphire eyes boring holes with equal rage at him, and
replied, ‘You can try, my lord.’
Before he could add something further, the Great Hall broke forth with the
tunes of folk songs, the guests rising and men and women finding one and
another to dance to its tunes. Somewhere in the corner of her eye, she found
Adrian with his hand up some noblewoman’s skirts. You could always find a
bastard of Dornish blood with his fingers inside a cunt, she mused.
Turning towards the Old Lion, she asked, ‘Will you join me for a dance, my
lord?’
Without a word, the elder man spun her by her waist and laid her to the center
of the Hall, holding her in place with a vice-grip around her waist as he
twirled her.
‘You are of an audacious breed, aren’t you, my lady? Many would say you are as
wild as the Blackthornian horses.’
‘Many would say a lot of things. But I am a bastard still. Only when I have my
crown will I be a true Blackthorn. Sapphira Blackthorn, I think it sounds quite
sophisticated, don’t you think?’
‘Your crown? Aren’t you aiming a little too high? You might die tomorrow,
little girl.’
‘I might, but I will kill a lot more before I fall. I can promise you that
much. And yes, it will be my crown. By this time tomorrow, my lord, I promise
you, you shall be calling me “Your Grace”’ she assured him, her eyes now
burning like twin blue flames.
‘You have fire in you, my lady. I will give you that.’
‘Careful there, Old Lion. I might just burn you.’
‘It will take more than a eaglet to take me down,’ he whispered, spinning her
around one last time.
Before he left the Hall, she called forth his name one last time, ‘Lord Tywin?’
Turning, the Old Lion cocked up a golden eyebrow in question.
‘If I win tomorrow, I shall make you an offer. Something you cannot refuse.
Agreed?’
‘And if you die, I will watch you bleed out in the sands, my lady,’ he replied,
giving her a vicious smirk, before walking away.
 
As she stood up now, she let her lance fall to the ground. Instead, she grabbed
the hilts of her twin swords, warmly lodged inside their scabbards that were
stuck to her armored back. Holding the Valyrian steel blades deftly in her
hands, she let their warmth fill her with a familiarity she had come to love
over the years, and walked into the amphitheater’s arena to face the only true
god, Death himself.
Somewhere from the crevices of memory, someone whispered, ‘What do we say to
the god of Death?’
And she couldn’t help but utter with a smirk, ‘Not today,’ as the sun blinded
her for a moment and a sword came crashing in her direction.
***** The Eagle Queen *****
Chapter Summary
     "All men must die, but first, we shall serve!"
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys, hope you are liking the story so far! Here's the next
     chapter.
     I still cannot find a way to attach the picset so if anyone knows how
     to, please help me!
     As for the images attached today, the gown is a close visualization
     of Sapphira's coronation black feather gown, of course in her case,
     there are sleeves made of feathers as well to accentuate her house's
     sigil, which is a golden eagle on a royal blue field.
     The second image is the royal Athenosi golden crown.
     As I have mentioned before, clothes and jewelry are important
     features in Sapphira's journey in this story. It will be a symbolic
     motif to show her evolution as a character too.
     Also, I don't own anything, George R. R. Martin does, of course.
     And if you would like me to clarify any information, or ask for any
     other details regarding the story or just have any other comments,
     please leave a word on the comment section! I would love to hear from
     all of you.
     And now, without further delay, let's begin!
===============================================================================
[Sapphira Coronation Gown] 
Instincts. Fucking instincts. Seven Hells.
 
She has been fighting since the age of eight and it has always been her right
hand that arises in defense against an assailant, her forearm clad in iron
armor protecting her from the foreign blows. And in the sunny arena, her hand
rose again in defense, only to have the snakeskin armor slash to bits, the
sharp edge of the steel blade cutting a scar across it. That’s the thing about
pain, you always feel it afterwards.
 
Laced with the need to bleed someone, she felt nothing now as she parried the
second strike with her left blade, rolling smoothly to the hilt of the
broadsword that the second assailant tried to cut her with and slashed smoothly
across his wrist cutting his sword arm clean as the huge sword fell with it,
still held in the dislodged appendage, with a clang. The man crumpled like dust
at her feet with the searing pain as the first assailant received a clean kick
to the chest before she put her right blade straight through his eyes, killing
him instantly. Turning around at the now bleeding mess that was her second
assailant, she gave him the gift of mercy, dislodging his head clean from
between his shoulders, the headless heap falling with a thud on the course
sand.
 
After that, she fell into her dancing trance. War had always been the place she
had belonged most, in between blood, bones, ashes and screams. And now, as her
nerves twisted as one whole killing machine, she smoothly parried across each
of her assailants, one eye drifting towards Adrian as he cut across the others
with his choice of weapon, an enormous hammer, spilling blood and guts at his
wake.
 
Her next attacker was a woman, an old friend she had trusted with her secrets
once. And yet, she couldn’t help but let her swords do the talking now. As the
girl came face forward with a spear, she crumpled to her knees, and slashed at
her feet. Even then, the girl came upon her, her head an easy target of her
poisoned spear, and only missed by a second before Sapphira kicked her clean in
the chest and cut the wooden lance of her spear. When the arrowhead fell on the
ground, the girl hastily tried to reclaim her weapon, hoping to use it like a
knife but it was too late. Out of nowhere, Adrian appeared and bludgeoned her
face with his hammer until only blood and brains lay instead of her pretty
face.
 
Before long, Sapphira and Adrian were the only two left standing. They had
become the de facto ruler and hand of the realm, and now the final battle was
thankfully not to the death. This would be simple, the one who lost would be
hand, and the other, the country’s ruler.
 
In a way, she was glad it was Adrian and not someone else. She could let her
guard down to her oldest friend, an old love, and a loyal companion, when it
came to the matters of the state. She knew she could trust him, no matter what
his decisions were.
 
Smiling cheekily, the two warriors charged at each other, not going for the
killing blows intentionally, as if deciding to feed the crowd with further
entertainment at their expense. He thrashed at her with his hammer and she
parried, jabbed and moved like water under the bridge, rumbling yet fluid in
each of her movements.
 
After a few more of their so-called stunts, where the two warriors rather
showed their battle tactics instead of an actual to -the-death battle, she had
removed the hammer out of Adrian’s hands, and he lay at her feet, her right leg
on his chest, as his dusty blonde hair fanned his face while he gave her a
crooked smile of submission.
 
She had her sword to his throat, letting its edge cut through his neck a
little, letting a bloody crescent scar form, as if searing a message on his
skin: Remember who is your queen.
 
Soon, the crowd broke into a thunderous cheer as the amphitheater broke into
applause and screams from blood-intoxicated joy. Some even threw gold dragons
on the sand, the coins like fat droppings on the yellow coarseness of the
bloody sands.
 
When her father raised a hand of silence, the cheers died down immediately, and
she could feel Tywin Lannister’s eyes burning in something akin to arrogance,
and surprisingly pride, as he gazed upon her.
 
‘The gods have decided your new queen, my countrymen! Love her, respect her and
worship her as you would a goddess, for she is your mother, your sister and
your child. She shall love you and show you to the path of greatness. All rise
for the new queen, my daughter and my prize, SAPPHIRA BLACKTHORN!’ Her father
roared.
 
The crowd stood up then, cheering with passion and shouting her name in a
litany. And she allowed herself the luxury of a smile, if only for a fleeting
moment, before time and future responsibilities erased it away.
 
That was when Emrbose Moshitas, the Braavosi merchant who was rumored to be one
of the richest men in the Free Cities, and had quiet the reputation of being a
clandestine slave trader, rose from his seat and interjected to the happiness.
 
He said, ‘Your Grace, greetings to the new queen. However, I must admit I am
quiet disappointed. I came here, expecting that I shall a battle to the death.
And here we are, still two champions alive!’
 
Her father, irked, replied, ‘If you can observe, Lord Moshitas, that there are
eight young champions lying dead in the sand, their blood still warm and fresh.
There are two champions because the late Lord Ombroi’s bastard, Adrian Star,
henceforth Adrian Blackthorn is the second-in-command and hand to my daughter,
the queen. This is the tradition of us Athenosi, always has been, and always
will be.’
 
‘With all due respect, old traditions are always meant to be erased to the
winds of time. As is the true law of evolution, Your Grace. Your old customs
will only be a loss to your race.’
 
‘Loss or no, customs are established for a reason, my lord. And they have
helped our race survive four hundred years.’
 
‘And for another four hundred, a change is needed, or so my humble opinion
says,’ the man replied, persisting.
 
‘Then what do you want, my lord?’ her father asked, his voice dangerously low.
 
‘Your Grace, you promised my blood, war and death. You have given me all three
in the past few days, but you have also promised me a wish, that I could ask
anything I wish. Well, so be it! I wish for death!’ the bloodthirsty merchant
replied, his voice resembling that of a howl instead of a human voice.
 
Her eyes fleeting to the Old Lion, silent until now, and he could see his
wildfire eyes circling on her at the same moment too, as if egging her to
decide between life and death. And in that moment, her decision was made.
 
Before her father could answer, she spoke, ‘My lord, I respect your wish. And
as the new queen of Athenos, I shall be the one to decide whether I would like
to grant it. As it so happens, I am in a particularly good mood after my
victory, my feet still lodged firmly on my enemy’s chest,’ her eyes fleeting
for a moment at Adrian, who still lay at her feet, exhausted with the battles,
‘and I would like to grant you your wish! THERE WILL BE MORE DEATH!’
 
The smile on the Bravosi merchant’s face was something she will remember all
her life, it was the smile of sinister backstabbing cunts who would never hold
a sword in their lives and send brave men and women to war to die for them
instead. She had known men like him all her life.
 
With an equally vicious smile, she dropped her twin swords, letting their clang
fill in the silence to which the audience had succumbed to by now, and took out
her curved Valyrian steel dagger, its bejeweled sapphire-encrusted hilt
glinting in the midday sun.
 
With a swish of her arm, she looked at Adrian’s fear-ridden eyes and then threw
the dagger with all her might, lodging it squarely between the Bravosi
merchant’s eyes.
 
Looking at her astounded audience, she helped Adrian rise to his feet and
proclaimed, ‘The Bravosi merchant wished for death. And your queen granted it!
He just never mentioned whose death he sought!’
 
And the crowd then broke into passionate cheer as she stared at the proud blue
eyes of the man she had come to call her father, her savior and guide,
Victorian Blackthorn. Beside him, she saw a strange thing, Tywin Lannister’s
lips curving into something that resembled a smile.
 
 
 
 
It had been a week since she won the War of the Bastards and became queen. Her
coronation was the day after, the capital busy in all kind of ridiculous excess
to celebrate the coronation. Sometimes, she was surprised at how easily within
the turn of seven nights, her life could change. Her straw mattress that she
slept in at the bastards quarters, some miles away from the castle’s
stronghold, was replaced with an enormous feather bed. Her bed posts were
gilded with gold, its edges shining with the curved faces of proud golden
eagles, her sigil. And the headrest of the bed was an enormous carving of a
soaring golden eagle over the most expensive mahogany wood frame she had ever
had the fortune to look upon. There were feathery shamianas, specially imported
from Qarth, to separate every adjutant room of her quarters. Beyond the bed,
there was an enormous window that opened to the most beautiful balcony she had
ever seen, its iron balustrade standing strong with marbled handholds, and it
looked into an ethereal garden below. She had some of the imported flowers from
the Free Cities planted in her new garden, some of which, to her pleasure, were
poisonous. In the middle of the garden stood a majestic fountain, over which
the marble sculpture of a winged warrior with an eagle perched on his shoulder
stood, as if guarding the gardens forever. The sound of water flowing from the
fountain and to its pool lulled her to a pleasant sleep every night. Her
favorite part of her quarters, however, to her grudging dismay was the room
solely entitled for her dresses. Athenosi men and women dressed in a lot more
extravagant and hedonistic manner than their Westerosi comrades. She had been
surprised to when she had first come to Starfall, shocked to see women dressed
in almost transparent silks and sequins and straddling men boldly, drinking
wine and merrymaking. This was not to say there were whores. These were noble
ladies, found in the courts and well respected across the realm for their
fortes in administration and politics. Yet, they knew how to relish life just
the same. And now here she was, this room of dresses filled to the core with
the most extravagant of dresses, embellished often with iron or gold, like an
armor over the silk. There was also a mirror, and beneath it stood a table that
held all kind of golden and gemstone encrusted jewelry that made her head reel
a little.
 
‘I see you are warming up to your new life, my precious child,’ her father
voice announced, breaking her heady trance.
 
Turning, she smiled at him, enthralled by the shine.
 
‘I wish I could say that I am not, father. Make you proud and say that battle
strategy and politics and ambitions are the only things in my mind, but even I
am a little swayed by all this shine.’
 
‘My sweetling, it is no sin to give yourself to pleasures of the skin once in a
while. And you are allowed to be a child once in a while, Sapphira. God knows I
have wronged you enough since the day you came at my doorstep, a girl of only
eight with a tamed Hound at her legs. You cannot believe how much you surprised
me then, my child. I thought I had lost you, I had sent scouts that very
morning, but all was lost by then. My single greatest regret in a long life
that I could not give you the family you deserved. And here I boast that I have
the most talented spies working for me, when I didn’t even know that bastard of
a lion would sack your home,’ he said, turning away.
 
‘Please, father. Not today. We mustn’t dull our happiness with memories of the
past. What has been done cannot be undone. But what can be done shall be done,
I promise you that. Vengeance will be served. But now, I must thank you for all
you have given me,’ she replied, turning to embrace him.
 
The king remained silent for a little while, choosing to brush her hair softly
as she held him close to her, perhaps lost in the thought how the little
knobbly girl who only reached his thighs when she first came was now as tall as
he was.
 
‘Don’t thank me, child. You have earned all of this. I knew you would, hence I
had spent years collecting all of this,’ he said, swaying his hand over the
table with the jewels and the dresses, ‘from all the cities I visited. You must
dress like a queen to be  a queen. Men and women are freer here, they don’t
mind if you dress in whatever you wish. But you must also dress in a way that
demands a certain touch of royalty and leadership. People need to remember who
they are sworn to, and you are that, their goddess. You are equivalent to their
god now, you hold absolute power.’
 
‘That’s the strangest thing about power, father. All it takes is for one man to
lose faith in you and soon you are forgotten. You are no longer a goddess, only
an erased memory.’
 
‘And because you remember that, you shall be the greatest ruler in the history
of Athenos. There is immense power to the crown of this country, my little one,
but you remember your roots. You always did. Something that many of the men and
women before you had forgotten and lost everything in turn. You won’t make the
same mistake.’
 
‘And what about my curse, father? This . . .’ she said, and gestured towards
the icicle she created instantly, gripping the sharp dagger-like thing in her
hand.
 
‘This is no curse, my child. This is your gift. Always will be. And that was
why I had the pyromancers train you all your life.’
 
‘People don’t even believe that there are the real pyromancers of old, the one
who can wield true fire, anymore,’ she said, smiling a little, ‘perhaps they
will believe I don’t exist either.’
 
‘People believe what they want to believe. Doesn’t change reality because of
it. If one day, you need to uncloak yourself and show your powers to the
country and save the world, you shall do so in a heartbeat.’
 
‘Of course I will. These are my people.’
 
‘And that makes you so very pure, my child. Your power is not a curse, it is a
gift of the gods to you, to protect your men and women at all cost. At every
cost.’
 
‘All men must serve,’ she spoke, her house’s words, officially inscribed in the
common tongue.
 
‘Aye, my child. And all men must die,’ her father replied, completing their
prayers.
 
 
 
It was time. When the sun died in the horizon the next evening, the crowds
gathered at the sept of the Many-Faced God. The Athenosi served and prayed to
the god of death since the last thousand years, yet, there was a weirwood tree
beyond the royal gardens and a sept of the Seven gods for the other citizens
too. Many had come over the years seeking refuge from their lands and built
their homes in the country, and House Blackthorn never denied the right to
worship whoever one chose to pray to. Initially, there had been a couple of
religious crusades, some four hundred years prior, however, the strict laws set
to accept all religious practices, except of course the ones that caused direct
harm to lives, went a long way to preserve peace in the country.
 
As she stood ruminating the history she was now a part of, a three-thousand-
year-old history, it took all her self preservation to not crumble to her knees
with the weight of time and duty. The strong hold of her father’s hand in hers
was the only thing that finally kept her still standing.
 
Thankfully, outside, none could guess the raging tempest inside of her. She was
dressed ethereally by her father’s concubines and when they were done, she was
astounded at the woman who appeared in the mirror.
 
When her father said, ‘You look like a true queen,’ she couldn’t help but agree
with a little smile.
 
Her father’s head concubine, Mirana, a Lysean woman, had chosen to not make her
wear any headdress or circlet today. Her long raven hair lay flowing like waves
on her back, the locks making her heart-shaped face a lot more visible.
However, that was the end of subtlety. Her dress was made of the most beautiful
golden metal corset she had ever laid eyes upon. It fit to her chest squarely,
almost choking her, but she couldn’t help but marvel at its intricate design,
resembling cut-out feathers of a bird. The sleeves were made of feathers with
tiny pearls sewn into it and then held together by a metal lining. The skirt of
the dress was made entirely out of black feathers over a silken base, trailing
at her wake. When they were done drawing her eyes with handmade kohl, and
coloring her lips with a touch of blooming pink with the paste of petals of the
flowers from the royal gardens, she stood admiring herself in the mirror before
the coronation ceremony begun.
 
And now here she was, the priest chanting words as she swore in to her duties
to her country and her people, before her father removed his golden crown and
placed it on her head, as she knelt to him.
 
When she finally stood up again, now the queen of Athenos, the crowd broke into
deafening cheers once again.
 
When the cheers died down, she stepped towards the central rim of the stage,
her heart beating with the thousand hopeful men and women who stood beneath the
stairs. This had been her place all along, and all the fear, the nervousness,
that she had felt even a few moments ago fled her mind as she embraced her
identity. Speaking in the common tongue for all to hear and understand her
vows, she said, ‘Countrymen! I come to you as your queen, as your mother, as
your caregiver and your beloved daughter. I come to you with glory and yet,
with humility. But most of all, I come to you just as who you are, a citizen
and a prized possession of my beloved motherland. From this day until my last,
I swear my vows to my country, vows which stand far above all else, over vows
of marriage, over vows to my future children, over vows to the gods, for I am
yours as you are mine, and shall forever be so. All men must die, but first, we
shall serve! Valar Dohaeris!’
===============================================================================
 
 
***** The Old Lion and the Eagle *****
Chapter Summary
     "Her father often said, you can always trust two things in life: a
     stupid man to continue being stupid, and a hotblooded fool to think
     with his cock."
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     I decided to write something today cause it turns out, I cannot keep
     myself from writing this story!
     Note: My timelines are different from the books, and the show as
     well. Especially when it comes to the ages of my characters.
     I hope you guys are hear with me for the ride and I would really love
     to read your responses regarding the story and what you would like to
     read! So leave me a comment in the comment section!
     Everything belongs to GRRM, of course, except Sapphira. She is all
     mine! Also, attached to the chapter is the dress that Sapphira wears
     to the weirwood forest. Blackthorns wear clothes which are a lot
     bolder than the ones seen in King's Landing, and their fashion,
     although inspired by the Free Cities and sometimes from Old Valyria,
     they also prefer their clothes to hold their own individuality. That
     can be heavily noticed in the bold materials, mostly transparent or
     net-like cloth, that they use.
     And now, let's begin!
===============================================================================
[Sapphira One-Shouldered Weirwood Dress]
Time, she had always been a fleeting thing. When you wanted her to pass by
swiftly, she would undulate with the slowness of muddy waters, and when you
wished for her to stay, she would never accede, like fallen sand from a closed
fist.
 
It had been three months since her coronation and her years of studying the
history and administration of her country had helped her rule, if not with the
gentlest of hands, but with a worthy one at least.
 
There have been a couple of riots along the northern ports of Athenos, chiefly,
Wolfsfang, the port closest to Eastwatch. There had been rumors for centuries
that the men and women had Wildling blood in their veins, making them a radical
bunch. She had sent some soldiers to curb the riots down, and soon, with an
added treaty with one of the leaders, there was hope.
 
This was not to say that all was well. Their closest neighbors, the Northerners
of Winterfell, had quiet the blow in the end of the long summer. As it turned
out, Ned Stark had become the hand of the obese drunken lout of a king, and his
son Bran Stark had become a cripple under mysterious circumstances. Of course,
things were hardly a mystery when it came to the spymasters in Athenos, and
word had it that it had something to do with the Golden Twins, Jaime and
Cersei. 
 
She had had quiet the heated discussion with Adrian the night before, the
Dornishman ruefully against her future plans regarding Tywin Lannister, and
even if she could forgive the childish emotional ardor of her former lover, she
couldn’t help but feel a little disdain for his lack of acumen. Adrian had
always been a hotblooded young lad, choosing swords over quills to decide the
outcome of any matter. Irrational at best and unpredictable most times, he had
always been a wild card, and that worried Sapphira.
 
Her father often said, you can always trust two things in life: a stupid man to
continue being stupid, and a hotblooded fool to think with his cock.
 
Of course her father had been correct, she admitted ruefully, as she sat
mulling over her conundrums by the weirwood tree beyond the royal garden. She
had always loved this little place, its silence a distant reminder of her old
home. Sometimes, she could almost see Rubius’s face among the faces in the
trees, as if her little brother was with her, never lost to death.
 
Her mind drifted in and out from the past and present, as it set about
calculating her future. Tywin Lannister had left soon after her coronation but
she had sent a raven some twenty-five days prior, requesting his presence at
Starfall. The Old Lion had arrived two nights ago, and although he seemed
pleased with his quarters, she could sense the edge in his behavior. The man
was restless, and that was never a good sign, especially for the matter at hand
that she meant to discuss with him.
 
 
 
It was almost sunset when Lord Tywin found the queen, sitting by her lonesome
by the weirwood tree, its strange looking bleeding face looking back at her. In
his silence, he could almost admit that he had come to admire the new queen.
Her hedonistic bravery, her acumen in political knowledge and battle strategies
that he had had the pleasure of talking about in the past two evenings, they
had all set her apart from the foolish highborn ladies that flocked King’s
Landing. Of course, it was unfair to compare highborn fools to a queen, but
then again, it was the only examples he had in mind at the moment. 
 
Although his elder son had no plans of marriage, having chosen to live his life
as a glorified bodyguard all his life, much to his disdain, he had almost
wished for his son to take the queen as his bride. At the moment, the queen was
lost in her own thoughts, or so it seemed, and the patterns of red leaves on
her almost transparent white dress with its thick skirt seemed to swirl in the
orange gleam of the setting sun.
 
When he approached her, she turned towards him, her face lighting up with a
smile.
 
‘Lord Tywin, how may I be of service? I hope you have found your stay
comfortable in my home?’
 
‘I did, Your Grace. But being the Warden of the West, I am not given much of a
respite and soon, I shall have to leave. I have news that the Lord of
Winterfell has begun his southern journey towards the capital to be King
Robert’s hand. It will be a month before he reaches King’s Landing. And I have
my own preparations to make at Casterly Rock. Hence, I would very much like to
discuss why you summoned me to Starfall.’
 
The younger woman smiled strangely towards him, as if she knew something that
he did not, the thought creating a discomfort in the back of his mind. Before
long, she spoke again, ‘Do you remember the night you met me before the final
battle in the arena, my lord? The night we had danced?’
 
‘Yes, of course.’
 
‘And do you also remember that I had made a deal with you. That if I were to
become queen, I shall make you an offer that you are not allowed to refuse.’
 
‘Yes, I do remember that,’ he said, a little perturbed.
 
‘Well, my lord, I think it is time I ask you for my little wish. I called you
to offer my hand in marriage. To you,’ she replied, her blue eyes glinting with
a stoic chillness.
 
‘My lady, I believe I am too old for marriage alliances.’
 
‘It is not your age that is of any concern to me, my lord. It is your identity
instead.’
 
‘And what of it?’ he asked, suspicious.
 
‘This will be a royal wedding, my lord. Something that my countrymen can
rejoice in after ages, since my father never bothered to have a queen in his
years of reign. As for your identity, you are the richest man in Westeros, the
crown owes you six million gold dragons, you are the patriarch of one of the
Great Houses of your country and the Warden of the West.’
 
‘It seems you seek this marriage for my titles, Your Grace.’
 
‘Of course, I do. And so do you.’
 
‘With all due respect, I think I can dispense with a marriage to a queen of
some country in the remaining years of my life, Your Grace,’ he replied,
irritably, lying through his teeth. 
 
‘Of course you can,’ the younger woman replied, never missing a beat, and
continued, ‘But you cannot dispense with the idea of future heirs.’
 
‘Need I remind you that I have three children, Your Grace?’ the Old Lion
questioned, his eyes glinting like emeralds.
 
‘And need I remind you that all your children are . . . inappropriate . . . to
put it gently. Your eldest, Cersei, although is the queen, she shall never
inherent your titles because your country holds a primitive mindset where women
have to use their cunts to have a modicum of power. Your golden son, Jaime,
spends his days protecting a fat lout that sits on that ugly iron chair and
refuses to accept his responsibilities as the lord of Casterly Rock. And
lastly, let us not forget the debauched dwarf of a third son who only stops
drinking when he is whoring, or is that done together? You must forgive me, the
intricacies of whoring and drinking have never been to my understanding.’
 
His eyes glistened with unkempt rage, and even if he wished to strangulate the
audacious little girl, he couldn’t deny the truth. That was when her slender
fingers held his face, her soft palms caressing his side burns momentarily.
 
Bringing her mouth close to his, she whispered, ‘You need me a lot more than I
need you, my lord. I can give you strong sons, children who will keep the
legacy that you have protected against every storm that came your way.’
 
‘And what makes you think that, Your Grace?’
 
‘Oh, I do come from a fertile variety of women, if my father’s words about my
mother is to be trusted.’
 
‘And you would sell yourself like a brood mare? What is your prize in all of
this? After all, I am sure a beautiful eighteen-year-old queen would hardly
swoon over a man in his sixties.’
 
As the sun finally set, and the purple haze of twilight colored the royal
gardens with the shades of violet and rose pink, the queen disclosed with a
smile, ‘Well, that is simple, isn’t it, my lord? I want to play the game of
thrones.’
 
===============================================================================
 
***** A Dream of Dragons *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘When the storm comes and the birds flee, the eagle soars.’
     Sapphira has a dream that makes her question her identity.
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     I cannot seem to stop writing, which is awesome, because you can
     never write enough!
     This chapter is a particularly important insight about Sapphira as a
     character, and this will grow over the span of the story. And since I
     am finally able to attach proper pictures to the chapters, let me add
     a little information regarding the two images I added today.
     The first is a backless milky green dress which Sapphira wears to her
     branding ceremony. This is a particularly strict ceremony that is
     done in Athenos for the past thousand years on every ruler of the
     Athenosi throne, there are more details in the chapter of course.
     The second is the dress that Sapphira wears in her dream. Yes, I do
     realize it is one of the dresses that Arwen wore in LOTR, but it is
     the closest to what I feel Sapphira would wear, especially the velvet
     material of the cloth. Also, the woman who is cosplaying Arwen in
     this picture very closely resembles the Sapphira I have imagined. She
     has the same heart-shaped face, chiseled Valyrian features, and the
     signature Blackthorn sapphire blue eyes and black hair. I hope this
     image helps you get a concrete facial imagery of my OC, and helps you
     relate to the story further.
      
     Now, back to the story, let's begin!
===============================================================================
[Sapphira Branding Backless Dress] [Sapphira Red and Black Dress Dream]
‘When the storm comes and the birds flee, the eagle soars.’
 
Her father’s words reverberate in her mind as she kneels in front of the Many-
Faced God, awaiting the branding ritual. Adrian kneels in a step lower to hers
and further still, she can see the bared back of the maester who was chosen by
the Athenosi citadel, Maester Ronan.
 
She remembers Ronan from her childhood, a slender little boy of ten who
preferred the company of books instead of swords. In her humble bastard’s
quarters, she slept on a bed over his, and spent her nights annoyed and awake
as the candles kept burning for Ronan to keep reading. When they turned
thirteen, the young lad packed his books and sped off to the country’s citadel,
never to be seen again, until her coronation.
 
She had been happy to see her old friend. In a world where she trusted only a
handful, it gave her peace to find a maester she could trust without worry,
especially since he was indispensable to her future plans about Tywin
Lannister.
 
In the corner, her eyes fell upon her commander of her Queensguard, Ser Gerald
Stillwater. He was a man older than she by two and ten years, a man who had
been by her side constantly as she spent grueling nights with an arrow and a
bow, while her dawns were spent practicing swordsplay with the knight. The
memories now made her smile as she awaited the impending pain, her eyes
fleeting to the iron brand of a giant spread-winged eagle heating in the
flames. Two slightly smaller brands heated in companion fireplaces for Adrian
and Ronan, and even if she wasn’t petrified of the pain, she couldn’t help but
cave into the doubts of her palpitating heart.
 
The eagle branding ceremony was held for every ruler of Athenos since the last
thousand or so years. It was a mark of respect and responsibility, for the
Athenosi believed that the sigil of their royal house should not only be worn
in clothes but on their skins too. And now, as she knelt, clad in a near-
transparent green dress, her father’s proud blue eyes gazing at her, she
questioned whether she truly deserved the mark.
 
Her chain of thoughts was disturbed when the archmaester came and spoke, ‘Your
Grace, it is time. It will pain, so please don’t try to hold yourself back. And
whatever you do, please do not itch the mark as the flesh dries in place.’
 
Before she could answer, a searing pain filled her back, as if her spine was on
fire, and the smell of burnt flesh and vomit filled her nostrils. She couldn’t
really remember if she screamed, because soon her ears were bludgeoned with the
screams of Adrian and Ronan who toppled over and retched in pain. Time seemed
to stop, her head felt light, and before her world turned black, her last
thought was—so this is what Sandor felt when his brother melted half his face. 
 
 
 
She woke up when the sun had almost completed his downward journey, her room
gleaming with the saffron of the dying sun. She lay on her stomach, her back
covered in white bandaged cloth that still smelled of dried blood.
 
As she opened her eyes, she saw her father staring at her, worry wrinkling the
corner of his eyes.
 
‘My sweetling, you are awake . . .’
 
‘How are the others?’
 
‘Adrian has awoken, but Ronan still remains unconscious.’
 
‘I feel like such a fool. Vomiting and screaming like some green boy at our
most glorious ceremony, the maesters must think I am an undeserving queen,’ she
spoke, looking away, unshed tears hurting her eyes.
 
‘If they think that, I will put them to the sword myself,’ her father replied,
brushing his hand over her storm of black hair.
 
When she didn’t respond, Victorian continued, ‘Truth is I have always hated
this ceremony. I found it distasteful, and excessive too. Worthy rulers have
succumbed with diseases of the skin after the branding was not healed properly
in the past, the country losing good men and women to a practice that should
have been abolished long ago.’
 
Turning towards him, Sapphira said, ‘But what about traditions?’
 
‘Fuck traditions, my child. Do you love your country? Are you prepared to bleed
for her in the battlefield?’
 
‘Yes, of course.’
 
‘Then that is enough, don’t you think?’
 
‘But this mark is one of pride and duty, is it not?’
 
‘It is a mark of pre-historic old farts who wouldn’t let their stupid
traditions go. I had protested against this branding in my youth, and almost
started a rebellion. Before me, Aemon Blackthorn did the same, some hundred
years ago. The man was dragged to the gates of the temple of the Many-Faced God
and branded publicly by the maesters and the septons while the commoners threw
coins and his own Kingsguard held him down. He didn’t survive the fortnight,
and soon, his Hand, Joanna Blackthorn, took the throne. That woman was almost
as cruel as Rhaenyra Targaryen, and Joanna started a civil war that almost
sacked Starfall to the ground. It was only when her second-in-command, the good
maester Gaemon poisoned her did the civil war meet a natural end. Those were
dark times, my child. And I didn’t want such darkness to diminish the glory of
your reign.’
 
‘What reign, father? I shall soon marry the Old Lion, all for my vengeance,’
she confessed, ashamed.
 
‘We must do what we are meant to do, my sweet,’ her father replied, smiling,
‘If you don’t complete your task, you will never be in peace, and if you aren’t
in peace, you will not be able to rule.’
 
‘And what of my country when I am gone?’
 
‘Your old father still has some healthy bones left in his body, my dear. He
will take care of your country, keep your seat warm, until you return.’
 
‘Thank you, father,’ she replied, holding his hand.
 
‘You are welcome, my beloved. Now rest,’ her father replied, kissing her
forehead, before sleep drifted her away.
 
She was in King’s Landing, and yet, the city seemed different than when she had
last seen it. It seemed . . . older. All around her strange faces moved around,
men and women she didn’t recognize just yet, and yet, they seemed . . .
familiar?
 
When she turned around, her eyes fell upon the Iron Throne, the ugly thing
sitting gloriously in the throne room she abhorred. And then, she heard it. The
scream of dragons.
 
She knew its voice before she realized, she could have known the black-winged
shadow anywhere, surprisingly. Balerian the Black Dread.
 
When she looked down at herself, she was surprised to see her attire. She was
dressed in red and black, the Targaryen colors. Beneath her dress, she could
feel that she had worn breeches and riding boots for a reason she couldn't
fathom just yet. 
 
She walked out of the throne room, and there were guards accompanying her.
 
One said, ‘My queen, the king has arrived.’
 
Queen? Curious, she replied, ‘Take me to him.’
 
She followed the men, and soon she rode a beautiful white mare to the fields,
and there they stood, the dragon and his master, Aegon the Conqueror, his name
coming out of unknown caverns of her mind. 
 
Her breath hitched when she laid her eyes on the king’s face. He was handsome,
no doubt, but there was something inexplicably cruel about those Valyrian
features, the close-trimmed silver hair and the violet eyes.
 
Aegon stared at her for a few moments before he was disracted by the sound of
beating wings. When she looked up, she saw two other dragons, much smaller than
Balerian, and somehow she knew their names too . . . Vhagar and Meraxes.
 
Their riders soon dismounted, and although both resembled one another in their
Valyrian features, there was a stark difference as well. She was surprised how
fast she could recognize them as well. Meraxes’s rider, Rhaenys, she was
sprightlier, a spring in her step as she approached Aegon and pecked his lips.
Behind her came the second rider, Visenya, and she couldn’t help but look away
from the cruelty in her eyes. She could feel the woman’s hate radiating towards
her from miles away.
 
‘Ah, so here she is, the little bastard queen,’ Visenya said, her mouth curving
into a vicious smile.
 
‘I am no bastard, I am a trueborn, just as you are,’ she replied boldly. 
 
'The bastard has quite the tongue on her. Maybe I will cut it in her sleep.'
 
‘Oh Visenya, stop teasing our new sister. She is to bed our brother soon, and
give him strong sons just as we will. Won’t you, Lady Ira?’ Rhaenys
interjected. 
 
‘Yes, Your Grace. As is my duty,’ she said, looking away.
 
Seemingly jilted by the lack of attention towards him, Aegon coughed a little
and she looked up at her ‘husband’.
 
‘Lady Ira, I have a gift for you. You have been a brave princess of your
country. And although I admit I wasn’t looking forward to a matrimonial
alliance with Athenos, I am glad at the way how our fates have turned out,’ the
king announced, smiling and she couldn’t help but notice how he never smiled
with his eyes.
 
Continuing, he said, ‘I apologize for this belated wedding gift. It had taken
some time to procure, what with our old home in ruins and this was the last
dragon egg I could find,’ handing her a beautiful blue-scaled dragon egg.
 
Hitching her breath, she accepted her gift, and said, ‘I thank you, Your Grace.
You have been too kind. But, I don’t know if I can give life to this beautiful
creature. What with my curse . . .’
 
‘I told you this ungrateful tart is undeserving of your gift, Aegon’ Visenya
raged, fire in her Targaryen violet eyes.
 
‘Visenya, enough!’ Aegon exclaimed, making the beautiful woman’s eyes round
with shock as Rhaenys smirked in the king’s arms, and he continued, ‘Lady Ira,
you are the blood of my blood. A true-born Valyrian who survived in spite of
the malpractices committed by the Blackthorns over the centuries, what with
their rampant fornication with the dirty aboriginals of this continent. I have
faith that you shall be able to birth this dragon, and if you don’t, our child
will, once I put a babe in you.’
 
‘I am sure you will do just that tonight, my dear love,’ Rhaenys whispered to
Aegon, loud enough for even the Kingsguard to hear, who snickered behind her,
‘Mayhaps, I will join your marriage bed once you are done with her. I am quiet
curious what a pretty little Blackthorn has to offer.’
 
‘Enough, it is time to go home,’ the king announced, before walking towards his
enormous black beast of a dragon.
 
‘Lady Ira, you shall accompany me to Dragonstone on Balerian,’ he added as an
afterthought, as she followed the Targaryen king towards the black beast, her
spine chilled with fear.
 
After she had mounted the dragon behind Aegon, the king spoke to the dragon in
Valyrian, ‘Vlah,’ and soon they were up in the air, an arm around her husband
 while her other hand securely clutched onto the blue dragon egg, as his
sister-wives followed them on their dragons close behind.
 
She woke up sweating and heaving, the brand's pain shooting up on her back,
while her mind still remained lodged in the sky, some three hundred years ago,
as if she were still in her dream. As she untangled herself from the dreamland
and stepped into her reality, she couldn’t help but wonder what that dream was,
even though her sanity kept repeating that dreams were only an image of one’s
suppressed desires.
===============================================================================
 
***** A Battle of Words *****
Chapter Summary
     "Here in Athenos, we say, we come from the winds, and when our time
     is done, we will return to the soils, because we are all lost souls
     in the end."
Chapter Notes
     Hello, everyone!
     Hope you guys are having a great weekend! I cannot wait for the
     Season 7 finale and I became so anxious that I wrote a chapter to
     calm my mind.
     As you may have observed, Blackthorn costumes are very different from
     the ones in Westeros.
     Men and women are a lot freer and bolder with their lifestyles and
     their clothing, and wearing a sleeveless dress that is not as loose
     fitting as most gowns in Westeros without corsets is not considered
     blasphemous. In a way, their clothing are a lot like the ones the
     Tyrells wear, only with a more Essosi twist (more like Dany's dresses
     at times in Meereen) and the whole feathery touch for their eagle
     sigil.
     The pictures attached today are simple, the first is the hairstyle
     that Sapphira is sporting in this chapter and the second is the
     silvery feather dress she wears when she speaks to Adrian.
     Now, without further ado, let's begin!
===============================================================================
[Sapphira Hairstyle] [Dress front view]
 
Tywin Lannister was a proud man, and with reason. He had regained the dwindling
respect that the lions had from his father’s weak clutches, he had known since
his youth how to put women in their rightful place, and he had managed three
troublesome children to establish his legacy for more than four decades of his
lifetime.
 
And now here he was, commanded by a youngling bastard queen who thought she
could coerce her way into his subjugation with a little wetness between her
legs and promises of strong sons. He would be damned before he was to be
manipulated by a little girl, queen or no, this easily.
As he marched, sure-footed and stubborn as the lion of his sigil, towards the
royal gardens after the daily court was adjourned for the day, he was met by
the old eagle himself, Victorian Blackthorn, busy in his daily debaucheries as
one of his concubines hand-fed him grapes.
 
‘Lord Tywin, I hope you have been finding your stay quiet comfortable? News
from the North say that the wolf has begun his tenure as Hand of the king a few
days prior,’ the former king announced with a smile, feeding a grape to his
whore with his mouth.
 
‘So I have. And here I am, wasting my days in your country while mine needs
me,’ he replied, vexed.
 
‘I think you would find it quiet comfortable, this new state of freedom, at
least for a few more days at least. The gods know I have found the greatest of
pleasures after handing the country to my daughter’s capable hands. She was
born to be a queen, won’t you agree?’
 
‘That shall be a matter that deserves my judgment in the distant future, Lord
Victorian. As for your daughter, I must decline her proposal of marriage, as
flattered I am about it,’ he replied, dismissively.
 
‘Oh, I would ask you to reconsider, Lord Tywin. My daughter can be extremely
persuasive when she has set her eyes on someone. And an alliance with the
eagles would be of your greatest interest, won’t you think?’
 
‘And why would you think that, my lord? Your garrisons are never shared until
the ruler deems so, and your daughter seems to be in no mood of sharing,
especially with the rampant riots that seem to break in your cities most of the
time. Also, a marriage alliance with my son would be a better match instead of
mine, considering her . . . naive age.’
 
‘Oh, which son, my lord? The bodyguard who vowed never to hold lands or have
children or the ugly little imp who doesn’t deserve the dirt on my daughter’s
feet?’ Victorian questioned, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
 
‘Careful, former king. Just because you had a crown on your head a few days
prior, it doesn’t mean I will stand by insults towards my heirs.’
 
‘Heirs, you say? We Blackthorns breed them, literally. And my daughter can give
you heirs too, strong sons who will keep your name etched on the sands of
time.’
 
‘So she promises. But what can a bastard do?’
 
‘Why, my lord, you would almost have me believe that bastards aren’t born with
viable cunts to push out children,’ the whore suddenly interjected.
 
‘What makes a whore think that she could speak amongst two noble men?’ Tywin
asked, annoyed. 
 
‘Because men and women aren’t judged by their ways of life in Athenos, my lord.
Something that your country should learn someday,’ the whore replied, equally
bold.
 
‘Enough, my sweet Mirana. Lord Tywin is not familiar with our strange customs,
so to speak. Don’t tease him, my love,’ Victorian cut through before he could
speak.
 
‘Whatever be the case, coupling with a bastard, queen or no, is beneath me. I
know not where she comes from or the diseases she might carry.’
 
‘In that case, none of us know where we truly come from, do we, Lord Tywin?
Here in Athenos, we say, we come from the winds, and when our time is done, we
will return to the soils, because we are all lost souls in the end.’
 
‘Poetic as that may be, it doesn’t answer my question, my lord,’ Tywin said,
irritated.
 
‘Lann the Clever, wasn’t that the name of the man who raised your house, my
lord? They say he fooled the Casterlys out of their royal seat, establishing
his own house in its place. And what was he? An Andal? Weren’t they pillagers
in the first place? And as far as the history goes, your Lannister line was
built from the female line centuries ago. Do you truly know where you come
from? Or for that matter, do I?’
 
Smiling, Victorian continued, ‘We can sit with pages after pages that tell the
histories of our ancestry, but it will not change the simple fact that we are
only mortals, born to fulfill some grand destiny, or so we would like to
believe, and then perish when the one true god comes to collect his death.
Marry my daughter, Lord Tywin. She is a beauty, with her raven mane and
sapphire eyes, even if she is no match to your daughter’s perfection, or so the
Westerosi would say. But what my daughter has is power, and in these times,
that is all that matters.’
 
‘Do you think I don’t wield power, Lord Victorian?’ the Old Lion challenged,
smirking.
 
‘Aye, I know you do. But do you have enough of it?’ Victorian bit back,
smiling. 
 
 
 
He found Sapphira as she sat by the weirwood tree, the black and gray feathers
of her dress's skirt glistening at her feet while the cape of her sleeveless
silvery gown caressed the milky skin that he had loved all these years. Adrian
loved her, but he loathed her just the same. Loathed her for making him a slave
to her whims, for her absolute indifference as he roamed the cities fucking
half the women he met, for her ability to just smile and make him feel like the
king of the world.
 
As she looked up to him, Sapphira smiled and said, ‘Are you still angry with
me, old love?’
 
‘Yes, I am,’ he sighed.
 
‘Good,’ she smirked, ‘you fuck me better when you are angry.’
 
‘Is that all we are?’
 
‘What else would you like us to be?’ she asked, nonchalant, shutting the book
she was reading with a thump.
 
‘Love?’
 
‘What about love?’
 
‘Haven’t you ever loved me after all these years, Sapphira?’
 
Sighing, she stood and said, ‘Oh Adrian, I would if I could. You are the
closest to love I shall ever feel, and I will burn every man, woman and child
to protect you. Didn’t you see how I just made an enemy out of a great house in
Bravos after I murdered their lord publicly when he wanted me to kill you? If
that is not love, what is?’
 
‘That is possession. I am yours to possess, always and forever. But you are
never mine.’
 
‘And I will not be either, Adrian,’ she interjected, her temper rising, ‘What
do you want from me? Take you to the sept and swear vows of marriage to you?’
 
‘And what would be terribly wrong with that?’
 
‘Everything! You are my hand, my council, and my closest confidant. I expect
your most unbiased of opinions to my decisions. Our child is this very country
we love! And then, you would bring marriage and its ordinariness into its foray
and burn Athenos in the middle? Have you lost your bloody mind? How many times
must I explain that I shall only marry for power? That marriage to me is only a
matter of business.’
 
‘Why must you always be so cruel?’
 
‘Because I am the queen. Because I relegate my personal desires to the lowest
rung when it comes to ruling my country. Because I love Athenos more than I
will ever love a husband or my children—
 
‘You’re a woman, you will never love anything more than your children.’
 
‘And I will love them enough to kill them by my own hands if they turn out to
be anything like Joffrey Baratheon,' she shot back. 
 
‘You can’t.’
 
‘I can and I bloody will. As for that gold-haired midget, that boy keeps
growing crueler by the day. Our little birds send messages from King’s Landing
every week, and the boy is degrading by the day thanks to his whore mother’s
blind affections. I knew he was a rotten fruit the day I saw him at the
capital, all those years ago, torturing innocent animals at the expense of his
sickening joy. If anyone had stopped him then, he could have been saved, and
now, I suspect it is all too late,’ she said, letting out an exasperated sigh.
 
‘What do you plan to do, Sapphira?’ Adrian asked, suspicious.
 
‘Whatever I must. Ned Stark is a fool. An honorable man, but a fool just the
same. And I give you my word that he will not last a whole year in that filthy
city. When he falls, Tywin Lannister will march to the capital as hand, and I
will go with him—
 
‘And what makes you think that it will be that cumbersome old fart who will be
chosen as hand?’
 
‘Who else would it be? Jon Arryn is dead, Pycelle is a smelly old cunt, Varys
will never leave his position as the spymaster and Littlefinger is too sharp to
let go of his inconspicuous position to degrade the court just yet. Tyrion
might, but not until his father still breathes. The other option is to send one
of the Dornish princes to the capital as hand, and since the ruling prince is a
cripple, the only other option left is that hotblooded bastard breeder of a
second son, Oberyn Martell. With his hatred for the Lannisters for killing off
his sister and her children—
 
‘Your father’s children, you mean.’
 
‘Say that again out loud, Adrian, and I will cut your balls off when you
sleep,’ she promised, before continuing, ‘As I was saying, Oberyn Martell is a
wild card, Robert can be a drunk fucker, but he has enough brains still left in
his head to know that trusting the Dornishmen is out of the question, since his
very rebellion and claim is based on Tywin Lannister’s coin and power. But then
again, we won’t have to worry about Robert if all goes well . . .’ she
concluded, smiling viciously.
 
‘I thought the winds in the words said that it is his wife who plots his
demise?’
 
Smiling viciously, Sapphira said, ‘Cersei Lannister is a clever woman,
admirable even, in spite of her sickening proclivities. But she overestimates
her wits. Do you think she plots alone? And whoever be that little voice in her
head, a nameless handmaiden who pities her painful marriage, a maester who
shows her a little tenderness, or a knight who would warm her bed in her
husband’s place, they all speak words that I spin in their mouths.’
 
‘And you have managed to break into the capital’s intricate systems?’ Adrian
asked, surprised.
 
‘What do you think I have been doing in my months at the capital before I left
for Bravos, Adrian? Or what I have been doing since I became queen? Did you
think petty riots were the only thing I have been busy with?’ she smirked, her
face curving like an eagle swooping down to catch her prey.
 
‘And you didn’t tell me a word of this!’ he exclaimed, incredulous.
 
‘I didn’t until I knew that my plans would have any hope of realization in the
near future, and that didn’t happen until Tywin Lannister came to Starfall.
Now, all I need is for that old fucker to accept my marriage proposal.’
 
‘And then what, Sapphira?’ Adrian asked, holding her heart-shaped face in
between his hands, ‘You’ll warm his bed? Suck his withered cock? Birth the
children of the man who murdered your family?’
 
‘Do you take me for a fool, old love? Of course I won’t.’
 
‘What will you do then? You cannot deny him out of your marriage bed?’
 
‘Who said I will? Father always says, your body is as much a weapon in the bed
as it is in the battlefield, use it wisely. And so I will.’
 
Sighing, Adrian caved in and said, ‘I need you to promise me, Sapphira. Promise
me you will be careful. I cannot lose you, I cannot lose my queen.’
 
‘I have no intention of dying any time soon, Adrian,’ she smiled, extricating
herself from his arms.
 
After a while of silence, he looked at her, as she stared at the afternoon sun
that created diamonds on the lake nearby, and said softly in her ears, ‘Will
you come to me tonight, Sapphira? Like the old times, one last time?’
 
‘Perhaps,’ she only replied, before walking away.
===============================================================================
 
***** Fire and Blood *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘Lord Desmont, for your heinous acts against the children of our
     proud country, I, Queen Sapphira of House Blackthorn, hereby sentence
     you to die. I shall execute you myself in the presence of all our
     noble lords, a reminder that every citizen, rich or poor, of our
     glorious nation has the right to be safe under my protection. Bring
     me the block!’
Chapter Notes
     Hello, everyone!
     I am still reeling from the Season 7 finale! So many revelations!
     And in that happiness, I wrote a mammoth of a chapter! It is longer
     than the ones I have written till date, and I promise things are only
     going to get more interesting by every chapter henceforth!
     This is the first chapter that basically shows why I gave the
     "EXPLICIT" rating, and I hope I have done justice to the situations I
     have created in this chapter.
     Back to a little information about Sapphira's dresses:
     The first one is a red flowing dress with an intricate jeweled neck
     that she wears to meet Adrian.
     The second is the dress she wears in the dream sequence, a blue one-
     shouldered silk dress. One-shouldered dresses are a signature of
     Blackthorns, a design that has survived to the present setting of
     Athenos.
     The third is a feathery cape yellow gown that Sapphira wears to the
     royal court. Cape gowns are going to be a running costume in this
     story, because Sapphira's choice of dress in her country when she is
     in court are caped gowns. However, they will metamorphose with
     further intricacies as the plots move forward.
     The fourth is an image of Sapphira's twin Valyrian steel swords.
     Anyway, enough with my ranting! Shall we begin?
===============================================================================
[Sapphira Red Dress] [Sapphira Dream Dress] [Sapphira Cape Gown][Sapphira
swords]
 
She stood at his door, a vision in red that glowed in the gold of his candlelit
quarters. The flair of skirts swished as the robe-like dress with its jeweled
neck glimmered along the whiteness of her skin, making the beautiful veins
underneath color a pale green when she arched her neck towards his direction.
 
He couldn’t help but smile, letting the book he was reading drop at his feet.
She raised an eyebrow in question, her black storm of a hair, unadorned with
any intricate braids, falling on the sides of her face and swan-like neck.
 
‘You are a vision,’ he breathed.
 
‘I know,’ she replied, smirking, ‘Get used to seeing me in red, Adrian. The Old
Lion is proud of his house colors, and if I intend to have him wrapped around
my fingers, I would need more of gold and red on my skin.’
 
‘Please, not tonight. Don’t speak of him tonight,’ he said, walking towards her
and kissing her lips soundly.
 
He could feel her indifferent as his lips brushed hers, not wanting to open her
mouth to him just yet, and suddenly she gripped him by the hair on his neck and
forced him to open her neck to her. With a smirk, she delved into a spot on his
collar bone, licking and teasing him as he sighed through his lips, before she
bit him ruthlessly, making a moan escape his lips.
 
Coming closer, she whispered in his ears, ‘I am your queen. You have no right
to kiss me until I decide you can kiss me, my lord.’
 
‘As my queen wishes,’ he could only offer in reply, as she moved him towards
his bed and ripped off his tunic, throwing it on the ground.
 
She was there in Dragonstone, and for some reason she could recognize the
island’s castle, even if she had never set foot there in her entire life. The
woman she had recognized as Rhaenys played with her pile of black hair,
intricately braiding them into confusing patterns. Sapphira was dressed in a
one-shouldered cerulean blue silken dress, the material falling like cascading
waves on her right shoulder, and when she tried breathing, it hurt as the
golden belt beneath her bosom felt a little too tight.
 
‘Today, we shall share our husband, sister. It is your duty to please him, is
it not?’
 
‘It is, Your Grace,’ the woman she was in the dream replied, looking away.
 
‘Oh Ira, you must stop calling me “Your Grace”! And I was jesting, the act of
coupling is as enjoyable to a woman as it is to a man. Sure, the first time
will hurt, but since he has already taken your maidenhood on your wedding
night, I am sure this time it will be enjoyable. Also, word to the wise, my
sweetling, my brother likes it rough,’ she whispered seductively, biting the
edge of her ear and making her blush.
 
‘Oh look at you! Blushing like a maid with my teasing, maybe I will have more
fun with you than I expected, little Ira!’
 
‘Rhaenys, enough. Aegon calls for his new bride,’ Visenya said at the doorway,
appearing out of thin air.
 
With trepidation, she cloaked herself with a velvet royal blue cloak and walked
to the elder queen, as she led her to their husband. When they had reached the
door, the queen turned towards her and whispered, ‘I hear you have a tight
hole. I’ll enjoy your screams tonight.’
 
‘You’ll not hear me scream,’ she replied, softly, irking the elder queen before
she opened the door and walked away.
 
Her husband was dressed only in his breeches, his golden Targaryen crown lying
listlessly on a table nearby. He took a sip of the Dornish red and spoke, ‘My
lady, I will not take much of your time for I have important matters of the
realm to handle after.’
 
‘I will do my duties as you please, Your Grace,’ she replied, looking away.
 
‘Good, as you should. Now, go and lie on the bed.’
 
Heaving a sigh, she walked to the huge bed in the middle of the room. Letting
her velvet cloak fall with a soft thud on the floor, she lay on her back on the
bed, feeling all too small for its size.
 
‘No, not on your back. Bend on all fours,’ he corrected, his voice grating.
 
‘Your Grace?’ she asked, shocked.
 
‘You heard me, woman. On all fours, now. You wouldn’t want to anger your royal
husband now, would you?’
 
‘No, Your Grace,’ she whispered, before turning on her stomach and bending on
all fours like a bitch in heat.
 
He walked behind her, and soundlessly lifted the skirt of her dress, moving his
roughened palm over the back of her thighs before pulling at her small clothes.
 
Ashamed, she bit her lips, swearing not to cry, no matter what awaited her.
 
‘You Blackthorn women, always dressing like whores in your flimsy cloths and
expecting the men to fuck you like highborn women,’ he huffed, ripping the last
of her small clothes with one last tug.
 
His hands left her then and she knew he was untying his breeches. With one
rebellious look behind her, she watched him pull out his swollen member, and
with his palm wrapped around it, he led it towards her womanhood.
 
With his free hand, he pulled her closer by her waist, tearing the silk of her
dress beneath the golden belt, the harshness of its sound impregnating the
silence of the room as only the fireplace crackled with the remaining embers of
the burning wood.
 
With one rough push, he invaded inside her most private place, letting his
manhood wrap around her to the hilt. With both his hands holding her in place,
he started pushing inside her, each stroke deeper than the one before, and set
into a rhythm.
 
It wasn’t painful, not really. Not as painful as her wedding night, which for
some inexplicable reason she remembered perfectly, when he had tried taking his
time to moisten her womanhood with wet fingers before he lost interest and
fucked her unceremoniously. Now she only felt like a raped woman would,
pillaged, filled and still empty, and nothing. She bit her lips to stop herself
from making a single sound, only letting some moans out when she couldn’t
control herself. Her husband kept grunting behind her with every stroke, and
suddenly, he gripped her hair with his left hand, pulling her close to his
face.
 
‘You like it, don’t you? Being fucked like a whore? Say it, say it now,’ he
whispered huskily in her ear.
 
Stubborn, she looked away from his vile words, concentrating on the last sounds
of the crackling fireplace, when all of a sudden, her husband hit her on her
butt cheek, hard. It took all her self-restrain not to scream in pain then. 
 
‘Say it, woman!’ he almost roared.
 
She was sure it will leave a mark the next morning, and caving in only for the
dwindling hope for this invasion to stop, she replied, ‘Yes, I do.’
 
‘Louder.’
 
‘Yes, I do,’ she repeated, raising her voice.
 
‘Tell me what you like, now!’
 
She looked away, the unshed tears pricking like pins in her eyes, as she tasted
blood in her mouth from her all-too bitten lower lip. Finally, she said, ‘I
liked to be fucked like a whore, Your Grace.’
 
His movements became erratic then, and she was almost relieved that her torture
was finally ending.
 
With one final push, Aegon moaned, whispering, ‘Rhaenys,’ before he was spent
inside of her.
 
When he was done, he moved off of her immediately, as she still remained, bent
over the bed, seed and other fluids seeping from between her legs and on the
inner edge of her thighs.
 
She rose up, and walked to the chamber pot, cleaning herself between the legs
with a cloth, before pulling her torn dress down on her legs. 
 
When she was about to leave, her husband said, glowering, ‘You will come to my
bed chambers tomorrow night, my lady. You will come every night until I have
put a child in you. Now, send in my sisters. Say their husband called.’
 
Nodding her head, she walked out, closing the door behind her, her tears now
drying on her crimson cheeks, while her hair resembled that of a thoroughly
ravished woman. Yet she couldn't help but feel a remaining pride that she
hadn't screamed, not once. 
 
She woke up at dawn with a start as Adrian lay sleeping soundly in her arms.
Looking down, she stared at his slumbering face, a smile on his lips. And in
that moment, she couldn’t help but burn in envy as he had the luxury for seeing
a sweet dream and all she ever had were nightmares. Sighing, she extricated out
of his arms and cloaking her naked skin, she collected her dress and walked to
her royal chambers.
 
 
 
It was morning and the daily court was in full swing when her eyes fell upon
the Old Lion. Brooding, he stood amongst the nobles beside her father, whose
proud eyes glistened a beautiful shade of blue as he gazed at her with a smile.
 
News had reached about Ned Stark’s workings as the hand. With a bittersweet
afterthought, she couldn’t help but feel pity at the brutally honest man who
would soon meet his end for his foolish honor. Years before, she had loathed
the man for not saving her family from the lion’s clutches. It was only with
her father’s kind words that she had regained her respect towards the silent
wolf again before she met him at King's Landing when the Greyjoys rebelled. To
this day, she couldn’t shrug the happiness she had felt when he had watched her
with pride in his eyes after she had returned from Pyke’s night siege on the
Blackthorn fleet. She still suspected that he knew who she really was, but even
that realization came with the cost of knowing that her birth parents hadn’t
even bothered to love her enough to give her a name. It was only Victorian who
had loved her infinitely, and named her Sapphira, after her sapphire blue eyes,
before he had handed her over to the Greys, hoping that she would finally have
a chance at normalcy, only to have his hopes squashed by the lion’s claws.
 
When the affairs of the state was managed, the final verdict of the day came—a
noble sentenced to death for raping a twelve-year-old peasant girl. His wife
and son stood beside him, begging her to pardon his crimes, but not only the
man had had a horrible reputation at court for raping young girls, but also her
dream from the night before had put her on edge regarding her views of rape.
She rebuked herself to not let her emotions bleed into her decisions, but the
nod of acceptance from Adrian and the royal maester Ronan had sealed the man’s
fate.
 
With one final sigh, she declared, ‘Lord Desmont, you are brought to the royal
court for your heinous crimes against innocent young girls. You are charged
with raping ten underage girls without their consent. How do you plead?’
 
‘Your Grace, those whores asked for it. I swear! Look at that little bitch now,
she has her eyes downcast because she is too ashamed to admit her lust,’ the
lord announced, pride still running deep in his flesh.
 
Before she spoke, Adrian announced with an almost innocent smile, ‘Lord
Desmont, if you use another vile word in the presence of our queen and the
honorable court, I swear by my honor as a Blackthorn, I shall rip your tongue
out myself.’
 
Turning, she spoke to the trembling young child, ‘And you, child? What do you
say? What happened a sennight ago?’
 
‘The lord had come asking for my father for me, Your Grace. When my father had
protested against his orders, he had put a knife to his throat and taken all
our harvest alongside me—
 
‘Lies! Vile lies this whore speaks!’ Lady Desmont shouted, as her sixteen-year-
old son looked away.
 
‘Enough!’ Sapphira roared, ‘One more word without my permission and I will burn
every last Desmont myself, and may the gods be my witness, NO ONE can stop me
from passing my sentence. The child speaks the truth, I can see it in her eyes.
And if she was the only victim who complained, I would have still given Lord
Desmont the luxury of my faith, for your house has long served us Blackthorns.
But she is not the only peasant girl who has come forward after your vile acts
upon her. There have been other complaints, from young boys and girls of your
debaucheries and the maesters have already inspected every victim.’
 
Her words shocked the noble lord, and she couldn’t help but smile viciously as
his act crumbled into pieces when the truth fell out.
 
‘Lord Desmont, for your heinous acts against the children of our proud country,
I, Queen Sapphira of House Blackthorn, hereby sentence you to die. I shall
execute you myself in the presence of all our noble lords, a reminder that
every citizen, rich or poor, of our glorious nation has the right to be safe
under my protection. Bring me the block!’ she announced, rising from her golden
throne and picking up her twin swords that stood on either side of her throne.
 
The executioner brought the block and as the guards held the lord down, while
the Queensguard walked down from the steps to hold back his deliriously
screaming wife and surprisingly silent son, she walked down the steps, her
sunlight yellow feathered gown gleaming in the daylight as the dress’s cape
swished behind her, her hands tightly gripping her Valyrian steel swords.
 
When she reached the now-crying lord, he looked up to her face and begged,
‘Mercy!’
 
‘There is no mercy for debauched cunts like you, Lord Desmont,’ she only
responded, before putting the two blades on either side of neck and cutting
across his head, blood spurting from it into her skirts and on the floor.
 
Turning around, her swords still dripping the blood of the dead lord, she
addressed his son and ordered him to come forward.
 
The trembling boy approached her, terror in his eyes.
 
She announced, ‘Aaron Desmont, son of late Balthazar Desmont, I, Queen Sapphira
of House Blackthorn, hereby announce you as the new lord and patriarch of your
noble house. Kneel, my lord.’
 
Surprised, the boy knelt at her feet, and with her twin swords, she anointed
the adolescent as the new patriarch, the blood of his father coating his
leather doublet, before he rose.
 
With a determined gleam in his eyes, he took out his sword from his scabbard,
immediately putting her Queensguard on edge as Ser Gerald Stillwater placed a
protective hand on his sword’s pummel.
 
The new lord then announced, ‘I am honored by your proclamation, my queen. My
father was a criminal and I have no way to deny his crimes, especially since I
have been the witness to some. I hereby pledge my loyalty to you, now and
forever, and pray that your reign be long and glorious,’ kneeling once again at
her feet as his mother fainted. 
 
With a smile, she only said, ‘Rise, Lord Desmont. May the gods be with you.’
 
When she walked up to her throne again, she let her swords stand by her sides
once again, the blood dripping beneath and coloring the marbled floor a deep
red.
 
Before she could dismiss the court for the day, Lord Tywin marched to the
center of the court, the curious eyes of the nobles on him as her father raised
an eyebrow in surprise.
 
‘Your Grace, I have seen your rule in my days at Starfall and I am proud to
have witnessed your glory first hand. You are truly an eagle, born to be a
queen of Athenos. I hereby announce that it would be my utmost honor to call
you my royal lady wife, if you would still accept me as your lord husband,’ he
proclaimed, his deep-set wildfire eyes gleaming with pride.
 
As the court broke out in surprised chatter, she rose once again, and smiling,
she announced, ‘The honor is all my mine, my lord. I look forward to our
marriage in the presence of the Seven Gods in the near future,’ making the
court break out in applause at the impending wedding.
===============================================================================
 
 
***** A Royal Wedding *****
Chapter Summary
     Most women who hated their prospects of marriage to the man they
     loathed hardly remembered the ongoing customs of their weddings. They
     breathed their vows like lost waifs, chanting lies they didn’t know
     of, and greeting guests they wouldn’t remember. Sapphira was not most
     women.
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     Phew, this was a long chapter to write! And what a power struggle to
     get the right words, especially when I had to add so many elements in
     the same place!
     Now, as for the chapter, the narration undulates from dream sequences
     to the present, and yes, I finally got the right wedding dress for
     our queen Sapphira! Hours of Pinterest searches and finally the work
     showed fruition.
     Anyway, as for the images attached today:
     The first one is a red and black gown that Ira (in the dream) wears
     to Aegon's court in King's Landing.
     The second is a one-shouldered silken Blackthorn dress that she wears
     in the dream while walking the capital's royal gardens.
     And the third is of course her wedding gown for Tywin and her
     marriage.
     Now, without further ado, let us begin!
===============================================================================
[Sapphira KL court dress] [Royal Garden Ira dress] [Sapphira Wedding dress]
 
She never had had the chance to run free as an innocent child would in a garden
full of roses and bougainvillea when she was younger, and the memories of her
days in the Grey Keep before the siege were only like lucid images in her worst
nightmares now. As she sat on the steps by the shimmering lake in the royal
gardens, its waters reflecting the moonlight on its undulating waters, she
couldn’t help but feel the tremor of an old ache, like a jab of pain had hit
her innards, when she remembered one of Rubius’s toothy grins.
 
Before long, her reveries were broken by the sound of oncoming footsteps. When
she turned around, she saw the Old Lion towering two steps over from where she
sat.
 
With a smile, she rose from the steps and ushered the Lannister patriarch to
the eagle-carved wooden bench near the lake.
 
When they had settled themselves, she spoke, ‘My lord, how may I be of help?’
 
‘Your Grace, grave news come from beyond the Narrow Sea. Daenerys Targaryen is
with child, and the king appears to be distressed with the news. Stark’s tenure
as hand is tumultuous, to say the least, and I have no news about my son
Tyrion. I would prefer if we could increase the pace of preparations of our
impending marriage, for I suspect the wolves aren’t up to the most honorable of
schemes.’
 
‘Tyrion, you say?’ she asked, curious, ‘I am almost surprised that you are so
protective about the son you hate.’
 
Visibly uncomfortable, the Old Lion said, ‘It is not the question of hate, Your
Grace—
 
‘Please, my lord. We are to be married soon. So I would prefer you call me by
my name instead of my title,’ she interrupted, smiling.
 
Moving a few inches closer to the proud lion, she placed her hand on his
grizzled paw, and entwined her fingers in his, before saying, ‘After all, “Your
Grace” is quite the mouthful when you will fuck me again and again on our
marriage bed, as I lie spreadeagled under you, don’t you think so?’
 
Shocked, the proud lord turned towards her face, and said, ‘You have quiet the
mouth on you, little eagle.’
 
‘Oh, you haven’t even tasted it yet,’ she smirked, closing their distance as
she kissed him soundly.
 
His lips were papery, coarse to the touch, until he opened his mouth, peeking
his tongue to invade her own, before she nibbled the edge of his lower lip
softly. Possessively, he raised the hand that rested on the ledge of their
bench to hold a pile of her intricately braided hair, moving her closer to his
person. A viewer would think this was a kiss of love, of passion and longing.
But the participants knew the truth, theirs was a kiss of dominance, of war and
promises.
 
When they untangled of one another, he smirked, saying, ‘So the stories of
Athenosi women are true, they area passionate lot regarding the matters of the
flesh.’
 
Not missing a beat, Sapphira replied, her lips curving in a smirk, ‘Don’t fret,
my lord. I’ll be gentle with you, at least for the first time,’ before she
stood up and walked away, leaving the lion of Casterly Rock to the
ministrations of his mind.
 
 
 
The court was bustling with the chatter of a hundred nobles as her husband
walked into the Throne Room, she and his sister-wives following close behind as
his Kingsguard led the way. All three of his wives were dressed in Targaryen
colors, colors of blood and darkness. And yet, Visenya and Rhaenys were clad in
breeches, their silver heads gleaming with their crowns, while she dwindled
further behind in a gown, her mouth painted a deep stain of red from a paste of
flowers, trying to make the least noise and being as inconspicuous as possible,
her uncrowned head not raised.  
 
The Iron Throne stood at the far end, majestic and deadly, the swords jutting
out like Death’s weapons waiting to take your life at a moment’s notice. And
yet, her husband walked swiftly towards his seat and settled himself on the
throne. When he set his hawk-like violet eyes on the court, it fell into a
silence by his sheer presence and she couldn’t help but admire his persona, no
matter the memories of his nighttime proclivities.
 
A handsome noble came forward and bent the knee to her husband. His head was a
shock of golden hair that twinkled like a lion’s mane as it caught the
sunlight, his emerald orbs for eyes shining as he looked up to Aegon.
 
Clearing his throat, he announced, ‘Your Grace, I am Jason of House Lannister,
the firstborn son of Lord Alden Lannister and the new Warden of the West. I
have come as the new member of the Small Council to serve as your Master of
Coin and I hope I shall be of service.’ Turning, he then bowed to her husband’s
three queens who stood on the steps beneath the Iron Throne, Visenya, Rhaenys
and finally, her. When his eyes fell upon her face, she couldn’t help but gaze
at him a little longer than propriety would allow, his golden visage like the
sun itself, making her lips part in wonder.
 
Her husband spoke then, ‘Lord Jason, I welcome you to my court and I hope you
shall be of loyal service to my golden reign. These are my three wives, my
first and the wisest, Queen Visenya, my second and my most beloved, Queen
Rhaenys and my third, Ira.’
 
It wasn’t only her who had noticed how her royal husband had not even bothered
to call her a queen in the presence of his court, dragging her dignity to its
last shreds.
 
Smiling, the new Master of Coin once again bowed, his eyes inexplicably
lingering on her face, before he joined the nobles in the throne room.
 
The dream then drifted further still, images swirling and overlapping upon one
another before it stuck to what must have been the royal garden of the Red Keep
some three centuries prior. She was walking amidst rows of blooming red
amaryllis, her flowing gown almost a similar shade of crimson, its skirts
fluttering at every step as the winds blew her raven mane like waves crashing
on the banks.
 
When she turned, her hands gripping on to a handful of fallen flowers, she was
surprised to see the Master of Coin standing at a little distance, smiling
warmly at her.
 
‘Your Grace, may I say you look exquisite today. I never knew you liked flowers
so much, I would have had my men brought some of the best from Lannisport
myself.’
 
‘I don’t like picked flowers, Lord Lannister,’ she only replied, turning away.
 
‘You are unique, my queen,’ the man suddenly said in wonder, making her look up
at him in surprise.
 
‘I am nothing, my lord. Only you are too kind,’ she corrected, walking towards
the steps that led to the most beautiful view of the Narrow Sea.
 
As she stood looking at the sea, she spoke, knowing the lion stood behind her.
 
‘I have always wanted to be a traveler. Set sail on a little ship and see the
world. See the Titan of Bravos, wear those bold dresses in Qarth, perhaps even
visit the ruins of Valyria, see where my ancestors truly come from,’ she said,
smiling at the surprise evident on his face.
 
‘You must think why a wife of Aegon the Conqueror should want to go anywhere,
when she has it all. To someone else, my words may even sound like treason.
That I must be some rotten queen who is ungrateful for all her gifts and wishes
to escape her golden fate.’
 
‘My queen, I—
 
‘You can call me by my name, if you like, my husband and his court hardly think
I am any queen,’ she interrupted, a mix of bitterness and longing in her voice.
 
‘You will always be my queen,' the man said, making her look at him in
surprise, and added, 'But, may I ask why the guards do not follow you? You must
be protected.’
 
‘Protected from what?’ she asked.
 
‘Well, from any attacker of course, Your Grace! You are too important.’
 
‘You don’t need guards to protect monsters, my lord,’ she said, looking him in
the eye and holding out her hand as an knife-shaped icicle formed on her palm,
its edges sharp enough to cut through bones.
 
‘What is this. . .’ the young lion said, dumbfounded.
 
‘I told you, my lord. I am the monster. I don’t need guards. People should be
afraid of me instead, I am the danger,’ she said, bitterness scathing in her
voice, before she dropped the flowers and walked away.
 
 
 
 
It had been twenty nights since that dream, and yet, it still lingered in the
depths of her memory more often than she would prefer to admit. The face of the
golden-haired man would not leave her either, those beautiful emerald green
eyes boring holes into her soul as she lay on her enormous bed, while sleep
escaped her clutches. In the meantime, since her last conversation with the
Lannister lion, things had moved ahead relatively smooth, with eagles being
sent to carry the wedding invitations instead of the slower ravens. Noble
guests had appeared from both Essos and Westeros, laden with jewels and gifts
of many a kind, to appease the taste of the queen and her husband-to-be.
Members of the great houses had arrived too, except for the houses Stark and
Lannister, and she couldn’t help but be a little relieved at the notion of not
having to face the lions and the wolves in the same place, just yet.
 
The Baratheon brothers had declined too, Robert the drunk too busy guzzling
wine out of a whore’s tits she was sure, while Stannis brooded in some dark
corner in Dragonstone. The younger Renly was in between a marriage alliance
with the Tyrells and hence was unable to come.
 
Amidst the willful roses, however, Mace Tyrell and the Lady Olenna had come to
her wedding. She couldn’t help but wonder how a woman so sharp could ever push
out a bumbling oaf of a man such as Mace Tyrell from between her legs. She had
met the Queen of Thorns since her arrival at Starfall, and although she could
see through the woman’s ambitions of playing the game with her tart tongue, she
admired her fire. There was something extremely entertaining about a good
wordsplay every now and then.
 
Speaking of games, the prince Oberyn and his paramour Ellaria had graced her
wedding too, and it had taken most of her father’s hours to keep the Red Viper
separated from the Old Lion. It was known all over the kingdoms about the bad
blood between the Lannisters and the Martells, but she had no intentions to
bank on that hatred just yet, especially when the treasuries were bled with the
preparations of the wedding.
 
Thankfully, Adrian had seen sense when she had rebuked him for the excess in
finances a week ago and decided to use the gold far more scrupulously. She
could feel his bitterness towards her decisions, but then again, Adrian was
always a smaller man, passionate and talented with a sword and on the bed, yes,
but lacking the insight required to have the greatest of ambitions. And as much
as she regretted to admit the truth, she couldn’t help but resign herself to
the fact that she no longer loved the man. Yes, in her younger years, she had
felt infinite passion towards him, and this lasting tenderness shall forever
stay in her soul, but she could not deny her feelings towards him,the golden
lion, not anymore, not after that dream in the royal gardens. And although she
had relegated those emotions to a dark corner since her blunders in the
Westerosi capital a few years ago, the memories of stolen kisses and wistful
touches inside the Red Keep still stayed branded in her mind.
 
As she sat mulling over these thoughts, Mirana busily working on her face with
a pinch of dusted pollens that she softly colored her cheeks with, Sapphira
couldn’t help but admire the woman in the reflection. She was dressed in the
traditional gold and white bridal gown that Blackthorn royalty wore. The bust
and the neck of the gown were intricately designed with patterns sewn in gold
thread, and where the collars met, there dangled a beautiful golden topaz just
above her breasts. The skirts of the dress were simpler in case of patterns,
but they were inflated, and flowed to her feet until a trail remained at her
wake. Her maiden’s cloak lay by her side, the velvet blue and gold material
glistening as the sun shined off of the material, and she couldn’t help but
feel a strange pride to be wearing Blackthorn colors to this marriage, even if
it was a glorified farce.
 
There was a knock on the door and one of the women opened the lock to welcome
the former king himself. Looking up from the mirror, she smiled at the man whom
she called her father and was surprised to see his face cave in with emotions.
 
‘My child, you have grown so much,’ he said, walking to her, and kissing her
cheek, ‘Will you please leave me for a moment with my daughter, my ladies?’
 
At his words, the women followed in a trail behind Mirana and walked away,
shutting the door behind.
 
Caressing the strands of her hair, her father continued, ‘You are so brave.’
 
‘It must be done, Father. It is the only way I will accomplish my goals, and I
think it is time us Blackthorns played the game as well.’
 
‘Blackthorns have been playing the game since Aegon sat on the throne three
centuries ago, my little love,’ her father said, smiling.
 
At the conqueror’s name, she couldn’t help but remember her dreams, and a
shiver ran down her spine. Quickly, she said, ‘Yes, we have. But we were
cleaning the pigshit that the Targaryens left in their wake than actually doing
anything on the stage. You told me the stories, Father, how we sent an assassin
to make Maegor the Cruel bleed to his death on the Iron Throne, how we had
given the deadly scorpion poison to kill Rhaenys and her dragon in the First
Dornish War, or even how a Faceless had slipped the small amounts of poison
every night to slowly murder Aegon IV the Unworthy. Our history books are a
little different from the ones the Westerosi read, after all,’ she concluded
with a smile.
 
‘Yes, my child. Our histories are far more intricate than the once woven like
fairy tales to please the children in our neighboring kingdoms. But it has a
price too; only with the utmost subtlety has our kind ever changed the course
of fate all too many times, and maintained the balance of power as the dragons
grew more and more bloodthirsty.’
 
‘And now the dragons are gone, the Beggar King Viserys is a pathetic worm. The
rules of the game has changed, and now, if we have to rule, we have to use
words instead of drops of nightshade. If we plan to play our strings, we have
to be subtle but not at the cost of mere assassinations, though I promise you
that deaths shall happen,' she replied, smirking viciously. 
 
‘Of course there will be. And so you marry the Old Lion . . .’
 
‘And so I marry the Old Lion, because in spite of all the subtleties and
swiftness of dispatching your enemies with a knife to the heart, sometimes you
need to sit on a chair and watch people talk, talk enough to know their skills
and their flaws.’
 
‘Any particular man you have in mind?’
 
‘The Spider is there . . .’
 
‘The Spider is faithful to us, fret not, sweetling, for he only wishes the good
of Westeros, and as magnanimously foolhardy as the man’s ambitions may be,
there is something almost admirable in him. Sometimes I think bringing him to
Westeros was one of the best decisions I made.’
 
‘Well, then that is settled. I already have an almost-ally in the capital, and
I am marrying the most powerful man in their country. Now it is only a matter
to gather my wits, and I think I shall be armed to face my battles,’ she said,
rising up to walk to the door.
 
Her father offered his hand, and together, they silently left her chambers, her
maiden’s cloak affixed to her shoulders, and walked to the Great Sept.
 
 
 
Most women who hated their prospects of marriage to the man they loathed hardly
remembered the ongoing customs of their weddings. They breathed their vows like
lost waifs, chanting lies they didn’t know of, and greeting guests they
wouldn’t remember. Sapphira was not most women.
 
She remember her proud steps as she walked up to her husband, his eyes
glimmering green with lust. She remember her false vows as she stood spewing
lies of love and honor in the presence of the Seven Gods, and she remembered
the possessive kiss he placed on her lips, his paws wrapped around her waist as
the Lannister cloak rested on her shoulders like an anvil’s weight upon her.
 
When the wedding ceremony was over, the dinner commenced in the Great Hall and
soon the guests were bustling with chatter, heavily invested on their drinks.
Her father smiled proudly at her, and she knew she would burn the worlds down
to make him remain as proud of her as he was in that moment. Adrian slunk in
the corners, choosing the presence of whores instead of speaking to her, only
coming to offer his congratulations to the newly weds once, before walking
away. The Queen of Thorns had offered her tart words too, something about her
husband’s performance in the marriage bed tonight, and she had smiled and said
that if his kisses were any proof of his passion, she wouldn’t be disappointed.
 
Afterwords, her husband had offered his arm to begin their first dance as a
couple, and when he twirled her in his arms, he whispered, his voice a rumble,
‘We have come a long way, my lady.’
 
‘Aye, we have, my lord. If I remember, it was in this hall that I took a
promise from you. And now, here you stand, fulfilling that. You are more
honorable than half the men I know in your country.’
 
‘And you are hardly like any subservient woman I have seen in my lands as well.
It is my pride to call you my wife, little queen.’
 
Smirking, she came closer to her husband and whispered to his ears, ‘Oh Tywin,
there are no women like me. You will soon realize that.’
 
‘I am starting to,’ he had only answered, before retiring to their tables.
 
When the newly weds had had a light dinner with some wine, followed by her
father’s toast, an intoxicated Prince Oberyn came by, followed closely by
Essosi nobles, in the hopes of a bedding ceremony.
 
Her husband was visibly irked as the prince said, ‘My queen, you would enjoy me
undressing you, now come! Let us begin!’
 
‘There shall be no bedding ceremony, Prince Oberyn,’ she replied, and added
with a smile, ‘And if you so much as touch me without my consent, my prince, I
will carve your manhood and stuff it down your lover’s throat.’
 
With that, she rose up, inclining her head towards her husband to ask the same,
the crowd breaking out in cheers for the newly beds, as they walked to
consummate their marriage in the royal chambers.
 
As she walked with Lord Tywin in the hallway, her commander Ser Gerald
following close behind, the face of the golden-haired Lannister visited her
mind again, and in that moment she was sure of two things in her life—she would
win the game of thrones at all costs, and Jason Lannister was the spitting
image of Jaime Lannister, her husband’s favorite golden son.
 
===============================================================================
 
***** The Journey Begins *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘The only one who needs protection is our enemies, Tywin. And even
     that will not be enough,’ she replied, smirking.
Chapter Notes
     Hello, everyone!
     I am floored by the kudos! Those little hearts drive me to write a
     chapter every day! It is like that sweet dollop of chocolate after a
     tiresome day, so thank you so much!
     This chapter starts where the previous one left off, and then goes on
     to have scenes about several changing situations.
     I have three images for today, and they are as follows:
     First is the white cloak and night gown that Ira (in the dream) wears
     to meet someone.
     Second is the red and gold velvet gown that Sapphira wears to her
     Small Council meeting and to meet Tywin afterwards.
     Third is the image of the pipe she smokes from while conducting the
     Small Council.
     A note here, Sapphira shall remain a Blackthorn. Although House
     Lannister is one of the Great Houses of Westeros, Sapphira is
     royalty, and as such, she doesn't have to change her surname, similar
     to how Cersei never became Cersei Baratheon.
     Now, without further ado, let us begin!
===============================================================================
[grey cloak] [red gown] [pipe]
 
Tywin Lannister held pride in resembling the visage of his house’s lion. She
could see it in those green eyes as they stood in her royal quarters now, the
fireplace crackling with the pieces of burning wood.
 
Gallantly, he walked to the table where two glasses stood beside a flask of
Dornish Red, and poured the crimson liquid. Afterwards, he walked in
silence towards her and offered a glass, before taking a sip from his.
 
Taking a sip of the wine, she said, ‘So, here we are.’
 
‘And here we are,’ he agreed, before keeping his glass on the table and walking
to her.
 
He towered over her, his hands could envelop her soft feminine palms with only
a touch, and placing a chaste kiss on her forehead, he spun her around, swiftly
opening the buttons to her wedding gown.
 
She should have felt disgusted to have the hands of her family’s murderer on
her skin, but years of resilience amidst her training had made her hardened to
feeling any form of weakness. She knew a single flinch would alert the lion,
and heaving a sigh, she let herself fall into the act of enjoying the eventual
coupling.Taking a second sip, she sighed into his touch, as the wedding gown
fell open, pooling at her feet, before her husband placed a kiss on her
pulsating neck.
 
‘My lady—
 
‘Say my name, my lion,’ she corrected.
 
With something of a rumble from the depths of his throat, the Lannister lord
said, ‘Sapphira . . . I have been widowed for years. And I can never give you
the seat I had given to my Joanna, but I shall try to do my duties as your
husband, and I expect the same of you.’
 
Naked and golden to the light from the fireplace, she turned towards him. ‘I
have no intention of taking the place of Lady Joanna. I have heard only the
kindest of words about your late wife, Tywin,’ she ventured, saying his name,
‘but I plan to make my own in your life. This union . . . as much as it is of
convenience, I plan it to be one born of passion and trust. And I know I could
only expect that respect from a levelheaded man such as you. Any man in your
place would have ravished me by now, only resulting to what might have been an
unfortunate incident of having his member severed after.’
 
At her words, her husband cocked an eyebrow, smirking. She realized that would
be the closest she would ever get to a smile from the proud lion in
his lifetime, and for now, she would make do. Bolder, she caressed his
roughened side burns and brought his head closer to hers, before encumbering
his lips in a passionate kiss. There was something deeply erotic about being
naked in front her worst enemy as he still remained fully clothed in his shiny
leather doublet and breeches. Nudity was a woman’s weapon, if only she learned
how to wield it carefully.
 
Smiling, she then invited him to her bed, and as she lay down, he hovered over
her, a dark prowling predator over her body, before he begun placing kisses all
over her skin.
 
When his mouth reached her womanhood, she was surprised at the hitch on her
breath, like some naive maiden. Her husband seemed to like it, and as he
invaded her private place with his tongue, flicking its tip on her pearl, she
no longer let her moans remain inaudible as she held his mouth in place with
her hand, her fingers gripping on to his golden mane.
 
When she finally screamed with delight at her first peak, he unhooked his
breeches, letting his swollen manhood free before plunging inside her in
steadfast strokes.
 
The pleasure heightened as he kept his uniform pace, and she could see his
self-restrain as the veins in his forehead thickened while he mumbled some
expletives about how her cunt was supposed to be glorious. She couldn’t help
but smirk at his words, and before he knew it, she had flipped them around.
 
Surprised, he looked up to her smiling face, her hair now a forest of raven
curls that drew silhouettes around the bedchamber. Riding his manhood with a
faster pace, she took her pleasure as her husband continued his ministrations
with his fingers on her pearl.
 
Before long, the world collapsed into a singular atom of nothingness as her
climax came over, as if a bonfire blazed upon her skin. Her husband soon
followed her and with a few grunts spilled his seed deep inside her.
 
They didn’t speak afterwards, letting the bliss of the act wrap them in a
comfortable silence. Afterwards, he laid the furs on their bodies as she lay
embracing him, a hand on his massive chest. Sleep came soon after.
 
 
 
She was walking on the serpentine steps of the Red Keep. The castle was eerily
silent, and she realized it must have been well past the hour of the wolf, at
least. Looking down, she was surprised to see she was only clad in a gray cloak
and a flimsy excuse of a silken night dress. Letting the dream take her to her
destination, she let any form of control go, and became the woman she was
supposed to be in the dream. Ira . . . that had been her name.
 
Ira walked along the many doorways until it took her far away from the royal
quarters and now she stood at a foreign door. Placing a soft knock, she stood,
waiting. It opened a few moments after, its hinges creaking, making the sounds
echo in the silence of the night, only to reveal a sleepy Jason Lannister
standing on the other side. He was dressed simply, only wearing a creamy tunic
and loose breeches, his golden hair disheveled from sleep.
 
Silently, Ira walked into his chambers, standing near his bed, her spine as
stiff as a rod.
 
The man spoke first. ‘My queen, why are you here? Is there any urgent business
that needs attending to? Are you well?’
 
‘You can stop calling me “my queen” after I have visited you like some nameless
whore in the night, my lord,’ Ira fumed.
 
‘Your Grace, this is not appropriate. I have no desire of soiling your
reputation at my expense. May I escort you back to your chambers?’ the man
persisted.
 
‘No, you may not,’ she replied.
 
‘Then how may I help you, Your Grace?’ he asked, a little exasperated.
 
‘I need you to stop calling me “exquisite” or “beautiful” every time you see
me, my lord. I am neither of those,’ she only offered.
 
‘Your Grace, I apologize if my words have offended you. I meant no harm.’
 
‘You don’t understand!’ she cried out, before remembering their precarious
situation, ‘It is not that I do not enjoy your words, my lord. It is just that
these words are wasted upon me. For they are all lies, I am neither beautiful
nor exquisite, I am scarred, an ugly monstrosity,’ she explained, before
letting her cloak fall to her feet and removing the cotton ribbons on her waist
that held her dress in place.
 
Soon, she stood in nothing but her small clothes, her breasts in full view to
the Lannister lord, making the man stare at her in shock.
 
When she looked down, she herself felt a jolt run through her spine. All along
her skin, there were marks, as if some rabid creature had ravaged her. There
were reddish claw marks on her bosom, and on the underside of her breasts. Twin
marks on either side of her waist, as if someone had bent her over and gripped
her all too tight bloomed with a repelling red. The insides of her thighs had
several marks, as if they had been bitten and bled repeatedly, and her collar
bones appeared to have been branded with something that eerily resembled a
dragon in mid-air.
 
When she looked up, she could feel the pin pricks of unshed tears hurting her
eyes.
 
Jason Lannister walked towards her and she involuntarily flinched at his
movement, making him stop himself immediately.
 
Before long, the tears were falling, and she was mumbling incoherently in what
sounded like a painstaking confession.
 
‘He hurts me . . . every night, he hurts me. He bites, he claws at my skin and
he has made me this ugly little witch. He says this is all I deserve, because I
am a monster. Because witches who can wield ice like me deserve only the worst.
And now, I am with his child! And I know I should be burned for what I am about
to say, but I cannot swallow this truth down anymore! I don’t want this child,
I DON’T! I don’t want to give him an heir, because he will turn it into the
monster that he himself is the second it is born. I should be burned for my
words, I am a woman, motherhood should make me happy, but I cannot, I cannot .
. .’ Ira mumbled, before crumbling on the floor.
 
Slowly, with the most reticent of steps, Jason Lannister walked towards her, as
if she were a wounded bird. When she looked into his green eyes, a silent
understanding came to pass, and he picked her up like she were his bride, and
laid her on his bed.
 
He didn’t speak, only brought a chair close to her and sat down, brushing his
fingers through her hair, never even letting his eyes fall upon her naked skin,
not once. Sighing at his ministrations, she let sleep conquer her.
 
When she woke up at the crack of dawn, the light filtering into his chambers,
Jason sat fast asleep on the chair nearby, his hand still entwined in her hair.
With a tremulous smile, she rose up, not wanting to disturb him and dressed
herself in her clothes before she walked to the door.
 
Before she unlatched it, she turned around, staring at the still sleeping man,
and walked up to him, placing a soft kiss on his lips.
 
He woke up to the touch of her lips immediately, and without the senses and
responsibilities that their waking identities held, he held her softly by her
hair and deepened the kiss.
 
When they untangled of one another, she only whispered, ‘Thank you’ to which he
smiled and replied, ‘You may belong to my king, but I have loved you from the
moment I laid my eyes upon your face on that throne room all those months ago,
my queen.’
 
‘What an unfortunate pair we make, Jason,’ she replied, his name falling from
her lips, as if it were some forbidden fruit.
 
‘Unfortunate indeed . . . Ira,’ he breathed out her name, before kissing her
once again, their sinful passion lingering in between.
 
 
 
She sat at the head of the Small Council chambers, Adrian sittingopposite her
on the other end of the table, her mind still lingering upon the images of her
dream last night.
 
When she had awoken at dawn, Tywin still lay slumbering in her arms. Silently,
she had extricated herself from his arms and walked to one of the shelves on
her table, quickly removing a few leaves of tansy that she added to her morning
tea that her handmaids had left a few moments ago. Swiftly making a concoction
of the moon tea, she had drunk it all in a few sips, making her mouth crunch in
distaste. Satisfied, she had then disposed of any evidence of her treachery,
and walked in to her bathing chambers. Sapphira would be damned before she bore
a single heir for Tywin fucking Lannister.
 
Now as her Hand glared at her, she couldn’t help but smile at his pathetic
self. If only Adrian understood a fractal of what she was capable of.
 
Turning, she set her eyes upon her Small Council. Her father sat to her right,
while the four council members sat to her left.
 
‘So, what is the situation of our country? For starters, I want a detailed
account on the expenses that the treasury has made for the royal wedding in my
quarters by sunset, tomorrow. In no account shall any of the members here will
borrow a single coin from the Iron Bank, and any man who does so shall taste my
swords. Are we clear, my lords?’
 
Her Master of Coin spoke up then. ‘Your Grace, the treasury has suffered a
loss, but nothing that cannot be recovered in three months, at most. I would
suggest to levy further tax on the peasants.’
 
‘And I would suggest to skin you alive, but we cannot have whatever we desire,
Lord Maran,’ she bit back, angered at the very thought of putting further
pressure on the common folk as the winters were upon them.
 
‘My child, how shall we recover the finances then?’ her father asked,
surprised.
 
‘Lord Tywin has kindly agreed to share the expenses of the wedding with
Starfall. He shall pay half of the finances in gold dragons within a sennight,
no debts of course, for he has profited as much as I have from our union. The
Lannister ship shall soon come bearing the coins, and upon it, I shall begin my
expedition to Westeros with my husband.’
 
‘How kind of your husband, Your Grace,’ Adrian quipped annoyingly. 
 
‘Yes, I am quiet grateful to all he has given me. Now, if my Hand has finished
with his rather pathetic attempt at humoring me, I would like my spymaster to
tell me of the news in Westeros,’ she announced, turning towards Lord Aron, her
favorite spymaster.
 
‘Your Grace, news has it that the king on the Iron Throne has met with a rather
unfortunate hunting accident with a boar a few days ago,’ her spymaster
divulged, smiling, ‘News from the east comes bearing that before he was
injured, the king had sent an assassin to murder Daenerys Targaryen, but she
had been saved by Ser Jorah of House Mormont.’
 
‘Ah, so the old bear has been shifting loyalties, how very naughty of him,’ she
smirked, taking a generous puff from her pipe, ‘As for Robert, this was bound
to happen, won’t you say, Father? After all, the man has his hand inside a
skinned pig’s when it isn’t inside a whore’s cunt.’
 
‘It is a sad eventuality indeed, my daughter,’ Victorian agreed with a knowing
smile.
 
‘So what? Who sits on that thrice-damned throne now?’ she asked.
 
‘That’s simple, Your Grace. The Silent Wolf shall, and considering him, he
won’t last very long,’ Adrian explained.
 
‘A sad notion indeed, but one which cannot be changed. What news of the dwarf
Lannister? I remember my husband being a little tense since his son’s
whereabouts are currently unknown. The last I heard, he had gone to piss from
the Wall with Ned’s bastard.’
 
‘As far as I can gather, Your Grace, he has been arrested in the Riverlands for
attempting to murder Bran Stark by Lady Catelyn. He is in the Eyrie now,
awaiting judgment from young Robin Arryn,’ Lord Aron said.
 
‘You mean that mad cunt Lysa, right? That is a worrying situation indeed. If
Tyrion dies, Tywin shall sack the Riverlands and then murder every last man,
woman and child in the Vale. If he doesn’t, he will still sack the Riverlands,
just to prove why he is called the Lion of Casterly Rock,’ Sapphira reckoned,
worry cringing her eyebrows.
 
‘So, what shall you have us do now, Sapphira?’ her father asked.
 
‘For now, Father, we shall do nothing. Let my husband think he has the greatest
control over every changing situation. Either way, we profit from whatever
happens to the Imp. A war between the Starks and Lannisters will leave the
capital open to . . . foreign circumstances,’ she said, smirking viciously.
 
‘There is also more troubling news, Sapphira,’ her father warned, ‘the crown
owes more than six million gold dragons to your husband, and that is not
enough. Even the Iron Bank has a stake to that claim. The king’s . . . habits .
. . were unprecedented in the past years, it seems.’
 
Mulling over his words, Sapphira said, ‘That is good, very good. A financial
void in the heart of the capital will be most interesting for us, especially
since winter is fast approaching. If the maesters are correct, it shall be a
long winter indeed, and the crops from the Reach will not be enough to feed the
thousand mouths in the country. In this situation, the best course of action is
to make sure our peasants save as much crop as possible. Make sure the news is
spread through all of Athenos, saving livestock and harvest is of the utmost
importance now. The excess in our capital has to be controlled as well. I shall
not tolerate any more bloody feasts for the nobles, and if any of those lechers
rebel, you have my permission to throw them in the dungeons until they see
sense.’
 
‘A swift action, but a harsh act such as that will make you have more enemies
at court, Your Grace,’ Adrian added, thoughtfully.
 
‘I know, but these nobles should know who they bent the knee to. I have had
enough of tolerating their excess lifestyles. I can bear that sort of nonsense
in the summer years, but winter will be cruel, far crueler than I am. If we do
not save for the near future, we shall never be the survivalists our ancestors
were. Also, I have a certain idea regarding the stocking of food . . .’
 
‘And what might that be, sweetling?’ her father asked, curious.
 
‘It is simple. The Northerners are honest fools, but they are survivalists to
the core. If my intuitions are correct, they will begin saving their crops
soon. We need to strike first. When winter comes, the Iron Bank shall come
claiming its debts, so will my husband for that matter. The only way he shall
not is if he becomes the Hand of the King . . . soon. Taxes will be increased
of course, and food from the Reach shall keep coming until a certain limit, and
considering the lavishness of those debauched nobles in King’s Landing, even
that will not be enough. The Westerosi crown shall ask for our crops and
livestock then, and of course we shall give them all we need,’ she said, and
then added with a smirk, ‘only at three times the price.’
 
‘And will they pay?’ Adrian asked.
 
‘Of course they will, and if not, they will die of starvation. But before that,
the common folk will slaughter every last fucker in the Red Keep. The crown
itself may perish, or at least suffer a terrible blow. Maybe we shall have a
replica of the Dragonpit massacre all over again,’ she revealed, smiling.
 
 
 
When she reached her royal quarters, her husband was standing on the balcony,
looking over the royal gardens underneath.
 
At the sound of her footsteps, he turned around, his expression grave.
 
‘The Lady Stark has taken my son, Sapphira,’ he revealed.
 
‘How did that come about?’ she asked, feigning shock.
 
‘Yes, the details are irrelevant at the moment, and as much as I disapprove of
Tyrion, what with his debauched proclivities towards wine and whores, I won’t
let the Lannister name crumble to the ground. Men cannot think they can take up
arms against lions and survive. They need to be shown their place. I must march
to the Riverlands and assemble my armies. The Northerners will answer for their
crimes,’ he explained, furious.
 
She walked up to her husband then, the velvet skirts of her intricately
designed full-sleeved crimson and gold gown trailing behind her, as if a trail
of blood itself. Reaching him, she let her palm rest on his cheek, bringing her
close to him and kissing him deeply.
 
When she let go of his lips, she said to him, almost whispering now, ‘We are
the greatest predators of our lands, sweet husband. You are the lion that
prowls the forests and I, an eagle who soars in the skies. Smaller men who
think they can rise against us shall pay for their crimes, and we shall watch
their heads rotting on the spikes of Casterly Rock, together. Do what you must.
But know this now, and forever, Tywin, I shall never leave your side. We shall
set sail in three days itself, upon one of my ships. They say Blackthorn ships
are the fastest, second only to the Greyjoy fleet. We shall reach the Neck and
from there we shall ride to the Riverlands, together, on our strongest horses.
Send a raven to Casterly Rock, send it to your brother. Tell him to assemble
your armies in the Riverlands. We shall march to the North together and
slaughter every last one of our enemies. I shall give you a thousand of my best
garrisons, after all, the whole of the Known World knows that a thousand of our
men can bring a Great House to its knees. We shall find your son, and the
wolves will know what happens when they make enemies out of lions.’
 
‘I thank you, Sapphira. But this is war. What shall you do in the midst of army
camps?’
 
‘I am a battle-worn strategist, Tywin. You shall need me. So I will be damned
before you can ship me off to Casterly Rock!’ she exclaimed, irritated at his
doubts.
 
‘Forgive me, my lady. Of course, you will come with me. And I promise, I shall
protect you with all my power,’ he surrendered after a few moments of
thoughtful silence, his eyes crinkling with a hint of a smile.
 
‘The only one who needs protection is our enemies, Tywin. And even that will
not be enough,’ she replied, smirking.
===============================================================================
 
 
***** The Eagle and the Kingslayer *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘You mean that?’ she had asked, dumbfounded.
     ‘Of course, not! Didn’t you hear? I am the oathbreaker, the
     Kingslayer, my words are wind, girl. And I will butcher you from cunt
     to brains, if you so much as raise your sword at me again,’ he had
     promised.
Chapter Notes
     Okay! So a big chapter today.
     Today we meet Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, himself.
     Word to the wise, the relationship between Jaime and Sapphira is no
     way simple. It is quiet twisted, to say the least, something that
     drives their characters and frames their personalities towards each
     other. As you read, you can see the intricacies of their
     relationship.
     As for the image today, it is the blue silken dress Sapphira is
     wearing in the Lannister army camps when she meets Jaime. Personally,
     it is one of my favorite costumes for her, and it has the typical
     Tyrell cut in its design, only it is made with Blackthorn silk,
     rather than the usual heavier High Garden counterpart.
     One more note, I have edited a few words in the previous chapters.
     The basic information of the editing is the following:
     Sapphira lends a thousand of her garrisons to Tywin, and it is said
     that a thousand of Blackthorn armies can bring down a Great House
     (Stark, Lannister, Baratheon, Tyrell etc).
     Now, without ado, let us begin!
===============================================================================
[Sapphira Blue Dress]
 
Even in the heart of war, the Lannisters knew how to appear as nothing less
than royalty, she would give them that. After their journey to Westeros, her
husband had set up his camps in the Riverlands, while news had it that he was
secretly commanding the elder Clegane to pillage its lands. The thought of that
mountain of a man didn’t send shivers down her spine like it used to in her
younger days, but the memories of Rubius’s butchered corpse appeared in her
mind instead. It wasn’t the sight, not really, but the smell that made her want
to retch, of blood and opened flesh and broken bones lying scattered, as if on
display for the rest of the world to see what a young boy of six was made of.
 
Reluctantly, she forced her mind towards merrier thoughts, and with a pathetic
smile she realized she was a quiet the popper when it came to having happier
memories. There were only a handful, mostly shared with her loving father, the
one man who had saved her, loved her, taken her as his own, even when she was
not his blood, far from it. If history was any witness, she had the blood of
his worst enemies running through her veins, the blood of dragons, dragons who
had despised the eagles and their strength of mind that let them continue to be
a sovereign land in spite of their three centuries worth of so-called golden
reign.
 
Before she had left for the Neck on her ship, she had shared her dreams with
her father. And the dark look of discomfort, followed by his sigh of
resignation, had irked her immensely. It was not often that Victorian
Blackthorn could be made to feel any form of discomfort regarding any
situation, especially not about fucking dreams, but he had appeared exhausted,
old even.
 
She remembered his grave words however. ‘When you return, my sweet child, I
will tell you everything. But first, you must commence this journey by your
own. See where your dreams take you, do not try to control them, not ever. Do
you understand? You will feel pain, sorrow, mayhaps you will wake up in tears
and screams even, but you are my most resilient, my strongest child, and you
will survive. This was an eventuality that I could never escape, but it will
lead you to your own emancipation. Remember Sapphira, there are things far
greater and inexplicable than what we understand. Always embrace every
possibility with an open heart, and you will win.’
 
Steeling her nerves, she now sat at her tent, her fingers caressing the
beautiful pleats of her newly made southern dresses. They were a tad ancient
for her preference, having grown amidst a culture where women weren’t expected
to wear clothes that would humble them or cripple them, instead of embracing
their sexuality. Fleeting, her mind went towards Adrian’s brown eyes, so filled
with loss and wrath, the last time she saw as she waved from the deck of her
ship. She realized she could not trust him anymore, and it only made her fall
upon an extremely brittle situation, one where a ruler could not trust her
Hand. ‘Enemies everywhere,’ she muttered in irritation.
 
Her mind mulls over dark thoughts, sweeping in between the past and the
present, and that is when she is interrupted by the soothing voice of her most
trusted commander, Ser Gerald Stillwater. Of all the people who would stab her
in the back, Gerald and her father were the only two exceptions in this rotten
world. And that made her breathe in relief, for a moment at least.
 
‘My queen, Ser Jaime Lannister is here to see you,’ he announced, making her
stifle her surprised gasp, before her signature smirk fell in place.
 
‘Send him in,’ she replied.
 
Ser Gerald let the curtains open, and welcoming her guest, he left the pair to
their devices.
 
‘So the news is true, you really did become my father’s whore,’ he announced,
irritated. 
 
Lighting her pipe, she spoke after taking a puff, ‘Speaking of whores, how is
your sister, the most benevolent queen of Westeros?’
 
‘I can cut you down with my sword for your words, Sapphira,’ the lion warned.
 
‘You can try, Jaime. And I think “Mother” is more appropriate, considering our
most interesting circumstances,’ she corrected, placing a hand on one of her
swords.
 
They stood, each on the other end of her royal tent, studying one another,
counting seconds while waiting for the opponent’s move.
 
And then it happened. It was only a blur, and her hair was tangled in his
fingers, and his teeth were leaving bite marks on her neck, as a gloved hand
came up to squeeze one of her breasts. There was no kiss, why would there be?
It was impure, sinful, wild, controlled only by sheer lust, and something else,
something that the two predators would never name.
 
When he lets go of her, she sees the guilt in those familiar green eyes, the
ones that have haunted her dreams and her months in King’s Landing. Theirs is a
secret that not even the queen has any right to ever have a whiff of.
 
‘You cripple me, woman. Every time, every fucking time I see you and you change
the man I am. How . . .?’ he asks in wonder.
 
‘Maybe because I am the only woman who does not take your bullshit,
Kingslayer,’ she replied, smirking.
 
‘Say that name one more time, and I will fuck you inside this tent right now,
gods be damned if the armies and my father hear your moans,’ he threatened.
 
‘Kingslayer . . .’ she repeats, whispering in his ears, biting his earlobe
slightly. 
 
Before she knows it, she has the flimsy skirts of her cerulean blue dress
lifted, and ripping open her small clothes, Jaime removes the glove from his
hand and jabs one coarse finger inside of her. It takes all her self-restrain
to stifle her moan, even though she is sure that Ser Gerald hears her anyway. 
 
‘Always so fucking wet, like a whore,’ he breathes in her ear.
 
‘You talk a lot, Jaime. For once, be silent and fuck me,’ she replies, biting
the skin of his neck, the only place in his body that is not covered in the
gold and red of Lannister battle regalia.
 
He makes a noise, something between a rumble and a roar, and swiftly frees
himself with his other hand, before pushing his manhood inside her soaking
cunt. There are no words, only the sounds of loveless rutting, skin upon skin,
and their moans and grunts filling in the silence.
 
This has been them since she was sixteen. The first time she had seen Jaime
Lannister, with his golden mane and a near-perfect face, she was only a girl of
twelve, yet her hands were still bloody from her siege at Pyke. She had not
known who he was, only stared at the golden lion and almost lost herself in
those green eyes in the midst of battle.
 
It was only when the victorious troops had returned to the Red Keep, that she
had come to know who he was, and what it truly meant. Ashamed at her weakness,
she had practiced swordsplay all through the night with some of the knights in
the castle until she had almost unleashed her ice and slaughtered the lot. It
was only when Ser Gerald had come that she had been able to restrain herself
from losing all control. The next morning, as she had stood in the Throne Room,
with the drunken king uttering grand words about how some girl child could
surely not be as talented with a sword as the others promised, she had looked
at him in challenge, only to be surprised to see the admiration in his eyes.
 
The next time they had met, she had been practicing with her sword, taking
three knights at a time. He had only stood there, watching her like a hawk,
until he excused the younger knights and drew his sword.
 
‘Care to try your luck on the Kingslayer, little girl?’ he had challenged.
 
She had only smirked, and said, ‘If you die today, Kingslayer, it would be
quiet the shame,’ before beginning the familiar dance of swords.
 
She had lost, of course. In her enthusiasm to defeat the son of her most
hateful enemy, she had given into her passion, and lost her sense of strategy.
Soon, he had her pinned to the ground, sword to the throat, and she couldn’t
help but shed a couple of tears in her shame of loss.
 
Later, the knight had come to visit her as she sat, her eyes still red-rimmed,
on the practice yard.
 
‘You gave me quiet the challenge, little eagle,’ he had offered.
 
‘But I couldn’t kill you, could you?’ she had blurted.
 
‘Is that what you want? To kill me?’ he had asked, surprised.
 
‘I want to kill all my opponents. Someday, I will be queen. You see, I haveto
be queen. And a true queen is invincible,’ she had explained.
 
‘One day, when you become queen, I will lay my head at your feet, and you can
kill me if you still want to,’ he had replied with a smile.
 
‘You mean that?’ she had asked, dumbfounded.
 
‘Of course not! Didn’t you hear? I am the oathbreaker, the Kingslayer, my words
are wind, girl. And I will butcher you from cunt to brains, if you so much as
raise your sword at me again,’ he had promised, before walking away.
 
The next time they met, it was four years later, and she had been sixteen.
 
She had been assigned to her father’s Blackthorn emissary in the court so that
she may learn the politics that resided in that ugly capital. Her stay had been
longer than, almost three months, before she sailed for Bravos to become a
Faceless assassin.
 
Her memories of those three months are bittersweet. Her mornings were filled
with her mock fights with him, and in the evenings, he would somehow find her,
spending hours talking about everything under the sun as the days waned into
the nights, with her earning the rabid raging eyes of the queen. In the nights,
he would never come, choosing to be in his quarters, until one night, she
secretly followed him to his chambers, only to find him rutting into Cersei
with no care about the world. Her world had shattered then, as if something had
crumbled inside her. She was glad he hadn’t found her little voyeur incident,
for he would have surely murdered her, or truth be told, she would have
unleashed ice and slaughtered him in retaliation.
 
Their encounters had decreased after, her shame stopping her from even looking
at him, until one day, he had asked what had gone wrong.
 
She had only asked, ‘If someone ever murdered every person you had ever loved,
will you pay him the same debt? Will you slaughter his family like your father
slaughtered every last Rain for one man’s crimes?’
 
He had not answered her that day, and a week later, on the night before she was
to sail for Bravos, he had visited her chambers and confessed, ‘I have always
hated that song. Sons shouldn’t have to pay for their father’s crimes, does
that answer your question, Sapphira?’
 
She had only smiled, walking towards him and placing a slender hand on his
cheek, before she pulled him closer for a kiss.
 
‘What are you doing, little girl?’ he had asked, shocked.
 
‘Please, please . . . please don’t deny me tonight. I shall never see you
again. Give me this one gift, this one last memory, please?’ she had begged.
 
He had not answered her, only choosing to make love to her in silence. He had
been surprisingly gentle, so very different from the man she had found rutting
into the queen. The next morning, he had left her at the crack of dawn, and
when she woke up to an empty bed, she had allowed herself the luxury of crying
to her heart’s content.
 
Now, as he stood rutting inside her, as if he wanted to convince that she meant
nothing to him, she let him believe in those delusions. Because she knew, she
knew as he spilled inside her, her name on his lips, that he had meant only
her, only her, when he had made love to her that summer night when she was
sixteen.
 
Now, when the act was done, Jaime couldn’t so much as look at her. As she
stood, her hair in an absolute disarray, her legs begging to crumble her onto
the ground, her silken blue gown almost in shreds at his invasion, and his seed
leaving sticky remnants in the inside of her thighs, she knew what it felt like
to be a whore. With a single nod and a last glance, he gloved his hand, and
left her chambers when the strumpets alerted Tywin’s return from his stag hunt.
 
Ser Gerald found her a few moments later, her strength crumbled as she lay on
the ground. Silently, he picked her up, as if she were some pathetic broken
bird, and placed her on her bed, before drawing the furs upon her.
 
‘Is it done?’ he asked after.
 
‘Yes, he spilled inside of me,’ she replied, looking away.
 
‘Isn’t that what you wanted, my queen?’ he ventured.
 
‘Yes, I did. I did. I would rather have the Kingslayer’s children than that of
his hateful father’s. But why does it hurt so much? How do whores survive once
the men leave them, fucked and withered on an empty bed?’ she asked.
 
‘They survive because men have been experts at hiding the single-most painful
truth from the world since the dawn of time,’ he said.
 
‘And what truth is that?’ she asked.
 
‘The fact that women are a thousand times stronger than men can ever hope to
be,’ he replied, before leaving her to guard her tent.
 
 
 
Later that night, when Jaime and the Old Lion sat on opposite sides of her at
the table, dining upon the stag that Tywin had hunted, her husband revealed
that he had offered five hundred of her men to Jaime, alongside half his armies
to meet Robb Stark in battle. Her husband seemed unusually displaced upon his
golden son for leaving Ned Stark alive, expressing his disapproval at his lack
of indifference towards men beneath them.
 
When she had retired to her chambers after dinner, her husband excusing himself
to attend to further military duties, Jaime had come by to her tent.
 
‘Are you here to fuck me again, Jaime?’ she had asked.
 
‘I have come here to apologize. What happened this afternoon was a mistake. You
are my father’s wife, I should not even look at you,’ he said, turning away.
 
‘Ties of family never stopped you from fucking women before,’ she said,
scathingly.
 
‘You . . .’ he began, incredulous.
 
‘Yes, I know you fuck your sister. I have known so since I was sixteen. And I
am quiet positive that Bran Stark’s crippling had something to do with it. Tell
me, Jaime, how did it feel like to almost kill a ten-year-old? Did it make you
feel more a man?’ she asked, taking a sip of her wine.
 
In only a moment, he had his greatsword out, pointing straight at her.
Something broke inside her as she noticed that he did not so much as flinch
when he walked forward to hold the blade to her throat.
 
Steeling her nerves, she said, ‘It seems you are quiet looking forward to
explaining your father exactly why you slaughtered his new bride when she had
just allowed half of her garrison to accompany you in battle. Or better yet, do
you want the entire army and fleet of Athenos at your doorstep, as they come
avenging their queen?’
 
Rising up, she let her hand grip the blade, letting her blood stain on the
steel. ‘Believe me when I say this, Jaime, you are walking on thin ice here. Of
course, you can butcher me like Aerys, add “Queenslayer” to one of your titles,
but right now, I am the only one standing between your victory and the
abolition of the Lannister name. SO PUT THE FUCKING SWORD DOWN,’ she almost
shouted, the force of her voice surprising him.
 
A moment later, he sheathed his sword, and walked to the curtains separating
her tent from the outside. Before he walked out, he said, ‘You are the cruelest
woman I have ever had the misfortune of meeting.’
 
When he was gone, she sat down at the edge of her bed, letting the wine drown
her despair, as she whispered, ‘Oh Jaime, you clearly have no idea what your
sister is capable of.’
 
That night, she saw no dreams of Jason Lannister. The memories of Jaime
Lannister invaded her dreams instead, giving her a fitful sleep.
===============================================================================
 
***** Prelude to the Battle *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons, Greyjoys . . . cut them open and all
     you see is a sack of flesh wrapped up on a pile of bones,’ she
     replied, before turning around and touching Ser Gerald’s cheek with a
     pale hand. ‘The only family I know is my father. The only protector I
     know is you. And the only loyalty I shall forever keep is the one
     towards our country. The rest of the world can burn in hell.’
Chapter Notes
     Hello, everyone!
     I am back with a new chapter and right now, the sequence of events
     are following the events of Season 1. I am shall be trying to keep
     the same pace of timeline in the canon, but things will be slowed or
     paced after some chapters to fit into the plot of this story. I shall
     mention this beforehand as it happens, so that it would not be hard
     to follow up to the story.
     I got some LOVELY comments today! And thank you so much for them! I
     am so happy, cause comments are the equivalent of ice-cream after a
     tiresome day, while the kudos are the cookies I live for!
      
     Anyway, from this episode onwards, Sapphira will be wearing more
     conservative gowns that better fit into the Southern customs, and
     although the desgins are not the exact copy of the ones Cersei and
     the others wear, they are much more medieval in design than the ones
     she wears in Athenos.
     The first image for today is the Southern-styled gown she wears. It
     is of Lannister colors, and this pattern of the dress shall recur
     henceforth.
     The second image is obviously the Lannister pendant that she wears
     now as the Lady of Casterly Rock.
     A note here, Sapphira, being the queen, is not bound to share her
     chambers with her husband, especially in the midst of battle and war
     camps. Hence, they have separate Blackthorn and Lannister tents as of
     now, to symbolize that both the houses are going to war against House
     Stark together.
     Now, let us jump in!
===============================================================================
[red gown] [necklace]
 
Tyrion Lannister was not particularly happy. Here he was, triumphant from his
trial by combat at the Eyrie, thanks to his rather ignominious friend and
sellsword Bronn, and now his beloved father was adamant on sending him to the
literal wolf’s mouth at Green Fork, surely on the behest of his new wife.
 
Of all the things that could never surprise Tyrion Lannister, his father’s
decision to remarry was definitely not one of them. Tywin Lannister was a proud
man, and his love for Tyrion’s late mother was known throughout Westeros, the
only woman who could have made this stoic man smile. After all these years, why
he would agree to remarry was a question indeed, especially when Tywin had
always been a stubborn devout when it came to checking the lineage of a person.
 
Blackthorns, with all their glory and gold, had quiet the reputation of having
their lineage from anywhere, from a whore’s to the queen’s. With all the lion’s
pride of his father, how he could have agreed to marry Sapphira Blackthorn,
queen though she was, astounded him.
 
Mulling over such thoughts, he approached his new “mother’s” tent, the word
leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, before he was stopped at its gates by
a tall, rugged man with dirty brown hair, the color of dried leaves, with a
pair pale green eyes.
 
‘Lord Lannister, my queen is currently engaged with some of her prior
engagements. I must ask you to return some time after,’ the man announced, his
voice rather stoic.
 
‘Oh? And must I be so haplessly driven away from meeting my mother, Ser
Whatever-Your-Name-Is?’
 
‘It is Ser Gerald, and I am sure familial niceties can wait until the battles,
my lord. If you so wish to see your new mother, then you can see her in battle
soon once the troops march to Green Fork.’
 
‘So the rumors are true? My mother is quiet the fighter, I hear?’
 
‘If you mean that she can cut open a man from balls to brain and see what he is
made of with just a dagger, than yes, the queen is “quiet the fighter”,’ the
knight explained, irritated.
 
‘Ah, and what does that make you for her, kind Ser? Her bodyguard or her
admirer?’ Tyrion pushed.
 
‘I am the Lord Commander of her Queensguard, and speaking of admirers, I would
be careful about that female companion in your quarters, my lord. We wouldn’t
want your dear father to know who she really is, would we?’ the man asked,
smirking.
 
That was when a raven-maned, blue-eyed beauty exited the tent. Sapphira
Blackthorn lacked all the feminine softness that adorned most Southern women,
something which he had had the pleasure of enjoying in his years. Instead, she
was all sharp angular jaws and full lips set underneath a sculpted nose. Her
eyes were deep set, making the sapphire of her eyes hauntingly exquisite. Her
hair framed her heart-shaped face, falling in tumbling waves upon her waist and
beyond. She was dressed in Lannister colors, her velvet dress something of a
Blackthorn version of the southern gowns, only with more intricate patterns
rather than the robed corset gowns that his sister wore. But what surprised him
the most was the gold lion necklace that rested on her bosom, its gold chain a
stark contrast on the woman’s pale white throat. This woman had clearly made
her place in the Old Lion’s life.
 
‘Lord Lannister, or should I call you Tyrion, my lord? Afte all, you are my
son,’ Sapphira asked, her pink lips curving in a smirk, ‘I couldn’t help but
overhear your words. I see you have already met my Lord Commander and sworn
shield, Ser Gerald. And as for your question, no, he is not my admirer, but my
teacher instead. In my younger years, he was the one who taught me how to wield
a sword. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, will you accompany me in my walk along the
camps?’ she gestured as she walked ahead.
 
As the duo walked, many a men bowed to the woman, her very presence demanding
the respect that a queen deserved. Yet, try as he might, Tyrion could not brush
off the sense of danger that radiated from the woman. Taking a momentary look
at Bronn, he knew his companion thought along similar lines. Sapphira
Blackthorn, he decided, was an enigma he would very much like to unravel.
 
Out loud, he spoke, ‘Tyrion would be just fine, Your Grace.’
 
‘Then “Your Grace” would never be fine, Tyrion,’ Sapphira replied, smiling
somewhat magnanimously, ‘We are family now. We must brush away the
formalities.’
 
‘As you say, my lady. I hope your travels down south haven’t been particularly
uncomfortable? An army camp is no place for a queen. If you wish, I can speak
to my father to help you settle in more comfortable circumstances.’
 
‘Have you ever wondered what a marvelously consecrated land this is? The
Trident, the river that watched as Rhaegar Targaryen died, and some distance
ahead, the Ruby Ford, where the rubies of his breastplate had fallen. Have you
ever wondered how grand it must have been, to be remembered even in the most
intricate details of one’s death? To have a life that glorious, that history is
remade by your stupidity,’ Sapphira asked, all of a sudden, surprising him.
 
‘You have quiet the interesting taste, my lady. But is passion such a
stupidity?’ Tyrion offered.
 
‘So I am told. And passion that leads to a thousand good men is stupidity. As
for my travels, they were quiet comfortable, thank you for asking, Tyrion. And
the army camps suit me well, after all, I was only a bastard some months ago
before my people crowned me queen. However, I don’t intend to stay for long,’
she revealed.
 
‘And where would you go after, my lady? This war seems to have no intention of
stopping anytime soon.’
 
The woman only smiled, letting her silence disturb him further, before she
said, ‘Fight well, tomorrow, Tyrion. You may think that your father intends to
kill you, but that is not the case. You have a chance at making history
tomorrow. I hear the mountain tribes that you bring with you only agree to
fight if you lead them. That speaks a lot about your potential as a leader. We
are standing upon dark times, Tyrion, but we also have a chance at making
history. Don’t shy away from it.’
 
And with that, Sapphira Blackthorn walked away, followed closely by her sword
shield. An enigma indeed, Tyrion mused.
 
 
 
‘You would have to slaughter your brethren tomorrow, Your Grace,’ Ser Gerald
spoke once they had reached her quarters in the army camp.
 
‘Brethren?’ she questioned.
 
‘They are your family, after all. You are the blood of wolves and dragons, my
queen. Can you stand against your blood?’
 
‘Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons, Greyjoys . . . cut them open and all you see
is a sack of flesh wrapped up on a pile of bones,’ she replied, before turning
around and touching his cheek with a pale hand. ‘The only family I know is my
father. The only protector I know is you. And the only loyalty I shall forever
keep is the one towards our country. The rest of the world can burn in hell.’
 
 
 
Later that night, after the war council was finished, she sat chewing on the
stag meat while father and son bickered on either side of the table.
Her husband droned about the duties of his son towards their legacy as Tyrion
still remained adamant on believing that Tywin wished to have him butchered in
the battlefields next day.
 
Sighing, she said, ‘The king is dead. The kingdoms are at the brink of war,
there is chaos everywhere you look. The Hand who sat in the king’s place had
questioned your nephew’s claim upon the throne, and is rotting in the Black
Cells right now while you chew on this delicious stag meat, along with this
lovely Dornish Red, and you are still whining about the woes of your life.’
 
‘Careful, Mother. Father would almost think you are in cahoots with the wolves
instead of your family, what with your worry about honest Lord Eddard’s
sorrows,’ Tyrion bit back.
 
‘Tyrion, be very careful of your next words,’ Tywin warned.
 
‘My dear son, the only sorrows that I am having to agonizingly bear is yours.
And it is almost making me lose my appetite. Ned Stark shall soon be sent to
the Wall, and our new king shall need a Hand. This is the hour of the lions,
and the wolves will know what happens when they make enemies of lions,' she
replied, dispelling the pathetically aimed jabs of the younger Lannister. 
 
‘We are all exhausted tonight and there is a war at our doorstep. My lady, I
wish you a good night’s rest. And Sapphira is correct. Tomorrow, we shall crush
the wolves. Robb Stark is only a green boy. He will see the might of the lions
and soon the wolves, whatever will be left of them that is, shall turn tails
and return to the cold North,' her husband concluded, rising up from his seat. 
 
 
 
Daylight filtered into her room as Ira woke up, wishing for a single day where
she could wake up with Jason on the other side of her bed. Lonesome, she let
her hand caress the noticeable bump that had appeared on her belly, murmuring
sweet nothings to the baby she had come to love. She still feared the person
this child would grow up to be, what with the hateful words of her husband and
his elder wife Visenya that taunted her as often as possible. It had taken all
of her restrain to not lash out, not let her curse lose upon the king and
commit regicide.
 
She noticed the hateful glances the elder queen would often give to her belly,
as if she carried the very bane of the Targaryens inside her. Her only respite
were the stolen hours that she and Jason would spend in the royal garden, his
hand ensconcing hers, as he lovingly spoke of the child to come, surprising her
infinitely.
 
Mulling over her thoughts, she clothed herself and walked out to the corner
passageway that opened to a flight of steps which led to her favorite part of
the royal garden with the view of the Narrow Sea.
 
When she reached the spot, he was already there, his hair golden underneath the
rising sun.
 
‘Did you sleep well, my queen?’ he asked, smiling.
 
‘As well as a pregnant woman can,’ she smirked.
 
‘Are you in pain, Ira?’ he asked, worriedly, moving forward to place a hand on
the bump, as he embraced her protectively.
 
‘No, no . . . I am well, my love. Can I ask you something?’
 
‘Anything.’
 
‘How can you love this child? It is his,’ she asked, and looking away, she
continued, ‘It is your children that I want, and even though I have come to
love the little life in me, I cannot help but fear what he will become.’
 
Smiling, Jason said, ‘I love him because he is a part of you. No matter what
his titles are, he is just as much you as he is him. And anything with you,
your pureness, deserves all the love the world can give,’ and as he brought her
close to him, he kissed her fully on her lips.
 
When he had gone, she had stayed a little longer, watching the waves thrash
upon the edge of the land, before she turned to walk up the stairs. As she
walked up the first couple of steps, a smile playing on her lips, someone
pushed her with force and before she could stop her body, she fell, tumbling
upon the steps. The last thing she heard before an excruciating pain ripped a
scream out of her throat was Queen Visenya saying, ‘I’ll be damned before I let
you give Aegon his firstborn.’
 
Her world went black moments after.
 
She woke up screaming, as if her belly was on fire and her bones were cracking
one after the other. Her tent flap opened and Ser Gerald walked in, his eyes
reddened with sleep and worry.
 
‘What is it? What is it, Sapphira?’ he asked urgently, her name almost foreign
on his lips. 
 
For a few moments, she could not help but look into his green eyes, so very
different from the cruel green of her husband, as if they were the compass to
her reality. Heaving, the words came tumbling over, ‘I saw this dream. I had a
baby, and then . . . the queen murdered it. What is happening to me, Gerald?
Why me?’ she asked, holding his face with both her hands and begging for an
answer.
 
He didn’t answer her, only let Sapphira crumble into his arms, holding her
tight, as if he could protect her from all the vile things of the world. For a
moment, he almost let himself believe he could.
===============================================================================
 
***** The Battle and the Beheading *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘Listen to me when I say this, my husband. I had no information of my
     Hand’s treachery. I have sent ravens to my father, and I suspect even
     he will not answer, for if I know Adrian, he would soon have him
     thrown in the Black Cells. I believe he acts upon his pathetic
     ambitions of being the new king. Pathetic, because I will not let him
     survive this. An assassin, a couple of burned mistresses, a razed
     castle? No, no, I won’t let Adrian have an easy death. He betrayed
     me, and no one fucking turns their back on me, Tywin. He will pay, We
     will make him pay.’
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     Hope you guys are having a great weekend!
     I am crying buckets at the realization that TODAY was Nineteen Years
     Later and somewhere Harry was bidding goodbye to Albus as he took the
     train to Hogwarts! It has been so long and my emotional attachment to
     Harry Potter has only increased over the years.
     As for the story, this chapter marks an essential turning point for
     Sapphira as she finally steps into the center field of the Game of
     Thrones.
     No images are attached today, and the clothes that she wore mainly
     includes her armor at the Battle of the Green Fork and a southern
     dress during her interactions with Tywin.
     So without any delay, let us begin!
===============================================================================
 
It was easy. All too easy.
 
That was her first thought as she gutted the Stark soldier at Green Fork, the
noisy mountain folk busily bludgeoning the enemies behind, with Tyrion on toe.
 
If the ravens about the strength of the Stark troops had been correct, there
was not even the half the Stark forces in the battle, so the question was,
where the fuck were the rest?
 
Ser Gerald was to her back, the rest of her Queensguard displaced along the
frontlines while half of her garrison fought, interspersed with the Lannister
troops.
 
Putting her dagger through a soldier’s eye, she turned towards her commander
and screamed, ‘This can’t be all of them, right?’
 
‘Something’s very wrong,’ he mumbled back, before impaling a young soldier with
a stray spear.
 
The Old Lion rode his proud horse through the foray, cutting across every enemy
that dared to so much as look at him.
 
Soon, he reached her and turning, she swiftly mounted his horse behind him,
before he led the beast ahead.
 
Before dusk fell, there was nothing but bleeding corpses in place of the Stark
troops, their innards out for the victors to witness. The scent of steel mixed
with blood somehow persisted as the silence after the battle fell in, before
the trumpets announced the crushing Lannister victory and the troops began
their return march to the camps.
 
 
 
It was only a few days later that the blunt of distress hit the camps with the
news that ravens brought. Jaime Lannister had been captured by Robb Stark at
the Battle of the Whispering Wood, his troops were mostly slaughtered by the
maximum force of the Stark troops, while the remaining of the Blackthorn
garrisons had turned their cloaks and fled into the heart of the Riverlands to
return to Starfall, under the orders of her Hand, Adrian Blackthorn.
 
She was in the midst of sending ravens to her father when her husband came
marching into her quarters, his eyes raging a dangerous shade of wildfire
green. In spite of herself, it sent a shiver down her spine to remain on the
wrong end of Tywin Lannister.
 
‘It seems you have heard the news, my lady,’ he fumed.
 
‘Yes, sadly, I have, my lord,’ she said, cautiously not using her husband’s
first name, ‘I am extremely sorry to hear the news of your son. All my prayers
are with Jaime. They say it took ten Stark men to bring him down. He indeed is
a worthy son of the Lion of Casterly Rock.’
 
‘Spare me with your honey-sweetened words, Sapphira!’ the Old Lion roared, ‘You
BETRAYED me! I could have your head on a pike right now, as I should.’
 
Pursing her lips to stop herself from uttering an expletive that would more or
less seal her fate, Sapphira replied, ‘If you could kindly observe the details,
my dear husband, you would see that my Hand betrayed us both. As for having my
head on a pike, you wouldn’t dare.'
 
‘And who is to say that your Hand isn’t working under your orders? That you
didn’t order him to let your garrisons betray my son?’ her husband said, moving
a step forward, his voice dangerously low, ‘I had seen how you let him live in
the tournament. I had seen how he looked at you on the day of our wedding, like
a pathetic pup. What makes you believe that I will trust you after this?’
 
Sighing, she controlled herself, before taking a step forward.
 
‘Listen to me when I say this, my husband. I had no information of my Hand’s
treachery. I have sent ravens to my father, and I suspect even he will not
answer, for if I know Adrian, he would soon have him thrown into the Black
Cells. I believe he acts upon his pathetic ambitions of being the new king.
Pathetic, because I will not let him survive this. An assassin, a couple of
burned mistresses, a razed castle? No, no, I won’t let Adrian have an easy
death. He betrayed me, and no one fucking turns their back on me, Tywin. He
will pay, We will make him pay.’
 
Turning around, she picked up the newest scroll the raven brought in and showed
it to her husband, ‘This has just arrived from the capital. Ned Stark is dead.
He was beheaded at the Great Sept for all of King’s Landing to witness, under
the orders of your grandson. Do you know what the fucking means? It means we
have one bargaining chip less. We had three Starks to bargain when your son was
taken, and by nightfall, we have only two, Stark’s two daughters. One of them,
if you remember, is betrothed to your fucking grandson!’
 
‘My grandson can be dealt with, Sapphira! Your garrisons, on the other hand,
cannot. What makes you think that the remaining of your soldiers will not
betray my men again?’
 
‘And what would you have me do? Take their heads? Flay them alive? They fought
for me at the Green Fork, Tywin, they fought for us. Do I award their loyalty
with death? Does that make me any different from the tyrant Maegor Targaryen
was?’
 
‘Control your men, or I will slaughter them myself,’ her husband promised, ‘and
I swear, my wife,I will make you watch.’
 
 
 
When Tywin Lannister had left Sapphira’s quarters, Ser Gerald came inside,
finding his queen brooding at the parchments that lay near her bed.
 
‘I will not give him an easy death, Gerald,’ she fumed, ‘He betrayed me! Of all
the men in my life, it had to be Adrian! The man that I saved more times than I
can count in battle. I let him fucking live at the tournament! I should have
let him die as the Braavosi had requested.’
 
‘Love turns men into beasts, my queen. He has become rabid. And the only way
you can treat a rabid beast is if you put him down,’ he said quietly.
 
‘And give him that mercy? No, Gerald. He will not find the comfort of death
this easily. Father will control him, for now. I have faith in him. My husband
thinks he can be easily thrown into the Black Cells, but I know Victorian
Blackthorn. He will burn Starfall before those bastards so much as touch him.
But first, I must control the shit that Adrian has put me in with my husband. I
cannot stay in the fucking camps anymore. And if I know Joffrey, that cunt
won’t stop with just Ned’s head on the spike.’
 
‘So what will you do, my queen?’
 
‘Who is the one person Tywin hates more than me at this moment?’ she asked,
smirking.
 
After a moment of silence, realization dawned upon him.
 
‘Tyrion Lannister,’ he wondered aloud.
 
His only answer was a surreptitious smile from his queen.
 
 
 
It was around a fortnight after that news reached of Joffrey Baratheon, First
of His Name, declaring Tywin Lannister his new Hand of the King. Before the war
council begun that evening, Sapphira walked towards her husband’s quarters. The
Old Lion stood in the center, looking regal in his shiny black leather doublet
and breaches.
 
When he noticed her, he said, ‘What do you want, my lady? As you can see, I am
quiet busy with prior engagements.’
 
Smiling, she walked up to her husband, and held her head high, matching his
wildfire eyes with her sapphire blue.
 
Taking his paw, she softly placed it on her belly.
 
‘I have missed my moonblood. I have never missed my moonblood,’ she said,
smiling.
 
A moment later, he understood the meaning of her words. Before he spoke, she
said, ‘It is too early to say, or to expect anything. But I am hoping for
something wonderful, my husband.’
 
Laughing softly, she moved closer to the Old Lion, bringing her lips close to
his ears and whispered, ‘For a sixty-four-year-old man, I must confess, you are
quiet the virile god, husband.’
 
Her husband responded with something akin to a soft roar, and spoke, ‘May I
expect some good news soon, my lady?’
 
‘If the gods are kind, you may, my lord,’ she said, and added, ‘You must
realize army camps are no place for a woman who might be carrying a child.’
 
‘Would you like to go to Casterly Rock then, my lady?’ Tywin asked.
 
‘No, but I would like to go to the capital, my lord, if you will allow me,’ she
asked.
 
‘My lady, as you can see, I am at war. I shall be unable to visit the capital
and take up my duties as Hand anytime soon. I plan to send my son Tyrion in my
place, an award for his battle prowess in the Green Fork,' he said, and
muttered as an afterthought, 'Although I am quiet sure that he will prove
himself to be quiet the nuisance.'
 
‘Which is exactly why I would like to accompany him, my lord. In order to make
sure that he does not sully the Lannister name with his . . . proclivities,’
she ventured cautiously.
 
Slightly nodding his head, her husband said, ‘I shall think about your
suggestion, Sapphira. For now, rest. You have given me splendid news indeed,’
kissing her forehead.
 
 
 
In the following war council, Tywin Lannister announced that he would be
sending his son Tyrion Lannister as Hand of the King in his stead, with his
wife Sapphira Blackthorn as company and official adviser of the Hand. Along
with them, the Queensguard and two hundred of the surviving Blackthorn soldiers
would accompany them as protection and a sign of alliance between the
Blackthorn crown and the Lannisters towards the king.
 
Unofficially, he warned his son that he would murder the whore who had been
warming his bed in the camps, if she accompanied him to the capital.
 
Once the council was adjourned and her husband had departed, Tyrion sat
opposite Sapphira at the council table, glowering.
 
‘What exactly are your intentions, Mother?’ he asked, annoyed.
 
‘You should be thanking me, dear son. I just helped you earn your last chance
to prove your worth to your father. Maybe this time you will show him that you
are more than a drunk and a whoremonger,’ she revealed, smiling.
 
‘And why the act of kindness?’ he pushed.
 
Sighing, Sapphira said, ‘Know this now, and know this well, Tyrion. You shall
face far greater enemies in the capital and I am not one of them. So don’t
antagonize me. News has it that your sister cannot control the king anymore,
and if we have any hope left to survive in that wretched city, and control that
cunt of a child, we need to work,together, as much as we dislike each other.’
 
‘And what is your ultimate goal in all of this?’
 
‘That’s simple, I want Adrian Blackthorn’s head on a platter before my work is
done at the capital,’ Sapphira replied.
===============================================================================
 
***** The Eagle at King's Landing *****
Chapter Summary
     Amara had seen Sapphira when she had been but a girl of three and
     ten, graceful with a pair of twin swords or a bow and arrow, agile on
     her feet when she trained, but as wild as a spearwife beyond the
     Wall. Now, the woman who stood in front of her was a formidable force
     who demanded your attention and respect.
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     Thank you so very much for all your lovely comments! They are the
     word equivalent for my favorite ice-cream!
     Today, I introduce a new character, and some of the sections of the
     story may be written from her POV at times.
     A note to add here, the Blackthorns use eagles to communicate between
     each other or to send important or urgent messages to others.
     Obviously, they are faster than ravens, but are very hard to train,
     and a separate clan of Athenosi at Starfall (the Athenosi capital)
     are responsible to train the eagles.
     The first image is of the circlet Sapphira wears with her hair, and
     the second image is the blue and gold dress that she wears on her
     arrival to the capital.
     Also, as I was writing this, I realized that the subtle intricacies
     are increasing by themselves in the story,and I was literally buzzing
     with excitement while writing this chapter!
     So without further ado, let us begin!
===============================================================================

 
It took a while for the two members of the royal family, the members of the
hill tribes, a mouthy sellsword, a whore, and two hundred Blackthorn soldiers
to reach the capital, and by then, Sapphira had already missed her moonblood a
second time. On the way to King's Landing, she had confessed to her cautious
Lord Commander that life may have finally decided to give her some joy
which didn’t come with a debt.
 
The party finally reached King’s Landing on the nameday of Joffrey Baratheon,
First of His Name, and a ‘vicious cunt’, if words from Sapphira’s mouth to Ser
Gerald were to be believed.
 
 
 
Following her son’s footsteps, whom Sapphira had surprisingly come to tolerate
during her travels, she entered the arena where Sandor Clegane was engaged in a
vicious fight with a not-so-lucky knight. She almost clucked her tongue at the
sight, thinking that only a fool would take Sandor Clegane with a mace on a
head-on fight. Sooner rather than later, the knight crumpled into a bleeding
pile of death with the repeated thrashings of the Hound, before the servants
dragged the corpse away. The stain of crimson that he left behind at his wake
almost reminded her of other memories of blood, before she schooled her
features and walked to greet the young king.
 
‘Beloved nephew! We missed you in battle!’ Tyrion exclaimed as the little
ingrate sat on a golden chair, accompanied by a red-haired snot-faced beauty,
who must have been Sansa Stark, Sapphira realized. Beside him, Joffrey's two
younger siblings, Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, sat. 
 
‘I was busy ruling the kingdom, uncle,’ the wimp squirmed underneath the
dwarf’s scrutiny.
 
‘As you should, dearest grandson,’ she finally spoke, smiling.
 
The eyes fell upon her then, and taking the opportunity, Ser Gerald stepped
forward to introduce her.
 
‘Your Grace, may I have the honor of introducing Sapphira of House Blackthorn,
the queen of Athenos, the wife of your Hand, Tywin Lannister, and the Lady of
Casterly Rock,’ he bowed, before turning towards her and saying, ‘My queen, I
present you King Joffrey, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First
Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.’
 
‘Your Grace,’ she smiled, ‘I have only heard the words of admiration about you.
So young, and already flourishing with the responsibilities of your great
country. The gods have blessed you indeed.’
 
‘Of course they did, my lady,’ Joffrey replied, the title ‘my lady’ not looked
over by the surrounding listeners, ‘I am my father’s son, after all. My
treacherous uncles shall pay for their crimes with their heads for refuting the
claim of a real king.’
 
‘As they should, Your Grace. I only look forward to see your bravery on the
battlefield as you squash your enemies,’ Sapphira bit back, adding a smile to
the bitter aftertaste of her words.
 
‘I apologize for your father’s fate, my lady,’ Tyrion cut in, speaking to Sansa
Stark, after having spoken to his younger niece and nephew.
 
Before the young girl could speak, Joffrey interjected. ‘What apologies, uncle?
Her father was a traitor who dared question my claim. To think my father
trusted that disloyal scum,’ he said, turning towards the girl.
 
Steeling her emotions, the girl chirped her duty-bound lies, ‘My father was a
traitor, as is my brother and mother. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.’
 
‘As you should be, little dove,’ Sapphira replied, smirking. Sansa Stark just
might live a little longer, she mused.
 
Walking down from the dais, she turned towards the dwarf and said, ‘Now,
Tyrion. We have much work to do. It is time we visit your dear sister, the
lovely queen. Shall we?’ before walking ahead, Tyrion following close behind
with the rest of their party, not before offering an apologetic glance to the
king’s betrothed, as Joffrey wailed on about the purpose of their so-called
work in the capital. 
 
When they had walked some distance, Sapphira spoke with a lower tone, ‘Careful,
dear son. The king is no longer “just” your nephew. You cannot antagonize him,
if you plan to keep that pretty head of yours between your shoulders. And I
won’t be able to come to your aid then.’
 
‘And what makes you so interested in keeping my head between my shoulders,
Mother?’ the dwarf asked. 
 
‘There are snakes lurking in the shadows of this keep as we walk, son. I simply
prefer to keep a man with your wits close to me in such circumstances. You see,
I am a helpless woman, after all,’ she said, smirking, as they reached the
doors of the Small Council and she turned around.
 
‘Will you not come in, Lady Blackthorn?’ he asked, surprised.
 
‘“Lady Blackthorn”? Is that what you intend to call me when you are not trying
to be an annoying little git? Oh well, I believe it is better than hearing
“Mother” from a man older than me by a decade. And, please go on ahead, Tyrion.
I am sure your sister will be quiet pleased to see you, alive and well and the
new Hand of the king. I, on the other hand, have a few prior engagements to
look upon,’ Sapphira replied, before turning around with a flair of her skirts,
her Queensguard in toe.
 
 
 
Amara Blackthorn was a woman of caution, a trait that she prized over her years
as the Blackthorn emissary in the court of King’s Landing. What with Robert’s
endless whore-fuckery, Cersei’s endless brother-fuckery, and Baelish’s fuckery
in general, she had seen what the world had to offer once she left her beloved
country. There had been moments when she had regretted leaving Starfall,
especially when her mind would slip back to the nights spent with Adrian. He
had only been a bastard then, still pathetically hankering at Sapphira’s
skirts, and she had been a nobleman’s daughter, her name still Amara Ashdawn.
When Victorian’s Small Council had decided to send her to Westeros as the
Blackthorn emissary because of her extensive knowledge and prowess at
harnessing an admirable chain of spies and assassins who worked under her, she
had been overjoyed at the thought of finally becoming a Blackthorn. She had
given up on her titles a fortnight later, becoming Amara of House Blackthorn,
before she sailed towards King’s Landing almost five years prior.
 
Everybody has that one night that changed their lives, don’t they? Amara mused
in these thoughts as she read the new raven that Adrian had sent her. He was a
strapping young man of twenty and four now, six years older than the newly
crowned queen of Athenos, and although Amara never caved into the delusions
that he would ever love her as he had loved Sapphira, a part of her knew that
she would burn worlds in the hope of earning a drop of those affections. Her
weakness repulsed her, and yet, she couldn’t help but remember the words the
Kingslayer had once spoken when Robert spoke of Lyanna Stark in her presence
all those years ago.
 
‘We don’t get to choose the people we love,’ he had said.
 
And now, she looked over at the parchment in her hands, the words in Adrian’s
bold writing almost lingering in her mind, as if he spoke to her alone.
 
My Dearest Amara,
 
Forgive me for all the sins I have committed against you in all my years of
love-fueled foolishness towards that blue-eyed whore. Perhaps I am past your
forgiveness, and you may as well burn these words once you take a glance at
them. If you did not, I would like to believe that there is tenderness left in
your kind heart towards this unfortunate mongrel who still comes begging for
scraps at your feet.
 
My dear love, I have grown tired of our queen. She is undeserving of our
glorious crown and she shall never lead the way for our citizens to achieve the
highest of glories in the future. I have witnessed her ruthlessness as she
butchered Lord Desmont in the throne room without a proper trial. I have seen
her conspire against the Seven Kingdoms, and I fear that it might start a war
that shall never end. Her hateful father furthers her schemes, and that family
might soon destroy all we hold dear.
 
I must ask for your aid now, my lady, as I have no one but you to look up to in
such dire times. The witch queen has given me the duties of the Hand in her
absence as she warms Tywin Lannister’s bed. I believe, with all humility, that
I must do more than just my duties of the Hand if I am to truly help my people,
our people.
 
I have already led half of the queen’s garrisons to be dispersed throughout the
Riverlands, under the orders of my most trusted generals. It was an action that
I had taken with the gravest of hearts, for I did not wish our brave men to
fight the Kingslayer’s war. The soldiers shall soon rally towards the Neck in
separate groups of foot soldiers, so as not to arouse suspicions. My ships
shall await their appearance at White Harbor two months from now, and they
shall safely be returned to our country, where I plan to convince our
respectable noble lords to see good sense and dethrone our undeserving queen.
 
I write to you for I hope you see the truth of my words when the queen arrives
at the capital. She is cruel, uncontrollable, and she must be stopped. I wish
to beg for you discretion regarding the same, for I pray in the near future for
your aid to control the queen in any way possible.
 
I send with this letter my love and my ardent heartache at your absence.
 
Yours,
Adrian Blackthorn
 
Amara read and re-read the words in the letter, scoffing at the selflessness
that came tumbling over with each of his honey-laced words. Adrian Blackthorn
was a lot of things, ‘honest’ or ‘selfless’ were definitely not them. And yet,
deep in her heart, she knew she was as helpless as a maiden when it came to
loving Adrian Blackthorn. 
 
Sipping a delightful Dornish Red, she mulled over her fragmented thoughts, when
there was knock on the door, and the guards opened the doors to the Athenosi
queen herself.
 
Amara had seen Sapphira when she had been but a girl of three and ten, graceful
with a pair of twin swords or a bow and arrow, agile on her feet when she
trained, but as wild as a spearwife beyond the Wall. Now, the woman who stood
in front of her was a formidable force who demanded your attention and respect.
She was dressed in Blackthorn colors, blue and gold, her black tresses falling
beyond her buttocks as crescent-shaped braids held a beautiful silver circlet
in place. The velvet of her bodice stuck to her bosom like a second skin, its
crescent neck accentuating her pale skin that stood out in stark contrast to
the gold embroidery upon the blue velvet. The long sleeves of her dress fell
like silken drapes upon her slender arms, as two pale hands peeped from the
ends, and the golden threads upon her skirts glinted in the sunlight, almost
giving her a godlike aura if one was caught unawares. Sapphira was no longer
the young girl who had bewitched Adrian with her childish passions. She was a
queen now, unable to be lorded over by Adrian’s fancies. This was a queen who
could make smaller men cower at her very presence, perhaps that was why her
Dornishman feared her so.
 
Rising to her feet, Amara greeted the new queen.
 
‘My queen, I hope your travels have been comfortable. I am Amara, the current
Blackthorn emissary, and I hope I can be of your service during your stay at
King’s Landing,’ she said.
 
Smiling enigmatically, the queen said, ‘I remember you. Amara Ashdawn, if I am
correct? Your reputation with a bow and arrow precedes you, Lady Ashdawn.
Perhaps you will find time, in spite of your busy hours, to train at the
archery with me. I would be honored.’
 
‘The honor shall be all mine, Your Grace,’ Amara replied.
 
‘Wonderful! In that case, what news comes to the capital, Lady Ashdawn? I have
not heard a word from my father or my Hand, since the unfortunate capture of my
husband’s beloved son Jaime. As you must perceive, Tywin is quiet worried with
the recent change of events, and we wouldn’t want the wolves or the stags to
win now, would we?’ the queen asked, arching a dainty eyebrow, ‘After all, I am
quiet sure you love your quarters, and as charming and lovely as you are, I
don’t think young King Joffrey’s enemies would like to keep the old Blackthorn
emissary after they have razed the Red Keep to the ground.’
 
‘I am sure they won’t. As for the news, I hear Lord Victorian is doing well. He
had come down with an unfortunate spell of fever a week before, but the eagles
bring good news that he is alive and well. As for your Hand, I hear he
continues to manage your country in your absence competently.’
 
‘Competently? Lady Ashdawn, if I may ask, what is the definition of
competence?’ Sapphira asked, feigning innocence, ‘Is it where my Hand probably
stabs me in the back and sends half my garrisons away from the heart of battle,
or where he disapproves of my claim, and may possibly contest my claim in the
future? Language, won’t you agree? It’s meaning keeps changing as we live on.’
 
‘I am sure there must be a proper explanation to all such unfortunate actions.
If you allow me, I shall ask your Hand on your behalf in a missive I shall send
with one of the ravens today. In other news, my queen, the maesters of the
Citadel have announced that summer has ended and autumn has set in. After a
long summer, they believe a long winter shall set in soon, and they advice the
storage of harvest and livestock for the near future.’
 
‘Indeed, our maesters are wise, wise men. Pity how the Seven Kingdoms shall
have no time to follow with such noble advice, what with the great kings of
this nation caught in a civil war. But I am sure our good King Joffrey and his
mother, the benevolent Queen Cersei, will lead the people in the right path,
won’t you agree?’ Sapphira asked, smiling.
 
‘Of course, my queen,’ Amara agreed.
 
Stepping forward, the queen crossed the table that separated them and came to
stand beside her, making Amara rise up instinctively, in order to hide the
letter Adrian had sent. It was only for years of caution that she had made her
movement appear casual to the ordinary eye.
 
Breathing softly, the queen cupped her cheeks with both her hands, pale fingers
touching the golden hue of her suntanned cheeks, before she started speaking.
 
‘I am a good ally to have in this wretched city, Amara. Whatever our
differences in the past, I sincerely believe we can work together for the good
of our nation, if only we are honest to each other. I would love to hear an
explanation from Adrian, and yes, I would very much appreciate if you could
send him a missive on my behalf. We both love Adrian dearly, and we wouldn’t
want any harm to come to him, would we?’ she asked, and closing the distance,
she kissed her soundly on the lips, catching Amara off-guard. She probed her to
open her mouth to her with her tongue, flicking it along her lips. It was a
kiss to show dominance, one from quiet the experienced mouth, and Amara obliged
the queen as she lost her senses momentarily, kissing her in turn, before she
remembered she was being watched by the hawk eyes of Ser Gerald Stillwater, the
queen’s lord commader of her Queensguard.
 
‘My queen . . .’ she breathed out, breaking the kiss and turning towards the
knight.
 
‘Oh, don’t worry about Ser Gerald, Lady Ashdawn. I assure you, my knight quiet
likes it,’ the queen replied, smirking, before she turned towards him and said,
‘Am I not correct, Ser Gerald?’
 
The knight only smirked for a moment in reply, as Sapphira Blackthorn walked up
to him.
 
‘I am a good friend to have, Lady Ashdawn. Stay loyal to me and there shall be
many more of such gifts,’ the queen promised with a smirk, before walking up to
the door.
 
Blackthorns, Amara mused,if wars wouldn’t kill them someday, their lust sure
would.  
 
 
 
 
‘What was the meaning of that, my queen?’ Ser Gerald asked her, grating the
words out through his teeth, when she had reached her quarters in the Tower of
the Hand after her visit with the Blackthorn emissary.
 
‘What was the meaning of what, dear Gerald?’ she jested, smirking.
 
‘You know bloody well what, my queen,’ he fumed.
 
‘Oh? The kiss or the fact that you might possibly be aroused? I hear Lord
Baelish has a diverse array of tastes available in his brothels to satiate such
thoughts.’
 
‘I am a knight, my queen. I shall not sully my honor by visiting whores,’ he
answered, looking away.
 
‘Oh? And you think one of those highborn twats in the throne room would go on
their knees and suck your cock, my dear Ser?’ she asked, now almost at the
brink of laughter. ‘And sadly, you do have to visit the brothels. Before you
worry, I shall accompany you. I am quiet interested to meet the enigmatic Lord
Baelish, I have heard so much about him. But first, I must visit my darling
children. I wouldn’t want my elder daughter to rip my dwarf’s son head off,
yet,' she added. 
 
‘As you wish, my queen,’ her knight acceded.
 
‘And Ser Gerald?’ she called as he turned away, ‘I kissed that two-faced hag to
see what she had so cautiously tried to hide when I had stepped closer. Turns
out, she has received a rather long letter from that Dornish bastard who sits
on my throne.’
 
‘And what would you have me do, my queen?’ he asked, his features schooled into
sincerity as he waited for her orders.
 
‘I want you to find some little birds, sweet little birds who will procure that
letter for me by nightfall, before she burns it. Can I trust you to do that for
me, Ser Gerald?’ she asked, rising from her chair and walking up to him.
 
‘You shall, my queen. You have my word,’ he replied, before he stepped out of
her chambers, leaving Sapphira to her thoughts.
===============================================================================
 
 
***** The Red Keep *****
Chapter Summary
     'A thousand enemies in the battlefield are not even half as dangerous
     as the one that lurks in your bed chambers. Remember that.'
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     Hope you guys had a great weekend. I am back with a new chapter and
     in this one, we see Sapphira slowly seeping herself into the
     intricate systems of the game. Fingers crossed, I hope our OC learns
     to maneuver fast!
     Also, about the information regarding the images, although I will not
     mention her clothes in the chapter in specific by words (unless it is
     required, of course), I shall attach an image as to what she wears
     with every chapter.
     In this chapter, she wears this grey and black gown. And most of her
     Southern-designed gowns will be in this cut, with the billowing
     sleeves and ribbon-laced bust over a corset. Of course, she has no
     cloak with the dress, unless she wears a cloak IN SEPARATE, as in
     this chapter in particular. Unfortunately, I could not remove the
     cloak, and there are a handful of dresses in this design without a
     cloak, although I will use those dresses in the future.
     The second image is of course her hairstyle.
     Now, enough of my ranting! Let us begin!
===============================================================================

 
She walked towards the Small Council, her faithful Lord Commander following her
footsteps like the silent shadow he was, always watchful.
 
When she reached the doors, she was surprised to see the most dangerous trio of
vultures—Varys, Littlefinger and Pycelle—standing outside, the voices of her
dear children audible in all their expletive glory.
 
With a soft sigh, she went ahead to push the doors open when two Lannister
guards stepped forward to stop her.
 
‘My lady, we shall have to stop you. The queen and her brother are in
discussion,’ one of them said.
 
‘Yes, something that the whole of Red Keep is aware of,’ she said, before
adding, ‘I am your lord’s wife, those inside are my children by law. The next
time you try to stop me from entering these doors, I’ll let Ser Gregor have a
swing at you.’
 
Without waiting for their reaction, she pushed the enormous doors and walked
inside, only to find Cersei fuming at the head of the table as Tyrion walked
around her, a cup of Dornish red in hand.
 
‘And who would you be? How dare you enter these chambers without asking for
permission?’ the queen borderline screamed, when she saw her.
 
‘I would be your new mother, dear daughter,’ Sapphira said, smiling, before she
walked up to the queen. ‘I have heard so much about you.’
 
Taking a lock of her golden hair, she whispered in her ears, ‘I had forgotten
how beautiful you are, Cersei.’
 
Giving her a look that could possibly burn her alive if adequately powered,
Cersei replied, ‘Ah, so you are the bastard my father picked up from Athenos.
Tell me, how was it like warming my father’s bed?’
 
Smiling, Sapphira placed herself on the chair opposite hers and said, ‘You seem
oddly interested about the sexual prowess of a family member, Cersei. Careful,
people might gossip, sweet daughter of mine,’ her words making Tyrion smirk on
his cup of wine.
 
‘Now, if we have had enough of this mummer’s farce, let us discuss the state of
the Seven Kingdoms.’
 
‘And what makes you, some bastard from another country, fit to discuss the
state of the Seven Kingdoms?’ Cersei seethed.
 
‘Because, dear daughter, your father said so. Are you questioning the decisions
of Tywin Lannister?’ Sapphira asked.
 
‘Now, let us take the matters at hand. Bring in the rest of the Council, Ser
Gerald,’ she ordered, and the knight walked to the doors to open them and
welcome the three members, her hawk eyes never leaving them. 
 
Once they were settled, she spoke, ‘I spoke to the Blackthorn emissary before I
came to the Small Council, my lords. The news is indeed grave, the long and
blessed summer is over, autumn is here, and winter is coming. It seems the
previous Hand of the king was correct about something, at least.
 
‘Now, about the food. Are their enough grains in the granaries? And what about
the livestock and the new harvest? If the Hand would agree, Tyrion and I would
appreciate if we could be given an account on the food produce that reaches the
capital,’ she continued, before adding, ‘What say, Tyrion?’
 
‘Yes, we can see what a wonderful caregiver of a ruler you are, Lady
Blackthorn, but that does not wash away the fact that our enemies are at our
gates. Renly grows strong by the day, supported by the bloody Tyrells, while
Stannis marches from Storm’s End. And let us not forget those treacherous
wolves who have my brother!’ Cersei screamed, walking out of the Small Council
chambers.
 
‘Ah, my sister is truly worried for our glorious capital, is she not?’ Tyrion
announced, smiling, before he set his eyes upon the still silent trio of
members, ‘Now, what shall we do with you?’
 
 
 
‘This will be harder than I expected,’ Tyrion mumbled, taking a sip of his wine
after the rest of the council was adjourned and only Sapphira Blackthorn
remained, her haunting blue eyes staring him down.
 
This woman can enslave men with her eyes alone, he thought.
 
‘This will be interesting,’ the blue-eyed beauty corrected, ‘But first, we need
to find out who can be trusted. As much as we might have respected Ned Stark,
none of us want to commit his blunders. Hence, we must gather our allies, if
there are any in the first place, and find out our enemies.’
 
‘Enemies? Isn’t that a little too harsh, Lady Blackthorn?’ Tyrion asked,
smirking.
 
Smiling at him, Sapphira rose and walked up to him, placing a dainty arm on the
top rail of his chair.
 
‘My sweet son, a thousand enemies in the battlefield are not even half as
dangerous as the ones that lurk in your bed chambers. Remember that,’ she said,
before walking out of the council room, her Lord Commander in toe, leaving him
to his jumbled thoughts.
 
 
 
She found the beautiful redheaded prisoner praying by her lonesome in the sorry
excuse of a godswood beyond the gardens of the Red Keep. Frozen in time, Sansa
Stark looked like the tragic maidens in some of the saddest stories she would
read as a child in Starfall, one of her handful of luxuries which she was
allowed as she trained night and day.
 
Walking up to her, Sapphira interrupted her prayers, the child-woman’s eyes
red-rimmed with tears along the rim of her Tully blue when she opened them.
 
Sitting on a wooden seat nearby, she said, ‘Sweet child, I must have been
vicious to you on the king’s nameday tournament. You must forgive me. I had
meant no harm, but if you had spoken out of turn, it would have been your
pretty head beside your father’s rotting one.’
 
‘I am loyal to my beloved Joff—
 
‘Yes, we all bloody know where your loyalties lie, little dove,’ she
interrupted the girl, smirking, ‘And between you and me, I know you would show
said loyalties by murdering Joffrey the first chance you get.’
 
Mortified, the girl replied, almost wailing, ‘Please, those are utter lies,
Lady Blackthorn. You must believe me! Please!'
 
‘Sweet child, calm down and sit by me,' Sapphira said, moving aside to make
some space for her on the wooden seat, before she continued, 'My dear Sansa,
you are a pathetic liar. And everyone in this wretched castle is better at
lying than you can ever hope to be. But that does not mean all is lost.’
 
‘You . . . the Hound said something similar to me once,’ the girl confessed,
her surprise evident, as she reluctantly sat beside her.
 
Smirking, Sapphira touched her red locks, so very reminiscent of her mother’s,
before she said, ‘Sandor Clegane may be vicious, and a killer, through and
through. But he means no harm . . . well . . . not like the things some of the
others in this keep are capable of doing to you.
 
‘But, there is still hope. You are the heir to the North, child, second only to
your brother, the Wolf King. You are a powerful bargaining chip and your
childish heart may feel sickened by the thought of being considered as nothing
more than an object, but remember, that is your weapon. We women are nothing
more than the titles we hold in the Seven Kingdoms, even me, a queen. But I
have seen the way the others look at you, an innocent and pitiful flower
growing amidst the weeds. Remember who you are . . . you are a wolf, Sansa
Stark. Learn to play your strengths against those who underestimate you.’
 
‘Why are you telling me all of this, Lady Blackthorn? I may go and say your
words to the queen,’ the girl ventured after a while of silence.
 
‘Good, you are learning already. But we both know you won’t. Not until you have
an inkling as to what I want, and definitely not at the cost of jeopardizing
your life to spill some pathetic words about the wife of Tywin Lannister to a
queen who loathes you to begin with. Now, off you fly to your gilded cage,
little dove,’ she replied, watching as Sansa Stark rose to her feet and walked
away, a lost maiden in a pit of snakes.
 
When she was gone, Ser Gerald spoke.
 
‘Was that wise, my queen?’
 
‘No, it wasn’t. But it was worth the gamble,’ Sapphira replied, musing. 
 
‘And what do you expect to win out of it?’
 
‘The heir to the North.’
 
‘And what do you expect to lose?’
 
The eagle queen smirked. ‘Everything, as always.’
 
 
 
Sandor Clegane was well into his drinks after his duties with that little cunt
of a king was finished, when a cloaked figure appeared in his chambers.
 
‘If this is the whore, fuck off, woman.’
 
Uncloaking herself, a familiar voice replied, ‘No, but it is a bastard,’ before
closing the door.
 
Sapphira Blackthorn had grown up . . . a lot. He still remembered that girl
with the silvery white hair and the piercing sapphire eyes, the one whose eyes
had been so very hollow when she had said he wouldn’t be able to harm her any
more than she already had been. She had been right, a girl of eight, raped by
Lannister soldiers, and left to die, what more evil could the world ever show
her? And yet, here she now stood, a queen and the wife to his liege lord.
Perhaps she had been right, perhaps she was capable of keeping promises.
 
‘I told you I would come back.’ She smiled.
 
‘And what are you hear to do? Kill the Old Lion?’ he asked, chugging his drink.
 
‘Hardly, Sandor. You know me, I am much more creative than giving people boring
deaths,’ she replied, twisting her fingers, and a moment later, her wrist was
covered by an armor of ice, her fingers jutting out with ice spikes.
 
‘So I was not drunk when I saw you do that the first time, all those years
ago,’ he mused.
 
‘Of course not. And I wanted to thank you for all you did for me, Sandor, I
mean it. I wouldn’t be alive today if you hadn’t brought me home.’
 
‘Stop chirping courtesies, wolf girl. I did it for the gold your kingly father
paid me with.’
 
‘Nonsense, we both bloody know sixty thousand gold dragons were hardly the
price of the future queen of Athenos,’ Sapphira huffed.
 
‘Aye, but you were only a bastard then, remember?’
 
‘True, but the bastard child of the former crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms,
nonetheless,’ she corrected.
 
‘Hush, fool! Are you trying to kill us both?’ he admonished in a whisper,
making her fall into a strange haze of silence. 
 
‘There was this handmaiden before,’ she suddenly said, walking towards his
door, ‘From your reaction, I believe she was a whore in reality, the one who
was supposed to come visit you tonight, and she had been working so sweetly in
my quarters for the past week, braiding my hair, asking me a million questions
about Starfall, changing my chamber pots, drawing my baths, you would almost
say she was far too pleased for her services.’
 
‘What . . . what did you do to her, Sapphira?’ Sandor asked, his voice
dangerously low.
 
‘I killed her, of course, silly,’ she replied, her voice sprightlier now. ‘I
took her face. Now, it is only a matter of time before I find out who she was
working for. Put her pretty face into better use, won’t you say?’ she asked,
raising her other hand to reveal something that looked like a human face.
 
‘What have you become, Sapphira?’ he asked, horrified. The stories about
witches who wielded blood magic and Faceless assassins almost clawing at his
mind, as if to answer his own stupefied question. 
 
‘Oh Sandor, I am only the monster mothers warn their children about. Now, sleep
well. Soon, I shall have a task for you. You will do this for me, won’t you? Or
maybe I should ask the same of you with that Stark girl’s face on, perhaps you
will be more inclined to accede to my requests then.’ she said, almost pouting,
before she walked out of the door.
 
Her voice . . . its tone had been innocent enough to seem non-threatening to a
stranger, and psychotic enough for him to realize just what Sapphira Blackthorn
was capable of. For a millionth time since he had seen her on Joffrey’s nameday
tournament, Sandor Clegane wondered if he had made the biggest mistake of his
life by handing over that lost and naive blue-eyed child to a soulless scum
like Victorian fucking Blackthorn.
===============================================================================
 
***** The Reckoning *****
Chapter Summary
     ‘You say you know me since I was a child? Then you also know that it
     doesn’t take much for me to butcher a man of your size,’ she seethed,
     ‘You will do as I tell you to do because I will be damned before
     anyone stops me from getting what I want this time. I have been
     waiting for a decade, a bloody decade! And YOU WILL BRING THEM TO
     ME.'
Chapter Notes
     Hello everyone!
     I guess I should do a whole Terminator style "I am back"!
     The week has been particularly busy, but here I am, with a new
     chapter.
     For this chapter, I was finally able to find the picture of a man who
     is more or less identical to my OC Ser Gerald Stillwater, the Lord
     Commander of Sapphira's Queensguard. So I will attach the picture of
     the man along with Sapphira's dress and hairstyle in the chapter. It
     will also help to add that this chapter also discusses hints to the
     extent of Sapphira's closeness to her knight, because he is one of
     the few men whom she unquestionably respects.
     Another thing, this is the first time I am mentioning an eagle ring
     (the third image in the picset) that Sapphira wears on her left
     pointer finger. This does not mean that she does not wear it in the
     previous chapters. This eagle ring is the insignia she wears as the
     queen of Athenos, even if she wears the Lannister pendant with the
     gold chain in her neck, the eagle ring is the identity that she
     carries with her as a Blackthorn and a queen, with whatever she is
     dressed as, something like the pearl ring Daenerys wears.
     Anyway, enough of my ranting! Let us begin!
===============================================================================

 
The capital was strangely cloud-kissed when she woke up from her slumber, the
last remnants of the dream leaving her, as only the fleeting aftertaste of
sorrow and pain remained. Instinctively, she moved a hand to touch her tummy,
as if trying to feel the life inside of her. It had only been three months and
a few more days, yet, she couldn’t help the little smile lingering on her lips
at the thought of holding the child’s stubby fingers someday soon.
 
Walking to the mirror, she took the wooden brush and softly begun brushing the
waves of her raven hair, untangling the knots. When she was done, she piled her
hair into a knot. Then she walked towards the privy, before letting the
handmaidens come inside and fuss around with her bath.
 
When she was finally done, dressed in her green Southern silks with silvery
flower patterns on it, her hair designed in another intricate pattern that
suspiciously made her look like she had a rose on her head, she touched the
eagle ring that sat on her table. With a sigh, she put it on her left pointer
finger and walked out of her chambers.
 
 
 
‘Lord Varys, I don’t think we have had the pleasure to meet and have a word
with each other in private since I arrived in the capital,’ Sapphira said,
cornering the Spider at a spot the royal gardens, overlooking the Narrow Sea,
the same one that repeatedly appeared in her dreams.
 
‘My lady, you must forgive me. A council member’s work is never finished. What
may I do for you?’ the man replied, smiling enigmatically.
 
‘Council member or spymaster, my lord? I seem to confuse your roles,’ she
questioned, smiling, ‘After all, I am a woman. All we ever have in our heads
are the colors of her silks and the gossip of the highborn.’
 
‘Woman you may be, my lady, but we both know that silks and gossip are the last
things in your mind,’ he replied, knowingly, ‘I hear Lord Tyrion has been very
efficient to remove Ser Janos from his post in the city watch. If my little
birds are correct, the younger lion has been very much wary of trusting others,
even I have not been left out of his ire, and I had only gone to offer my
warmest regards towards his arrival . . . and towards his beautiful companion.’
 
‘Is that so? I am almost surprised as you are, my lord. However, your warmth
has not particularly been extended towards me, has it?’ she questioned, cocking
an eyebrow, ‘After all, I do remember I had sent my knight, Ser Gerald, to
acquire some little birds. You see, I had wished to read a beautiful letter,
and I was almost robbed off my chance of doing so because you hadn’t wanted to
share.’
 
‘I only share with those whose intentions I know of. Tell me, my lady, what are
your intentions?’
 
Looking at him, she smirked. Turning around, she signaled Ser Gerald to come
forward, and soon, he handed her the letter in question.
 
‘My intentions can be kept secret, my lord. But your loyalty? That can be
questioned any second, just like Lady Amara’s is at the moment.’
 
‘Does your intentions have cause to harm Westeros?’ he questioned, the
underlying threat clear.
 
‘On the contrary, my lord, I intend to clean this city up a little. I am sure
you have noticed, the amount of filth in the capital has increased since I last
came to King’s Landing.’
 
‘Speaking of intentions, I am sure you have heard of the recent rumors about
your Hand, my lady. I hear Adrian Blackthorn has the desires to be king,
someday.’
 
‘We all have desires, Lord Varys,’ Sapphira replied, and gazing a little lower,
she added, ‘Except you, I suppose. You have reached the zenith where only peace
lies, free of the desires of flesh, at least.’
 
‘It has given me the opportunity to pursue other goals, yes, my lady.’
 
‘And as long as your goals do not intervene with mine, you have all of my
warmest support. Send in the little birds this evening, Varys. I will not ask
again,’ she warned, softly, patting his shoulder, and added, ‘Good day, my
lord,’ before walking away.
 
 
 
‘Word has it that you are not as trusting as the dearly departed Ned,’ Sapphira
said, as she entered Tyrion’s chambers, his sellsword Bronn beside him.
 
‘That is not a huge name to live up to, especially when it comes to trusting,
won’t you say, Mother?’ Tyrion smirked.
 
‘No, not at all. But your actions are creating noticeable waves across the Red
Keep, so learn to keep yourself in check, dear son.’
 
‘I thought you were my adviser, my lady, not the authority,’ Tyrion questioned,
irritated. 
 
‘I will be anyone I damned well please to be in order to keep your head between
your shoulders, at least until your father returns, that is. After that, it is
his responsibility,’ Sapphira reminded him.
 
‘Speaking of my dear father, I hear he is in Harrenhal now.’
 
‘You hear correctly. I was hoping that he would be closer when Stannis brings
the battle to the capital, but this will have to make do. And then there is
Renly.’
 
‘Renly, in spite of all his flaws, is a decent man,’ Tyrion confessed, looking
away.
 
‘A decent man who has the strongest army in Westeros, thanks to the Tyrells of
High Garden, and who will unleash all Seven Hells upon this city very soon,’
she corrected, ‘Be very careful of speaking the same to your dear sister at the
Small Council meeting today. I am sure she will not accept your admirations
about our enemies with the same warmth. Also, what is this man doing here?
Isn’t he supposed to be guarding the bloody city?’ she questioned,
exasperatedly, pointing towards Bronn.
 
‘Don’t worry your pretty head, m’lady. I came to have a drink with the Imp. I
shall be off now,’ he said, rising up, earning a quizzical look from Tyrion.
 
‘You will remember how to speak properly with a queen, but I think we can
dispense with that if you shall engage me at the practice yard with your sword.
And since you are here, do you know the names of your City Watch men, at
least?’ she asked.
 
‘It shall be my pleasure "to engage you with my sword", my lady,’ the man
answered, smirking, before he added, ‘I usually remember them as blonde cunt,
or focker mostly, but I can try.’
 
‘I see, so among said “blonde cunts”, do you have anyone by the name of Ansel
Flount?’
 
‘I’ll have to see, my lady. Good day,’ the man replied, before departing.
 
‘And why would you need a City Watch member, Lady Blackthorn?’ Tyrion asked,
somewhat suspicious.
 
‘Well, if you must know, when I was six and ten, I had come to King’s Landing
and Ansel had been good enough to practice the sword with me. I was hoping I
could practice with him as in the old days. Days can be dreadful in this castle
if I am not allowed to move my limbs a little,’ she confessed with an
imperceptible sigh, ‘Now, sit down, Tyrion. We have much to discuss about your
niece.’
 
‘My niece?’ Tyrion repeated, surprised.
 
‘Yes, the lovely little Princess Myrcella,’ she replied.
 
‘What do you want with her, Lady Blackthorn?’ Tyrion asked, protectively.
 
‘You may not want to believe it, my dear son, but I hold quiet the soft spot
for little girls. I used to be a helpless little girl once, a very long time
actually. That was until my father armed me with two swords and told me to cut
down everything that stood in my way,’ she replied, taking a bite of the apple
from the fruit platter that was spread on Tyrion’s table, ‘Unfortunately, I
cannot do much to train your niece, but when the armies crash through those
city gates, and I assure you they will, because not even my two hundred worth
of Blackthorn soldiers will be able to do anything about it. They will first
come for your sister, and they will rape her before they slit her throat while
they make her children watch. Then, when they are done, they will cut through
Tommen with a greatsword, and after enough blood has been spilled, they will
rape your little niece before they stab her in the back. No one, not me, not
you can stop that eventuality, unless we act now,’ she explained, making
Tyrion’s mismatched eyes bulge out in shock and fear.
 
‘You seem to have quiet the vivid imagination, Lady Blackthorn,’ Tyrion
replied, when he had collected himself.
 
‘I am told. Now, dear son, do you want to save your niece from such fate?’
 
‘It is not a question about want. I need to do so,’ he mumbled.
 
‘Good, then we have much to do, Lord Hand,’ she replied, smiling.
 
 
 
When she had returned to her chambers after the Small Council was adjourned,
with Cersei still smirking over Pycelle’s attempt to deny Tyrion’s authority
with his foolish act, she sat down to inspect the new documents that had come
in from Athenos by the sea. Most of them were sent by Maester Ronan,
information consisting of the crop yield, the current state of affairs in the
country, and yet she couldn’t help the eerie feeling that all of this
information had been censored in some way. But the gravest news came from the
raven that her father had sent her personally. It seemed that his fever was not
natural, but an assassination attempt with a poison which induced recurrent
fevers before killing the victim. It was only because of Ronan’s acumen that
they had come up with an antidote in time to heal her father. In spite of his
assurance that he will handle all the subjects at Starfall, she couldn’t help
but worry. Somehow, and in some way, Sapphira would have to come up with a
subtle method to crush her opponents without raising many questions. And
regarding the constant censorship of her documents, with a huff, she realized
Amara Blackthorn was becoming more of a pest by the day, what with her tedious
loyalty to Adrian’s cock. Annoyed, she asked Ser Gerald to bring in Sandor
Clegane.
 
When the Hound had come in, she rose from her seat, and walking up to him, she
took hold of his hand, a giant paw really, and placed it on her stomach. She
almost giggled at the expression of shock that colored his face when he
realized what she meant.
 
Smiling, she said, ‘You cannot feel anything, not now at least. But the second
my enemies in this bloody keep come to know about this news, I will be
bombarded by one assassination attempt after the other.’
 
‘Are you not being a little paranoid, little one?’ Clegane asked, raising his
eyebrows.
 
‘I am a queen, Sandor! What do you think my enemies will do when they find out
that I carry the trueborn heir of houses Lannister and Blackthorn? ‘ she
exclaimed, before adding, quietly this time, ‘Well, as trueborn as Lannisters
can hope to be.’
 
‘What are you hiding this time, Sapphira?’
 
‘Nothing for you to worry your head about, Sandor,’ she said, swatting his
question anyway, ‘Ansel Flount, Meron Lynt, Jon Rivers, Arthur Thorn . . . Now
I want you to find these four men tonight, bring them to the passageways that
Ser Gerald will show you and I shall do what needs to be done,’ she continued,
before turning away.
 
‘DO NOT TURN AWAY FROM ME, CHILD! I have known you since you were a child and
you will not turn your back on me. I am not your bloody dog, and I will not
bring you bloody scraps,’ the Hound roared.
 
She stayed silent for a while. And then, taking a deep breath, she turned
towards the Hound and walked up to him, her eyes a dangerous shade of bright
blue that could pierce the darkness of nights.
 
‘You say you know me since I was a child? Then you also know that it doesn’t
take much for me to butcher a man of your size,’ she seethed, ‘You will do as I
tell you to do because I will be damned before anyone stops me from getting
what I want this time. I have been waiting for a decade, a bloody decade! And
YOU WILL BRING THEM TO ME. Listen to me, Sandor Clegane, I trust you, I adore
you for what you did for me, and hence I am asking you to let me have my
revenge as I would never stand in the way of yours when your brother’s turn
comes. So, you will bring the men to me or I swear by the gods, I will butcher
everything you care for, starting with that Stark bitch, while I make you
watch. Now, get out!’
 
When the Hound had left, fuming, she sat down in her boudoir, her raven mane
falling in waves on her back as she opened the ridiculous Southern hairstyle
her handmaidens had done for her. As she sat brushing her hair, a soft hum of
some song in her lips, Ser Gerald entered her chambers.
 
‘My queen, I could not help but overhear . . .’ he started.
 
‘Good, then you also know that there was another who was listening as well, one
sent by Amara Blackthorn,’ she smirked.
 
‘I assure you that you have no reason to worry about that, my queen. She has
met quiet the unfortunate accident while going down the serpentine steps in the
Hand’s Tower,’ her knight replied.
 
‘Oh? Such a misfortune, young lives are precious, won’t you agree?’ she asked,
smiling.
 
‘Indeed, they are. But, if I may ask, why not send me to bring you the men? I
shall be honored to aid you in your mission, my queen. My sword is yours, my
loyalty is yours, I am yours,’ he confessed, perhaps a little jilted.
 
‘Gerald?’ she asked a moment after, looking up in the mirror, as the knight
still stood at her door. ‘Come close to me?’
 
The knight walked forward silently, standing behind her as she continued to
brush her hair.
 
‘Do you see our reflection, my sweet knight? You, my guardian, my protector, my
greatest friend and my most trusted ally, always standing by my side. Do you
think I will let the world take that away from me?’ she asked, standing up and
turning towards him.
 
‘If you go to fetch the men, the other bastards in those brothels and inns
shall notice your presence. And the next day, when their bloodied corpses are
found, they will bring you to the court to be questioned,’ she said, cupping
his cheek, ‘And then, Joffrey, that vicious cunt, would humiliate you in the
court and before I can stop it, he may even ask for your head, as he did ask
for Ned’s, and take you away from me, for the sins that I am about to commit.
And I will be damned in the Seven Hells before I even let the gods take you
away from me. Do you understand that?'
 
‘Yes, my queen,’ he replied quietly, giving her one of his rare smiles.
 
‘Good. Now, my knight, soon it shall be time for my retribution. And I promise,
one by one, I’ll make all our enemies fall at my feet,’ she promised, smiling.
 
‘And, what about Adrian Blackthorn, my queen?’ he asked, his voice filled with
bitterness.
 
‘Always save the best for the last, my sweet knight, always,’ she replied,
smirking.
===============================================================================
 
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