boschlingtumbles

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 45

They were ushering the wedding guests from the Godswood gardens to the main courtyard of the Red Keep for dinner. Mace’s stomach growled, and it was a testament to his friendship with Oberyn that he bothered looking for the man to see if he wanted to crash at the Tyrell table rather than immediately turning to the task of finding his place card. He found him sitting on a bench, half entwined with Ellaria Sand. If experience had taught Mace anything, Oberyn not only did not need to crash at the Tyrell table, but in all likelihood he would not be coming to dinner at all. Mace hurried back toward the Red Keep, allowing his mind to drift toward the dinner ahead. After the truly... appalling... events of the afternoon, he needed more than ever this bright spot to look forward to. The Red Keep kitchens were famous, the site the perennial holder of the best restaurant in King’s Landing. Mace had taken a peek at the menu while his family were mingling during the the cocktail hour, and it looked like they would be having a pear and burrata salad to start, followed by a small truffle pasta dish, followed by the seared duck. Mace’s mouth watered at the prospect. And then, the cherry on the sundae, Cersei was serving a wedding cake with not two, not three, but four distinct flavor palettes! Mace was the first person to his table, and hovered next to his seat. His mother was always after him to get more hobbies and independent interests. The truth was, he had started a food blog during college as a bit of a lark. As “Gary Gourmand”, he traveled all of Dorne, sampling local delicacies, trendy new restaurants and the classic grande dames. It had just been for fun, sharing his thoughts about food with other people who cared about food. He knew his mother and Alerie wouldn’t approve, so he’d never spoken of the subject. But the fact was, he’d started getting contacted by advertisers. Sometimes it was just the offer of a free meal for a review. More often it was product placement, both in the advertising space on his blog or mentioning the product in his articles. (Mace never did those.) So yeah, it was all in good fun, but last year Gourmand Gary had made fifteen thousand dragons. Not enough to live on, not even enough to let him quit his awful day job at the family company, but Mace had never been very good at anything in his entire life. And now he had fifteen thousand dragons in secret little bank account for Loras. More than that, he had a community! People who commented on his blog, asking questions, offering suggestions for where to try next, even vehemently disagreeing with him! It was exhilarating, these friendships with strangers who had never met him and would never know him as Olenna Tyrell’s son. It was for them that Mace was so looking forward to dinner at the Red Keep. Gourmand Gary would try every bite on this menu, and all his followers would be able reap the benefits. After all, the Red Keep was famously expensive. They deserved to know what the fuss was all about. Culminating in a custom-made, never before tried four-layer wedding cake. So even though he had forgotten the wedding ring and let down all of his friends and even though he had caught his mother, after spending an entire lifetime lecturing him for being such a disappointment, having sex with TYWIN LANNISTER IN THE HIGH SEPT (Mace squirmed, gods it sounded like a demented mad lib), at least he still had dinner to look forward to. “Pookie, it’s all too horrible,” his wife nearly wailed as she came rushing over. Cersei Lannister—Cersei Baratheon—Cersei Lannister-Baratheon? had greeted her in the Godswood and in front of everybody, had called her Alysanne. “Alysanne like your sister? Alerie, that doesn’t sound so terrible, I mean the two of you do look a lot alike” — and maybe your parents shouldn’t have had so many girls and given two of them A-names, Mace added mentally before Alerie cut him off. It wasn’t an accident. It couldn’t an accident. Cersei Lannister-Baratheon never did anything by accident. “So we do think she’s going with the hyphen?” It was a deliberate snub!!! In front of everybody, Cersei was not so subtly signaling that Alerie Tyrell was not a person whose name was worth remembering! All because Alerie had the unmitigated gall to spread a rumor that Mace hac told her! This was the kind of thing that people noticed! They were up for golf club membership next year! What if they had to remain pool members? What if Loras didn’t get invited on the right play dates? What if Alerie wasn’t tapped for the boards of any of the good charities?? Mace wondered what a bad charity was. “I even have it on good authority that she demoted us to the base layer of the wedding cake!” Alerie wailed. Wait, what? “Dear gods,” Mace put down his glass of water carefully. “You can’t be serious.” But Alerie was serious. This... this menace, this harpy, this vindictive shrew to whom he had given his mother’s ring at great personal cost, was consigning them to the base layer! Somewhere deep in Mace’s brain, some tiny filament snapped. When Olenna Tyrell arrived at the table, she found her son and her daughter-in-law sitting quietly. “Why did I see Cersei Lannister-Baratheon wearing my ring in her wedding photos?” Olenna began testily. “I don’t know mother,” Mace said in a strange calm voice that sounded like it was coming from somewhere very far off indeed. “Why did I see you pulling Tywin Lannister into an empty room in the sept?” And it certainly seemed as if Olenna were at a loss for words. What might have quickly become a very ugly exchange was saved by the arrival of various Redwynes and Hightowers, followed in short order by a pear and burrata salad drizzled in an apple balsamic glaze. If anyone noticed that Mace Tyrell (who usually became quite gregarious after a glass of wine) was unusually quiet, they did not say anything. Aside from a few nervous looks from his wife and a few glares from his mother, the table proceeded through dinner with a high level of merriment. While Mace personally thought the seared duck fell just short of nirvana, the undisputed highlight for the rest of the table was Cassana Baratheon’s solo. She was rumored to be performing after the main course, and the table was split on whether she still had the necessary talent. Those who had attended the engagement party tended firmly in the ‘she’s still got it’ camp, whereas the remainder were more skeptical. “You can’t tell me she still sounds like she did when she was eighteen! She’s so old!” Alysanne Hightower insisted, though she quavered as Olenna turned to eye her frostily. “And the stakes are so high tonight, the entire arts world has been buzzing about her return to the stage,” Paxter Redwyne chipped in. “You can’t tell me the pressure isn’t a factor.” “Nephew, let me give you some advice,” Olenna drawled. “In my years of experience, I’ve learned not to bet against a Baratheon. They have the devil’s own luck.” Sure enough, moments after the plates were swept away by an army of waiters, the lights dimmed. A low murmur of anticipation swept through the crowd before subsiding into hushed silence. Even Mace, who was furiously taking notes for his blog on his cell phone, felt compelled to glance up. After a pause, a single spotlight illuminated the dance floor. A pure white beam cutting through the darkness and highlighting... nobody. Mace blinked, a tad bewildered. Equipment malfunction? The rest of the guests felt likewise, a restless hum of discontent breaking the quiet. Then, there was a charming, deprecating cough. The spotlight moved to the other side of the dance floor. Renly Baratheon smiled cheekily into the light. Before Mace had time to ponder this unexpected turn of events, there was a light swell of instrumental music. With confidence and poise, Renly began singing “Oh Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass,” a love song for which Mace had always had a sentimental fondness. But even if he hadn’t, Renly’s unexpectedly rich tenor, the emotion he poured into each lyric, just his sheer presence, earnest and young and hopelessly vulnerable, would have brought tears to his eyes. Such was the poignancy of the moment that even Olenna passed him a handkerchief without so much as looking away from the singer. As the last tender words faded into the darkness, the entire ballroom was left holding their breath, caught in a kind of spell. And then as one, the room erupted into rapturous applause. “Encore!!” Paxter bellowed, and Alyssane practically swooned in her chair. Mace wondered if she knew Renly was gay. “Daddy,” he felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Loras, looking up with his big blue eyes and mop of honey brown curls. He must have wandered over the children’s table, that scamp. “Daddy, is he an angel?” Loras asked, staring at Renly in wistful fascination. Mace was saved from having to answer by the repeated stomping cheers of encore, which have started with the Redwynes, now spread like wildfire through the tables. Sure enough, Renly, who had sat demurely back down at the head table, lifted a rueful hand in sheepish acknowledgment. The band struck up again. With some reluctance, Renly stood and picked his microphone back up. (For someone so embarrassed at this display of enthusiasm, he seemed to know exactly which song was coming, Mace did think.) Then with a jaunty wink at the audience, Renly launched into “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown.” Whereas the prior song had been full of pathos and yearning, this song was all warmth and ribald merriment. Renly’s voice was practically an invitation to join in, and soon the whole room was bellowing the chorus, even the ever decorous bride. The song finished with whoops and cheers and whistles, and it took Cersei Lannister-Baratheon leaning into the microphone to say, “Now settle down, or nobody gets any cake!” to calm the crowd. Mace immediately went quiet, drumming his hands on the table, Loras now firmly ensconced in his lap. The base layer was a slap in the face of course, but the fact was, he was hardly going to be served each of the four layers as it was. Gourmand Gary was always going to need every bit of his wiles to finagle a bite of each of the three remaining layers. The cake was being wheeled out now, and Mace craned his neck to get a better view. Four layers as promised, base vanilla, second some kind of decadent chocolate on chocolate, third... was that a raspberry cheesecake melange? And fourth. Mace blinked. The fourth layer was a perfect cake replica of the Sept of Baelor itself. Gorgeous stained glass windows, the famous steeples, a little spun sugar Baelor statue... Mace eyed the marzipan stonework at the base, and realized he was drooling. There was a cute scene as Robert and Cersei cut the cake together, and Robert held out a bite. He clearly wanted to smear her face with it, but with the arch of a single golden eyebrow, he docilely held his hand steady for her. She kissed him then, and an audible ‘Awwwww’ rippled through the room. The army of waiters returned to their stations, each bearing a plate. A humble slice of vanilla cake was set before him. Mace exchanged a glance with his wife, who was blushing furiously. The rest of the the table was eating chocolate, with the exception of his mother, who had been served a slice of rich golden, marbled with the pinkest of reds. Mace swallowed, and crumpled the napkin in his hands. “Why does your slice look so boring, Daddy?” “There’s been a mix up with the slices, darling. These silly waiters,” his wife laughed, high and artificial. Olenna snorted, and Alerie glared at her. Olenna stared coolly back. Mace cut a bite of the vanilla and consoled himself that it was actually quite good in an understated way. Smooth and subtly complex, he pictured Gary Gourmand saying as he took another bite, and nodded to himself. He was surprised, as he often was, to find his plate quite empty as he reached for another piece. “Here, take mine coz,” Paxter pushed over his chocolate slice. Mace gave him a grateful smile. Halfway there without any effort! The chocolate was sinfully rich, a slide into absolute luxury. But was it too overpowering? Mace took a thoughtful sip of wine and then reached for his fork again. Nope, it was perfect. “Daddy, may I have some?” His little son chirped. Mace eyed the last piece wistfully, but dutifully passed the fork downward to the tiny extended hand. As Loras chewed quietly, Mace surreptitiously eyed his mother’s slice of cheesecake, barely touched. He swallowed, steeling his nerve. What would Gary Gourmand do? Mace squared his shoulders. “Mother, would you mind if I had a bite of your cake?” Mace asked politely. “You’ve had quite enough already,” Olenna looked over at him and then went back to talking to Garth Tyrell. “Just a bite, I’m curious about the flavor,” Mace tried again. “I said no, Mace. ” Olenna dismissed him again. Mace ground his teeth. This was just like his mother. She practically got off on being withholding. On another night, he might have stewed in resigned silence. But this was the Red Keep. This was for Gary. And maybe he’d realized that his mother wasn’t exactly infallible herself. Mace waited until she was leaning over to poke Garth in the chest for emphasis on some point. He reached out a stealthy fork. He cut a wedge—his fork sliding smoothly through the cake like silk—he started the retreat. “Mace!” Olenna snapped and smacked his hand, and he dropped the fork with a yelp. The rest of the table paused in their conversations to look over. “If you’re going to be such a child, maybe you should go back with Loras to the children’s table,” Olenna said snidely. Mace blinked. He looked down at Loras. “Let’s go, buddy.” He ignored the squawk of dismay from his wife and the harrumph of disapproval from his mother. “We’re not really going to the children’s table, are we?” Loras whispered up to him. Mace cast a glance at the table in question. Were those pudding cups? He shuddered. “We are not.” He wasn’t entirely sure where they were going, his feet moving somewhat aimlessly, until a gentle hand caught his elbow. Mace paused, looking down into warm caramel eyes. “Mace, have you seen my brother?” Elia asked. She looked delicately beautiful, as always, a lovely strapless yellow dress exposing her slender shoulders. Mace smiled at her automatically. “You know Oberyn, he saw an old friend,” he gave a sheepish laugh. To his surprise, Elia looked pleased rather than annoyed. “Here, take his chair and tell me all about it,” she said, gesturing at the empty setting and untouched cheesecake. Wait. Mace did a double take at the cheesecake. “Mace Tyrell, don’t tell me you don’t have time for me,” Elia tugged his arm. “It’s been ages since we caught up.” Like he was in a dream, he allowed himself to be pulled down into the seat, the perfect triangle of the cake placidly awaiting his arrival. “Oberyn ran into Ellaria Sand in the Godswood,” Mace began hesitantly. Cautiously, he picked up Oberyn’s fork, and glanced back at Elia. She only smiled at him encouragingly. Emboldened, he cut a piece of the cake. “You know how he’s always missed her. Not that he’s ever said that of course,” Mace corrected hastily, but Elia only gave him a knowing nod. Mace took a breath and then took a bite. “Gods. Exquisite.” He breathed. Elia frowned. “I mean, Ellaria looked exquisite. And she looked happy to see him too. They were getting a drink and looking very cozy when I saw them last,” Mace elided the ended as gracefully as he could. Elia laughed, possibly seeing what he had done. “I’m happy for him. He was so proud and stubborn about admitting that he missed her,” she shook her head at Mace in a conspiratorial way. Mace would have said something back, but his mouth was full of cheesecake. “Hi Aunty Elia,” Loras inserted himself. Mace patted his curls approvingly. As his precocious son entertained his dining companion, Mace let himself fully luxuriate in the contrast between the creaminess of the cheesecake and the playful tartness of the raspberry. He had to admit, each layer individually was a masterpiece, but the higher he got, the more complex the flavor palate became. First subtle, then bold, then playful. But the fourth... how could the Red Keep kitchens possibly outdo themselves? And yet the sheer visual splendor of that Sept... Mace again felt his mouth water. They had cleared the uncut cake, and Mace’s head swiveled, trying to determine the easiest approach. The initial scouting report was grim. It appeared that only the wedding party’s table had received slices from the top tier. Mace squinted. So the Lannisters (he mentally shuddered at the idea of asking Tywin for some of his dessert, and then mentally shuddered at the idea of ever looking Tywin in the face again), the Baratheons, Ned, Cat, Lysa, Mr. Arryn—wait what was he doing there?, Thoros, Beric, Thoros’ sister and Jaime’s girlfriend. Worse still, most of them seemed firmly in the clean plate club. Mace winced as he watched Mr. Arryn hold his last bite out to Lysa to take. Cersei, naturally, hadn’t so much as touched hers and Mace ground his teeth. He wasn’t a particularly vengeful person, but there was only so much a man could be expected to endure. Regardless, asking her was out of the question. Steffon and Cassana were mysteriously absent, and Mace shifted in his seat to peak at their plates. Steffon’s plate was empty, but Cassana’s... Robert reached over and dumped her slice onto his own plate. Mace ground his teeth. Stannis was done, the Asshais were both done, Brienne was done, Renly was... Renly was not done. Renly was surrounded by a crowd of well wishers, laughing and shaking hands. He wasn’t even looking at his cake. “Elia, I’m supposed to return my son to the children’s table,” Mace, a perpetually terrible liar, felt the word slip smoothly out. “If you see my brother, tell him Elia said I told you so,” Elia gave him a light embrace. “Loras you get more handsome every time I see you.” Loras preened, and Mace had to practically pry him from Elia’s side. “Where are we going now?” Loras asked. “To congratulate Renly Baratheon on his performance,” Mace answered absentmindedly. Loras’ eyes got very round again, and his thumb found its way into his mouth. Odd, Mace thought he had outgrown that habit a while ago. Mace edged his way through the crowd, pleased to see Renly talking to a rather weedy looking man who Mace didn’t recognize at all. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t monopolize him all evening,” Mace gave a pompous little laugh and used his not insubstantial bulk to displace the fellow altogether. Far from being relieved to be gracefully extricated from an awkward prolonged conversation with a stranger, Renly’s face darkened. “Mace, what the actual fuck?!” Renly hissed. Mace blinked, taken aback. He glanced nervously at the slice of a cornerstone on Renly’s plate, marzipan glistening. This did not seem to be the opportunity to cadge a bite that Mace was hoping for. “I wanted to say well done,” Mace stammered. “Um please don’t swear in front of my son.” “That was an honest to gods casting director! He’s putting together a high school drama and is looking for fresh young talent! And you... you scared him off!” Renly snarled sotto voce, nostrils flaring. “I didn’t mean to, I mean if there’s anything I can do...” Mace tried to backpeddle, glancing forlornly at the cake on the table. “Get your fat ass and your snotty little son out of my face!” Renly whispered into their faces. “Good to see you old man!” He said more loudly, and in a pretense of clapping Mace on the back, shoved him on his way. Mace squeezed Loras more tightly and hurried on. “He called me... snotty,” Loras said quietly. Mace stopped and sighed and put Loras down. “He was in a bad mood I guess. People say things they don’t mean when they’re in a bad mood.” “He meant it,” Loras retorted, fists clenching. “He called me snotty and he called you fat. I HATE him.” Mace was alarmed to see his son on the verge of tears, and knelt down so they were eye level. “He’s nothing but a... a...” Mace tried to think of the right insult. “A poo poo head!” Loras growled. “Yes. And you’ll never have to see him again,” Mace promised his son, hugging him. “Now who wants some cake?” “Daddy!” Loras giggled into his shoulder. “You always want cake!” “Are you saying you DON’T want cake?” Mace pulled a sad face, just to hear his son giggle again. He didn’t think there was a better sound. “I do! I do!” Loras flung his arms around Mace’s neck, and Mace picked him up again, steeled with determination. If they couldn’t find a slice, they would go straight to the source. To say the kitchen staff were surprised when a guest walked in clutching a child was an understatement. The frantic clean up and preparations for the next day came to a standstill. “Sir, can I help you?” A sous-chef hurried up to him, clearly intent on barring any further progress. “I hope so,” Mace said, wishing with all his heart for just a little bit of that Baratheon luck. “Does the name Gary Gourmand mean anything to you?” The sous-chef stopped in his tracks, expression unreadable. Then a wrinkle of a frown appeared in his face. Oh dear. “But Gary is in Highgarden!” The sous chef said accusingly. “Someone would have warned us if he were coming!” Mace felt his jaw drop, and then, reminding himself that Gary didn’t stand around staring like some slack-jawed yokel, turned into an attempt at a sophisticated chuckle. “I could hardly advertise that I was attending the Lannister-Baratheon wedding. That might expose my identity!” He patted the man on the shoulder, and pulled out his phone. “Any of these look familiar?” The man looked at the rows of photos, all featured on Gary’s blog. “What did you give the Golden Rose?” The sous chef demanded. “Three and a half stars. It’s time someone pointed out that they’re coasting on their reputation,” Mace replied promptly. “Gods... it’s really Gary!” The sous chef turned back to the dishwasher standing near him. Mace, who had never merited a second glance let alone a wave of exulting adoration that would have left Renly Baratheon seething in envy, nearly reeled as the most talented kitchen in all of King’s Landing swarmed forward. “Finally someone who appreciates the southern Dornish cuisine!” A gorgeous woman Mace had seen tending bar kissed him on the cheek. Mace blushed. “I’ve been waiting for someone to take the Golden Rose down for years,” a prep cook confided, shaking his hand heartily. “Give him some space!” The sous chef, who as his discoverer, seemed to feel some proprietary ownership, shooed his colleagues back. “Now Gary, what can we do for you?” “Like most pastry chefs in the quality King’s Landing restaurants, I trained in Lys,” an elderly and somewhat plain woman was saying, her face glowing with the interest Mace was showing in her work and the compliments on the cake he had thus far bestowed. “I spent most of my career there, but they can be such slaves to the way things are always done. I decided it was time for a change up, so I moved to King’s Landing. I served as the head pastry chef at The Crossroads for eight years, before coming here,” she continued, opening a door into a back pantry. Mace stopped dead. There, on a high shelf, quietly waiting to be boxed, was the cake. “Well I’ll just leave you two here for a few minutes,” the pastry chef winked. The door swung shut. “Look, a ladder!” Loras pointed at a rolling stepladder in the corner. Mace plopped him down, and rolled the ladder in question over the shelves. High above him, the marvelous Sept of Baelor glowed with an unearthly majesty. Gazing upon it really did feel like a religious experience. Mace wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and began to climb. He was on the top step, straining to reach the cake when he realized he might have a problem. Whomever had been in charge of putting it in a safe spot had clearly been taller than Mace. Plus the cake was quite heavy. “Try climbing on the counter,” Loras said from below. Mace winced at the idea of dirtying the sacred counters of the Red Keep kitchens with his feet, but it was for a very good cause. He put one foot on and tested it for durability. It held. He pushed up, and his hands closed around the bottom of the tray. The cake was very heavy, and his cursed sweaty hands weren’t helping, but with the gentle care that he might use to brush out Loras’ tangles, he wrestled off the shelf and into his arms. That was naturally when the door swung open. “Mace Tyrell,” his mother’s voice had the bone chilling cold of the far North. “What do you think you’re doing.” Mace grunted as he looked over the cake to see his mother in the doorway. Flanked by a smirking Cersei Lannister-Baratheon. “Having my cake and eating it too?” Mace gave a sarcastic shrug, the cake wobbling precariously. “What does it look like I’m doing?” “You will get down from there this instant!” Olenna jabbed her finger at him. “Or what? You’ll give me a lecture on self-control? Please mother, let’s hear your thoughts on self-control,” Mace yawned. “Really Mace, are you actually eating away your mommy issues? A bit trite, don’t you think?” Cersei drawled. “Hey Cersei, your dad banged my mom in the church before the wedding,” Mace shot back, feeling well and truly on a roll. “Excuse me?” Cersei turned on Olenna. “Oh save the wilting flower act dear, it doesn’t become a pregnant bride.” “Wait WHAT?” Mace took a step back at the news, only to realize in one of those painful crystallized moments that seem to stretch for an eternity, that there was nowhere to step. For a brief moment, he hung in the air, his mother’s wince and Cersei expression of horror frozen. Then there was a painful jolt through his body as he landed, but not as painful as he was expecting. He had been cushioned by something soft. And sticky. He lifted a finger to his mouth. And sweet. “Daddy?” Loras said uncertainly. Mace lifted his head to see his only child covered in the exploded remnants of the Sept of Baelor. Mace imagined he looked equally wrecked. Still. With the sigh of someone who has come this far, he scooped a generous handful off the floor. That seemed to break the spell as to the onlookers. “MY CAKE!” Cersei howled. “Mace, don’t you dare...” Olenna started. Mace defiantly shoved it into his mouth. “Oh no, Daddy!” Loras laughed. But he discretely tried picked a spun sugar flower off the ground and popped it into his own mouth. “Mace, THAT IS DISGUSTING!” His mother shouted. “It’s fucking delicious,” Mace contradicted her mildly. And you know what? It really was.

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 44

The morning of the Lannister-Baratheon wedding had found Oberyn languidly doing laps in the infinity pool on the rooftop of his parents’ Kings Landing apartment building. It was an objectively perfect late summer day. The sky was blue, the water was warm, and Oberyn always enjoyed the occasional change in scenery. As much as he loved his brother and his sister-in-law, life in Sunspear could be stifling. And not just because of the heat. His parents were in Kings Landing, this time of year, it was true, but his mother was tied up with politics and his father with their diverse business interests. Normally, that let him run wild in the capital with Elia. Not that Elia ran wild. It let him run wild with Elia laughing one step behind. This time, Elia had arrived hand in hand with Arthur, the hand in question catching the light as the ring upon it dazzled. The memory was enough for Oberyn to push off the edge of the pool hard, throwing himself into the next lap and churning the water with his displeasure. Of course he liked Arthur. Had always liked Arthur. Arthur had been his friend before he’d been Elia’s! But Oberyn felt so... restless. During the wild week following the bachelor party, half drunk on the sweet meads of the south, he’d considered blowing off the wedding altogether and demanding that Captain Sara take him on as a deckhand. His nautical knowledge was sparse but he could think of other ways to... serve. He smirked to himself in satisfaction. Captain Sara may have left for the high seas, but something told him that he hadn’t heard the last from her. He was sure she would find her way back into his life somehow. Something had driven him to attend the wedding, maybe an idle desire to see this thing through, maybe a genuine concern about how Mace Tyrell was faring in the wake of the tattoo fiasco (for entirely inexplicable reasons Oberyn felt somewhat responsible) or just an itch for a change of scenery. “Trying out for the Olympics?” Elia called as she stepped out onto the roof deck. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her dark curls whipping around her face in the breeze. Oberyn felt simultaneous surges of affection and resentment. “I think one Olympian is enough for the family,” he said drily, lifting himself onto the pool’s edge. Elia kicked off her sandals and sat next to him, her dangling into the water. “You’ve been huffy about Arthur since even before the engagement. I thought you liked him,” she said reproachfully. Oberyn turned to look back over the city so he would not have to meet those big brown eyes. “Of course I like him,” he responded. “That doesn’t mean I have to like him taking you away from me.” “You’re ridiculous,” Elia smoothed his hair. “I’m not going anywhere. What would you do without me?” “Don’t act like nothing’s changing. You’ll go home to Starfall now. You’ll have children who run around talking about ancient swords and practicing their side-stances. You’ll leave me with Doran and his disapproving glares.” “You can come to Starfall. Run riot with Ashara and Lyanna, teach your nieces and nephews what it means to be a Martell.” Oberyn made a disgruntled noise, but couldn’t stop the twitch of a smile. No nieces and nephews of his would be running around with poncey epées. He would teach them all the dirtiest fighting tricks he knew. “You’ve all become boring,” he accused his sister in an attempt to retake the offensive. “I was always boring,” Elia laughed. “It never bothered you before. And so was Arthur. Are you sure you’re not talking about Robert now?” “When he was the quarterback of the Suns, I once saw him work his way through five cheerleaders in one night at the same party.” “Charming,” Elia sighed. “How does a guy like that see the appeal of marriage?” “And not you, you mean?” Elia cocked her head. Oberyn grunted and flicked water at her to avoid responding. “Perhaps I’m the wrong person to ask, since I always did see the attraction. But I know who the right person to ask is. And just because an ending is traditional or popular doesn’t make it your happy ending, you know?” “So wise,” Oberyn teased. “And who is this sage of knowledge that I must seek out? Are they on a mountaintop somewhere? Will I have to complete a series of tests to earn my answer?” “It’s Ellaria Sand,” Elia answered demurely. “And I shouldn’t think you’d have to do any of that. She’s coming to the wedding.” “Wait what?” Oberyn spluttered, abandoning his feigned nonchalance. “Since when?” Ellaria had been his highschool... girlfriend seemed too reductive a word. Partner in crime. Her father, some Dornish diplomat, had enrolled her in Prep after she’d been expelled from the Convent of the Maiden in a storm cloud of scandal. She had classic Dornish looks and sinful curves. She was bold and adventurous and witty and cared not even a little what anybody thought of her. Her father had sent her off to Qarth for college, and neither of them had promised each other a thing. He may have spent the odd hour or two late at night scrolling through her social media when he was in a nostalgic or contemplative mood. Ellaria posing with another girl in front of the bells of Norvos, Ellaria sunbathing topless on the sands of Sothyros, Ellaria kissing a burly ginger in front of the Wall. “I thought she was in Lys,” Oberyn stammered lamely. Not that he kept tabs on her whereabouts. Just if they’d ever happened to be in the same city, he might text her for a drink. For old time’s sake. “She was,” Elia was playing with her hair. “And she wasn’t any friend of Cersei’s,” Oberyn frowned. For starters Cersei didn’t have friends so much as lackeys, and then there was the fact that Ellaria’s father was very much not married to her mother. Cersei would have found the whiff of scandal off brand. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d be invited to the wedding.” “She wasn’t,” Elia seemed very concerned by one curl in particular, winding and rewinding it around her finger. “My dearest sister,” Oberyn’s eyes narrowed. “What have you done?” “Oh I invited her as your plus one,” Elia said brightly. “I texted her and said you were embarrassed to impose on her because you knew she wasn’t in the country, but it would mean the world to you to have her there.” “YOU WHAT?!” “Look it’s Arthur!” Elia got to her feet and skipped over to her fiancé, leaving Oberyn sitting flummoxed poolside. “Elia you can’t just... why would you think that...” Oberyn struggled to his feet and took a deep breath. “Did you even consider the implications of a message like that??” “That you miss her and want to see her again?” Elia asked, from safely in Arthur’s arms, Oberyn noted sourly. “And that I’m pining for her, and I want to get back together, possibly exclusively, and Elia, I’m not ready to make that kind of commitment!” Oberyn snapped. “It’s Ellaria. She knows who you are. Nobody changes that much in six years,” Elia waved a hand to dismiss his concerns. “You’d better be right, for your sake,” Oberyn glared at her. “Easy Martell,” Arthur tsked. “Now I came up to remind you guys that the car is coming to pick us up in half an hour. Oberyn sulked the entire car ride there, while Elia, seemingly determined to rub salt in the wound, blithely chatted to Arthur about their own wedding plans (a not so secret elopement to the Maldyves). Of course he wanted Ellaria back in his life. It just wasn’t as simple as Elia made it out to be! He needed to feel her out, see what she wanted, make sure it was compatible with what he wanted. It was delicate!! An off the cuff spontaneous invitation would have been best. Until certain meddling sisters stuck their noses where they didn’t belong. He wasn’t nervous, though it had taken him uncharacteristically long to get ready. And his hair was doing this weird floppy thing—Oberyn glared at it in the reflection of the car window. Traitor. This was still salvageable. Of course it was. He had to be casual. Breezy. Lightly amused by his sister and her schemes. Certainly not sit next to Ellaria in the sept, but perhaps afterwards, at the cocktail hour, propose a drink. For old times’ sake. They arrived approximately ten minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to take place, Oberyn trying to project a devil-may-care nonchalance as he walked through the foyer of the Great Sept. Where was she? Every flash of red (Ellaria never could resist a deep scarlet for special occasions) caught his eye. But he was alone! Exposed! She could come out of nowhere and he would have no excuse not to sit with her. The plan would be ruined. Searching for a companion with whom to seem preoccupied, his eyes fell on a familiar forlorn figure. “Mace!” Oberyn gave him a hearty hug. Excellent, the man could be relied upon for a long-winded story that would let Oberyn pretend deep interest, even as he surreptitiously scanned the crowds for his quarry. “How are you?” He asked absently, when the story did not immediately start. “I feel not quite well,” Mace mumbled. “Problems of the stomach?” Oberyn asked sympathetically, recalling Mace’s history of indigestion. “In a way,” Mace said wanly. “Well buck up! Now let’s both laugh like you’ve said something hilarious.” “Wha—?” Oberyn laughed heartily and slapped Mace on the back. “You are too funny, my friend. Now what has been going on with you? Spare me no detail. Has your mother written you back into the will after the tattoo incident.” “My mother...” Mace’s face darkened. “Let me tell you something about my mother...” Ah excellent. Oberyn put on an expression of neutral interest and resumed scanning. Where was she? Not with Cassana Baratheon, wrapped in an uncharacteristically unattractive black shawl and clutching the hand of her husband, who looked rather bored. Oberyn paused a moment to admire Steffon’s form—it was shocking really that he’d never slept with any of his friends’ parents. Over there was Stannis talking earnestly to Doran... oh dear, Doran seemed quite displeased. Oberyn quickly hurried to the Starks—he winked at Benjen, who turned red and hurriedly looked away. His search was cut short by the bells chiming, signaling that guests should begin proceeding into the High Sept. Shortly thereafter, that lovely Brienne Tarth made an announcement to that effect. Obediently, Oberyn prepared to tug at Mace’s arm. Let it never be said that he couldn’t take direction. “And to find her fucking Tywin Lannister in the library of the High Sept! It’s not just the grossness of it all, it’s the HYPOCRISY!” Mace was finishing. Oberyn felt a pang of regret at missing this story, which seemed more interesting than Mace’s usual repertoire. “We’ll revisit the subject later,” Oberyn said soothingly. “Now let’s get into the chapel. You have no objections to me joining you and Alerie, I trust?” The ceremony, executed with Cersei’s usual flair for the elegant, was well done in Oberyn’s book. Also short and snappy, which was only a positive. That two people who Oberyn had privately long doubted were capable of feeling much of anything at all were now staring at each other with a look he might describe as besotted... well he still wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Robert and Cersei led the procession out of the chapel toward the fleet of cars waiting to whisk them to the Red Keep. Oberyn gamely picked up Loras and hopped in the car with Alerie and Mace before anybody could say anything to the contrary, as Alerie looked like she might. “Nice to get cozy isn’t it?” Oberyn flashed her his most dazzling smile. “And I’ve missed my little godson!” “I’ve missed you Uncle Oby,” Loras said back solemnly, and Oberyn ruffled his mop of curls. He felt a pang for little Daemon Sand. He would be traveling up to White Harbor after the wedding to meet the real Tyene in person. Just then, he thought he caught a glimpse of scarlet in the corner of his eye, disappearing into a car further down the line. His head snapped backwards. “Who got in that car? Mace, did you see?” Oberyn demanded. “Um no, I could hop out and check?” Mace offered helpfully. “Yes please,” Oberyn said, right as Alerie said “Don’t be ridiculous.” There was as a pause as the two glared at each other over Loras’ head. “Oh it’s not trouble, I’ll just,” Mace was fumbling for the car door as the car in question pulled away. “Driver, follow that car!” Oberyn shouted dramatically. “No need to shout, my hearing is perfectly fine for now,” the driver replied glumly. “Worse luck for that, since all I get is asinine customers with their silly instructions. Follow that car. Like we aren’t all going to the same place.” “Of course, my apologies,” Oberyn said through gritted teeth as their car painstakingly pulled out. “No need to apologize, it is what it is. And it can always be worse and usually gets worse. In my experience. We could be hit by another car, or we could get a flat, or a speeding ticket, or...” “My good man,” Oberyn interjected. “You can call me Edd,” the driver sighed. “Edd, get us to the Godswood Gardens. And step on it.” Oberyn was out of the car while it was still moving, with a kiss on Loras’ head and a promise to call Mace soon. Poor chap really did seem to be going through something. But first to find that scarlet! Oberyn had taken three steps into the Godswood when he found something entirely different. “Oberyn!” Doran grabbed Oberyn by the arm. “Can I talk to you for just a moment?” It appeared that Stannis (Stannis!!!) had crashed the convertible. Repairs were likely to cost hundreds of thousands of dragons. Oberyn winced. Had Doran not explicitly leant the car to Oberyn?!? For a weekend?!?! And now it turns up smashed to smithereens on the shoulder of a highway two weeks later!?!?!? Oberyn was growing increasingly antsy, but Doran was not to be deterred, if the iron grip on Oberyn’s shoulder was any indication. Just when Oberyn was giving up the cocktail hour, and perhaps the remainder of the wedding as a lost cause, Doran encountered his kryptonite. “Doran, you’ve been ignoring me all wedding,” Elia pouted, pulling her older brother into a hug. “And I haven’t even seen you since the last time you were in King’s Landing!” Doran wavered in the face of his adored baby sister, and then made a last ditch attempt to stay the course. “I was waylaid,” Doran said stiffly, “by a young man informing me that my priceless and historic automobile had been totaled!” “Oh but you have about eight insurance policies on that thing. It’ll be as good as new,” Elia laughed, linking her arms with him. “Now what’s this I hear about Mellario being pregnant?!” She pulled him down the garden path, towing him helplessly in her wake. Oberyn stared after them, shocked to have been extricated so seamlessly. “Oh look, the dogwood blossoms are still blooming!” Elia reached up to smell one and cast a look back at Oberyn. GO, she mouthed. With a start, Oberyn broke his reverie and hurried away. So intent was he on putting distance between himself and his siblings, that he nearly collided with someone rounding a stone water fountain. “I do apologize,” Oberyn gave his victim a quick bow. A young woman, his eyes moved up her legs... in a scarlet dress. He lifted his chin to meet her gaze and an amused Ellaria Sand stared back. “Perhaps I could make it up to you,” he gave his most charming smile. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” “Strong words for someone who was pining for me from across continents,” Ellaria laughed, a rich sultry sound. Gods she looked good. “A joke of my sister’s I’m afraid. I’m sorry to have lured you here under false pretenses,” Oberyn gave a languid shrug. “I’m sorry to have been late to the ceremony than. I thought, if you were truly lovelorn, sitting through a wedding might give you unwelcome ideas,” Ellaria smirked, full lips quirking in an inviting smile. Oberyn couldn’t help himself, he reached out and spun her into a hug, her body melting against his in that way it always had. “It is so good to see you, Ellaria,” he said against her hair. “What would you say to a drink?” Ellaria peeked up at him through her wavy black hair. “For old time’s sake?”

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 43

Melisandre floated through one of the reception rooms, chin lifted haughtily and face impassive, though she could feel the men staring and the women glaring. Gods it felt good to get this one tiny twist of revenge. To watch this one petty little plan of Cersei’s go awry. In fighting the tradition of the ugly bridesmaid’s dress, she was striking a blow against the wedding industrial complex, against tradition, against the patriarchy, against stupid weddings themselves! Melisandre spun giddily, and the already short dress fluttered  even higher. Somebody somewhere have a scandalized gasp. She ignored them, riding high as a crusader for social justice, a warrior who didn’t bow to silly things like what people thought, who let nobody stand in her way and... Someone grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. “Ow ow ow stop it!” Melisandre yelped. “Change your dress back,” Thoros growled. “Never!” Melisandre hissed defiantly. Thoros twisted again and began to march her to a side room. “Ow! Where is your—“ Melisandre tried unsuccessfully to stomp on his foot, “chivalry?” “I think,” Thoros broke off to block a flying elbow to the face, “you burned it up with my baseball card collection when I was eight.” He released her into the room, slamming the door and blocking it with his body. Melisandre glared at him. “I’m making a political statement against weddings!” “You’re making an ass of yourself!” “You wouldn’t understand! You’ve never believed in anything in your entire life!” “I believe you’re making an ass of yourself!” “Why can’t you just once believe in a cause bigger than your next paycheck?!” “Why can’t you just believe in things like a normal amount?! Most people would agree that it’s silly to break the bank on a party, but only you would conclude therefore weddings are evil and must be ruined at all costs,” Thoros pinched the bridge of his nose and glared at her. “Cersei must be stopped!” “But can’t you stop her in some fashion that doesn’t get Brienne in trouble?!” Melisandre frowned at the idea than brushed it off. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not her fault.” “And Cersei is so careful to only blame the people at fault,” Thoros rolled his eyes. “Well... well why do you care anyway?!” Melisandre snapped, suddenly feeling like she was holding a losing hand. “Not that it’s any of your business but...” Thoros mumbled something. Melisandre raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t catch that,” she drawled. “I might have accidentally gotten Robert hammered and Brienne promised to fix it up with Cersei if you wear the old dress.” Thoros repeated louder, looking uncomfortable. Melisandre felt the smile tugging her lip upward. “See that sounds like a you problem,” she gave a languid shoulder shrug. Thoros narrowed his eyes at her. “Okay, two things. First, remember how I told you not to fuck with your crazy ex and you ignored me and I ended up in a hospital and we got kicked out of our apartment?!” Melisandre squirmed. “Yes, but you can’t just use that as an excuse to get your way for the rest of your life!” “Watch me,” Thoros leaned back against the door. “And second, I refuse to believe that anyone, even you, feels THAT strongly about the sanctity of marriage being poisoned by capitalism. So what the fuck is going on?” Melisandre opened her mouth to deliver an impassioned harangue on what it meant to pledge one’s eternal love to another human being and the perversion of the oldest oaths known to humanity into a spectacle of sound and fury signifying nothing. “A priest said that Stannis and I were ready to get married,” is what came out instead. “The nerve,” Thoros said drily. “Shut up! It just took me by surprise. Marriage isn’t something I ever thought about being for me.” She had always wanted to be a priestess in the Red Temple, for as far back as she could remember. And then there had been... the unpleasantness... but she had still been sure she was destined for something great. She was going to go to medical school and be a doctor and save lives. She would fight the good fight, and the small domestic blisses of wifehood seemed rather dull and uninteresting in comparison. They were for sensible people like Catelyn Tully. Melisandre didn’t do sensible. “So it’s not for you,” Thoros shrugged. “There’s no law that you HAVE to get married.” “But when he said it, a tiny part of me was happy,” Melisandre admitted, fingers digging half-moons into her palms. It had taken her aback, that little bubble of relief and excitement, just the briefest mental picture of Stannis standing across from her looking nervous and shy and happy, their hands joined forever. “Okay...” Thoros dragged out. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re allowed to change your mind?” “I HATE WEDDINGS!” Melisandre blurted, and pushed past him for the door. “Are you going to change?” “I WILL CONSIDER IT!” She slammed the door in his face. She was of course, but only because she didn’t want Brienne to get in trouble and because Thoros could be so stubborn and unreasonable. With a huff, she returned to her closet where she had abandoned the outer layer of tulle and began the grim work of reattaching it. She didn’t need marriage. She didn’t even want marriage! She and Stannis had never talked about it, and there was no rush anyway, and the fact that the thought of Stannis standing at the altar waiting for her inspired completely unwelcome butterflies meant nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, at all. Melisandre emerged from the closet, once more clad in a pink confetti disaster. She stoically turned from the mirror to avoid looking at her reflection, reached to open the door and nearly got bowled over by Brienne running in. “Ta da,” Melisandre struck a pose. “I need red nail polish!” Brienne blurted, picking up the makeup artists bag and emptying it across the table where she’d been working. “Or like marinara sauce I guess? Something red that splashes?” Melisandre pouted slightly. Didn’t Brienne even appreciate the sacrifices she made for their friendship?! “I changed,” she hinted, just in case Brienne hadn’t noticed. “Yeah that’s great,” Brienne said, moving on to Lysa’s purse and emptying it into the pile. “Like you asked me to,” Melisandre reminded her. Brienne paused and looked up, her normally tentative smile now pressed into a stern line. “I need something red that splashes, four shots of espresso and a bagel, and then I need to convince Lysa that she should invite Petyr to the afterparty. You can help me or not help me, but I do not have time to coddle your ego for doing something you should have already done to begin with.” Melisandre blinked. Who was this girl? Bossy, confident, on a mission.... kind of hot actually. “What I meant to say,” she cleared her throat after a pause, trying to salvage her ego. “Was that I will go find the caterers and get the espressos and the bagel.” She came back with the espressos and the bagel AND a bowl of cold marinara sauce. If that wasn’t worth just a smidgeon of gratitude... She found Brienne in the library, conferring with the bride-to-be in a corner. Robert was chasing Ned around the room, trying to bear hug him, while her brother and Jaime watched in apathy and malevolent glee respectively. “You’re my oldest and dearest friend Ned!” Robert boomed as he vaulted a couch and Ned was forced to make an end run around the far corner. “Careful Stark, I think he’s gaining!” Jaime shouted cheerfully. “You could at least try to be helpful,” Melisandre said disapprovingly to Thoros. “As opposed to running around half-naked?” Thoros yawned. “I changed,” she sniffed. “And look. Espresso and a bagel. The ultimate hangover cure. Very helpful. If we can just get him to slow down enough to take it.” Ned rounded the bend, Robert hot on his heels. As Ned scampered by, Thoros stuck out a discrete foot, sending Robert flying. “See? Helpful,” Thoros grinned. Melisandre rolled her eyes. “Now if you can keep him down.” It took Thoros hanging on to Robert’s right arm for dear life, and Ned doing the same to his right, while Melisandre fed him bits of bagel like a baby bird (a very very large baby bird) to effectuate the Sober-Robert-Up plan. “You know I’ve always dreamed of being hand fed by a sexy redhead,” Robert commented, as he obediently took the next bite. “Didn’t really think it would happen ten minutes before my wedding.” Melisandre gritted her teeth, and forced another sip of coffee into him. “Also when I retell this story, it’s going to be strawberries dipped in chocolate, okay?” Melisandre glared at Thoros to smack his gross friend, but her brother was currently trying to escape a one-armed headlock. She turned instead to Cersei was entirely preoccupied. “Ten minutes before the ceremony? My goodness! Jaime, take over for Melisandre, I need her elsewhere.” Jaime had been lounging on the couch chuckling to himself, but sat upright looking disgruntled. “Melisandre!” Cersei snapped her fingers impatiently. With a shrug, she stood up and handed Jaime the cup of espresso and the unenviable task of force feeding it to Robert. “Wait, this wasn’t in my dream!” Melisandre heard before Cersei shut the door behind them. “So where are we going?” Melisandre asked hesitantly. Twenty minutes later, Melisandre was wearing a caterer’s uniform, and sashaying through the crowd with a plate of tumblers filled with watered down marinara sauce. “The Bloody Marys are for later,” she repeated with a smile as she warded off the seventh guest to make a grab for one. She had her eye on one very specific target. “Don’t you think they should have started seating us already? It’s one thing if somebody like me keeps her audience waiting, that’s to be expected. But for a wedding? Who exactly does little Miss Lannister think she is?” A woman in a white dress with tumble of dark curls laughed. Melisandre took a moment to eye Stannis’ mother, a woman she’d met on only a handful of occasions and had a deep distaste for. Brienne had been worried that Cassandra would recognize her. In a waitstaff uniform, Melisandre highly doubted it. Then she took a few more brisk steps into the crowd and before Cassandra had time to register her presence, she stutter-stepped to mime losing her balance, and tipped the entire tray directly on to the unsuspecting woman. It was as if time froze for a second, the glasses filled with goopy red liquid sloshing through the air, the expression of horror marring Cassandra’s lovely features, and above all, that dress, that perfectly white dress, shining like the very embodiment of everything Melisandre hated about weddings and about Cassandra Baratheon, rolled into one. Then several things happened in rapid succession. There was the sharp crack of glass smashing against the floor, the decidedly unmusical howl of rage from Cassana, and then a rather theatrical gasp from Cersei who had coincidentally been walking by with her brother Tyrion. “My dress!” Cassana shrieked, the pristine silk now spattered with red. “Your dress!” Cersei declaimed, grabbing the nearest fabric at hand (coincidentally Tyrion’s tie) and frantically dabbing at it. “You!” Cassan whirled on Melisandre, who kept a politely apologetic smile fixed on her face. “Maybe some water?” Cersei dunked the tie in a nearby glass before resuming dabbing. “Me,” Melisandre’s apologetic smile became a little wider. “Glak,” said Tyrion, clawing at his throat and trying to release the tie that Cersei was slowing strangling him with. There was a sudden amplified crescendo of wind chimes, and the brief feedback of a microphone turning on. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you could make your way into the Great Sept, the ceremony is about to begin.” Brienne announced, her voice low and confident. “My dress,” Cassana whispered, once more. “My tie!” Tyrion wailed, having finally gotten free of his noose. Cersei absently handed it back to him, now soiled and limp. He tried to click the duckies on, but there was only a sad spark from the wiring. “I believe my Aunt Gemma has something you can wear over it,” Cersei tugged Cassana’s arm gently. “Best just trash it,” Melisandre patted Tyrion on the head. “No tie is a sexier look anyway. And that Stokeworth girl has been eyeing you since she got here.” “Which one?” Tyrion’s head shot up, the tie falling to the floor. Melisandre deposited it and the tray in a garbage on the way back to her changing room. She found the other girls looking ready, if humming with a restless energy. “Petyr said yes of course, but I can’t think why she wants him there after all he’s done,” Lysa was huffing to Catelyn. “As long as you keep him far far away from me,” Catelyn said grimly. “How did it go?” Brienne blurted upon seeing Melisandre. “Perfectly,” Cersei answered for her as she entered the room. Dewey eyed angel she might look, but the effect was rather spoiled by the evil laugh she proceeded to give. “Robert was much calmer when he left to get ready,” Brienne assured her. “I texted what you told me and Petyr is coming to the after party,” Lysa chipped in. “How are you feeling? If you need anything up to and including a getaway car, we’re here,” Catelyn said firmly. “Places everyone!” A wedding minion hurried in, “the music’s starting!” “Get. Out.” Melisandre sent her scurrying. They all turned back to Cersei. Even Melisandre found, to her surprise, that she was holding her breath. Cersei laughed that delicate bell-like laugh that Melisandre had always suspected was fake as hell (and, come to think of it, reminded her more than a little of Cassana’s laugh). “Don’t be silly, Catelyn, this is my dream come true.” Catelyn lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Cersei squared her shoulders. “Fine. It’s not quite how I pictured it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to be perfect. Now do try to tuck those tummies in ladies and let’s knock them dead.” Melisandre, as the least important and least socially connected bridesmaid, was positioned the furthest from the bride, and therefore had the unenviable task of leading the charge. Feeling an unaccustomed pang of nerves (she couldn’t believe she had changed back into this pink monstrosity for Brienne, she was getting soft in her old age) she turned the corner into hall of the Great Sept. Across the entryway, Stannis turned in at the same time. Even with the gray suit and garish pink pocket square, he managed to look sober and serious. Until he looked up and saw her, trying to step daintily as she waded toward him through the thick folds of tulle. There was the barest flicker of a twitch of his lip, and nobody else would have noticed, but Melisandre knew he was fighting a smile. Without moving a muscle of her otherwise pleasant expression, she narrowed her eyes at him. As they met in the center of the hallway, preparing to walk forward past the long benches of guests to the altar, Stannis extended his arm. She took it. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, barely audible above the string quartet playing them in, and she elbowed him. “Where have you been? My brother got Robert hammered, Brienne yelled at me, and I need to avoid your mother for like a year and you can never ask why,” she whispered through her teeth as they stepped forward. But even as she poured out her litany of woes, they seemed to melt away. The afternoon light was streaming through the stained glass windows, casting the entire scene at the altar in a golden glow. Robert, dark hair a little tousled, but otherwise calm and alert, looked like some kind of storybook hero, riding off into the happily ever after. Above them, in the great stone cathedral arches that vaulted overhead, hung a thousand amber orbs, catching the light and imbuing the hall below with an otherworldly feeling—as if they were walking below the night sky of some distant planet. Melisandre clutched Stannis’ arm just a little tighter, to feel more tethered to the here and now. Without looking at her, he moved his other hand on top of her own. They walked up the stone steps to the altar, splitting gracefully as Stannis moved to stand behind Robert and Melisandre prepared to stand alone on the bride’s side. Robert broke his decorum to shoot them both a grin, looking a little nervous and more than a little excited. Melisandre, who mostly felt a tired exasperation with her boyfriend’s brother, couldn’t help but smile back. Lord of Light, he looked happy. Renly and Lysa were next up the aisle, Renly managing to make his outfit look whimsical and stylish as always. Lysa’s fiery hair perfectly set off Renly’s dark locks and Melisandre couldn’t help but notice Jon Arryn, sitting in the second row, practically craning his neck to get a better look at her. Then came Catelyn and Thoros. (Ned as best man, would walk down with Brienne.) Melisandre was amused to see Cat elbowing him to stand up straighter, and it was with visible relief that Thoros parted ways with her at the altar to stand by Renly. Brienne and Ned might have been even more of an amusing pairing—Brienne had at least three inches on Ned but he was gamely holding his arm out and up to accommodate her, looking a bit as if he were miming a winged bird. But they both looked so grave and so terribly earnest... instead Melisandre felt another swell of fondness for the entire gathering. Then at some hidden signal, the string quartet’s music faded away into a hush of silence. From the bowels of the sept to the amber spheres above, the thick air practically vibrated with the sounds of the organ’s wedding march. As one, hundreds of wedding guests rose to their feet. And even though Melisandre had literally seen her like TWO MINUTES AGO, such was the power of the moment that she found herself actually standing on her tiptoes to see. Tywin Lannister escorted his daughter, back ramrod straight and his perpetual scowl eased into something close to neutral. Next to him, one dainty hand on his arm, floated Cersei, a partial veil over her face that gestured at tradition while still allowing the guests to see every perfectly formed feature. She looked every bit as radiantly transformed as she had all day. But as her chin lifted and she saw Robert standing at the end of the aisle, she somehow... brightened? It wasn’t anything of substance, because her perfect smile had never wavered, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Tywin stopped crisply on his mark before the altar, with a posture that would have made a drill sergeant proud. Robert stepped forward to lift the veil from over Cersei’s eyes, with a gentleness that Melisandre would not have suspected his burly frame to possess. They stood there, as Robert reached to clasp her hands, looking at each other like there was nobody there but them. “Who comes before the Seven this day?” The High Septon asked, his voice querulous and thin but still with a reedy strength that carried it through the chamber. “Cersei Lannister,” Tywin answered. “She comes to be wed. She begs the blessing of the gods.” “Who comes to claim her?” The High Septon asked. “Robert Baratheon,” Robert answered, still holding Cersei’s hands in his. “Cersei Lannister, do you take this man?” The High Septon turned to her. “I do,” she said, her gaze never leaving Robert’s. “Very well,” the High Septon cleared his throat, trying to indicate that they should separate. When they paid him no mind, he continued. “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity. Now look upon each other, and say the words.” Together, Robert’s deep rumble and Cersei’s silvery laugh sounding utterly unalike but somehow right together, they began. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers” — “his” — “and she” — “he” — “is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.” It was sickening really. All this nonsense about who claims her? Like she was some chattel to be bought and sold? Melisandre swallowed. “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the High Septon intoned. Robert dipped Cersei back to kiss her, one of her hands tangling in his pitch black hair. From around them, a thousand camera bulbs seemed to flash at once. Helplessly, Melisandre felt her eyes slide to Stannis. He was looking back at her, and there was no trepidation in his gaze at all. It was just too sickening for words. But all the same. All the same, if someday it happened to her... Robert hooked one arm around his bride and did a fist pump. The crowd laughed, and Cersei slapped him upside the head. All the same, if it happened to her, Melisandre thought maybe she wouldn’t mind so much after all.

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 43

In the span of thirty minutes, Brienne had covered the entire first floor of the Sept of Baelor, the gardens, the courtyard and the seven shrines that dotted the grounds, and she had not so much as a single golden hair to show for it. “I called her, texted her, Ravyned her, left messages on her Ravengram, LinkedIn and Facebook pages,” Jaime rested his entire golden head on her shoulder. “I called two of her burner phones, I know she has more, but I don’t know the numbers. What if she was hit by a car?! What if she was hit by a car and has amnesia and is wandering through the streets of King’s Landing?!” “You’re not helping,” Brienne scolded, but she rested her own head on his anyway. Engaged to be engaged. Gods she loved this man. “What if Cassana knocked her out and shoved her in a locked room somewhere?” Jaime asked the world at large. “She wouldn’t do that,” Brienne protested tepidly. “Stannis shoved me in a locked room somewhere,” Jaime pointed out. Brienne was saved from having to respond by the approach of the very woman. “She’s come to gloat. Or to finish the job,” Jaime hissed. “She has not!” Brienne whispered back out of the side of her mouth. Out of the front of her mouth, she managed a wan smile. “Brienne dear, I hear you’re the maid of honor,” Cassana trilled. The less charitable part of Brienne’s mind (the part that sounded uncannily like Jaime) noted that Cassana hadn’t forgotten her name since she’d been told Brienne was a sapphire magnate. “Guilt as charged,” Brienne admitted. “She’s the guilty one!” Jaime growled under his breath. She stepped on his foot. “Finally, someone who can get things done around here!” Cassana put her hand on her hip. “We need to talk about my solo.” “Your solo?” Brienne repeated cautiously. “Yes, lights and sound. I want the entire dining room to go dark.  The audience buzzes. Hold it for exactly three counts and then a single spotlight. I’m on the dance floor. You’ll want a warm light dear, too artificial and I just wash out. This dress needs to pop you understand?” Cassana struck a pose, showcasing the white silk dress that continued to look uncomfortably like a wedding dress. “The spotlight should follow me as I serenade the guests, moving from table to table. Check the sound systems ahead of time, I despise when there’s too much base. You can manage that, can’t you?” “Mmm,” Brienne said neutrally. “I’ll finish with Robert and Cersei of course, the audience will eat it up. And then as everyone applauds, I move back to the dance floor. Then it’s time for my encore.” “Your encore?” Brienne managed faintly. “A good performer never leaves their audience wanting,” Cassana winked. “Kisses darlings, I’ll see you at the ceremony.” Brienne and Jaime looked at each other. “We have got to find Cersei,” Brienne said hollowly. “Only she can stop this menace,” Jaime agreed. “Maybe one of the other girls can help,” Brienne offered. They found Catelyn cornered by a reporter. “And what do you say to allegations that your husband actually fathered Ashara Dayne’s love child, not MP Brandon Stark,” the reporter shoved a tape recorder in her face. “I can’t discuss this!” Catelyn tried to get away. “Are you admitting it? Is that why your marriage was allegedly on the rocks?” The reporter followed after. Brienne was about to wade in, pink tulle dress or no, when Varys rounded the bend with two security guards. “Arrest that man!” He cried, pointing at the reporter dramatically. The reporter gulped and made a break for it as Varys rushed to Catelyn’s side, apologies abounding. “Maybe Lysa...” Brienne mumbled. They found Lysa in one of the picturesque grottos, sitting on a stone bench, cell phone pinned between ear and shoulder as she viciously pulled apart a flower. “I don’t see HOW I could have misconstrued what I saw Petyr! No, this time YOU LISTEN TO ME! We are done! I never want to see you again! And you’d better stop spreading those slimy rumors about Ned and Cat or... or... or my BOYFRIEND is going to beat you up!” Jaime and Brienne backed slowly away. “Melisandre’s usually good in a crisis,” Brienne ventured. “Good thinking,” Jaime said, eyes round. Melisandre was still where Brienne had left her, in the closet in the bridesmaids’ staging room. “Mel?” Brienne knocked hesitantly. “I’m in a bit of a pickle and I was hoping you could maybe...” “Ta da!” Melisandre flung the door open. Brienne goggled. Was that even the same dress?!?! The same color surely, but... What had once been crinkly layer after crinkly layer of tulle had been stripped away, revealing a silky and form fitting sheathe rather like a negligee that clung sinfully to Melisandre’s curves. Why you could even see her... Brienne hastily clapped a hand over Jaime’s eyes. “Nice dress,” Jaime said from behind Brienne’s hand. “You can’t wear that!” Brienne squeaked furiously. “What I think you meant to say was, ‘Melisandre you look ravishing. I could tear that dress right off you’,” Melisandre sniffed. “That’s too kind Brienne. But it took ages and there’s only twenty minutes before the ceremony so...” “Twenty minutes?!” Jaime shouted from behind the hand. “I can see your nipples!” Brienne yelled. “Take it off!” “Shan’t,” Melisandre said haughtily and waltzed out. “Twenty minutes,” Jaime said dully when Brienne removed her impromptu blindfold. Brienne looked at him. He looked back. “At least we have each other...” Jaime ventured. Brienne tried to smile. He was so sweet. “...Until Cassana kills us,” Jaime finished. “Stop,” Brienne groaned. “Please don’t make it worse. I don’t know if I can handle things getting worse.” “Hi,” Thoros Asshai knocked on the open door, sticking his head partly in. “Um is Melisandre here?” Brienne let out a deep breath. Finally. A way to snip one of her many loose threads. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She blurted. Thoros squinted at her. “...why?” He asked, sounding genuinely bewildered. “Melisandre’s shredded her bridesmaid’s dress into something that looks like a teddy, Cersei will be furious if she finds it. Can you make her at least put on a shawl over it?” Brienne asked hopefully. “Huh,” Thoros rocked on his feet. “I could possibly help you with that problem. If...” Brienne could have cried. Why was there always an if?! “you help me with Robert.” What?! “What?!” Jaime growled next to her. “What has that imbecile done?!” “Uh let’s not be too hasty to assign blame, which probably doesn’t need to really be given out at all,” Thoros scratched his head. “Highly counterproductive and all...” “Fine,” Jaime crossed his arms and glowered. “What have YOU done?!” Thoros straightened for a second like they might get into it, and then collapsed into his usual half-slouch. “Better to just show you,” he said glumly. Why did Brienne really not like the sound of that? They trailed Thoros down the hall to an area that was quite clearly off limits to visitors, and Brienne would have made some protest, if Thoros were not already pushing the door open into what looked like somebody’s study. “Tarth!” Robert exclaimed exuberantly, and then Brienne was being crushed into a hug. She staggered backward, partly with alarm and partly because Robert had immediately shifted all of his wait onto her, and appeared to be using her as a means of staying upright. “Is he...” Brienne looked at Thoros. “Completely shit-faced,” Thoros admitted. “Jaime! My brother in law! My brother from another mother! My braime? But that would be both of you...” “You idiot,” Jaime said. Brienne couldn’t really see him past Robert’s head lolling on her shoulder, but she assumed the remark was addressed to Thoros. “I might be impressed honestly. I’m not sure anybody has ever outdrank Robert before. I didn’t think it could be done. But if anybody could do it, I suppose I would have put my money on you. You stupid shortsighted irresponsible...” “Brienne,” Robert interrupted Jaime’s rant, unfocused blue eyes suddenly locking on hers. “Hi Robert,” Brienne said politely from inches away. “Brienne, I don’t have feelings for you.” “Oh,” Brienne blinked. “Well that’s good.” Robert nodded in solemn agreement, the movement threatening to send them both toppling over. “It is good. I love Cersei,” he said. Brienne frantically tried to look over his shoulder to summon a rescue from this conversation. “...an hour before his wedding?! WHY?! WHY would you ever think that was a good idea?! And don’t even get me started on...” “Cersei told me you had a crush on me,” Robert continued, and Brienne with a prickling sense of horror suddenly realized that this was not one of Robert’s usual non-sequiturs. “Oh no,” Brienne breathed. “That’s what I said,” Robert agreed. “Definitely Renly.” “What?” Brienne frowned. “The reason you were always hanging around our house was because you had a crush on Renly. Stannis and I both thought so.” “What?!” Jaime suddenly paused in his telling off of Thoros. “Brienne always had a crush on Renly,” Robert repeated again. “I thought maybe she’d have a chance because she kind of looks like a guy? Especially back in high school? Remember your hair was super short and you wore that ugly lacrosse sweatshirt all the time and...” “Thank you Robert,” Brienne tried to push him off but he only held on tighter. “But Renly’s just super gay. Way gayer than Thoros. Thoros, are you sure you’re gay? And then they just became really good friends. At least that’s what Stannis and I think,” Robert finished. Jaime stared. Brienne held her breath. “And I told Cersei that, and she said nuh-uh, she was right and you’d said as much to her.” ...and there it was. Brienne’s stupid lie to get Cersei off her back, come full circle back to the two guys who Brienne would have least wanted to hear it. Robert at least seemed serenely unphased. Jaime, in contrast, seemed like he’d be catching flies any second. (Thoros had taken a seat in an armchair and was looking thoroughly entertained.) “So just in case, I thought you should know,” Robert explained. “I don’t have feelings for you.” He patted her head clumsily. “I don’t have feelings for you either,” Brienne assured him through gritted teeth. “I knew it was Renly,” Robert nodded sagely. He turned toward Jaime. “So I think you’re safe. Brienne and I don’t have feelings for each other and Renly is super gay. I don’t know about Stannis though. Brienne, do you have feelings for Stannis?” “I DON’T HAVE FEELINGS FOR STANNIS!” Brienne squawked, shoving him at last off her. He windmilled lazily before catching Jaime’s arm for balance. “OR RENLY!” She added for good measure. “Are you sure?” “YES! THE ONLY PERSON I LOVE IS JAIME!” Thoros wolf whistled, and Brienne shot him a look. “Why don’t you explain exactly what happened here,” she said frostily, as Robert tried to give Jaime a hug. “I’m not sure,” Thoros admitted. “Stannis asked me to hang out with him before the wedding because they’d crashed their car. We were just doing some shots—like three or four, seriously, it was nothing but a buzz for this guy, I’ve been drinking with him for years, and the next thing I know he can barely stand upright. You have to help—if Cersei finds out that I got Robert hammered at the wedding, I don’t like my chances at survival. I promise I’ll get Mel to find a sweater or something, just fix him please?” “I don’t know how to fix him,” Brienne groaned. “Cersei would know but I can’t find her anywhere! And now the wedding is starting in twenty minutes, we don’t have a bride and the groom is hammered!” “Did you look in the second floor bathroom?” Robert asked sleepily from where he was now curling up in a recliner. “...what?” Brienne asked. “Like in high school, that’s where she goes when she’s upset,” Robert trailed off with a massive yawn. “This is a sept, it doesn’t have a second floor,” Jaime broke in testily. “Yeah it does,” Thoros frowned. “I was just up there, the staircase is further back in this admin wing. If you turn left, you can’t miss it.” Jaime and Brienne looked at each other. “Go,” Jaime waved his hand. “I’ll keep an eye on all of... this,” he gestured at a now snoring Robert. “I’ll find her,” Brienne promised. She hurried toward the door. Sure enough, there was a staircase. Once on the second floor, Brienne frantically scanned the corridor. There! Past a closet and several closed doors, were the instantly recognizable symbols a male and female silhouette. With a deep breath, Brienne pushed into the women’s restroom. A cursory look under the stalls revealed it was empty. Unless... A sudden twinge of suspicion and the tickle of a memory of her own from high school and Brienne was pushing in the doors one by one. When she came to the exact middle, it held fast. “Cersei?” Brienne asked, knocking. “Cersei, it’s Brienne, open up.” No response. All the same, Brienne could practically feel the presence of someone sitting quietly on the other side. “Cersei Lannister, open up before I knock the door down,” Brienne growled. There was another pause. Begrudgingly, the door clicked and slowly swung outward. Cersei sat huddled on the toilet, dress neatly folded under her. Her eyes looked a little red, but her makeup remained flawless. Brienne wasn’t even sure she would have known something was wrong except... The posture. Cersei always seemed to take up more space than such a slender person should be capable of. Whether it was her looks or her ego or the buoyant energy that seemed to allow her to sail through life impervious, when Cersei walked into a room, you noticed. This person, this pretty fragile facsimile of Cersei sitting shoulders slumped in a bathroom stall, eyes skittering anywhere but Brienne’s gaze, had none of that. “I’ve been looking for you,” Brienne said awkwardly. The understatement of the century. Cersei did not react in the slightest. “Cersei, you need to get downstairs,” Brienne tried again. “Petyr told the press that Ned and Ashara had a love child together and Cat’s being hounded by reporters. Melisandre ran her dress through a shredder, Robert had too much to drink and Cassana is wearing a white dress!” At that last remark, Cersei’s lip twitched in the faintest tremor of a sneer, but she remained unresponsive. “Cersei, I don’t know what to do,” Brienne tried to swallow the bubble of panic rising in her throat. “It doesn’t matter,” Cersei finally said, voice quiet and thin. “I can’t do this. Send them home.” “Send them home?” Brienne repeated back, resisting the urge to strangle her. “Why?!” “It’s all wrong. I’m supposed to have a baby girl. Genna Joanna Lannister,” Cersei looked up at her. “And now it’s a boy. I don’t know how to have a baby boy, Brienne. The nursery colors are wrong! I pre-enrolled a little girl in the best school in Oldtown and I can’t change the application, I’ll have to withdraw it! He doesn’t even have a name! I don’t know how to have a baby boy, Brienne, I can’t do it, I can’t!” Cersei’s breathing was getting shallower, her thing shoulders literally shaking. She was practically hyperventilating, and Brienne realized that if she didn’t get control of the situation now, it would be lost. She took a deep breath and sent a prayer to the Mother for forgiveness. Brienne smacked Cersei across the cheek. Cersei broke off mid-spiral and stared. A red mark was blossoming on her face, Brienne noticed with a wince. Well no going back now. “Did you just... hit me?” Cersei blinked. “Yes. And I’ll do it again if you don’t get out of that stall this instant,” Brienne said evenly. Their eyes locked. Mutely Cersei stood, and Brienne stepped out of the way to allow her to exit. “Now eat this,” Brienne pulled a power bar out of her handbag. “And don’t fake eat it like you did with that burger. I’m going to sit here and watch you until every crumb is gone.” Cersei looked at the bar in her hand as if Brienne had handed her a gun. “EAT!” Brienne barked in her best colonel-general voice. Cersei hastily began to unwrap it. “Now listen,” Brienne poked her. “I have seen you blackmail and bully and just... bend reality to your will. You have never let anybody stop you ever. If you want to resubmit your application to this school, who the fuck is going to stop you, Cersei Lannister?! Nursery paint schemes?! Are you kidding?! It’ll be blue before you get back from your honeymoon. And why do you even want to name your baby after your Aunt Genna?! She’s a pretentious cow who thinks I’m an embarrassment to the Lannister family name,” Brienne huffed, crossing her arms defensively. “What? No she doesn’t,” Cersei frowned, stopping mid-chew. “She does! I heard her at your engagement party! Jaime’s shaming the Lannister name according to her,” Brienne rebutted. “Don’t be silly, Aunt Genna wasn’t talking about you. She was upset that Jaime left you alone. It’s very rude to invite a guest and then spend the entire evening ignoring them,” Cersei explained, before swallowing and taking another bite. “Oh,” Brienne said, a tad stymied. “Well, I guess that’s alright then. I mean you could still name your baby after Genna without naming him Genna. Like Genner or uh Genes or um Gendry...” “Gendry,” Cersei said slowly. “That’s a nice name.” “The point is, the baby being a boy instead of a girl... that’s just a new plot twist. A challenge. You live for those! You’ll find a way to use this to your advantage and be an incredible mom, and win at that too, just like you win at everything else. But first you have to win at this. Your wedding. Because I did not come this far and put up with this much from you to stop inches short of the finish line. You are going to find a way to make this perfect or you are going to find a way to live with it,” Brienne said sternly. “Or so help me seven, I will drag you to the altar myself.” There was a pause as Cersei chewed and Brienne held her breath. “I’m done,” Cersei said, holding up the empty wrapper. “And?” Brienne ventured hopefully. “I have a fucking wedding to fix,” Cersei turned, inspecting her reflection grimly. “Good,” Brienne sighed in relief. “Because I don’t think I really had it in me to drag you to the altar.” “There’s just one thing,” Cersei continued to scrutinize the mirror. “What?” Brienne asked nervously. “You’ll have to do it again.” “Beg your pardon?” “You’ll have to slap me again. Left cheek this time please. It has to be even, otherwise it’ll look like some kind of makeup snafu.” “Sorry?” “Really Brienne, if you can’t manage a tiny old slap, I’ll just have to find...” Brienne slapped the other side of her face. “Excellent,” Cersei said briskly. “Now let’s go.”

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 41

“Beric, get out of bed,” Thoros cajoled, tugging a foot. Beric grabbed a bed post and made what Thoros assumed was supposed to be a growling noise. Mostly he just sounded disgruntled. “I cannot face your parents over breakfast alone dressed like this,” Thoros said plaintively. “Melisandre left ages ago and I’m starving and I need somebody to talk to your parents while I eat so I don’t have to explain what I’m wearing and how much it cost.” Beric cracked an eye and looked him over. “The suit is nice,” Beric said mildly. Thoros knew that was Beric-speak for the tie is hideously pink. “Nobody will be looking at the suit, the tie blinds anybody who gazes directly at it,” Thoros rolled his eyes. “I look like I’m rolling up for the Spring Service. Now c’mon, I can smell your Mom’s cooking and if Melisandre ate all the cinnamon rolls before she left, I will do terrible things to her.” “Do you think Robert will really care if I don’t go?” Beric asked glumly. “No,” Thoros frowned. “But I will care. Who will I talk to?!” “You’re a groomsman. You don’t get to talk,” Beric said wryly. “And I will be sitting alone in a pew trying to pretend like half the female population isn’t staring at me.” Thoros sighed. In a perfect world, Beric would have taken this experience in stride and maybe used it as a growing opportunity to become less self-conscious and more comfortable in his own skin. But he supposed that was the kind of journey that took years and lots of therapy, not two months as a viral phenomenon. Which left Thoros no choice. “I hate to burst your bubble, but they won’t be,” Thoros grinned, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Beric. “That’s what you said about Dorne,” Beric began doubtfully. “Yes but this time’s different,” Thoros started trying to peel the bedsheet off him (a process made more difficult by the fact that Beric appeared to have rolled himself in it). “Why?” Beric huffed as Thoros managed to get the first layer free. “This time I have empirical evidence that your three minutes of fame are over,” Thoros said cheerfully, setting to work on the second layer. “Oh?” Beric raised an eyebrow. “Yup,” Thoros smirked. “Are you ready? As of four days ago,” he took a dramatic pause, “Jenny Oldstones has a boyfriend.” He was expecting some applause honestly. Or a gasp. Beric only rolled over. “Hey!” Thoros poked his shoulder. “This is good stuff! Do you have any idea how much high school gossip I had to listen to for this?! He’s from some fancy prep school and she’s at public. It’s all very scandalous.” “Great, I have ONE fewer admirer. She wasn’t going to be at the wedding anyway!” “You aren’t seeing the bigger picture,” Thoros attempted to tug Beric back toward him. “It’s not just Jenny and this Duncan kid. Once Cersei got Vogue, she pulled the commercial. Your fan base has an attention span of approximately ten seconds. They’re moving on and Jenny is indicative of that fact.” Beric grudgingly rolled onto his back, meeting Thoros’ gaze. “Well I certainly hope you’re right,” he mumbled. “And I wasn’t entirely serious about not coming to the wedding. It would be rude to not show up after I RSVPed.” “So rude,” Thoros agreed, smiling. “And I suppose I can come down to breakfast with you.” “Great, I think my stomach has started to devour my other organs.” “But I’m not coming with you to the sept early,” Beric said sternly. Or as sternly as he could manage with bedhead. “There will be no waiting around to be ogled at by wedding guests.” “I TOLD you, your five minutes of fame are over...” Thoros tried again, but Beric’s expression was unmoved. “Fine,” Thoros sulked. “But if there’s only one cinnamon roll left, it’s mine.” As it turned out, there were many cinnamon rolls left over. And Beric’s presence WAS the perfect buffer for his parents’ well-meaning but occasionally claustrophobic interest. 

“No I’m still working at the bar,” magically became “Would you pass those scones?” and “Yes it is an ugly shade of pink” became “More honey please.”

So although the car ride was boring and quiet and he was stuck in traffic the entire time, he actually arrived at the sept in a fairly good mood.

That was until he saw Ned, standing with Mace Tyrell. Mace was holding his son Loras and looking like he was having a bout of indigestion. Which was an improvement on Ned, who was looking like someone had just killed his dog. Not that Ned was naturally the super cheerful type. Thoros sometimes wondered if he didn’t need a hug and a good slug of whiskey.

“Okay, the pocket squares are terrible but you two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Thoros tried to joke. Mace at least attempted a smile. Ned just turned, face taut with dismay.

“Mace... forgot... the ring,” Ned ground out with a positively venomous glare at Mace.

Hmm okay, well a hug probably wasn’t going to fix this. A slug of whiskey might not either, but you never knew until you tried. Thoros took a swig from his flask as Mace and Ned proceeded to freak out about Robert’s whereabouts, and then another sip or two as they dragged him along in their search of the sept. Honestly, Thoros wasn’t sure how helpful Robert would actually be in this situation. What they needed to do was find a ring.

“We need to find a substitute ring,” he said, when it became apparent that neither Ned nor Mace were reaching that conclusion on their own. “One that’s nice enough that Cersei won’t freak out.”

“It’s going to have to be REALLY nice,” Ned frowned. Well yeah. Didn’t he just say that? Fortunately for these slowpokes, this was not Thoros’ first time coming up short one really expensive ring. Or even his second.

“Let’s see,” he said, staring at Mace pointedly and waiting for him to get the hint. “Who on earth might possibly have an incredibly expensive ring that we can substitute?”

Mace shrugged and shifted Loras in his arms. Thoros might be waiting a while. “Like a SIXTY THOUSAND dragon ring?” Thoros said the number loudly, willing him to remember.

“I mean we can look around the wedding guests, but that’s super high end,” Mace scratched his head. “And we can’t ask anyone who might tell other guests.”

Seriously with this guy?

“Oh we should definitely borrow it without asking,” Thoros crossed his arms. Ned said something about ethics and morality, Thoros wasn’t really paying attention, he was too focused on trying to get Mace with the program.

“Mace, who could we steal a very expensive ring from that you would be in a very good position to return it to after the wedding?” He ground out as slowly as possible.

There was a start of recognition and then a tremor of terror. Ah, there it was. “You don’t mean...” Mace stammered.

“Gam Gam!” Loras shouted.

“You can’t be serious,” Mace hissed, and then she was on them.

“Who’s my favorite boy?” Olenna Tyrell demanded, whisking Loras away from Mace.

She was much as Thoros remembered her from his lackluster tenure at King’s Landing Prep. Elegant in a rather cold and sharp kind of way. Every third word was a barb, and Thoros, who did not consider himself particularly easily intimidated, was nonetheless relieved when she departed, Loras in tow.

“Do NOT steal my mother’s ring,” Mace growled, still shaken from the encounter.

“Of course not,” Thoros patted him on the back. That would be ridiculous. Think how much trouble he could get in. “YOU’ll steal the ring.”

Mace tried to protest, but Thoros raised his voice to talk over him.

“Ned, tell Robert he’ll have a lovely ring. It’s taken care of,” Thoros said firmly. Ned shot him a relieved look and hurried off, probably to continue the hunt for Robert.

Thoros looked over at Mace.

“You can’t make me do it,” Mace sulked. “I won’t.” 

Thoros took another swig from his flask and considered his dilemma. How to get a guy whose primary character trait was a groveling fear of his mother cross his mother?

What Mace really needed, Thoros decided, was a hug and a slug of whiskey. Metaphorical hug. Literal whiskey.

He put on his best ‘I’m a bartender and that’s basically a therapist’ face. “So how have you been Mace?”

“Well Loras got into a fight with another boy at daycare, and Alerie thinks they don’t provide enough supervision. She thinks we should take my mother up on an offer of a full time nanny, but I think it’s important for Loras to get socialization with other children his own age and mother says—“

“Wait,” Thoros stopped him. “That’s how Loras is. I want to know how you are.”

“Me?” Mace stared at him, genuinely baffled.

“Did your mother find out about the tattoo?” Thoros prodded, looking for some kind of resentment that he could turn into a grand gesture of defiance like say stealing Olenna Tyrell’s wedding ring.

“Oh almost immediately,” Mace swallowed. “She knew before I even landed in Highgarden. She goes over her credit card statements like a hawk.”

“Was she upset?”

“It really doesn’t bear dwelling on,” Mace shuddered. “Certain things were said that I really couldn’t bring myself to repeat.”

“It’s just a stupid tattoo, hasn’t she ever made a mistake?” Thoros waved his hand.

“Not ever I don’t think,” Mace said seriously.

“Doesn’t she know you’ll get it removed?” 

“She considers it indicative of one of my primary personal failings, which is that I’m too easily pushed around,” Mace explained.

“Ridiculous!”

“I know!”

“And the worst part is, it’s hypocritical! She complains about you being too easy to push around AS she pushes you around!”

“She’s always been like this,” Mace huffed. “Nothing was good enough unless it was her idea done her way.”

“It’s sad seeing somebody lacking such total self-awareness,” Thoros shook his head. 

“But she’ll never change.”

“Unless...” Thoros trailed off, pretending to hesitate.

“Unless what?”

“Well what if she had concrete proof that she was dead wrong about something? Like wouldn’t that at the very least give her a moment of reflection?”

“She’s never wrong about anything,” Mace sighed deeply. “It’s intolerable.”

“But she’s wrong about you,” Thoros elbowed him. “Obviously you’re not some spineless wimp who gets pushed around by his own mother.”

“I most certainly am not,” Mace puffed out his chest.

“What if you stood up to her? Said once and for all how you feel and get it off your chest? She would respect you for it, she would reconsider all these preconceived ideas, and think how great it would feel!”

Mace was slowly nodding along.

“It would feel great!”

“The most important thing is to make sure you have her attention though. You need to take her hands in your hands. You need to maintain eye contact. And when you apply pressure for emphasis, you need to slide her ring over the first knuckle and palm it.”

“Wait what?”

“Mace,” Thoros grabbed his hands. “Look at me.” Mace’s gaze skittered toward the floor but finally, reluctantly he looked up. “You need to do this. For Robert. For yourself. For your mother,” Thoros squeezed.

“I’ll mess it up, I mess everything up,” Mace fretted. 

“You won’t,” Thoros let go and tossed Mace’s ring in the air before catching it. “It’s remarkably easy.”

“Hey!” Mace stared at Thoros then down at his hand then back up. “That’s mine!”

“So it is,” Thoros slipped the ring onto his own finger. “Let’s practice.”

It took a solid twenty minutes before Mace was passable. Thoros was gambling on Olenna’s rather bony fingers and the fact that she would be so flabbergasted by Mace standing up to her.

“Time to find your mother,” Thoros said, conceding that this was probably as good as they were going to get in one lesson. He spotted Olenna Tyrell through a window mingling in the garden.

“Are you sure this will work?” Maced asked nervously as Thoros towed him along.

Not even slightly.

“Absolutely.”

They covertly watched from behind a tree as she embraced a middle-aged woman within ample bosom and golden curls who was obviously a Lannister. Now she moved on, like an angular bird of prey toward Tywin Lannister, insinuating herself between him and Steffon Baratheon. They drifted after, trying to keep several wedding guests away at all times. At one point, Thoros could have sworn she was glaring directly at them, and his throat felt unaccountably dry.

“I don’t have to tell her off in front of Tywin Lannister do I?” Mace had gone very sweaty.

“Of course not,” Thoros assured him. He wasn’t that heartless. “We’ll just wait this out.”

So they waited. 

“It’s just.. what do I say?” Mace fretted.

“You are an adult. You are capable of making your own decisions. Her constant interventions in your life do neither of you any favors,” Thoros said firmly.

Mace repeated this to himself, nodding along.

“And then?” He asked expectantly.

“Look, at some point this needs to come from you. It can’t sound rehearsed. And this is about you standing up for yourself, remember? Just start with that and then let the rest come from here,” Thoros poked Mace in the heart. 

Mace’s stomach growled and Mace looked down doubtfully.

“Just one more thing,” Thoros slung his arms around Mace’s broad frame. “The secret weapon,” he passed him the flask.

“It’s a wedding,” Mace whispered, looking around furtively.

“Do people not drink at weddings?” Thoros asked bemusedly.

“Well usually not before the ceremony!”

“I mean if you don’t want it...”

“No, wait,” Mace took a long swig. He straightened and smacked his lips. His face was flushed, his eyes were bright. A new man. 

Olenna meanwhile had leaned over to embrace Tywin, murmuring something in his ear, and then turning to kiss Steffon on the cheek. Steffon guffawed, Tywin harrumphed, Olenna floated back toward the entry courtyard.

“This is it,” Mace squared his shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Olenna had picked up speed, so in their haste to keep up, some of the stealth necessarily fell by the wayside. 

Mace was puffing slightly when they reached the valet stand, only for Thoros to spot Olenna slipping in the main sept. 

“There!”

They hurried after, barely catching a glimpse of her leaving the reception hall, then another sighting as she rounded a bend.

Thoros was so focused on not losing her ahead of him and not losing Mace behind him, that he barely had time to ponder where on earth she was going. 

She was well into the administrative side now, messy offices, outdated computers abounding. Had Thoros had any modicum of nostalgia for the Red Temple, he might have felt it now. As it was he didn’t, if anything it annoyed him, and he took the stairs she’d walked up two at a time, only speeding up as he turned a corner at the top, pausing briefly to stick his head in an open door and—

Olenna Tyrell stood waiting in what appeared to be a library, arms crossed.

“Do I know you?” She said in a voice that might have cut glass.

“Doubtful,” Thoros said, never having been so relieved of that fact.

“Can we just stop for half a second,” Mace panted as he puffed into the room. Then he saw his mother and gasped.

“Mace, thank the gods, I was worried I’d have to deal with your scruffy friend. Just like you to be following me around all morning and then the second I want you you’ve evaporated,” Olenna tsked.

Mace blinked at her, utterly befuddled.

“Here take this,” she handed him her handbag.

“Mother I need to talk to you,” Mace protested, trying to regain momentum, even as he took the bag.

“Not a good time,” Olenna studied her reflection in an antique mirror and fluffed her hair.

“No, Mother, it really can’t wait! I—“

“Oh and take this,” Olenna took off her wedding ring and dropped it in the purse.

Mace stopped, mouth open.

“You’ll catch flies dear. Now off you go,” Olenna waved an imperious hand. 

Seeing as Mace appeared frozen in place, Thoros hastily grabbed him by the elbow and towed him out into the hall, shutting the door to the library behind them.

“I don’t understand,” Mace stared at the ring in his hand. 

“Do we need to?” Thoros shrugged, plucking it from Mace’s grasp and depositing it in his pocket. “It’s for Robert after all. Things always have a way of working out for him.”

“But I didn’t get to stand up for myself! I didn’t get to tell my mother what I really thought!” Mace protested.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Thoros patted him on the shoulder, then heard the familiar creak of footsteps coming up the same staircase they had just used.

“Hide,” Thoros said immediately, a lifetime spent prowling parts of the temple he wasn’t allowed to access kicking in. He shoved Mace into a coat closet and followed after, frantically trying to drag the sliding door shut before the creaking stopped. As it was, they still had about half an inch of daylight, and Thoros braced for a scolding from some arthritic septon.

Instead, they had half an inch of daylight to watch Tywin Lannister round the bend, look in both directions, and knock on the library door twice.

Half an inch of daylight to watch the door swing open and a slightly bony and definitely ringless hand grab Tywin’s lapels and pull him in.

Half an inch of daylight to watch the door click quietly shut.

There was a brief pause.

“...Mommy?” Mace said in a shaky uncertain voice.

Thoros pushed the sliding closet door back open.

“Well now that we’ve gotten the ring we can go back to the party and find Ned,” Thoros said briskly.

Mace sat down on the carpet, staring at the library door.

“I mean there’s really no point to linger here,” Thoros tried again, nudging him with his foot.

Mace looked at the door unblinking.

“In fact I would definitely leave before they finish um whatever it is they’re doing in there,” Thoros coughed. “Which could obviously be anything.”

No reply.

Thoros shrugged, and started down the steps.

You can’t just leave him there! A voice that sounded eerily like Beric interjected. Thoros ground his teeth.

“I thought you weren’t coming early,” he snarked to nobody in particular as he headed back up, grabbed Mace’s arm and twisted it behind him.

He found Ned with Robert, who had FINALLY made an appearance.

“Ned!” Thoros released Mace from his forced march through the sept and pulled Ned in a hearty handshake.

“Great to see you again!” He slipped him the ring.

If Robert found this behavior odd, he gave no sign. He gave them all a beatific smile.

“It’s my wedding!”

“Hells yeah it is!” Thoros said cheerfully. Mace sat back down on the carpet. Ned continued to look twitchy.

“Thoros, can I talk to you... over here?” Ned jerked toward a side hall. Neither Robert nor Mace paid them the slightest attention.

“No thanks necessary, but if you want to leave a tip the next time you stop by,” Thoros started smugly as they departed.

“Thanks?” Ned look confused.

“For the ring?” Thoros raised his eyebrows. Because he didn’t like to brag but he had kind of saved the day and was the most amazingly awesome dude ever.  

“Right! Thank you,” Ned recovered. “I just need one more thing. There’s been a um... hiccup? On the bride’s side. And I was hoping you could keep Robert distracted while I deal with it.”

“You just want me to hang out with Robert until the ceremony starts?” Thoros repeated back, confused.

“Yes,” Ned wrung his hands. “Just so he doesn’t worry about anything unnecessarily.”

“Yeah sure,” Thoros shrugged. He’d just spent an hour with Mace Tyrell. This would be easy compared to that.

He already had some ideas about how they could spend the time.

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 41

Stannis awoke in his childhood bedroom groggily. There was the sound of crunching gravel outside and he lifted his head to see the black limo he’d arranged to take himself, Renly and Robert to the wedding pull away. Stannis rubbed his eyes and stared after it. Had Robert gotten up early and decided to take it without bothering to wait for his brothers?! That selfish shithead! Stannis fumbled for his phone to give Robert a piece of his mind. He pulled it off the charging station, but it was dead. Stannis stared at it uncomprehendingly. Why hadn’t it charged last night? He peeked over the edge of the bed. The power cord dangled impotently from the end table. Ugh. Stannis struggled to a sitting position. What time was it anyway? He felt like really well rested. Suspiciously well rested. He stretched to get his watch. Noon?!? Fuck! No wonder they had left without him! It would be an hour to get across town in traffic and Cersei wanted Robert there at two because the ceremony started at three. And say you wanted about Harry Strickland, but the man really had some sensible ideas about the importance of arriving to locations before the appointed time. Stannis groggily struggled out of bed and mechanically began to don the suit that he had neatly pressed and laid out for himself the night before. He closed his eyes as he put on the pink tie to avoid seeing his reflection, but was then forced to open them because the idea of not knowing whether his tie was on straight was more or less unthinkable. He hurried to the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, tried unsuccessfully to comb his hair in a manner that would conceal how thin it was getting on top. Then he hurried down to the kitchen to call Robert on his cell. Predictably, nobody picked up. Stannis rolled his eyes, and called again. And again. And again. Finally on the fifth attempt he got an answer. “Nnngh?” “Robert?” Stannis asked, a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Why did his brother really REALLY not sound like he was in a limo on the way to his wedding? “Ugh, yeah?” Stannis sighed and started walking upstairs, still holding the phone. “I don’t suppose you set your alarm last night, you know for your WEDDING?” Stannis turned down the corridor toward their bedrooms. “Alarm? Why would I set my alarm, you’ll just wake me up when it’s time to go.” Stannis sighed and kicked Robert’s door open. “Get up, it’s time to go.” Robert rolled over to look at him. “Why are you in such a mood?” He asked into the cell phone. Stannis growled and hung up. “Because I think Renly took the limo to the wedding without us! And we’re running late!” “Little shit,” Robert yawned, seemingly unperturbed. Stannis ground his teeth. “I know you have never been on time for anything in your life, but I assumed your wedding will be the exception!” “Okay calm down, it’s 12:30. We’ve got like an hour to get ready and we’ll still be there before the ceremony,” Robert rolled his eyes. “We’re supposed to be there at 2!” “Okay, that’s still thirty minutes. We’re fine,” Robert waved a hand, and then slowly swung himself out of bed, cracking his neck and his back loudly. Stannis retreated to the hallway. Okay, maybe Robert had a point. It’s not like Robert took forever to get ready. Not like Renly. Renly had inherited the worst of Stannis’ OCD habits and the worst of Robert’s complete inability to get out of bed. Honestly it was a miracle he got anywhere at all... Stannis frowned, the slightest glimmer of suspicion appearing in the back of his mind. It was out of character of Renly to get completely dressed and depart on time without threats of bodily injury. But the car had left—Stannis walked over to Renly’s room and opened it. The heavy drapes of his sitting room cast the entire scene in twilight. Stannis squinted. Through the gloom he could make out the outline of Renly, sleeping completely undisturbed. Stannis groaned. Renly snuggled deeper under the blankets. “Renly get up,” Stannis growled, turning on the lights. Renly only put a pillow over his head to block out the stimulus. “Renly, I don’t have time for this, you’re going to make us late to Robert’s wedding,” Stannis snapped. No response. Stannis walked out and caught Robert stepping out of the shower. “I need you to get Renly out of bed by any means necessary,” Stannis informed him. “Any means necessary?” Robert grinned, already reaching for a towel to twist into a rat’s tail. “Yes,” Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose, resigning himself to an hour-long car ride of recriminations and complaints. And speaking of car rides... Stannis scowled. By process of elimination he had arrived at the purloiners of their ride. He dialed a number on the phone still dangling from one hand. “Cassana Baratheon,” his mother answered with a musical warmth. “It’s Stannis.” “Oh,” the warmth promptly flattened. “Can I help you dear?” In the background there was a high pitched scream that had to be Renly. Stannis covered the mouthpiece. “Did you take the car that I had called for Robert and Renly and me?” “Oh is that what it was?” Cassana laughed lightly. “Sorry dear, just a mix up.” “Oh, so we should expect the car you reserved to pick us up shortly?” Stannis inquired acidly. “Don’t be silly Stannis, I assumed you had ordered the car for us and gone on ahead. After all, you were nowhere to be found.” “Did you check my bedroom?!” “Listen, there’s no need to make such a fuss. Just take one of our cars, darling,” Cassana said breezily and promptly hung up. Stannis glared at the phone. The screaming had gone silent upstairs. Stannis sighed and began to trudge up the stairs once more, to check that Robert hadn’t taken the dead or alive approach to “any means necessary”. Instead he heard the shower running and found Robert leaning outside the bathroom with the air of one who has accomplished a difficult task and done it well. “Our parents stole our limo,” Stannis informed him stiffly. “They have suggested we take one of our cars to the Sept.” “No problem,” Robert shrugged. “Let’s take the Dragon while we still have it. I’ll get us there in forty minutes, tops.” Stannis flinched. One of the many reasons he had thought it prudent to hire a car service was Robert’s terrifying driving habits. “Don’t be silly, it’s your wedding. I’ll drive us,” Stannis said quickly. He glanced at his watch. 12:45. Their buffer of time was rapidly dwindling. “Renly, are you almost done in there?!” Stannis raised his voice. “Stannis, I am only on my third conditioning treatment!” Renly snapped from behind the door. “Cersei says the wedding will be crawling with press and my hair has to be its shiny lustrous BEST for my debut!” “Third of HOW MANY conditioning treatments?!” Stannis shouted back over the sound of the water. “FIVE!” “YOU DON’T NEED FIVE!” “THIS IS WHY YOU’RE BALDING!” “I’M NOT BALDING!” Robert coughed. Stannis glared at him. “Can you try to be helpful?” Stannis bit. “Renly, if you don’t get out of there, I’m going to cut off the hot water!” Robert called. There was a pause. “You don’t know how to do that!” Renly yelled. But he sounded uncertain. The sound of the shower became slightly quieter as he waited for Robert’s response. “Sure I do. It’s in the pump room,” Robert said. Then he walked over to the top of the stairs and began marching in place on the top step, to give the impression of someone walking downward. A pause and then the water cut off. There was the sound of cupboards frantically banging. Briefly the sound of a hairdryer. “Stannis, it’s not fair! You know how important this day is to me, this is my chance at a big break with an agent and good representation is so important in my industry and this kind of opportunity only comes around once in a lifetime and I need to be looking my—“ Renly flung open the door and saw Robert still leaning against the bannister. “I HATE YOU!” Renly shrieked. “THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE MY DAY AND YOU’RE RUINING IT!” “I thought it was supposed to be my day,” Robert scratched his nose unrepentantly. “AAAAHHH!” Renly threw the hairdryer at Robert, who caught it. Followed by a bottle of cologne, also caught. And then a hairbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a bar of soap, all caught. “We need to go,” Stannis grabbed Renly by the shoulder as he started to reach for a razor. Frogmarching Renly to the car, he managed to grab his wallet, phone and the car keys on the way out. Renly and Robert never stopped bickering for a second, not even during the interval when Stannis had to practically clamber across Renly to get his seat belt securely buckled. Seat belt safety, after all, was a federal law. He collapsed into the driver’s seat with a sigh of relief and glanced tiredly at the clock. It was 1:10. They were running ten minutes late, which, for his brothers, was practically on time. “It’s always about you! Honestly, what day IS NOT YOUR DAY! What are you, the fucking king of the world?!” “IT’S MY WEDDING DAY! Stop getting your undies in a twist because you couldn’t gel your hair, honestly you use too much product as it is—“ “How dare you insult my hair care regimen!!!” With a sigh, Stannis turned the car on and quietly backed out of the driveway. He listened to his brothers’ back and forth on hair care for the twenty minute drive through downtown. The traffic had thinned some by the time they got on the highway to make it around to Visenya’s Hill, and his brothers had moved on to speculating about Stannis’ own hair and why it appeared to be thinning on top. Stannis gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the drive. There was a truck in the lane next to him, black with red detailing, that Stannis didn’t care for. It was driving erratically, and if it had been another day, Stannis might have considered calling the police. Instead he moved from the middle lane to the left hand lane. The truck likewise moved over a lane so it was again next to him. Stannis frowned and dropped his speed to well below the speed limit. The truck did likewise. Stannis was finally forced to speed back up after a car behind them began honking angrily. Okay, this was weird right? He considered asking Robert and Renly, but they had moved on to speculating as to whether his hair loss was caused by stress. Then the driver’s window began to roll down and somebody leaned out, scrutinizing their car. He had short brown hair and a mustache and beard, and for a moment Stannis struggled to place him, though he seemed oddly familiar. Then their eyes met, the driver’s eyes a flat grey and glinting manically. Fuck. “Euron Greyjoy!” Stannis yelped, as Euron saw the recognition in his face and grinned. His truck suddenly swerved and slammed into the side of their car. “Fuck!” Robert said, annoyed. “Stannis, what the hell?!” Renly sniped. “It’s not me, it’s EURON GREYJOY!” Stannis shouted as the truck slammed into them again, this time sending them spinning across half a lane. “Oh gods is he going to ram us?!” Renly shrieked. “Shit look out!” Robert threw his arm in front of Stannis as the truck once more made impact with a sickening crunch of glass and metal. Stannis felt nauseous as the car spun wildly and then there was another thud as they smashed through the divider, coming to a jolting halt in a ditch off the side of the road. Stannis’ air bag had deployed and he fought free of the pooling white obstruction, struggled out of his restraints and kicked the door open. With a grunt, he forced his way out and landed gratefully in the dirt. He twisted to survey the wreckage. Half of the car had been caved in, the windshield was shattered, and something was smoking under the hood of the car. Needless to say, the black and red truck was nowhere in sight. With a groan, Renly clambered free and staggered over to him. Surveying the dirt hill with a moue of distaste, he produced a scarf which he lay on the ground before carefully sitting. “Was that really Euron fucking Greyjoy?” Renly wrinkled his nose. “Yes it fucking was,” Stannis sighed heavily. If he could have made a list of all the people from high school that he could quite happily never see again, the Greyjoys would have topped that list. “I thought he was in prison,” Renly said sulkily, as if being out of the loop were a personal affront to him. “Well he certainly should be,” Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose. The car was wrecked! How on earth were they ever going to get Robert to the sept on— “Robert!” Stannis staggered to his feet, realizing his older brother had not emerged from the car yet. Frantically he made his away around to the passenger door, and wrenched it open. Robert half fell out, and Stannis had to half catch him to pull him to his feet. He hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt, Stannis thought with dismay. Of course he hadn’t. “Robert, are you okay?” Stannis asked cautiously. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Robert shrugged him off. Oh thank you gods. Thank you Mother and Maiden and Warrior and Father and—- “Put me back in coach, I can play,” Robert continued, rubbing his head. Fuck. “Hey, stop that for a second?” Stannis caught his hand and pulled it away from his head. He tentatively prodded Robert’s skull. He could feel his a lump the size of a goose egg rising. Stannis swallowed. “It’s bright isn’t it?” Robert squinted at the sky. “Renly!!” Stannis called, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. Renly came trotting over. “Robert hit his head against the passenger window. He has a concussion and a lump on his head the size of my fist,” Stannis said quietly in an undertone. Robert had sat down and was looking at the remnants of the car curiously. “We need to get him to the hospital. You call a cab and I’ll call Ned and tell him the wedding is postponed.” Just the thought of having to tell Cersei made Stannis shiver. That was one task he was emphatically happy to leave to Ned. “Stannis,” Renly’s eyes bugged slightly. “We are not bailing on this wedding.” “I don’t see that we have much choice,” Stannis began, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Robert’s fine, aren’t you?” Renly raised his voice. “Never better,” Robert said promptly. “Say, who wrecked that car?” Stannis raised an eyebrow at Renly. “Listen, all you need to do is get us to that wedding,” Renly scowled. He reached into his satchel and produced a bottle of pills which he shook with an ominous rattle. “I’ll take care of the rest.” “What are those?” Stannis tried to snatch them away but Renly danced out of reach. “Mum’s migraine pills,” Renly said cheerily. Stannis scowled. He should have recognized them by sight alone. His mother was rarely without them during prolonged family gatherings. “Those are prescription grade horse tranquilizers with a healthy kick of Xanax and you know it,” Stannis growled, making another grab for the bottle. “Why do you even have them?!” “I consider us on a need to know basis,” Renly sniffed. “And give me ten minutes. If Robert doesn’t know where he is and what’s going on, you can call a taxi for the hospital.” Ten minutes later, Stannis was prepared to concede that Renly had been right. Not that he begrudged his brother the victory—just the thought of what Cersei would have done... “I can’t believe Euron killed our Dragon!” Robert was on his knees mourning the vehicle, tracing its emerald green paint forlornly. “Like he just came out of nowhere right?! How did he even know where to be?!” “I can’t believe not a single taxi company will pick us up on the side of the highway,” Renly whined, hanging up on another call. “Gods, we’re so fucking late!” “Listen, I’m on it,” Stannis stopped Renly from dialing another number. “Can you just text Ned and let him know we’re on our way?” “His thing for Cersei is so fucking creepy. It’s not like it’s HIS baby,” Robert huffed to nobody in particular. “Boom done. Now where’s our ride,” Renly demanded. “On his way,” Stannis shot back, looking at his own phone. “Poor poor dragon,” Robert shook his head sadly. It with considerable relief that Stannis spotted Davos’ beat up pick up trick on the horizon. “Heard you folks needed a lift,” Davos grinned, looking oddly out of place in the vehicle in his suit. “I can’t believe you were in an accident on the way to your own wedding,” Marya said sympathetically to Robert as she helped him into the backseat. “I can’t believe I was okay! I wasn’t even wearing my seatbelt,” Robert laughed. Stannis lingered to let Renly enter before him and then shut the door. “Why am I in the middle?” Renly immediately whined. “Sucks to suck,” Robert yawned. They got to the Sept at 2:30, Stannis biting his lip at the sight of the clock. Predictably, Ned saw them from across the courtyard and half sprinted to their side. “Robert!” Ned gasped. “Neduardo!” Robert beamed. Gods, get a room. “How’s my bride to be? She’s not mad that we’re late is she?” “Um no, I’m not sure she’s even noticed,” Ned fidgeted. “Busy troubleshooting,” Robert nodded sagely. “Yeah, maybe,” Ned said, his voice uncharacteristically squeaky. “Stannis, can I speak to you for a second?” Stannis sighed. “I don’t really have time for wedding obligations, Ned. I need to call the police and report the accident. Then I need to find the Martells and explain how a priceless automobile ended up smashed to pieces in a ditch somewhere. I need to find Mel, I think Renly is plotting something, and don’t even get me started on my par—“ “I don’t know where Cersei is,” Ned hissed, his voice low. “Nobody’s seen her in ages. My father-in-law is skulking in the shrubbery and Mace Tyrell left the ring on his desk in Highgarden. For the gods sake, just keep Robert busy and don’t under any circumstances let him find out. Can you do that?!” Ned was pale and his eye was twitching. Stannis gulped. “Yeah, totally.”

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 40

Cersei opened her eyes as the makeup artist stepped back and surveyed her reflection critically. She had always been beautiful—that was vanity, that was reality. But this creature in the mirror was something else. Cersei smirked, and the mirror girl turned it into a shy smile. Cersei made a note to give the makeup artist an extra large tip.

The other girls were getting ready in the adjoining room. Cersei felt an uncharacteristic twinge of guilt, upon seeing how extraordinarily awesome she looked. Like maybe the pink poofy dresses had been a touch unnecessary. Stop that, she told mirror Cersei sternly. Second guessing is for losers.

But second guessing or not, her over the top transformation left her feeling in the zone. There had been a few hiccups along the way—Robert was supposed to have been here at least thirty minutes ago, Aunt Genna was haggling over their contribution with a septa downstairs—but Cersei felt coolly prepared to deal with any issues that might arise.

“Cersei?” Catelyn Tully poked her head in for a moment. “Do you mind if we talk?”

Cersei gave a gracious wave to the chair across from her.

“I was—wow, you look fantastic,” Catelyn did a double take. 

She did. She really really did.

“So here’s the thing...”

She looked like somebody had taken the oozing surface of the sun hot sex appeal of Ashara Dayne and the wide-eyed Bambi sweetness of Elia Martell, bottled them up and shook, then served cold in an Elsa from Frozen mold.

“and I don’t think it is fair or kind to be spreading those kinds of rumors. People could get hurt. People DID get hurt,” Catelyn said firmly, looking at her.

Okay, Cersei might have lost the thread of this conversation.

“Jon will have a tough enough time growing up without this kind of nonsense following him every step of the way.”

Oh! This was about Alerie and Mace and their terrible and scurrilous rumor about her soon-to-be-husband’s best man. Cersei beamed benevolently.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said warmly.

“Um, good, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Catelyn said tentatively.

“Plans are in place to deal with them, don’t you worry,” Cersei assured her.

“Them? Wait, who are you talking about, I’m talking about you—“

“Alerie and Mace Tyrell spread that dreadful rumor about Ned and Ashara,” Cersei explained patiently. Honestly, sometimes she wondered if Catelyn was quite as intelligent as everyone seemed to think. “But don’t worry, I’ve arranged to teach them a lesson they won’t forget any time soon.”

“I don’t think we need to go overboard, I mean the best revenge is living well right? So as long as we make sure Jon is isolated from this kind of nonsense...” Catelyn was backtracking frantically.

The best revenge is living well?! Please, the best revenge is revenge, Cersei thought. This is why the Catelyns is the world needed people like her. To do what was necessary.

“It’s all been taken care of,” Cersei said soothingly, like she might have said to Tyrion long ago when he was being bullied. “They won’t be putting a foot wrong any time soon.”

“Do I even want to know?” Catelyn winced.

“I have arranged to give them both... vanilla wedding cake,” Cersei said with a dramatic flourish. She paused, waiting for a gasp.

“Oh, okay, that’s fine,” Catelyn said, looking bemused.

No, it wasn’t fine, it was BRILLIANT! Everybody knew the base layer of the wedding cake was reserved for the lowest denominator of wedding guest. Certainly a grasping little social climber like Alerie Tyrell did. She would get her slice of cake and it would be a terrible snub in front of all the people she most wanted to impress. Cersei had bumped Olenna Tyrell from the chocolate second tier up to the lemon-raspberry third tier to make her point even clearer. Alerie would be humiliated at the social event of the year, and spend months groveling to Cersei to get back into her good graces. 

As for Mace... well, he just really liked cake. Plain vanilla was probably the worst hand he’d been dealt since cafeteria lunches.

“I think your family just drove up,” Brienne poked her head in. Excellent.

Cersei greeted them as they entered the courtyard, enjoying the heads turning as she floated through the sept. It was only family at this early hour of course. She wouldn’t risk just anybody catching a glimpse of her and ruining her grand entrance at the ceremony.

“Cersei, a word?” Varys materialized and she favored him with a smile as they walked briskly toward the front.

“Hoster Tully arrived early. I had him turned away from the building of course, that it was only wedding party in the main sept until thirty minutes beforehand, but he is on the grounds,” Varys began. “Baelish has been working nonstop to spread those rumors about Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne. He’s still pissy about not getting the invitation I presume.” Cersei rolled her eyes. “I’ll keep the press scrum away from the bridesmaids, I just wanted to keep you apprised.”

“Any sign of Robert?”

“No but his parents checked in just now, according to my contact in security.”

“Hmmm well keep Hoster away from the bridesmaids too. Nothing to be done about Baelish at the moment,” unlike the original authors of that particular rumor, “but I’ll deal with him later.”

“Your Aunt Genna has reduced a sept to tears,” Varys consulted his notes.

“Send Uncle Gerion to deal with her, he’s good at that sort of thing.”

“Garth Greenhands is complaining that you stiffed him on the engagement flowers.”

“Give him an extra thousand to keep him happy, we can always take it out of future services.”

As Cersei effortlessly batted back every problem, she felt it again, that the entire arc of the universe was bending exactly according to her plan. 

“Excuse me, I see my family,” she gave Varys a dazzling smile, and such was her amplified charm that even the perpetually impassive Varys was forced to smile back. 

Jaime and her father both looked perfect. Cersei embraced each lightly, fantasizing about how gorgeous their photos would be. With Ellyn Tarbeck glowering across the camera from him, Tywin Lannister might even smile. 

And then came the gremlin. As with most people, Cersei’s gaze first hit the top of his head before drifting downward. The challenging smirk immediately tipped her off that something was wrong, and as she looked down she saw it. It. The hideous monstrosity that could only be described as the world’s ugliest tie. 

“Is that... a tie?” She managed, reeling at the tackiness. At least she hadn’t made her bridesmaids wear a fabric of THAT.

“It’s a fuck-you-for-ruining-my-life,” Tyrion growled, and they exchanged cold stare. “Look, it lights up!”

That... monster. What did he want from her?! He was a terrorist! A wedding terrorist!

Uncle Gerion came over, somewhat diffusing the situation, and then Jaime left to track down Brienne. As Gerion and Tywin exchanged a rapid fire exchange about Lannister Corp’s expansion into Yi Ti, Cersei stared down Tyrion. How dare he interrupt her flow?! Everything had been going so smoothly!

“Take it off!” Cersei finally snapped.

“No,” Tyrion shrugged. “It’s high time you learned that there are things beyond your control.”

Cersei stomped her foot.

“I can’t believe this is still about that stupid girl! She didn’t like you like that! I was saving you from getting hurt!”

“She didn’t have a chance to like me like that! And you can’t do this, just snap your fingers and have everybody marching to your tune! You’re turning into father!”

“She would have never liked you like that! She was a pretty bimbo who would have never been able to meet you at your level and you deserve so much more than that!”

“What makes you think I have anywhere near the choices that you seem to think I do?! Have you noticed that I’m four foot four?!”

“And you deserve someone who will take the time to get to know you beyond being a fun story to tell their mates! I know that girl, I know her type. She could never be the kind of girl who could deserve you. Who would appreciate how smart you are and how funny you are and that you have really good taste in wine,” Cersei found she was digging her nails into her palms. “Maybe I will never be able to convince you that there’s a girl out there who can do that, but I don’t have to convince you. I just have to scare away all the others until she shows up.”

“Gods Cersei,” Tyrion groaned, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “We got so close to having a moment. Why do you have to be such a sociopath?!”

“TAKE OFF THAT TIE BEFORE I STRANGLE YOU WITH IT!”

“I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY!”

“Cersei, Tyrion.” 

Their fight ended with the chilly admonish from their father, as most of their fights did.

Cersei huffed, glaring. This was wrong. The fucking tie was wrong. Didn’t he see? If he didn’t take it off, their photos wouldn’t be perfect. And if their photos weren’t perfect, the wedding wouldn’t be perfect. And if the wedding wasn’t perfect, NOTHING WOULD BE PERFECT!

“Cersei, I need to talk to you,” Tywin said stiffly. “Let’s walk toward the gardens.”

Behind him, Tyrion stuck his tongue out and she drew her perfectly manicured finger across her neck in response.

“This way, Cersei,” Tywin repeated patiently, ushering her away as if she were a recalcitrant child. 

Cersei tried to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth as she fantasized a thousand different ways to murder the tie. In a shredder, in a fire, slowly dissolved in a bucket of bleach, it lit up so there were wires that could be painstakingly stripped and then unwound and then each individual copper thread diced with a chopping knife into a thousand tiny pieces...

“Cersei, I love you.”

Cersei stopped short, and her father turned. They stood like that awkwardly separate, her father half facing her and half facing away. Had Tywin ever said that? She knew on some rational objective level that he loved her, that he loved all of them, but it was only ever felt as an undercurrent passing through, there for a second in his behavior and then gone.

Tywin took a deep breath, apparently unsure how to proceed.

“Being a parent is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, Cersei. It is exhausting and overwhelming and there are no maps and no certainty that any mistake you make won’t irreparably scar the thing you love most in this world. And being a single parent is incredibly lonely. It is not something I would have ever chosen. It was forced upon me through painful, near unendurable circumstance. Frankly, it is not something I would wish on anybody. And you are so much like me, Cersei. I do see that. To see you making that choice blindly, making it without any sense of what it could mean, for you, for your child... I just couldn’t let you do it.”

Cersei felt cold and somehow remote, like she was looking down at the two of them as a bystander in her own body.

“I thought, isn’t that a part of love? To keep your children from making mistakes, to spare them from hardship, and then it was so easy to pressure Robert to propose to you and pressure you to say yes. But I’ve had a number of conversations over the last few weeks that make me wonder if my strategy weren’t fundamentally misguided.”

My strategy was fundamentally misguided, the CEO told his stockholders, not the father told the daughter fucking FORTY-FIVE MINUTES BEFORE THE WEDDING!

“I don’t know what choices will bring you happiness, Cersei. Robert certainly has his short-comings, and though I would give anything to have your mother back, I can’t promise he will be the partner she was. And... maybe if there’s a mistake to be made, it should be your mistake to make. I don’t have any right to take that choice from you,” Tywin swallowed painfully.

“What are you saying?” Cersei said, and her voice came out thin and tremulous and childlike and she hated it.

“You will have a seat on the board of Lannister Corp at thirty. You always had it.”

“You want me to call off the wedding? People are coming, we’ve already spent all the money, think of what the papers will say...”

“I want you to do what you want to do,” Tywin cut her off, the words crisp and precise. “You will have my utmost support either way. I don’t give a damn what it costs and none of us, not me, not you, not your baby will give a damn what people say. We are Lannisters.”

And on that note, he straightened and walked away.

Cersei blinked, feeling like if she took a step in either direction, she might fall. That the world had gone atilt somehow, that things weren’t at the angle they should be. She didn’t have to marry Robert. She’d never had to marry Robert. Did she want to?

She swallowed and looked up at the arching glass window of the sept. That alien reflection looked back, the beautiful bride. Was it even her? It looked like her and it didn’t, one possible refraction of what she could be.

I love Robert, came the voice, small and quiet, into the stillness. And she did. It was so easy with him, and he’d always seen her for exactly who she was and it had never bothered him. He might have even loved her more for it. But it’s not like she would never see him again if they didn’t get married, another voice said impatiently. And she was Cersei Lannister, she’d never needed anyone in her entire life. She didn’t need his family and she didn’t need his money, and so what if that dopey grin of his elicited something fragile and fluttery from her.  

Cersei took another deep steadying breath. Her reflection watched her, waiting for the decision.

Her phone rang. She almost trembled in relief, fumbling for it with suddenly clumsy fingers. It was Varys with the guest list, or maybe Robert had finally gotten here or maybe Brienne—it was her doctor’s office.

Right, she’d scheduled her first ultrasound a smidge on the early side—sixteen weeks—to avoid having to deal with it during the wedding whirlwind. Just checking in with her favorite girl! Cersei rested a hand on the biscuit, still thankfully invisible.

“Hello, this is Cersei Lannister,” Cersei answered the phone in bland professional tones.

“Miss Lannister, it’s Nan Winters calling from Dr. Luwin’s office. We have the results of the ultrasound—it says here in my notes you didn’t want to wait for them because you had an appointment?”

“Yes, quite right,” Cersei said briskly. These doctors were so anal about holding your hand through every moment. Like she had time to hang around and wait for some technician to develop images of her uterus.

“Well everything looks perfect,” Nan Winters said warmly. “Absolutely nothing you should be worried about.” 

Cersei let out a breath. At least one thing managing to not be an issue.

“Actually, I have some good news,” Nan continued.

“Hmm?”

“It’s not always possible, especially in these first early ultrasounds, but we were able to determine the gender of your baby. That is, assuming you want to know.”

Cersei glanced down at biscuit. Her perfect little girl, her Genna Joanna Lannister-Baratheon, with her perfect golden curls and green eyes. She had already given Westerling instructions on saving the August edition of Vogue. It was little Genna’s first photo shoot after all.

“Of course,” Cersei said to Nan, imagining how she would frame it in the nursery. She had gone with a princess theme, but she was open to redoing it if her little girl wanted something more STEM oriented. She had found the cutest pink solar system mobile the other day, but she could also do like a jungle theme and get her little safari outfits and a stuffed elephant... She could practically see her, Genna Joanna Lannister-Baratheon, long-legged and coltish like when Cersei had been a girl, a red bandana around her neck and braids swinging under her pith helmet.

“Congratulations, it’s a baby boy,” Nan Winters said.

What? The picture perfect image in her head cracked ominously, like glass.

“What?” Cersei said. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” Nan laughed. “It’s easier to confirm it’s a boy than to confirm it’s a girl you know. And he’s a big one!”

Genna Joanna Lannister-Baratheon crumbled into shards.

Cersei sat down on the grass, wedding dress be damned.

A boy. She was having a baby boy. And not just any baby boy, her eyes suddenly welled up. A big one, Nan had said. The new image didn’t look like Cersei at all. It didn’t even look like Jaime or Tyrion. It raised a chubby hand and waved, its mop of thick black hair bouncing. It was a baby Robert.

No. No no no no no. She couldn’t do this. This was not the plan. It was supposed to be her baby! Cersei took a gasping breath. Why did she feel like she wasn’t getting enough oxygen? She didn’t have a baby name! The nursery wasn’t blue! What did boys like? Jaime had always liked what she had liked. Tyrion had liked... Cersei screwed her face up trying to recall. Dragons. Tyrion had liked dragons. A hiccup of a sob shook her frame. Dragons were so dumb!

And he would be loud. Gods, he would be Robert loud. Cersei could remember Robert as a child. And even just the memory sent a shiver of disgust down her spine. Loud and dirty. Robert pushing Jaime in the mud, Robert breaking her Barbie and laughing. Robert and his stupid temper tantrums that would get them all in trouble. 

Cersei had to get away. She staggered to her feet, looking around wildly. Nobody could see her like this. Everything was spinning out of control and it was all wrong and nothing was happening like she’d planned. Cersei was done. The end, game over, tapping out. Facing her expectant audience of thousands. For my first and last trick... a vanishing act.

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 39

Ned woke up in his childhood bed feeling tranquil and happy. The last two weeks had been a hurricane of happy chaos, what with trying to find space in their apartment and their lives for a second child. The good news is that Jon was the calmest sweetest baby Ned had ever encountered. The bad news is that Robb was quickly teaching him all his bad habits. One of the Mormont girls was coming to babysit today, and Ned privately prayed for her sanity.

But what was any of that compared to having Catelyn and Robb back? Even the days felt brighter, somehow, without the constant fear nibbling at the edges of his sanity that he was going to lose everything he loved.

Catelyn had already left early that morning to meet up with the girls and get ready for the wedding. The guys hadn’t made much of a plan—all they had to do was throw on their suits and show up—but Ned still planned to get there early to get the ring back from Mace and make sure Robert didn’t need anything.

In the meantime, he was just as happy to catch up with his father, Benjen and Brandon, who was also staying with his family for the wedding. Naturally, the primary topic of conversation was Lyanna.

“I can’t believe she’s with Ashara,” Benjen shook his head over cereal that morning.

“Stop,” Ned rolled his eyes.

“Ashara Dayne,” Benjen repeated gleefully.

“Yes we get it,” Ned scowled, stabbing his spoon into the milk.

“YOUR Ashara!”

“For the love of the gods will you please stop?!” Ned glared.

“Oh, is it weird for you?” Brandon walked into the kitchen smirking. “Knowing that your younger sibling is fucking your ex?”

“Brandon!” Ned protested, finding himself suddenly outnumbered.

“Get it?” Benjen grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Because Brandon and Cat used to boink!”

“Yes, thank you, I get it!” Ned blushed. 

“Only virgins call it boinking, Benjen,” Brandon rolled his eyes.

“I’ve had sex!” Benjen went red, suggesting the opposite.

“Oh don’t worry, what are you, fourteen?”

“I’m eighteen you dick!”

“Well don’t worry, you’ll get whomever Lyanna passes down to you,” Brandon said serenely.

“What?” Ned laughed. 

“I’ve realized it’s our tradition. I passed Cat on to you, you passed Ashara on to Lyanna. Wonder who she’s going to give to Benjen. Better hope it’s not Robert!”

“Shut up!!” Benjen whined.

“Oooh are you going to stand up and object at the wedding?” Brandon teased. “Say the Lannister girl can’t marry him, he’s yours by Stark family law.”

“Stoooop!”

“As best man, I cannot condone such behavior,” Ned pretended to take Brandon’s suggestion seriously. “He’ll have to choose someone else.”

“Who else is there?” Brandon pretended to think. “Rhaegar’s dead, that wasteoid over in Essos is already married...”

“Howland Reed,” Ned provided triumphantly with a smirk. “They dated in third grade. She beat up some bullies who were teasing him and he gave her a ring pop.”

“Good family, the Reeds,” Brandon nodded seriously.

“I hate you guys,” Benjen slid down in his seat.

“And he’s a northerner. You’d still be in the neighborhood!”

“Where’s Barbrey,” Benjen asked, in a patently obvious attempt to change the conversation from his impending romance with Howland Reed.

“Barbrey is a delightful girl but I feel our time together has run its course,” Brandon began, a trifle pompously.

“She dumped you, didn’t she?” Benjen asked drily.

“Not in those words. Or any words really. But I assumed as much when she keyed ‘Brandon Stark has a tiny cock’ across the hood of my car,” Brandon admitted.

“Oh wow, Brandon, I’m so sorry,” Ned frowned. Cat had said there was a rumor going around that Jon was Ashara and Brandon’s. Competing against another rumor that Jon was his and Ashara’s.

“Was it because of the thing with Ashara?”

“No it was because I have a tiny cock,” Brandon rolled his eyes. “Of course it was. I could tell her the pictures were fake until I was blue in the face. I guess when you’re caught with your pants down as many times as I’ve been, it rings a little hollow.”

“Maybe if Lyanna called her to explain,” Ned began.

“Look, it’s really not a big deal. We were on our last legs and there’s a certain dramatic irony to her dumping me over the one girl I DIDN’T cheat on her with,” Brandon grinned. “You know I actually did have the girl they photoshopped Ashara’s head onto? Over my office desk.”

“Don’t tell father,” Ned wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Why is it that everybody gets to have sex but me?” Benjen sulked. “It’s not like I’ve taken an oath of celibacy!”

“Don’t tell me what?” Rickard Stark asked, as he walked in with Jon and Robb in each arm. “Ned help me, I think my back’s about to give out. I can’t believe I used to do this with you and Lyanna. What are you feeding these boys?!”

“I’ve got you,” Ned cooed as he took Robb, letting Rickard shift Jon off his hip and into both arms.

“Brandon was just telling us how he had his aide in his office—“ Benjen began.

“Going over the latest tax proposals from the city,” Brandon interjected hastily. “They’re outrageous father, the northern part of the city might me the biggest but it’s also the poorest and these rates are tyranny!”

“You don’t have to get me started,” Rickard shook his head, and that was all it took to send them spiraling down a rabbit hole of local politics. Ned took some comfort in the way that as much as his life changed, the people in it didn’t change at all. It was nice to know there were some people he could always count on.

“Want to do some work on the backyard porch?” Benjen asked Ned hopefully. Ned laughed. The backyard porch had been a construction project for as long as Ned could remember. Rickard always had a vision of what his backyard could look like, a vision that seemed to hover tantalizingly out of reach of reality. The number of weekends he and Robert had spent in high school trying not smash their thumbs in with hammers as they drank beers and Lyanna made fun of them from where she was suntanning on a beach towel nearby. And now that project had become Benjen’s. Someday it would be Robb and Jon’s.

“You shouldn’t let Brandon get to you,” Ned said, a little shyly, as they set out for the garage to get the toolbox. “The right girl is worth waiting for.”

“Says the guy who has insanely gorgeous girls chasing him without doing a thing,” Benjen growled. “I will have you know that the shy awkward thing only works for you and literally nobody else.”

“Good thing you’re not shy and awkward,” Ned pushed him. 

They spent a companionable morning dismantling the steps down to the lawn, which Rickard had decided were the wrong height and width. It was with some surprise that Ned looked down at the time and realized he would have to make good time to get to the Sept an hour early.

“You won’t forget to give the babysitter my number?” Ned called over his shoulder as he frantically knotted and reknotted the hideous tie Cersei had provided him. 

“Yes, stop worrying,” Brandon rolled his eyes. “And you can knot that as many times as you like, it won’t make it any less ugly.”

“You’re right,” Ned admitted, to which he wasn’t sure. “Be good,” he told the boys, kissing both on the crown of their head.

“No kiss for me?” Brandon pretended to pout. Ned gave him the middle finger and ran out.

He made good time to the sept, trying to smile as a valet hurried to assist him with his car. The place was huge, and he was a little bewildered as to where he should go. He shot a quick text to Robert as he walked in.

The entry hall was overrun with Lannisters. Ned felt his feet freeze as he stared at the scene in horror. How had they crammed so many blond-haired arrogant looking individuals into one place.

“Hullo,” Ned looked down as he felt a tug at his pants. A small skinny blond haired boy of about eight was looking up at him. “I’m Tyrek.”

“I’m Ned,” Ned said, swallowing a laugh. “Have you seen the bride or the groom by any chance?”

“Cersei is in the garden with Uncle Tywin,” Tyrek told him solemnly. 

“Uh right,” Ned felt a shiver go down his spine. Cersei didn’t need to know he was here. “What about Robert? The groom?”

Tyrek shook his head. 

“Okay,” Ned said uncertainly. “I’m just going to look for him...” he tried to pry Tyrek’s sticky hand off his suit pants.

Once disentangled, Ned set off to find the groom.

He thought he’d had some success when he spotted Robert’s father, waving a glass of red wine and laughing to someone.

“Mr. Baratheon!” Ned said hopefully.

“Ned Stark, as I live and breathe,” Steffon Baratheon grinned. “You’ve met Tywin Lannister haven’t you?”

Ned froze, as the man he was talking to turned around.

“I’m not sure we’ve had the pleasure,” Tywin drawled. “But of course I know you. You’re the boy from the police video.”

Ned stiffened, not sure what to say. If Steffon noticed something was amiss however, he did not let on.

“I keep saying Tywin, the only cure for a nervous breakdown is sex. Hot dirty sex in a semi-public place,” Steffon elbowed Tywin, who was busy incinerating Ned by death glare.

“So nice to see you both, I’m very happy for Cersei and Robert,” Ned stammered before excusing himself. He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead, convinced he could still feel Tywin’s stare digging into his back.

Fortunately the next familiar face was a friendlier one.

“Mace!” Ned called, spotting the Tyrells as they entered. 

Mace gave him a slightly harried smile, trying to balance as he was his mother’s handbag, a four year old child, and a wedding gift.

“If you’ll just excuse me, for a second,” Mace said to his wife and mother, neither of whom was paying him the slightest amount of attention.

“This must be Loras,” Ned smiled at the boy, an elfin looking creature with long honey brown curls. He seemed to have very little of his father in him, which was not necessarily a bad thing. “Here let me help you with that,” Ned took the gift from Mace’s other hand, allowing him to rebalance.

“Thanks. The sitter fell through,” Mace sighed. “This morning was a nightmare trying to get Loras into his little suit. Alerie has been in a panic that she’s offended Cersei somehow and went out and got the most ridiculously expensive crystal vase as a wedding present and my mother went through my credit card statements and found it and the two have been going at it hammer and tongs,” he looked dolefully at his son. “At this point I’m just hoping they kill each other.”

“Well I can put this down for you with the other gifts at least,” Ned offered. “Do you have the ring? I just don’t want to forget...”

He trailed off at the look of horror on Mace’s face.

“Mace Tyrell, you didn’t!” Ned growled.

“It’s back in Highgarden! Shit, I can picture exactly which drawer it’s in!”

“I don’t care which drawer it’s in! You literally had one job to do!!! I can’t tell Cersei we don’t have a ring, she’ll kill me! And then Jaime will kill me! And then Tywin will kill me!”

“Robert might also kill you,” Mace offered weakly.

“NOT HELPFUL!”

Robert wouldn’t really kill him, would he? Oh gods, he might. He was the best man, this was literally the only thing he had to take care of today. He was a terrible best man and a terrible friend and what in seven hells were they going to do?!

“Okay the pocket squares are terrible but you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Thoros ambled up to them. Somehow the outfit seemed even uglier on him, but Thoros wore it with a sort of cheerful indifference.

“Mace... forgot the ring,” Ned bit out.

“I didn’t mean to!” Mace wrung his hands.

“We have to tell Robert. Have you seen him?”

“I haven’t.”

“Well Steffon is here, so he must be somewhere,” Ned frowned.

The three of them proceeded to search every nook of the sept, a process that took some thirty minutes.

“It’s his wedding! Where the heck is he?” Ned fretted. Should he have called him this morning to make sure he was up? He thought Stannis would do that! Should he call him now? He felt his pants pocket for his phone, but it was nowhere to be found. Fuck, he couldn’t have lost it already, he had just gotten it replaced!

“Okay, we clearly need to find a substitute ring,” Thoros said slowly. “One that’s nice enough that Cersei won’t freak out about the wedding photos.”

“It’s going to have to be REALLY nice,” Ned frowned. 

“So let’s see,” Thoros said, eyeing Mace. “Who on earth might possibly have an incredibly expensive ring that we can substitute?”

Mace shrugged.

“Like say a sixty thousand dragon ring?” Thoros prodded.

“I mean we can look around the wedding guests, but that’s super high end,” Mace scratched his head. “And we can’t ask anyone who might tell other guests.”

“Oh we should definitely borrow it without asking,” Thoros said bluntly.

“See when you take something that doesn’t belong to you without permission, it’s stealing. It doesn’t matter if you eventually intend to return it,” Ned scrunched his face. Thoros was a nice guy, but Ned felt like he had missed some basic ethics classes at some point in his life.

“Right, Mace. Who could we steal a very expensive ring from that you would be in a very good position to return it to after the wedding?” Thoros stared at Mace, ignoring Ned entirely.

“Oh no,” Mace’s face went ashen. “You can’t possibly mean...”

“Gam Gam!” Loras waved over Mace’s shoulder. “Look, Gam Gam!”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” Mace hissed.

“Where’s my favorite boy?” Olenna Tyrell approached and lifted Loras from Mace’s grasp. Ned took a second to covertly study her ring. It was really nice. Three rubies and two diamonds in an alternating pattern. One might even say the rubies were Lannister red.

“Now who isn’t serious boys? You look frightfully glum for a wedding,” Olenna eyed them suspiciously.

“Nothing mother, I was just explaining a joke I’d heard,” Mace shifted from foot to foot.

“See that’s your problem dear, you’re supposed to tell the joke not explain it,” Olenna rolled her eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my grandson back over to his birdbrain of a mother. Hopefully that will keep her occupied, I really don’t have time to babysit the two of you. I have my eye on bigger game.”

“Do NOT steal my mother’s ring,” Mace whispered angrily.

“Of course not,” Thoros said amiably, and Mace’s shoulders dropped in relief.

“You’ll steal her ring,” Thoros patted him on the back. 

“What?! I don’t think you understand what my mother would do to me if...”

“Ned, tell Robert he will have a very lovely ring. We’re taking care of it,” Thoros slung a not entirely friendly arm over Mace’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Ned gave Thoros a relieved smile. Now to find Robert... well he had looked in just about every room in this sept. He had to be outside in the grounds.

Ned walked into the gardens and looked around. Guests were mingling and he could hear the musical laugh of Cassana Baratheon from the center of a group of admirers. He edged a little closer to see if Robert was with his mother—was Cassana Baratheon wearing a white dress? Nope nope nope, Ned backtracked. He wanted no part of that.

“Pssst!” There was a whisper from a grove with a little shrine. Ned looked around but didn’t see anybody.

“PSSST!”

There it was again, louder! Hesitantly, Ned drifted toward the sound. 

“Stark!” The voice was in an urgent undertone, and Ned took another step toward the trees. Only for someone to grab his arm and pull him behind the shrine.

“Hey! Who the hell—Hoster?” Ned blinked, to find his father-in-law staring at him.

“Stark, I need to speak to you,” Hoster Tully said formally and a little stiffly for someone who was lurking in the dark corners of a garden to spring out at people.

“I have repeatedly attempted to contact Cat. Phone calls, texts, an old fashioned letter... it’s not like her to ignore me like this!”

“I believe Catelyn made her feelings about your behavior quite clearly,” Ned said uncomfortably.

“Listen, I’m not... can you just arrange a meeting? I have to apologize.”

Ned had to stop his jaw from dropping. Hoster Tully, apologize?

“I can’t lose my daughter over this. And I don’t know when I’ll have another chance to see her in person, if this keeps up. Can you help me? Please?” Hoster Tully ground out the last word as though it were physically painful.

Ned shifted uncomfortably. Cat had been very clear about her disinclination to speak to her father for the next decade, at best. But he was her family. Just the thought of something coming between him and his own father and not being able to fix it gave Ned a lump in his throat. Cat would be annoyed with him, but didn’t Hoster deserve one more shot to make things right?

“Um I’ll see what I can do,” Ned said tentatively.

“I appreciate it. I do. I think you are a good man, Eddard. I am sorry if I overlook that. I want more for Catelyn than what you can give her, but I have always thought you were a good man,” Hoster said bluntly.

Ned rolled his eyes. On the other hand, maybe he could just say nothing and leave his obnoxious pill of an in-law to stew in dark corners.

He mulled the dilemma as he trudged back toward the sept. He wished he could tell Robert about the interaction he’d just had, maybe get his thoughts. Instead, he was nearly flattened by Jaime Lannister, running around a corner.

“Stark!”

Ned sighed. Why did he always run into Jaime when he was already severely rattled?

“Look, it’s not like a super big deal or anything, and you shouldn’t worry but the thing is Cersei is, um, missing,” Jaime coughed.

“Missing?” Ned stared.

“Temporarily,” Jaime hastened to add. “Totally fixable. Just don’t tell Robert. Keep him distracted, okay? We’ll find her and he doesn’t need to be any the wiser.”

Jaime ran off. Ned continued to stare after him. 

No ring. Missing bride. And where in the seven hells was Robert?!

[boschlingtumbles]

Chapter 38

Jaime woke up in his childhood bedroom, feeling vaguely confused and bereft. Confused because he never the spent the night in his childhood bedroom if a hotel would do. And bereft because he distinctly recalled falling asleep with Brienne’s arms wrapped around him. They had gotten in last night, late on purpose to avoid running into anyone else, sneaking through the halls whispering and giggling and trying not to wake anyone else up. Then he had pulled her back on his bed with him, and kissed her from her lips down to her navel and then continued down from there until Brienne hadn’t been so very worried about waking anyone else up at all. But now she was gone, had no doubt gotten up to go with Cersei at some ungodly hour of the morning to get their hair and makeup done for the wedding. Jaime groaned at the realization. The wedding. The wedding was today. Just then, there was the burst of static as the intercom across the room lit up. “Lunch will be on the table for twenty five more minutes before it’s cleared, Master Jaime,” Westerling’s voice announced blandly. Jaime groaned again, burying his head under his pillow. This was why he stayed in a fucking hotel. He got down with fifteen minutes remaining on the clock, sitting in his old position at his father’s right hand. He was amused but unsurprised to discover that Tyrion had not commandeered it in his absence, preferring instead to leave an awkward space between Tywin and himself. “Good morning,” Jaime greeted them. “You’re late,” Tywin informed him. “And it’s good afternoon.” “There will never be another good morning again,” Tyrion said dolefully. Again, this is why he preferred hotels. “Why so cheery?” He asked Tyrion. “It’s Cersei’s wedding day, not your funeral.” “I hope that monster chokes on her wedding cake,” Tyrion bit, stabbing a bite of salad gloomily. “Did you know SHE’S the reason Tysha ghosted me?” “...what?!” Jaime tried to sound surprised. “I KNOW! I hacked into Tysha’s phone to see if she had a boyfriend,” Jaime here made a disapproving noise which Tyrion ignored, “and found some texts to her from my phone which I never sent! She thinks I stood her up! And she didn’t believe me when I tried to explain what happened, and then started asking all these questions about how I knew what texts were on her phone and anyway, it was a whole thing, but the point is Cersei is a psychopath who is trying to control my life!” “So she intervened to save you from an unsuitable match?” Tywin inquired. Honestly, Jaime was surprised he was even listening. He assumed that their father tuned most of what they said out. “What she did was stuck her nose where it had no business being!” Tyrion snapped. “It sounds like she wanted what was best for you,” Tywin objected. “How would she know what was best for me?!” “She’s your fa-family! Of course she knows what’s best for you!” “I’m the one who knows what’s best for me!” Tyrion yelled, slamming his hand down on the table. “Well it sounds like you weren’t thinking very clearly, and maybe she just wanted to stop you from making a terrible mistake!” Tywin snarled back. “THEN IT WAS MY MISTAKE TO MAKE! All she’s done is ensure I’ll never be happy and I’ll never forgive her, not until my dying day!” “Okay, it’s not that bad,” Jaime jumped in, feeling a trifle guilty. After all, he had been the one who set Cersei on the poor girl. “It is! She was the love of my life! I’ll never have another one, never, and I’ll be miserable until the day I die,” Tyrion slumped in his chair. “You’re acting like Renly Baratheon,” Jaime rolled his eyes and Tyrion stuck out his tongue. He was just in a snit. He would play some terrible prank on Cersei and be over it in a few weeks. Jaime’s father, on the other hand, had taken on a distinctly greenish pallor. “Are you okay?” Jaime asked nervously. What if he was choking on something? Jaime didn’t know the Heimlich. Did Tyrion? And if he did, how would they position their father to allow Tyrion to administer it. Like lying down maybe? “I’m fine,” Tywin glared at him, wiping some sweat off his brow. “We should be getting ready, Cersei wanted us at the Sept to greet guests an hour beforehand.” “I can’t believe Cersei is marrying Robert,” Jaime groaned, just to get that off his chest one last time. Tywin flinched. “I hope he cheats on her,” Tyrion huffed. “Will you both stop dilly-dallying and get ready?!” Tywin snapped. “If you’re not ready, I WILL leave without you!” “What’s eating him?” Tyrion asked Jaime as they quickly retreated toward their bedrooms. Jaime shrugged. Probably the thought of having to spend an entire afternoon and evening faking human emotions like joy. “He won’t really leave us though?” “Of course not,” Jaime said. “But, you know, hurry. Just in case.” Jaime took some small comfort in knowing that as he was not a groomsman, he did not have to wear the terrible pink ties and pocket squares that Cersei had picked out to go with the bridesmaid dresses. For once he’d be better dressed than Renly Baratheon. Not that he was competitive with Brienne’s best friend. Not at all. All the same, he lingered slightly longer than usual, trying to decide what tie to wear. Green to bring out his eyes or red because Lannister? There was a prolonged honking from the driveway. Green it was. “So sorry,” Jaime said lightly as he slid into the back next to Tyrion. Tywin grunted from the front. “So what do you think?” Tyrion asked, with just a hint of mischief in his voice. Jaime glanced over at him wearily. And then turned fully to get a better look. His tie was... breathtakingly hideous. And loud. Very loud. “Are those... duckies?” Jaime asked in a strangled tone. “Yup! Yellow rubber duckies! And look at this,” Tyrion put his hand in his pocket and suddenly their eyes started blinking red. “Now they’re EVIL yellow rubber duckies!” “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Jaime said bluntly. “I know,” Tyrion cackled. “Can you imagine Cersei’s face when I show up to her wedding at the High Sept dressed like this? That’ll teach her to interfere in my life!” “Forget Cersei, I can’t believe Father is letting you wear that monstrosity,” Jaime shook his head. “He hasn’t even noticed yet,” Tyrion said gleefully. “I think he had a stroke at breakfast.” “Shhh!” Jaime waved a hand at him, casting a nervous glance up front. “He’s not listening to a word we say,” Tyrion shrugged him off. The car wound its way through the streets of King’s Landing, heading toward Visenya’s Hill. Jaime could already see the Great Sept of Baelor, the white marble shining against the afternoon sun. They would get there around three, the ceremony was scheduled to run from three to four. Then the guests would make their way to the Red Keep via a waiting fleet of cars, which would whisk them to the cocktail hour in the Godswood Botanical Gardens. The cocktail hour would run from four to six (naturally Cersei and Robert’s idea of a cocktail hour ran for two hours), followed by dinner and dancing in the courtyard of the Red Keep. The entrance to the sept was marked by a massive archway, beyond which a sculpture of Baelor the Blessed stood on a stone plinth. What the fellow had initially looked like, Jaime couldn’t say, but time and the elements had weathered his face into an expression of resigned and almost saintly patience. He would need it, Jaime thought, for Cersei. A valet hurried over to the car, ushering Tywin out of the driver’s seat with a deference fit for a king. Jaime rolled his eyes and let himself out before another valet could do the same. Tyrion, in contrast, beamed at the girl helping him out, and made the ducky tie blink at her. “You’re two minutes late,” Cersei hurried out, in an uncanny impression of their father. Jamie opened his mouth to say something snarky, but then he caught a glimpse of her in her dress and just... couldn’t. It was a strapless ivory sheath with a sweetheart neckline, covered in delicate white lace flowers, which gave the edges a slightly textured look. The embroidery grew more ornate below the bodice, rippling into a train of embroidered ivy. Her hair was down, as she always liked it best, in tumbling golden curls, and she looked young and sweet and innocent and for a strange second, Jaime thought he might cry. “Wow,” he said instead. “I know,” the real Cersei smirked behind this perfect doe-eyed stranger. “Just shows you can’t judge a book by its cover,” Tyrion snarked. Cersei looked over at him, aloofly disapproving, when she saw his tie. Jaime could sympathize with the pained expression of puzzlement that crossed her face. “Is that a... tie?” Cersei finally managed. “It’s a fuck-you-for-ruining-my-life,” Tyrion beamed back. “Look, it lights up!” “That will be handy for when they find you dangling by it from the interpass tonight,” Cersei hissed. “Ty, about time you got here,” their Uncle Gerion ambled out, abruptly interrupting the conversation to talk to their father. “Genna is haggling with a septa over our contribution and I think she might cry.” “Aunt Genna might cry?” Tyrion asked interestedly. “Gods no. The septa. Cool tie, my dude.” “You should see what it does,” Tyrion began. “I need to talk to my daughter for a minute,” Tywin said stiffly. “And crying septas are not my forte. I would have rather thought they were yours.” “Touché, but this one’s ugly.” “Send Uncle Emmon then,” Tyrion grinned and Uncle Gerion gave him a high five. “Be nice to your sister,” Tywin said tiredly. “Both of you,” he glared suddenly at Tyrion. “I think he’s noticed the tie,” Tyrion stage whispered to Jaime. “Where are the bridesmaids,” Jaime asked Cersei hopefully. “Go through the Maiden’s door and turn right. That’s where everyone’s getting ready,” Cersei said absently. Jaime left her with father and Tyrion with their uncle and set off. He heard the giggling before he saw them, turning a corner and then... wow. But in a different way than when he’d seen Cersei. More like, wow that was a lot of pink. “Jaime!” Brienne stood, her face flushing in a way that it hadn’t since they’d been in high school together. Catelyn and Lysa also looked up, from where they’d been sitting together. “Ladies, you look... lovely,” Jaime managed. Since ‘like flamingoes’ might not be appropriate. “Oh stuff it,” Catelyn rolled her eyes. “We look like bubblegum monsters.” “We look like somebody dyed a Sevenmas tree pink and then decided to wear it,” Lysa giggled. “I’ve never looked so stupid in my life,” Brienne told Jaime glumly. “You don’t look stupid,” Jaime said firmly. “You just look very um... salmon?” Brienne raised an eyebrow. “Where’s Melisandre?” Jaime asked hastily. “She’s been locked in that closet since she got her dress,” Catelyn nodded her head. “She said she need to make a few alterations.” “Probably just embarrassed,” Lysa said sagely. “But if we all look stupid, at least we all look stupid together.” “Nobody looks stupid,” Jaime reiterated. “Brienne, c’mon, let’s take a walk.” He laced their fingers together and pulled her back toward the main sept. “You’re sweet to try and rescue me,” Brienne gave him a shy smile. “But I think we’re at the point of no return.” “I’m not trying to rescue you,” Jaime admitted. “I mean, unless you want me too. I just... I missed you.” “We spent all night together!” Brienne blushed, though she squeezed his hand. “And I wish we’d spent all morning together,” Jaime said earnestly. “It has been too long since we had a weekend to ourselves,” Brienne replied fondly. “I miss it too. Remember that last weekend in Hardhome before Cersei found out about the biscuit?” “We slept in so late,” Jaime laughed. “There wasn’t even time for brunch.” “And we’d worked up quite a sweat,” Brienne nudged him. “You said you were going out for a run...” “And you said you were going to take a shower and go back to sleep!” “But instead, I spent the next hour frantically slaving away on a Tyroshi omelette and blueberry muffins for you...” “And I called the restaurant and got them to make an order for pick up!” “So we had two brunches,” Jaime finished with a grin, leaning over to brush his lips against hers. “As I recall we managed to finish both,” Brienne melted him against him. He tried to step even closer, but found his approach rebuffed by the copious layers of pink tulle. “That usually works,” Jaime frowned. “It’s better than a chastity belt,” Brienne groaned. “Hang on,” Jaime smirked and pushed her gently back against the wall. “It’ll take more than some silly dress to stop me.” “Jaime, it’s the Great Sept of Baelor!” “Rather thrilling, no?” “No,” Brienne pushed him off, though her lip twitched. “Well Hardhome isn’t what I was talking about anyway,” Jaime admitted, twisting to face her so he was still leaning against the wall with one shoulder. “It’s not?” Brienne frowned, mildly bemused. “I just meant... I want to spend every morning with you.” Brienne looked at him, her brilliant blue eyes luminous in the light. He could drown in those eyes and die happy. “I’m... I’m still in college, Jaime,” Brienne ventured uncertainly. “I know,” Jaime said hastily. “Not now. Just... someday, you know?” Brienne truly smiled then, one of the soft smiles that lit up her entire face. “Someday, I would like that.” For a brief perfect moment, Jaime savored the thrill of happiness that rushed down his spine. “Is that an oath wench,” he teased. “What is it with you and oaths,” Brienne scoffed, crossing her arms. “I just know you’re a wench of your word,” Jaime kissed her shoulder. Brienne tried to shrug him off, but he only moved to her neck. “I hate it when you call me wench,” Brienne sighed as she tipped her head back to give him more access. “You don’t,” Jaime whispered in her ear. “You love it.” “I love you,” Brienne turned, cupping his face in her hands so she could kiss him in turn. “I swear it,” she murmured against his lips. Jaime stepped back. “Do you mean it?” “Of course.” “So we’re like... engaged to be engaged?” “Well we can’t actually be engaged,” Brienne shook her head at him. “Can you imagine what Cersei would do if we got engaged AT her wedding?” “I shudder to think,” Jaime laughed. “And besides, you don’t have a ring yet.” “Of course not,” Jaime said quickly. “Shall we find the others?” Brienne leaned her head against him. “If we must. My father was making noises about talking to Cersei. I suppose we should intervene.” “Imagine that, a father wanting to talk to his daughter on the day of her wedding,” Brienne rolled her eyes. “You say that like he’s JUST a father,” Jaime pushed her. “What do you think he is?” “Sociopath? Alien? Artificial intelligence program designed to assimilate with and eventually replace us?” “You always make him out to be so terrible,” Brienne rolled her eyes. “He is! He is THE WORST!” A heartily raucous laugh echoed from the courtyard. It sounded like Robert, only louder. Brienne looked at Jaime. “He is THE SECOND WORST!” They trudged back to the front. Gerion and Tyrion has vanished, as had Cersei, but in their place was a familiar couple. Steffon Baratheon was offering a flask to Tywin, beaming and looking like there was no place he’d rather be. Cassana Baratheon was elegant, refined, coolly composed... wearing a stunning white silk dress. To his sister’s wedding. Cassana Baratheon was wearing a white dress to Cersei’s wedding. “Jaime, my love!” She saw him over Tywin’s shoulder and swept him up into an airy and insubstantial embrace. “You’ve become such a fine young man, I was just telling your father. And you must introduce me to your... friend.” From Brienne’s polite grimace of a smile, Jaime could tell that she had been introduced to Cassana Baratheon repeatedly. “This is my girlfriend, Brienne Tarth. You must know the Tarths, famous sapphire magnates,” Jaime drawled, ignoring Brienne’s warning squeeze of his hand. “Oh?” Cassana smiled and extended her hand. Jaime could practically see her social Rolodex flipping behind that mask she called a face. “She’s a great friend of Renly’s, I’m sure you’ve met her before,” Jaime pressed. “Oh of course my dear, when was it last?” Cassana asked Brienne lightly. “Perhaps Robert’s high school graduation, when he gave the speech?” Jaime offered. “Oh that’s right, you weren’t there. Stannis’ graduation then. Did you make that one?” “Spring is such a busy time for us,” Cassana said apologetically to Brienne. “Well there’s always Renly. Third time’s charmed,” Jaime bared his teeth in a smile. “Jaime, weren’t we supposed to check in on the um... flowers?” Brienne offered, grasping at straws to try and lure him away. “Oh that was at the Red Keep, dear, you’re getting confused,” Jaime said breezily. “Now tell me Cassana, when did you first know Robert and Cersei were in love?” “Was there a time they weren’t?” Cassana parried. “If you’ll excuse me, I must say hello to your Aunt Darlessa—“ “I would have said the time she almost put his eye out with a pellet gun was a time they were not in love,” Jaime called after her. “Or what about the time he tore the head off her Barbie doll?” “Jaime!” Brienne stomped on his foot. “What about the five YEARS he spent madly in love with Lyanna Stark!” Jaime shouted after her. “Jaime!” Brienne hissed. Jaime swallowed. “I’m sorry Brienne, I just don’t like how she treats people. How she treats you. She just got under my...” “No! Jaime, we don’t have time to waste baiting Cassana Baratheon! We need to warn Cersei! The mother of the groom is wearing WHITE! This is like... defcon five! Code red! Apocalypse now!” “You’re right,” Jaime frowned. “Of course you’re right. Father!” Tywin, still engaged in conversation with Steffon, didn’t react. “Father! Dad!” Nothing. “Tywin!” Tywin turned. “Hello Brienne,” he said mildly. “Hello sir,” Brienne looked at her feet. “Where did Cersei go?” Jaime interjected. “She was a getting a call from her doctor, she went to the gardens to take it,” Tywin said, turning back to Steffon. Jaime grabbed Brienne’s hand and they ran toward the gardens. After a cursory search, it was clear that Cersei had gone. “I’ll check in with the girls, you ask around with you family,” Brienne took charge. “Let’s meet back at the statue of Baelor in fifteen minutes.” Jaime nodded, hurrying back toward where the guests were congregating in the entry hall. Everybody had seen Cersei—that was the problem. Everybody had seen Cersei, just not in the last ten minutes. After many many futile inquiries, Jaime trudged back to the statue. “Nobody’s seen her,” he told Brienne, frowning. “I looked everywhere!” Brienne twisted her hands. “None of the other bridesmaids had a clue either! Where could she be??”

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding (Ch 37)

Catelyn (Vice and Wish 12 of 12)

Catelyn woke in bed in her family’s summer home in Riverrun, her sister snuggled under the covers inches away. She smiled—hadn’t that always been the way when they were younger? Promising to stay in their own beds and then sneaking out for sleepovers as soon as their mother’s back was turned?

Granted, when they were younger, Lysa typically didn’t fall asleep wearing a very dirty thrift store wedding dress. Was that cheese-whiz down the front?

Catelyn realized she was also still wearing her thrift store wedding dress and that she should probably take a shower and then take Robb off her saint of an uncle’s hands.

Once in the shower, some of the tranquility and coziness of waking up in her old bedroom faded. She recalled her bravado from last night and cringed. Hear me roar indeed.

Since she had left on this thrice-damned family holiday—no earlier than that, since the wedding, no since the PROPOSAL, she had been walking on eggshells around her father. She had always been her father’s favorite, she knew that, and she was so desperately certain that there was a way to make him okay with the man she loved. But at every turn things had gotten worse not better. Had Ned been part of the problem? Well punching her father in the face had certainly not helped, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d more or less made him a stranger from his family all summer and he had been understanding and supportive every step of the way.

In return, trusting what they had built together over the last two years seemed like the very least she could do.

But then she thought of her senior year, at that party Robert had thrown, where Ned had kissed Ashara Dayne during spin the bottle and she’d spent the entire evening crying in the bathroom. And Catelyn felt cold and clammy and like she might want to throw up.

That’s what you get for eating a plate of loaded nachos from a pub called Murfees, Catelyn told herself grimly. Not to mention drinking all that beer. Ugh, not a story to share with her mommy group back in Winterfell. It’d be weeks before she felt safe to breast-feed again.

Did the thought of Ned and Ashara together trigger all sorts of stupid high school anxieties that she’d thought buried and gone forever? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But that didn’t change the fact that it was Ned and she loved him and trusted him. They’d been together for years before they’d been married, had freely chosen each other above all others, had a foundation of a million shared experiences and laughs and tears. No stupid spiteful rumor was going to change that.

Catelyn stopped scrubbing the shampoo into her scalp and stood up straighter. Like she’d said at the bar, she was done playing the dutiful daughter, done trying to accommodate everyone and done trying to be so fucking deferential to everyone’s feelings but her own.

She found her uncle in the kitchen playing with Robb in the playpen.

“Was that you girls I heard coming home last night so late?” Brynden Tully teased, as Robb saw her and his whole face lit up.

“Mama!!” He fought free of his great-uncle’s grasp to toddle toward her.

“Oof,” Catelyn smiled as he collided with her full speed.

“He reminds me of Edmure at that age. No idea where he’s going but in a hurry to get there,” Brynden shook his head.

“Thank you so much for looking after him,” Catelyn pressed a kiss to the crown of her son’s head. “I thought it was going to be one night and then home early, but things... well escalated.”

She flushed as she again flashed on her and Lysa doing drunken karaoke on a bar top.

“I was happy to do it, Cat. You know I think it’s good for you to get some me time,” Brynden affectionately tugged at his niece’s still damp hair.

“Where is daddy?” Catelyn asked.

“Took off yesterday afternoon to play golf with Jon Arryn in King’s Landing. I guess they went out for drinks after and he was nervous about driving so decided to crash there. Looks like you weren’t the only one who needed some me time,” her uncle rolled his eyes. “You should really know better than to try and keep us under the same roof for extended periods.”

Catelyn let out a small sigh of relief even as she tried to smile at Uncle Brynden’s joke. If Jon Arryn had successfully kept him away from the gossip mill, that was one disaster averted.

“Anything wrong?” Brynden asked, arching an eyebrow at Catelyn knowingly.

“Just the usual drama with Daddy and Ned. Sometimes I get why you ran off,” Catelyn admitted.

“As I recall, I ran off to avoid a wedding, not have one,” Brynden chuckled. “Your father has never met an opinion worth considering over his own.”

“That’s not fair,” Catelyn protested tepidly but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Just because he loves you doesn’t mean he has the faintest idea what’s best for you,” Brynden said firmly. “Now since you’re up, I think this is my cue to leave.”

“You won’t stay for brunch?” Catelyn shot him her best puppy dog expression.

“If I leave now, this will be the first weekend I’ve spent with my brother in ten years that didn’t dissolve into an argument,” Brynden said. “I would do anything for you and Lysa and little Robb here, but there are some things you really shouldn’t ask of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Catelyn said sheepishly. “It’s just going to be dismal.”

“Chin up, Cat. I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge,” Brynden smiled.

Catelyn waved goodbye, and then set about getting herself and Robb dressed and ready. Having accomplished that, she realized her two siblings were still sound asleep with no sign of her father. Rolling her eyes, she went to turn Lysa and Edmure out of bed.

“I thought I’d be sadder about Petyr,” Lysa confided as she stretched her arms. “But I feel like there was a huge weight on my stomach and it’s finally been lifted.”

“Don’t you mean your shoulders,” Catelyn teased, to try and not think about Petyr and his smirking face coming toward her. Gods she missed Ned.

“No I mean my stomach,” Lysa said seriously. “I felt it right in here,” she poked her gut.

“Well just in time to eat brunch then. Now here, take Robb and get him into his car seat. Daddy texted and said he and Jon would meet us at brunch. And Edmure’s still in the shower and we should have left five minutes ago.”

They were fifteen minutes late to the restaurant, but only Rickard and Benjen Stark had gotten there before them.

“Let me see my grandson!” Rickard boomed, and lifted Robb from Catelyn’s arms. Catelyn looked around, but there was nobody else in the private room she’d reserved to eliminate outside stressors like people who objected to high chairs and the occasional temper tantrum.

“Where’s Brandon?” She asked Benjen quietly.

“He called to say he wasn’t coming... He and Barbrey had a HUGE fight last night,” Benjen pulled a face. Catelyn swallowed, thinking of the text Cersei had sent.

“Where is Ned?” She asked hopefully.

“Not here yet—I called him a couple times but his cell doesn’t seem to be working,” Benjen replied. Catelyn twisted her hands uncomfortably. Should she have stoped Cersei from sending that text? She wished Ned were here, she needed to find out what had actually happened with Ashara. He was still coming wasn’t he?

There the squeal of tires and the crunch of gravel from outside and the road of an impossibly loud engine.

“What is that?!” Rickard frowned.

“I’ll check,” Catelyn assured her father in law.

A candy-apple red convertible was parked in front. Ned, wearing an exceptionally wrinkled shirt was clambering out of the front, as Robert Baratheon handed him...

A child.

Catelyn, who had been half way out the door, mid stride to hurl herself into Ned’s arms, stopped short. Ned took the baby, said something to Robert who was grinning, and then turned and saw her silhouetted in the doorframe and froze.

Catelyn swallowed, aware that she was trembling like a leaf.

“Cat!” Ned covered the ground between them in an instant, kissing her temple, the boy in his arms a familiar impediment between them. Familiar and not familiar. Because this was not her boy.

“Is it true?” She blurted.

“True?” Ned gave her a puzzled smile.

She looked down at the baby.

“Oh! Cat, meet our nephew. Jon Snow.”

Her knees buckled and she sat down on the steps.

“Woah! Are you okay, hang on,” Ned carefully put Jon down and sat next to her, pressing his hand to her forehead even as his other hand found her own. “You feel clammy, are you sick?”

Catelyn gave him a tremulous smile. Nephew. Nephew. She could breathe.

“Everyone’s saying that you and Ashara had a baby,” she mumbled, leaning into his hand. “Cersei said it was nonsense, that it had to be Ashara and Brandon, and I believed her of course, but then when I saw you with him—why did you bring a baby to brunch? Why do you even have him??”

“Cat, Jon isn’t Brandon’s,” Ned took a deep breath.

“What?” Catelyn frowned, twisting to face him.

“He’s Lyanna’s.”

“Oh,” Catelyn looked down at the boy who was blinking back at her, with Lyanna’s dark hair and somebody else’s dark eyes.

“And the father?”

“Not in the picture. He was married, and from all accounts, a nasty piece of work.”

Catelyn swallowed.

“So you’re bringing your father a surprise grandchild from the daughter he hasn’t heard from in months to a brunch with my father who hates your guts. And Brandon isn’t here to play peacemaker because Cersei might have told a lot of people that he had a baby with Ashara and it got back to Barbrey...”

“Well when you put it like that,” Ned’s shoulders slumped and they sat side by side on the steps outside the restaurant, the two of them and their surprise nephew.

“Maybe Daddy will be in a good mood from playing golf all day yesterday,” Catelyn offered.

“Robert mooned him on the drive here,” Ned sighed. “He seemed quite peeved.”

There was a pause as Catelyn rested her head on Ned’s shoulder.

“We’ll get through this right?” Ned squeezed her hand.

“We will,” Catelyn said firmly. “Together.”

Hoster Tully entered some ten minutes later in a rare head of steam, towing a tired looking Jon Arryn, and practically spitting nails. If he noticed that Rickon Stark was looking decidedly unwell, he did not say anything.

“What is wrong with this generation?!” Hoster bellowed without preamble.

“Hi Daddy,” Lysa tried to give him a hug only to be brusquely shoved toward Jon Arryn who caught her and gave her a shy kiss on the cheek.

“You will not believe what just happened to me! On the highway, I was mooned!”

“Oh that’s terrible,” Catelyn said soothingly, hurriedly gesturing at the waiter to pour some wine. “It must have been very startling.”

“I knew that ass!” Hoster shouted.

There was a silence as Benjen Stark let out a stifled snort of laughter.

“Hoster thinks it’s the person who mooned him during the club championships ten years ago,” Jon Arryn sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I KNOW IT WAS! I would recognize those bare buttocks anywhere!” Hoster snapped, draining the wine in one go.

“Got a good look did you?” Benjen snickered, and Ned shoot him a glare.

“I did!” Hoster said, oblivious to Benjen’s innuendo. “I was teeing off on the eighteenth hole, tied with Jonos Bracken for the lead. And you know how that man cracks under pressure,” he added in an aside to Jon and Rickard. “And then, right as I had taken my practice swing and had set up to the ball, I saw it!”

“He’s referring to the butt,” Jon Arryn, who had clearly heard this story many times, sighed.

“Bare and pale, almost luminous! Shining at me from the crowd! I looked away, I tried to focus on the golf ball, but it was too late! It was in my head!”

“He shanked his drive, had to take a penalty stroke and lost by two,” Jon Arryn rolled his eyes, bringing the story to an abrupt end.

“And then I had to get back surgery that winter! I never got my golf game back! That was my last chance to win the championship!” Hoster harrumphed, clearly displeased at having the punchline spoiled.

“You don’t know that it was the same ass,” Jon Arryn said.

“You were driving! You didn’t see it! I— seven hells, why are there two of them?” Hoster abruptly trailed off, having noticed for the first time that there were now two high chairs at the table, and two black haired little boys blinking at him.

“This is Jon, Daddy,” Catelyn said brightly as if the situation were perfectly normal. “Lyanna’s son.”

“I was not aware that Lyanna was er, married,” Hoster’s brow knitted as he shot a look at Rickard.

“She isn’t,” the Stark patriarch said stiffly, the first words he’d spoken in some time.

“This fucking generation,” Hoster glowered at all of them.

“Do you have something to say about my daughter?” Rickard growled, and Catelyn felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Even Benjen stopped snickering.

“I was thinking of getting the eggs Benedict!” Lysa blurted and Catelyn shot her a grateful look.

“That’s my favorite too!” Jon Arryn beamed at her.

“I’ll get the trout I suppose, although I doubt it’ll be anywhere NEAR as big as the one I caught up river from here...” Edmure launched into one of his fly fishing stories.

Catelyn allowed her shoulders to drop ever so slightly as the conversation merrily spun away from anything remotely resembling controversy.

The food came, and Catelyn busied herself getting the children set up for their own meal. Jon had his cousin’s appetite, she thought ruefully. Thank goodness she’d brought extra formula.

Hoster Tully had even commented approvingly on how well-behaved Robb had been all weekend (as if he hadn’t ditched him with his brother to play golf yesterday) when disaster struck.

There was a chime of a text from a phone. Hoster’s phone.

Her father reached for it.

“There‘s no cell phone usage allowed here,” Jon Arryn tried, but like a slow motion train wreck, Hoster waved him off and touched the screen.

“Why it’s Petyr Baelish,” Hoster frowned. “What on earth is he doing texting me?”

“Don’t Daddy—“ Lysa began as Catelyn stood, wondering frantically if she could get across the room to slap it out of his hand.

“Tell me Eddard,” Hoster said, and his voice matched Rickard’s earlier growl in intensity though it was louder. “Why did I just get a text saying that Jon is your son?”

“Don’t listen to Petyr!” Lysa protested. “He’s just mad because I told him we through yesterday because I’m dating Jon!”

“Excuse me?” Hoster said slowly.

“I was, um, going to mention that at some point,” Jon Arryn scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

“You’re dating my daughter?!” Hoster sputtered, turning on him. Jon held his hands up.

“I admit this is poor timing, but that’s why I was going to wait to tell you! I didn’t think you’d be upset, only a month ago you were trying to set me up!”

“With Cat! I was trying to set you up WITH CAT!”

“Are you saying you were trying to undermine my son’s marriage?!” Rickard stood up. “I’ve put up with a lot of shit from you Hoster, but this is one step too far!”

“FIRST,” Hoster wheeled on Rickard, “forgive me for thinking your Cat could do better. Your son is an ambitionless hack who cheats on her! And SECOND,” he turned back to Jon before a Rickard could respond, “I wasn’t trying to set you up Lysa because she has her whole life ahead of her! Cat’s the one with limited options!”

Catelyn stood up, her face burning with something close to fury.

“I believe the phrase you’re looking for is damaged goods, Daddy,” she sneered.

“That—that’s not what I meant at all,” her father backpedaled.

“Isn’t it? Because you’ve taken every opportunity I’ve given you to bury the hatchet and twisted in and tried to undermine my marriage. MY FAMILY. Well I’ve had it. I’m done. This was your last chance. So before you shit on Lysa’s life too, maybe you should consider that you’re down to your last daughter. Ned, call Robert and have him pick us up. We’re leaving.”

“Um I don’t know that—“

“NOW!”

“Right, calling Robert,” Ned blurted, almost dropping his phone when he realized it didn’t work.

“Here,” Jon Arryn sighed and handed him his own.

“And for the fucking record,” Catelyn snarled at her father, “Ned had never cheated on me in his life.”

“Hi Robert, sorry to wake you up,” Ned said on the phone. “Can you pick me and Cat and the kids up? Like right now?”

“Catelyn, this is highly unnecessary,” Hoster blustered. Ned shot a hopeful look at Cat.

“It is in fact necessary. Some might say it is long overdue,” Catelyn said tightly as she loaded up Robb’s things.

“You belong with us! Not with this... this... pack of wolves!”

Hoster Tully might have said more, but that was when Rickard Stark punched him in the face.

When Robert pulled up to meet them some fifteen minutes later, Ned and Catelyn were waiting for him in the driveway to the restaurant, each with a dark haired boy in their arms.

“That was fast,” Ned commented. Robert shrugged.

“I just pulled over down the road to take a nap before I drove back to Oldtown. I take it brunch went... less than swimmingly?”

“Please take us to the airport, Robert,” Catelyn said curtly as she buckled little Jon into his car seat. “I have purchased us tickets on the first flight back to Winterfell.”

“Ouch,” Robert winced.

“Indeed,” Catelyn growled.

“Catelyn, can you hurry up?” Ned asked, already done with Robb. “We need to get out of here before...”

“Cat! WAIT!” A much worse for the wear Hoster staggered out of the restaurant. And then he froze.

“That’s the car!”

“Oh no,” Ned breathed, as Catelyn finished her work and shut the car door after her.

“Shit get in Ned,” Robert slid down in his seat, trying to evade Hoster Tully’s glare.

“THAT’S THE CAR THAT MOONED ME!”

“Gas Robert!” Ned slammed his own door.

Robert frantically slammed his foot down, and the car lurched in reverse across the parking lot.

“IF YOU CRASH THIS CAR WITH THESE CHILDREN IN IT I WILL KILL YOU!” Catelyn threw her arms protectively across both of them.

Across the parking lot, Hoster roared and began to charge.

“HE’S CHASING US!” Ned shouted. “GO GO GO!”

Robert frantically changed gears, and then they surged forward and out toward the exit, missing Hoster Tully’s outstretched arms by inches.

“BLINKER!”

“GO!”

“MIXED MESSAGES!”

The car swung out on to the empty road and then there was a moment of silence as the car sped away and they all simultaneously exhaled.

Catelyn cautiously looked over her shoulder.

“Have we lost him?” Robert asked.

“He’s gone,” Catelyn confirmed, checking that both boys were still buckled in. They were smiling, completely placidly, as if high pressure escapes from her father were all great fun.

“To the airport,” Robert shouted cheerfully and Ned cheered. Catelyn allowed a smile to cross her face.

“It’s over,” she said, feeling as if she’d run a marathon. “Finally, we can go home.”

“Well for two weeks,” Robert added. Catelyn’s eyes opened.

“Two weeks?” She repeated slowly.

“You’re coming back down for the wedding!”

Right. The wedding.

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding (Chs 34-36)

Brienne (Vice and Wish 3 of 12)

Brienne tried to take a deep breath as the spa attendant applied the mud mask, and lightly placed slices of cucumbers over her eyes. Her body was tightly bound in some kind of aluminum cocoon that was moisturizing her body while keeping it very warm.

So far so good right? She’d made the executive decision that they didn’t need a three day weekend together. She had booked them all a night at a five star spa resort on the Island of Faces that Vogue had called ‘a transcendent experience elevating the soul through purifying the body.’ 

Everybody had met up Saturday morning, they’d had a full day of waxing and manicures and pedicures and highlights and haircuts and eyebrow threading and body buffing. They’d had a classy dinner from the tasting menu, where everything came in spoon sized portions. And then they’d retired early because Brienne had scheduled them for all of the pampering treatments on Sunday.

She was trying to keep things low-key, because Cersei couldn’t drink, but she was prepared to concede that this hen party might be a bit duller than they tended to be portrayed on screen. Really, it was just as well that they’d had the massages this morning, because Brienne needed something to eradicate her building stress. She was tired, she was hungry, Cersei was clearly both as well and being unbearable, and Brienne knew it had only been a day but she missed Jaime. How many more weeks until this wedding? She was nearing the end of her rope.

Worse, the maid of honor’s dress had come. Cersei had insisted on ordering it a size smaller than Brienne actually was—proper motivation to stick with her diet—and it was still too tight. She had managed to get into it with great effort, but was keenly aware that if she so much as sneezed, seams would split.

“Psssst,” the voice whispered. 

Brienne tried not to frown, for she did not wish to crack her mud mask and make more work for her attendant.

There was a light touch, and then one of the cucumbers over her eyes disappeared. Melisandre stood over her, smirking. As Brienne tried not to raise her eyebrows, Melisandre popped the slice of cucumber in her mouth and crunched down.

“If I don’t get some real food in the next hour, I will be forced to resort to cannibalism,” Melisandre stated, matter of factly. “Are you in?”

“Mel, I really can’t,” Brienne tried to explain without moving her lips.

Melisandre rolled her eyes and ate her other cucumber slice.

“Why not?”

“I won’t fit into my dress,” Brienne tried to explain. “It came earlier this week and I can barely breathe in it.”

“I’ll let out some fabric for you. These dresses are designed to be fitted, I promise,” Melisandre sighed. “Believe it or not, I’m pretty good with a needle.”

Brienne hesitated. She knew it wasn’t the right thing to do but...

“Nobody will ever know,” Melisandre smirked, her voice tantalizingly confident.

Brienne bit her lip, and the movement inadvertently caused her mask to crack. Well now you’ve done it, she scolded herself. The attendant will have to redo the whole thing, at which point you may as well get up and stretch your legs.

She emerged from her aluminum cocoon, less like the promised rebirth of a Phoenix from the ashes, and more with a great deal of mud and crinkling.

“Why Miss Tarth, you’re beautiful,” Melisandre drawled, and Brienne flicked some mud at her. 

A quick dip into one of the plunge pools later, Brienne was making a break for freedom in cloth sandals and a fuzzy bathrobe.

“What’s the plan?” Brienne asked Melisandre as they furtively skirted the compound, looking for a way back to the main hotel.

“Well I’m not talking raiding the mini-bar. We are well past cashews. I want a slice of pizza from the greasiest dive I can find, or maybe a burrito from a food truck that smells like chorizo,” Melisandre had to wipe a strand of drool from her face.

“Wait,” Brienne froze, and Melisandre smacked into the back of her. “They collected our key cards at the front desk! We’re locked out from our rooms!”

“I have not come this far to be stopped because I didn’t have anything to wear,” Melisandre lifted her chin haughtily, gathered up her bathrobe, and continued on. Brienne gulped and followed.

It was always so easy for Melisandre, who simply floated over to one of the grounds-crew, wearing her robes like they were, well robes, and not a bathrobe, and demanded to be escorted to town. Brienne hovered behind, as Melisandre commandeered a golf cart, feeling a bit like an escapee from an asylum.

All the same, she wasn’t complaining, as the security gates slid open for their break to freedom. The half of the island that was not dedicated to the resort was mostly inhabited by locals who survived on the tourist day trade. Melisandre pushed the accelerator to the floor as she drove them toward town, and the speedometer crept from fifteen to perhaps seventeen miles per hour.

Brienne felt the breeze from the lake, and looked at the faces carved into all of the trees. Don’t judge me! She wanted to cry. You don’t know what I’ve been through!

Upon reaching town, there was a brief discussion of where to go.

“Oh look,” Melisandre grinned, slowing to a halt in front of a thrift store. “Bridesmaids dresses! Still time to ditch your dress entirely!”

“I probably wouldn’t fit into those either,” Brienne said glumly.

“Lame,” Melisandre rolled her eyes. Fortunately she was too hungry to press the matter further. Ten minutes later, they were sitting across from each other in the darkest booth they could find in the grottiest pub they could find—Cersei would never look for them here—as Melisandre dug into a four cheese macaroni with bacon bits and Brienne tried to eye her burger without drooling.

She felt less guilty than she thought she would, all things considered. Brienne reflected, as she wiped a smudge of ketchup from her face, that this might give her the fortitude to survive this afternoon mostly in once piece.

“Only seven hours until checkout,” Melisandre sighed contentedly. “What do we have to be back in time for?”

“We’re meeting the other girls at the hot springs,” Brienne checked the calendar on her phone. “I thought we could talk and play some bachelorette games this afternoon.”

“Bachelorette games? With Cersei?” Melisandre sounded dubious. Brienne flushed.

“Well it is a hen party! I looked a bunch up online, some of them seemed rather cute.”

“If you say so,” Melisandre wrinkled her nose. “Excuse me? I’d like an order of the fried jalapeño poppers to go?”

“The thing is,” Melisandre said around a mouthful of jalapeño popper, as they drove the golf cart back to the resort, “it’s Cersei.”

“I’m aware of that,” Brienne rolled her eyes.

“And there’s no alcohol.”

“I am deeply aware of that.”

“Half of those silly games are only funny when everyone is hammered.”

“But it’s a hen party! We can’t just avoid each other and get spa treatments all weekend!”

“Fine,” Melisandre’s lips pursed in a moue of disapproval. Or maybe it was just the jalapeño popper. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Melisandre could be a little doom and gloom, Brienne consoled herself. There was no reason to think that things wouldn’t work out. Sure enough, they got to the grove where the hot springs were, to discover that only Catelyn Tully had gotten there first.

“Hi Catelyn,” Brienne waved. 

“Hi,” Catelyn replied tonelessly. Brienne and Melisandre exchanged a glance. Catelyn had been quite worked up over the situation with her father and Ned. And Brienne felt for her, truly. It was just she had been somewhat counting on Catelyn being somebody she could lean on this weekend, a pillar of good cheer and rationality to counterbalance Cersei. And well, it hadn’t worked out like that.

Catelyn heaved a wistful sigh and sank under the water entirely. There were only a few bubbles from where she sat at the bottom.

“Should I?” Melisandre started.

“I’m sure she’s just um meditating,” Brienne said. “The Tullys are all very good swimmers.”

The bubbles stopped. 

They both peered down into the water.

“On the other hand,” Brienne wrung her hands.

“On it,” Melisandre plunged into the water, hauling Catelyn up by her hair.

“He punched him in the face!” Catelyn said mournfully, by way of explanation.

They were saved by the sounds of Cersei and Lysa coming up the path.

“I feel the most deliciously dizzy, don’t you all?” Cersei beamed at them. 

“I think that’s the lack of caloric intake,” Melisandre snarked.

“So delicious!” Lysa agreed quickly.

“You know what they say—nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” Cersei shed her bathrobe and joined them. “You’ll get there eventually Brienne.”

Brienne tried to smile, and wondered if Cersei could see her little food-baby under the water. Hastily she crossed her arms.

“So we still have all day to kill before checkout,” Lysa chirped. “What should do?”

“Well,” Brienne said, stoically avoiding eye contact with Melisandre, “I thought we could play some bachelorette games in honor of the big day!”

“Oh fun!” Lysa clapped her hands.

Catelyn sighed and started to slip under the water again before Melisandre grabbed her.

“...games?” Cersei asked uncertainly. She did not seem familiar with the concept.

“Well okay, here’s a classic one. And you don’t even need to drink,” Brienne tried to explain. “I have here a box of chewing gum. I asked Robert twenty questions about your relationship. I’ll read you the question, and you have to guess his answer. If you get it wrong, you have to put a stick of chewing gum in your mouth. The more you get wrong, the more chewing gum is stuck in your mouth and you get all drool-y. It’s fun!”

“It sounds like public humiliation,” Cersei said.

“Well it’s just us bridesmaids, nobody will tell,” Brienne frowned.

“Well what if I get a question right? Do all of you take a piece of chewing gum?”

“I mean, I guess we could,” Brienne said uncertainly.

“Very well, you may begin,” Cersei said briskly. 

“Um where was your first date?”

“It was Sadie Hawkins of my junior year, but Robert will say it was the King’s Landing Dragons game he took me to that December.”

“Uh right,” Brienne glanced at the card in her hand, with Robert’s strangely childish handwriting. “Dragons v. Suns game.”

“You may each take your bubblegum now,” Cersei waved a hand imperiously. Brienne winced as Lysa and Melisandre favored her with decidedly annoyed looks.

“Okay,” Brienne said as she chewed, trying to find a harder one. “What is his favorite sex position.”

“Cowgirl,” Cersei replied promptly. “He’s so LAZY!”

A coincidence! Cersei and Robert had never seemed that in tune with one another, Brienne though as she passed around the gum once more. Surely it was just a matter of finding the right question?

Many, many sticks of chewing gum later...

“Wash ish hith pet peef ooooh do?” Brienne tried to read, swabbing at the saliva leaking from her mouth in vain.

“Oh give it here,” Cersei plucked the question card from her hand. “What is his pet peeve that I do?”

“Eee ettah get ith wrong!” Melisandre glared from behind her own wad of gum.

“Whah?” Brienne frowned, trying to make out the words.

“I ed eee ettah get ith wrong!” 

“Nothing,” Cersei replied, previously furrowed brow abruptly clearing. “He loves everything I do!”

“Ahah!” Brienne pointed. “No! Ith all-ays eeing on or phone!”

“What?” Cersei snapped. “Are you sure?”

Brienne looked down at the card.

Always being on her phone. Lolz jk! I love everything she does <3

Brienne looked guiltily up at a fuming Melisandre and Lysa. Even Catelyn had woken from her catatonic state to look a little put out.

“Tho Therthee winth,” Brienne spat out the enormous disgusting lump of bubblegum. 

“I love games!” Cersei clapped her hands enthusiastically. Everybody else scowled at Brienne.

“What’s next?” Cersei asked brightly.

Brienne swallowed. She had planned for their next game to be a zucchini-carving contest with the winner producing the most lifelike penis. But somehow, giving knives to the other girls at this exact moment seemed ill-advised.

She frantically consulted the Pinterest page on her phone.

“Well that’s a drinking game,” she mumbled as she looked at the next option. “... and so is that. Um that’s an icebreaker when people don’t know each other... that’s another drinking game.”

She looked up guiltily.

“Maybe we just talk for a little bit?”

Cersei’s expression had soured.

“Sooo,” Brienne looked around the circle frantically... “Lysa! What have you been up to?”

“Well,” Lysa’s rather pale blue eyes lit up and she preened, not accustomed to being the center of attention. “I’m finding myself in the middle of a love triangle!”

“Oh?” Brienne said politely.

“Well you see, my high school boyfriend Petyr and I have been together for years and years! Seven years actually. And three months and six days. And I always thought he was the love of my life! But what if he isn’t? You see, there’s been some... fidelity issues. It’s not his fault exactly, he just has some needs that are a little outside my personal comfort zone. If I were better at satisfying him, he wouldn’t have to look elsewhere! So I’ve tried to be patient, but it feels like it’s getting worse, not better. And he’s so wrapped up in his stupid photography thing and never has any time for me!” Lysa pouted.

“Then on our family trip, I met the most marvelous older man. He’s sophisticated and charming and so well read! He’s very kind and always interested in what I have to say. And I always thought Petyr was the love of my life, but now I’m wondering if I wouldn’t be better off taking a chance on this other guy!”

“It’s Mr. Arryn from senior English,” Catelyn said flatly from her corner of the hot springs. 

“Wait, Jon Arryn?” Cersei sat up. “He gave me an A Minus on my Tale of King’s Landing and Lys! An A MINUS!”

“But seducing your high school teacher? I love it!” Melisandre grinned. “Lysa, you have hidden depths!”

“I just don’t know who to choose,” Lysa beamed, a mixture of emboldened and abashed by the sudden surge of interest in her life.

“It doesn’t matter,” Catelyn said glumly. “They’ll only disappoint you.”

“I’m sure they are both equally good options,” Brienne jumped in, anxious not to let Catelyn bring the mood down. Personally, she did think it was kind of weird to date your former high school teacher, and she did not have fond memories of Petyr Baelish.

“There is no such thing as equally good options,” Cersei stated matter of factly. “Only whether or not you can figure out which one is better.”

“But I have to figure out who to ask to Daddy’s brunch tomorrow,” Lysa fretted. “I can’t possibly figure it out in one afternoon.”

“Well who is the sex better with?” Melisandre asked matter of factly.

“I haven’t had sex with Jon yet, he wants to wait until we’re exclusive,” Lysa blushed. “But Petyr... he does this thing with his tongue and his fingers that—“ she leaned over to whisper something in Melisandre’s ear. Brienne was relieved. She didn’t really need to hear what Petyr Baelish did with his tongue or his fingers.

“So Petyr gets the nod there,” Melisandre said slowly. 

“But like, Jon says the nicest things! Look at this text he sent me!”

I woke up this morning thinking of you—you must have been in my dreams. Regardless, you are in my heart.

“That’s so romantic!” Brienne blurted, touched by the sweetness.

“I don’t think Stannis has sent me a text like that ever,” Melisandre agreed.

“But that doesn’t help me pick!”

“These are basically the different love languages,” Cersei said thoughtfully. “Physical touch and words of affirmation. Who buys you better presents?”

“What?” Lysa frowned.

“Well you have the other three left. Receiving gifts, acts of service and quality time. Whomever is better in more of the love languages. That’s your answer as to who the better fit is,” Cersei explained.

“I don’t know if I can compare them—especially since I haven’t spent as much time with Jon,” Lysa chewed her lip uncertainly. “I definitely couldn’t figure out the answer by tonight when I have to invite one of them.”

“Unless you set up a series of tests for them this afternoon,” Cersei offered, sounding far too intrigued for Brienne’s comfort.

“Texts?”

“A competition! Tell them you’re dying to see them and that they have to bring you a present!”

“A competition?”

“Wait, I don’t know that this is such a good idea...” Brienne had a distinct sensation that things were spiraling out of control.

“It’s like a bachelorette game!” Cersei beamed at her. 

Brienne gave a pleading look at Melisandre.

“It’s not really a bachelorette game,” Melisandre interjected smoothly. Thank you gods. “...unless we all bet on the outcome.”

What.

“What did you have in mind? I’m afraid you girls have used up most of the chewing gum.” Cersei smiled, showing a few too many teeth.

“Whomever loses has to take the winners out to a place of the winners’ choosing...”

Cersei frowned, not terribly excited at the prospect of allowing her little chicks to eat.

“...wearing an outfit of the winners’ choosing,” Melisandre finished, crossing her arms.

“Deal,” Cersei announced promptly. “I pick Petyr.”

“Jon Arryn,” Melisandre smirked.

“It doesn’t matter. Our father will just drive him away,” Catelyn said apathetically. Cersei and Melisandre glared. “...Petyr,” Catelyn sighed.

“I don’t know that we should be turning Lysa’s love life into some kind of game show!” Brienne protested.

“Oh I don’t mind,” Lysa said brightly.

“Unless you wanted to keep going with the bubble gum game? You skipped a couple of the questions, I noticed,” Cersei responded pointedly.

Melisandre arched an eyebrow.

“I take Jon Arryn too,” Brienne caved. It was just such a lovely text.

“Perfect. Now here’s what I’m thinking for Round One,” Cersei leaned forward, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. And against her better judgment, Brienne leaned in as well.

Melisandre (Vice and Wish 6 of 12)

It wasn’t that Melisandre hated Cersei per se, although she was fast approaching her very last nerve. It wasn’t that Melisandre hated hen parties—oh wait, she did. She hated them just as much as she hated every stupid asinine forced tradition surrounding weddings, up to and including weddings themselves.

But Lord of Light, if anybody deserved to feel what it was like to lose... 

Lysa Tully would pick Jon Arryn if she had to be dragged kicking and screaming every step of the way. 

It wouldn’t come to that though, Melisandre told herself firmly. Petyr Baelish was a weaselly creep who was using Lysa for her social connections and would absolutely dump her the moment a more advantageous opportunity presented itself. He cheated on her, belittled her, and wouldn’t know love languages if the book hit him in the head. 

Jon Arryn might not be age appropriate, but he was a kind sweet man who seemed to genuinely like Lysa for who she was. As far as Melisandre was concerned, this game was in the bag. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to take precautions.

“I think we should all trade phones,” Melisandre said sweetly. “That way nobody can ruin the game by cheating.”

“Such a good idea,” Cersei gave her a patronizing smile. “You can take mine.”

So Cersei and Melisandre swapped and Brienne and Catelyn swapped, and then they put their heads together to craft the appropriate text that Lysa Tully would send to each man.

“Petyr was going to pick me up anyway, so that’ll be easy. I’ll just tell him we’re wrapping up and can he come early. And that it’s our seven year anniversary so he better surprise me,” Lysa added.

“Won’t he know it’s not?” Brienne asked doubtfully. 

Lysa rolled her eyes. 

“Hardly, most years he forgets. What do I say to Jon though? We’ve only been on a few proper dates.”

“If he’s as thoughtful as you think, you probably don’t need to say anything,” Cersei chipped in.

“You’re saying something,” Melisandre interjected, glaring. “It’s not fair to say something to Petyr and not to Jon.”

“How about ‘Having a disaster of a weekend, can you please pick me up? Bonus points if you can think of something to cheer me up.’”

“That’s still not the equivalent of an anniversary,” Melisandre protested. 

“Well if you have an alternative suggestion, I’m all ears,” Cersei arched her eyebrow.

“My ride fell through and everybody’s forgotten it’s my birthday. What a disaster of a weekend, can you please pick me up?” Melisandre recited flatly.

“Ooooh,” Lysa began typing.

“Not bad,” Cersei conceded grudgingly.

“I still think this is silly,” Brienne put in. “An artificial demand that each of these people find you a gift in thirty minutes as they’re driving to pick you up doesn’t tell you anything about them.”

There was a ding of a text.

“Jon’s on his way!” Lysa announced brightly. 

“So he’s a fast responder than Petyr. Interesting,” Melisandre couldn’t help noting.

There was a pause as they stared at Lysa’s cell phone for Petyr’s text. Nothing happened. Maybe she would just win by default? 

“If you’ll excuse me girls, I need to use the ladies’ room,” Cersei reached for her robe.

Melisandre promptly pulled herself out of the hot spring pool as well.

“We can go together,” she said. That was something girls did wasn’t it? She didn’t have many female friends. Regardless, she wasn’t giving Cersei an opportunity to wander off and find a pay phone.

“Of course,” Cersei dipped her head.

“But...” Brienne blurted, glancing at Catelyn, who had not said a word in twenty minutes, and then back at Melisandre.

“She’s fine, aren’t you Catelyn?” Melisandre said soothingly.

“I’m creating a mental flow chart for brunch tomorrow, gaming scenarios that might go wrong, and coming up with back up plans for each,” Catelyn answered absently.

“See? She’s doing... that,” Melisandre waved a hand. “Totally fine.”

She hurried after Cersei, who had not bothered to wait for her.

“Oh there you are!” She feigned enthusiasm, grabbing her arm. “Such a fun weekend, right?!”

“Simply marvelous,” Cersei smiled back, and was it Melisandre’s imagination, or did it look a little strained?

“The ladies’ room is the other way,” Melisandre gently turned her in the right direction.

“So easy to get turned around in these woods,” Cersei shook her head, and Melisandre definitely saw her eye twitch.

Once they were in the bathroom, Cersei cleared her throat.

“You don’t mind waiting outside do you? I have a shy bladder.”

“Take your time, no rush,” Melisandre said cheerfully as she breezed past into the next stall.

She was wondering if they really would be here until Cersei actually had to use the restroom, but fortunately there was the telltale tinkle after not too many minutes.

“You don’t mind if we stop by our suite, do you? I’m sure the girls would prefer some clothes besides these bathrobes,” Cersei suggested.

“Actually that’s a good idea,” Melisandre admitted. Certainly she wanted Lysa dressed to impress.

Under close supervision, Cersei found some outfits for everybody. (One thing Melisandre had to admit—Cersei had good taste in clothing. And like Melisandre, she subscribed to the ‘if you’ve got it, flaunt it’ style.)

This momentary charitable impulse toward Cersei dissipated promptly upon returning to the hot springs, where Brienne, Catelyn, and Lysa were still lounging. Well Brienne and Lysa were lounging. Catelyn was sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and staring into space.

“Petyr responded! He apologized for the delay, he was busy at the jeweler��s shopping for my anniversary gift,” Lysa beamed.

Melisandre shot a look at Cersei who seemed innocently pleased with the outcome.

“That’s clearly a lie, because it’s not actually your anniversary,” Melisandre pointed out rather testily. Something was clearly fishy. Somehow Cersei had forewarned him. 

“An important attribute in any partner is a willingness to blindly agree with you,” Cersei countered.

“Well it certainly explains your choices,” Melisandre muttered under her breath.

“I didn’t catch that?”

“Just something in my throat,” Melisandre growled.

“Okay, Jon’s getting here at three. I’ll greet him, then ask him to bring the car around. Petyr will get here at 3:30. So we’ll be done with the first test by four,” Lysa said happily.

“Excellent,” Cersei nodded. “For quality time, you can tell Jon that you’ve changed your mind and want to do a walking tour of the forest before you leave. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Petyr about outstanding wedding issues—“ 

“Which Brienne will be present for,” Melisandre added.

“—and then you can tell Jon you need to pack and we’ll keep him occupied while you tell Petyr you want to take a boat out on the lake before you go,” Cersei finished.

“What about acts of service?” Lysa asked, hanging on to Cersei’s every word.

“That’s just a tie-breaker. I don’t really think it’ll come to that,” Cersei said airily.

Melisandre glowered. Thought she had it in the bag did she?

The next hour was a flurry of changing, scoping out the best places to meet Jon Arryn and Petyr, and fussing over Lysa. They brushed her dark auburn hair until it positively shone, and Cersei worked some makeup magic that made her normally pale blue eyes glow. 

“Don’t seem too impressed with either of them. Make them work for it,” Cersei lectured her. 

“I don’t think you should be unkind,” Brienne frowned.

“Just be confident,” Melisandre assured her.

Catelyn only sighed and came out of her shell enough to hug her little sister.

“Either one would be so lucky,” she told Lysa. “But this is silly and if you’re upset with Petyr, you should really talk to him instead of playing him against your high school Lit teacher in some kind of secret game show.”

Poor thing was just so undone by the Ned situation. 

“Do you want to know who to invite to brunch tomorrow or not?” Cersei pressed, and Lysa slipped from Catelyn’s hug, eyes wide.

Jon Arryn arrived ten minutes early in his sensible sedan. A little beaten up, but it got good gas mileage and as far as Melisandre could tell when it was her turn with the binoculars, very clean inside. 

“Why do you have these?” Brienne asked Cersei when Melisandre handed them over for her turn.

“A lady should always have a pair of good binoculars in her purse,” Cersei said absently, as she adjusted the focus. “He kissed her on the cheek. What’s she saying? Is she pointing at us?!”

Catelyn turned up the volume on her cell phone, which was in minute five of a telephone call to Lysa, who had her phone on speaker in her pocket to catch conversation.

“Our suite was up there, it had the most marvelous balconies,” Lysa was saying. The girls, huddled on their balcony, crouched lower.

“Well I’m glad you were able to enjoy something—I was so surprised to hear about everyone forgetting your birthday, that doesn’t seem like Catelyn at all!” Jon Arryn put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

“Oh, ha, she’s just been so caught up in the drama with Ned and Daddy,” Lysa covered quickly.

“But the other three? You can’t tell me Cersei doesn’t have a master spreadsheet of every friend’s birthday and an automated text program to send out personalized well wishes,” Jon Arryn laughed.

“I do have that,” Cersei mentioned to the other three.

“Well... I just really keep my birthday under wraps! I don’t like to make a fuss,” Lysa twisted for a second. “Why, I bet you didn’t even know it was my birthday!”

Oh well played.

“You caught me,” Jon admitted. “I’m so sorry, I would have planned something more elaborate if I’d known in advance.”

“I guess you didn’t get me anything then?” Lysa bit her lip. Melisandre realized she was biting her own as well. Cersei looked smug.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Jon Arryn said, a little mischievously.  He reached into the car and pulled out a small wrapped package.

“I bought this in the Summer Islands, I keep waiting for the right moment to give it to you. At first I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, if you felt what I felt, and then the last two weeks have been such a whirlwind...” Jon Arryn was blabbering on a bit, but Melisandre could tell he was nervous. It was cute!

Lysa opened the package, and under the pretext of holding it to the light, turned the box towards the girls on the balcony.

It was a hair pin in the shape of a dragonfly, the wings a shimmering iridescent that had to be turquoise.

“Oh it’s beautiful!” Lysa exclaimed, her finger gently tracing the delicate craftsmanship.

“It was the blue I noticed at first, because it reminded me of your eyes,” Jon Arryn was saying. “But then I realized it was in the shape of a dragonfly and how appropriate that was.”

“A dragonfly?”

“You’re my princess of dragonflies, like the old legend. The beautiful sweet and mysterious girl who showed up and bewitched the Targaryen prince. And he ran away with her and left everything behind,” Jon said shyly. “I thought at forty-five, I knew the arc my life was taking. Rowena and I never could have children, but we built our own kind of family, and after she died, I never felt the need to go out and try again. Put myself through the whole rigamarole of dating. I was happy with what I had. My friends, my hobbies, my job. And then you showed up and everything changed.”

Lord of Light, Melisandre had had no idea. She had liked him as a teacher sure, but she’d found him overly attached to the old Westerosi canon of Great Works. In Great Works, the women were always in distress, which Melisandre had found rather tiresome and dull. But clearly he was just an old-fashioned romantic, lonely and pining for some girl to sweep off her feet. It was adorable!

“Lysa would be lucky to resell that for a couple hundred dragons on the secondhand market,” Cersei sniffed. 

“Would you do me the honor of letting me pin it in your hair?” Jon Arryn asked. And Lysa giggled and nodded, and as he fastened it, the light caught the turquoise and in that moment, Lysa, who Melisandre had always thought of as a poor man’s version of her prettier smarter more vivacious sister, fairly sparkled.

Melisandre arched an eyebrow at Cersei. Cersei rolled her eyes.

“Where is Petyr, anyway, he should be due shortly,” Cersei sniffed. “Do I have your permission to use your phone to make sure he knows where to pick Lysa up? You will of course be able to read the texts.”

Petyr, it turned out, had gone to the hotel side and not the spa side, so Cersei walked around to meet him, Melisandre stoically following after.

“Petyr darling!” Cersei swept the weedy fellow into a hug. He was wearing a suit, which was inherently suspicious.

“Is Lysa ready?” Petyr asked. He gave a slick smile. “It’s our anniversary after all.”

Melisandre tried her best not to scowl. If anything this was proof that she had backed the right horse.

“Lysa’s actually over this way,” she said, and escorted him around the back, even as a surreptitious glance at her phone confirmed that Brienne and Catelyn were taking Jon Arryn around the front.

“Babe!” Petyr broke into a light jog when he saw Lysa, sweeping her up and spinning her before he set her down again with a lingering kiss. Melisandre personally thought it was a little tacky to grab your girlfriend’s ass in public, but Lysa just laughed.

“I’ve been missing you,” Petyr brushed a strand of hair out of her face, frowning briefly as he noted the hair clip.

“But you haven’t been responding to any of my texts all weekend,” Lysa pouted.

“Work, no rest for the wicked I’m afraid,” Petyr sighed. “But I brought something to make up for it!”

“Oh?” Lysa tilted her head, curiosity sparked.

“Close your eyes,” Petyr smirked. Lysa’s lashes obediently fluttered shut.

He pulled two large emerald pendant earrings from his pocket, carefully clipping each one to her ears.

Melisandre goggled. They were huge! There was no way that Petyr Baelish, a fellow scholarship kid from Prep, had managed to afford those. Even if Cersei had warned him, there was JUST. NO. WAY.

“Open,” Petyr commanded, and Lysa opened her eyes. 

“Earrings?? They’re heavy, let me see!”

“Of course, smile—“ Petyr pulled her into a one armed hug and took a selfie of the two of them. “What do you think?”

“Gods,” Lysa breathed. “They’re absolutely gorgeous!! How on earth did you afford them?!”

“Selling some photos. That’s what’s kept me busy all weekend sweetling,” Petyr have her a saccharine smile. “They match your eyes.”

Melisandre ground her teeth. Lysa’s eyes were blue! 

“They look just like the earrings that Cersei wore in her interview in Yes! last month,” Lysa beamed, looking at Cersei for approval. “Don’t they just?”

“Not exactly,” Cersei laughed as Melisandre slowly turned toward her with an icy glare. “Mine were actually the pair worn by the famous Lysene actress Johanna Swann in The Stepstones Saga. They are one of a kind and I really wouldn’t part from them for any extended period of time.” This last part was said with slightly narrowed eyes at Petyr.

“Of course, mine were designed by a jeweler who specializes in reproduction. Give him a week’s time, and almost nobody would notice the difference,” Petyr nodded back at Cersei. Was Melisandre seriously the only person picking this up?! She turned around for Brienne and Catelyn’s acknowledgement, only to remember that they were last seen escorting Jon Arryn in the opposite direction.

“Petyr, can you give us a minute?” Melisandre tilted her head. “We need to speak briefly with Lysa and then I believe Cersei had some wedding issues she wanted to go over with you.”

“Of course ladies,” Petyr gave a bow that had Lysa tittering and Melisandre rolling her eyes.

“I think Petyr wins this round,” Lysa said as soon as he was out of earshot, touching the earrings dreamily. “I’ve never gotten a gift this nice.”

“Jon Arryn’s gift was thoughtful and sweet and he actually knows what color your eyes are,” Melisandre growled. “Petyr obviously regifted some of Cersei’s earrings.”

“How on earth would he have done that?” Cersei smiled at her bemusedly. “You’ve been with me the entire time.”

“I. DON’T. KNOW,” Melisandre bit out.

“Poor dear just doesn’t like losing,” Cersei said in a stage whisper to Lysa who pulled a sympathetic face. Melisandre seethed.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to take a walk and clear my head,” Melisandre said tightly.

“I thought you wanted to be present for any discussions I had with Petyr,” Cersei replied coyly.

“Clearly you have already managed to convey everything you need to,” Melisandre said haughtily, and swept out. 

So Cersei wanted to play it like this did she? Melisandre absently began walking toward the boathouse on the edge of the lake. Cersei wasn’t the only person who knew a little something about ruining people’s day.

An hour later, Melisandre finished washing the engine grease off her hands and found Brienne and Catelyn in the library of the hotel listening to Catelyn’s phone.

“Oh look at all the funny faces these trees have!” Lysa was saying tinnily from the speaker.

“These carvings are said to pre-date the arrival of Andals in Westeros. The First Men worshipped the weirwoods as gods,” Jon explained. “This is one of the best preserved historical sites in the country and I’ve always wanted to visit. Look at you Lysa, making my dreams come true.”

“So it sounds like it’s going well?” Melisandre asked.

“He’s such a dear. I would have never guessed from senior lit, that class could be so boring!” Brienne admitted.

“What if the reason Ned isn’t responding to my texts is because he’s not coming?” Catelyn suddenly asked. “Like this whole time I’ve been planning out doomsday brunch scenarios, I’ve forgotten the most obvious problem. What will I do if he’s decided to hell with my family and to hell with m-me?!”

“You know that Ned worships the ground you walk on,” Brienne said immediately.  “He would never do anything to hurt you. You have a family together! His phone battery is just dead, you’ll see.”

“That’s right,” Melisandre agreed. Granted she hadn’t been spending all summer with him like Brienne had, but from Stannis’ occasional off-hand comments, Ned seemed like one of the good ones. “There is such thing as overthinking a problem, you know? Distract yourself,” she eyed the cell phone meaningfully.

“You’re right, I know you’re right,” Catelyn massaged her temples. “And I know the two of you don’t think much of Petyr, but we grew up together. And at least he’s Lysa’s AGE! I’m not saying I love the way he treats her, but she also has literally never confronted him about anything. I just think sitting down and having a conversation about her expectations in a relationship is the healthier option here.”

Melisandre shifted uncomfortably. Gods, when did Catelyn Tully become such an adult?! Was this because she was a mom?

“Look, it’s all in good fun,” she finally allowed grudgingly. “The prize is an invitation to brunch, not Lysa’s hand in marriage.”

“You guys, they’re heading back now,” Brienne warned, still listening to the phone conversation. “We should make sure Petyr is ready to take Lysa out on the lake.”

“Say Lysa can swim right?” Melisandre asked casually.

“Like a fish,” Catelyn smiled fondly.

“How about Petyr?”

“Um not super great as I can recall.”

“Excellent,” Melisandre smiled.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason at all.”

Cersei (Vice and Wish 9 of 12)

Cersei tried to maintain a pleasant expression on her face as Jon Arryn animatedly expounded on the symbolism of the weirwood in the legends of the First Men to her and Brienne.

Honestly, she didn’t have a dog in this race. If she were Lysa, she wasn’t sure whom she’d pick. Petyr Baelish was penniless of course, and Jon Arryn might play at being a high school lit teacher, but everyone knew that the Arryns owned half of the Vale. They were one of the largest landowning families in Westeros. But money wasn’t everything. Petyr had ambition and his career would be exciting and come with power and influence. Personally, that appealed to Cersei more than being some high school teacher’s wife, no matter how loaded he was. 

But Petyr cheated on Lysa, and Cersei couldn’t imagine tolerating that kind of disrespect without eventually being driven to killing him.

But Jon Arryn had once given her an A minus on a book report on Wuthering Heights! An A MINUS!

It really was a difficult decision.

But at the end of the day, Petyr was an occasionally useful person to have around. Cersei just didn’t see how Lysa dating Jon Arryn benefited her, Cersei Lannister. And once she was committed, well Cersei Lannister had never lost in her life.

But she’d realized, the moment that Jon Arryn responded immediately and Petyr Baelish did not, that she might have her work cut out for her. The problem, at the end of the day, was that while Petyr was great at digging up dirt on people and subtly manipulating them, he was not great at being a boyfriend. If Cersei didn’t intervene, Petyr would just pretend he hadn’t seen the text, and when he finally did show up to pick Lysa up at the original time, Jon Arryn would have already walked away with the prize.

However actually warning him proved to be trickier than anticipated. Cersei had turned her phone over uncomplainingly—she was never without a burner or two in her bag—but getting away from Melisandre to actually send the text proved nigh impossible.

Finally ensconced in a bathroom stall, Cersei had been forced to pour out a small bottle of perfume into the toilet to get the desired sound effects as she quickly typed out a warning to Petyr. After that, it was a simple matter of grabbing an extra pair of earrings while she was getting everyone’s outfits sorted, and transferring them to Petyr’s pocket when she’d hugged him hello.

Now though, she’d laid all the groundwork and could relax and enjoy her victory. Petyr could easily be charming when the occasion called for it, and he had a seven year head start on Jon Arryn. A tranquil boat ride across the misty lake, some beautiful sights, some emotional reminiscing... Some of the grounds crew went running by the window, looking harried. Odd.

“In fact, the sheer wilderness of the forest, the untamed tangle of it existing nearly upon civilization, reminded me of your essay on the moors as an expression of the soul. Do you remember that Cersei? I submitted it to that national essay contest on your behalf and it won third prize!” Jon Arryn beamed at her.

“...you submitted that?” Cersei said in a strangled tone. She had never known who had sent it in, but had rather assumed it was Jaime.

“Of course! I remember writing in my comments that it was the best essay I’d read in years!”

“But you gave me an A minus!” Cersei sputtered. 

“I gave you an A plus,” Jon Arryn frowned. “I had to write a note to Aemon Targaryen explaining why the curve would be thrown off and getting special permission.”

Had Cersei misread that grade? She did recall him having atrocious handwriting... There was a low buzz of conversation as some new guests walked by the library.

“...can’t think what could have happened. Those poor people stranded!”

Cersei glanced at her watch. Lysa and Petyr should have been back half an hour ago.

“Would you just excuse me for a brief moment?” Cersei smiled sweetly, leaving Brienne to keep him entertained.

She hurried down to the docks, only to see Catelyn bundling her dripping and shivering sister into a large fluffy towel as a flustered dock manager tried to offer her hot cocoa and a discount on future trips.

“Well Jon wins quality time,” Lysa huffed, upon seeing Cersei.

“What happened?” Cersei frowned.

“Well first our engine started making a funny noise and then it died when we got out to the middle of the water! And Petyr made me swim to get help and my dress is sopping wet!” Lysa recounted dramatically, although she seemed more excited than upset. “You know Jon would have never made me swim for it. He’s a great swimmer, we saw him in the Summer Islands all the time! Or he could have fixed the engine himself. Did you know he was in the Air Force?”

As Lysa prattled, Cersei analyzed the facts at hand. There was no way that the boat had just ACCIDENTALLY broken down. Someone had sabotaged it. Someone who had disappeared for an hour shortly before their boat ride. Cersei turned on Melisandre who was surveying the scene with disinterest m.

“You couldn’t have possibly known which boat they would take out,” Cersei began slowly. “Why you would have had to tamper with...”

“All of them,” Melisandre said boredly. Cersei’s gaze slowly lifted to the lake where at least eight boats could be spotted stranded, their occupants frantically waving to shore. Suddenly the commotion amongst the staff made sense.

“Why that’s...” Cersei began.

“Cheating?” Melisandre asked wryly.

“Brilliant,” Cersei conceded. 

She had cheated on an epic scale, and not for any normal reason like Cersei who wanted Petyr to be around to continue to do errands for her. She couldn’t be bullied, bought or reasoned with. Some women just wanted to watch the world burn. Cersei had new found respect for Melisandre, and reminded herself to cross her only if the occasion absolutely called for it. 

“So that means it’s one all,” Cersei folded her arms.

“Guess we’ll need acts of service to be our tie-breaker after all,” Melisandre allowed the faintest smirk to curve her features.

“No holds barred?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Melisandre riposted.

“Then give me back my phone,” Cersei said haughtily. You didn’t ask Michelangelo to work with a sledgehammer after all. An artist needed their tools.

“Fine,” Melisandre tossed it back. 

Cersei checked it and then did a double-take. Three HUNDRED texts?! She’d been away for a couple hours sure, but even for her this was a lot.

Then she opened the first thread. Then she sat down on the dock.

“Oh what happened?” Melisandre snarked. “Don’t tell me your Vogue coverage got pulled.”

“It might be worse than that,” Cersei admitted flatly. 

There was a pause and then Melisandre huffed as she smoothed her skirt and sat down on the dock next to her. Cersei handed the phone over without looking, choosing to squint instead at the figure in the lake that she was fairly sure was Petyr Baelish.

“Oh shit,” Melisandre breathed. “Is this for real?”

“Taena was sorority sisters with Alysanne Hightower who’s Alerie Tyrell’s sister and Alerie says she got it from Mace who spoke to Ashara herself,” Cersei said matter of factly.

“So...?”

“Almost certainly.”

According to Taena, according to Alysanne, according to Alerie, according to Mace, Ashara fucking Dayne had a bastard child with Ned Stark and wanted him to take it.

Clearly there were questions. Was it before he married Catelyn or after? Had he even known about the child? What would this do to her seating arrangement? 

“One of us has to tell her,” Melisandre said slowly. Cersei looked back down the dock where Catelyn had cajoled Lysa into taking the hot chocolate and was popping a marshmallow into her mouth. Finally distracted, she seemed almost happy.

“I’ll tell her,” Cersei said grimly. Crushing people’s happiness was a specialty of hers. “But first we need information.”

She got Alerie’s number from her wedding spreadsheet, and dialed it. The phone only rang once before she heard Alerie’s eager hello.

“Cersei Lannister! What a surprise!” Alerie sounded positively delighted. Cersei pulled up her mental Rolodex. One of the Oldtown Hightowers, mediocre grades, went to Sunspear even though her family practically built the Citadel. Spreading her legs for the likes of Mace Tyrell was probably the smartest move she’d ever made. Second smartest, if rumors about a safety pin and a condom were true.

“I realized I never thanked you for the lovely—“ Cersei checked the spreadsheet on her phone and rolled her eyes, honestly if this was the best you could do why bother, “—dish towels you sent as an engagement present.” 

“Oh you’re so sweet!” Alerie said. “Say, while you’re on the phone, have you heard the latest?”

“About Ashara Dayne? Naturally, Ned is Robert’s best man,” Cersei replied lightly. “What have you heard? I do so love how the details get twisted in each retelling.”

“This wasn’t a retelling,” Alerie sounded a trifle affronted that Cersei thought she had better sources. “This was straight from the horse’s mouth. My husband spoke to Ashara herself, and she told a Mace that Ned was family and that he’d be a wonderful father.”

“Ah,” Cersei said, brain dissecting the words frantically, trying to produce any alternative but the one inescapable conclusion. “That’s not exactly right.”

“No?” Alerie sounded suspicious. How to sell this?

“Let me just get permission to spill the beans,” Cersei dropped her voice conspiratorially. “I promised I wouldn’t tell, you know how these things are.”

“Of course,” Alerie still sounded on the fence.

“But tell you what, I’ll call you back with the real scoop. You’ll be the very first to know. Deal?”

And on that, Alerie Tyrell née Hightower was sold.

Catelyn was still talking to Lysa.

“Just remember at the end of the day, this is your decision. It’s your life, not some silly game we’re playing, and you shouldn’t pick who you date based on what will make certain people happy...”

“Excuse me, can I talk to you for a moment?” Cersei interjected. An expression of annoyance flashed across Catelyn’s face, but then she saw Melisandre hovering behind her, face ashen.

“What’s happened?” Catelyn said, and her voice quavered and for a moment even Cersei felt a little queasy.

“There is a malicious rumor going around that Ashara Dayne had a child with Ned,” Cersei said briskly, squelching any squeamishness.

“What?” Catelyn said slowly.

“It’s Alerie Tyrell who’s spreading it, that little gossipy twat, as if she’s one to talk about children out of wedlock,” Cersei gave a judgmental sniff. Melisandre cleared her throat and Cersei wondered if she was coming down with something and made a mental note to have her personal physician pay a house call to all the bridesmaids. Nobody would be getting sick on HER wedding day.

“What?”

“When really all Ashara said was that Ned was family to her son. So I think this is just a misunderstanding but it is IMPERATIVE that we get out ahead of this story.”

“What?” 

Cersei ground her teeth. She just did not have time for this kind of coddling. She grabbed Catelyn’s shoulders and stared her in the eye.

“Would Ned cheat on you?”

At last from the wellspring of hurt and bafflement and confusion came a spark of something angrier.

“He certainly would not. He’s not Robert.”

Okay, just this once, Cersei was going to let that pass. But if Catelyn ever made a comment like that again, Cersei would hack off her stupid braid in her sleep.

“Right. Who would cheat on you? Who DID cheat on you sophomore year of high school as I recall?”

Catelyn frowned and then there was a dawning recognition.

“Brandon.”

“Right! Brandon Stark never could keep it in his pants. Who’s he married to now? Barbrey Dustin? So he has some torrid little affair with Ashara, gets her in the family way and waltzes back north to his political career and pretends it never happens. Meanwhile Ned runs into Ashara in Dorne, and the whole secret come spilling out,” Cersei finished with just a note of pride. She could totally be a detective. Not that she would ever take a job that paid below six figures. What did a detective make?

“So Ashara had a baby with Brandon, but now Alerie Tyrell is telling everyone it’s mine?!” Catelyn repeated as she worked through the information.

“Oh gods,” Lysa breathed. “The brunch!”

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Cersei said flatly. “Jon Arryn is going to turn around and go home and surprise Hoster Tully with eighteen holes of golf at his club. Or whatever it takes to get him away from his phone. The last thing we need is someone like Olenna Tyrell calling him up ‘just to say hi’. I’m going to go through out school newspaper archives... remember when Brandon asked Ashara to dance at spring fling and it made front page? I’ll text that photo to Alerie. Meanwhile, Petyr is going doctor one of Brandon’s recent publicity photos to have Ashara in the background. He’ll casually ask one of Alerie’s friends if Brandon and Ashara are dating, it’ll get back to her within a couple of hours and by tomorrow morning, the truth will be known.”

“I’ll get Jon and Brienne and let them know,” Melisandre said and hurried back toward the hotel.

“What should we do?” Lysa asked.

Cersei rolled her neck, feeling the joints popping into place. Now this was a challenge worthy of her time.

“You are getting Petyr off that fucking boat,” she said.

While Lysa and Catelyn swam back out, Cersei closed her eyes to think. She needed a student ID to access the school newspaper archives. Who did she know in at Prep? Tyrion had graduated the year before, and it’s not like he’d had many friends... wait a minute.

“Go for Renly,” Renly Baratheon drawled on the third ring. Cersei, who could hear a decidedly masculine giggle on the other side, gritted her teeth.

“I need your user name and password for Prep,” she said.

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“You know who this is!” Cersei snapped.

“Ah I didn't recognize your voice without that hysteric pitch. Do I even want to know why you’re trolling your old high school’s intranet? Or are you on the prowl for fresh meat already?”

“Renly, if you give me your account information this instant, I will have you cast in your first television role before the month is out.”

“You can’t do that,” Renly laughed, although Cersei detected an undercurrent of interest.

“If I can make Beric Dondarrion famous, just think what I can do for you,” she purred.

“My username is RBaratheon2,” Renly said, sounding slightly sour about that fact, “and my password is Tywin4Evah. Do you need help spelling Tywin? It’s—“

Cersei hung up on him with a shudder.

When Petyr was finally towed by the Tully sisters to dry land, Cersei was carefully cropping the archive photo on her phone to make it look like a candid.

“I hear my services are required,” he said in an oily voice that showed a lot of confidence for someone who hadn’t just been saved by his girlfriend and her sister.

“I need recent photographic evidence that Brandon and Ashara Dayne are a thing,” Cersei said, fiddling with her phone to try and lighten the photo.

Petyr didn’t even ask how he was going to be paid. Maybe he did care about Lysa.

“Don’t worry Cat, I have just the photo,” he put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. “I caught a candid of Brandon walking in the rain with an aide under an umbrella that I never found any use for. I’ll just swap in Ashara’s face, and nobody ever need to know Ned Stark’s dirty secret.”

“It’s not true Petyr,” Cersei said crossly.

“Of course it’s not,” Petyr stroked Catelyn’s hair.

“Right, I’m just going to say goodbye to Jon Arryn,” Catelyn mumbled, extricating herself. Cersei would have scolded her for blowing the game and scolded Petyr for not acting surprised, but there just wasn’t time for that.

She finished doctoring the photo to her satisfaction and leaned back to craft the perfect text.

You’re right about one thing, she began to Alerie, Ned is family.

She texted the photo of Brandon and Ashara dancing.

He’s just not the father. Did you know that Brandon and Ashara had a torrid affair sophomore year? It was our school’s best kept secret.

Alerie called her almost immediately, but Cersei let it go to voicemail. A little mystery added to the charm of the story.

“I texted Jorah Mormont, who was my year at Prep and knows the Starks. He’s dating Alerie’s cousin Lynesse,” Petyr said briskly. “In my experience, he tells her everything.”

“Isn’t Petyr brilliant?” Lysa beamed.

“Not bad,” Cersei conceded. “Let’s find the others.”

By the time they located Brienne and Melisandre, Cersei’s phone was buzzing like an angry hornet. She smirked. Dance puppets.

“Catelyn went back to the library, she just needed a moment alone,” Brienne said worriedly.

“Jon promised to keep Hoster away from his phone even if he had to drop it off a cliff,” Melisandre added.

“I’d better check on Cat,” Petyr said solicitously and excused himself.

“Our counter story has been leaked and is making the rounds,” Cersei smirked. “Also apparently Barbrey Dustin threw a plate at a waiter’s head ten minutes ago, so you know SHE’S heard it.”

“Barbrey and Brandon always seemed rather happy,” Lysa shook her head. “Volatile, but happy.”

Cersei shrugged. She had difficulty feeling empathy for people she didn’t know. And for people she did know. Everyone really.

“I have to admit,” Melisandre looked around to make sure Petyr had actually left. “As far as acts of service go, Baelish did come through.”

“Yeah, that photo was so romantic,” Brienne chipped in. “I never would have thought it was a fake for a second!”

“We stopped playing the game, it was a draw,” Cersei waved her hand magnanimously. Even though she totally had won.

“Just saying, now is your chance to make us eat salads and wear silly outfits,” Melisandre said drily.

Cersei was about to respond that they really shouldn’t be eating at all when there was a scream from the library.

“What was—“ Brienne began.

“Cat!” Lysa bolted toward the sound. There was a second scream, this one definitely Lysa. The remaining three looked at each other.

Brienne, having much longer strides than either Melisandre or Cersei, managed to get there first, but all that time on the treadmill had made Cersei plenty spry, and she arrived second only to bounce off Brienne’s back. Shit, that better not bruise.

Petyr was standing before Catelyn and Lysa, his eyes wide and his face branded with a dark red handprint.

“Let me explain,” he began desperately.

“You TRIED TO KISS ME!” Catelyn howled.

“I misread the situation...”

“She’s MY SISTER!” Lysa screamed.

“I just thought that with Ned’s recent indiscretions...”

“GET OUT!!!” They yelled in unison.

Petyr looked at Cersei plaintively. She gave him her coldest death stare and pointed toward the door.

“Fuck having a conversation with him,” Catelyn sniffed, wiping away a tear. “He’s the worst Lysa.”

“He’s dumped,” Lysa hugged her. “Choosing Jon. Don’t cry, why are you crying? I’ll start crying!”

“It’s just been such a shitty week,” Catelyn admitted, scrubbing at her face as if she could erase the evidence of the tears. “Gods Cersei, I’m so sorry, this weekend is supposed to be about you and I’ve made it all about me and my problems!”

“You haven’t,” Cersei protested, after a small nudge from Brienne.

“I have!” Catelyn gave a hiccupy sob.

“Listen, it takes a selfish bitch to know a selfish bitch, and you my dear don’t have what it takes,” Cersei put her hand on her hip, which at least earned a smile through the tears. But then Catelyn kept crying. Ugh she was always shit at comforting people. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Lysa was crooning, dubbing her back. “You’ll see.”

“I can’t even get him on the phone!!”

“You know they’ve made some stupid boy bet to turn off their phones because they’re stupid boys,” Brienne had sat down on Catelyn’s other side.

“Petyr was supposed to pick us up! Now we don’t even have a ride home!”

Petyr. The snivelly weaselly untrustworthy little TURD! Cersei clenched her fists, feeling her nails digging into her palms. After all she’d done to help him with Lysa!! She had given him her one of a kind earrings!! How the fuck was she supposed to get those back! And worse... technically... from a certain light... if you squinted...

Cersei looked over to where Catelyn was still a pathetic blubbery mess. She closed her eyes. Was she really going to do this? Gods help us all.

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat. Nobody paid her any mind.

“BRIDAL ANNOUNCEMENT!” Cersei bellowed. That got their notice.

“As I was saying,” she continued sweetly. “It has come to my attention that Catelyn and I have lost.”

“Lost?” Brienne blinked.

“The bet. You see...”

“Lysa chose Jon Arryn,” Melisandre breathed.

“Therefore...”

“You have to wear anything we want! And you have to EAT anything we want!” Melisandre finished triumphantly.

“Cersei, I don’t think...” Catelyn began.

“Hush, eating your feelings away is a time honored tradition for a reason,” Cersei shushed her. Only to gulp at Melisandre’s slightly deranged smile.

Two hours later, they were eating at the most disgustingly greasy pub Cersei had ever set foot in. It made Robert’s old favorite Hollow Hill look fancy by comparison.

“I recommend the jalapeño poppers,” Melisandre said politely. 

“Boys suck,” Catelyn announced to the table, shoving a nacho (piled high with ground meat of some kind and sour cream and... was cheese supposed to be that color?) into her mouth. “Brandon sucks, Petyr really sucks, and my father is THE WORST.”

“Have some more beer,” Cersei sighed and pushed the pitcher over.

“And you need to eat,” Brienne said firmly, depositing a burger on her plate.

“Excuse me?” Cersei arched an eyebrow.

“I mopped up the oil with my napkin, and you can take the bun off, but I don’t think you’ve had solid food in days and it’s making you even worse than...” Brienne realized what she was saying and abruptly shut her mouth flushing, but still shoved the plate toward Cersei.

Cersei eyed the bare patty suspiciously. She cut off the smallest sliver and placed it in her mouth as Brienne watched her, chewing slowly with narrowed eyes. They might break her diet but they would never break her will.

“Um hi,” some local yokel who fancied himself a ladies’ man had approached the table. “Me and my mates couldn’t help but notice your dresses.”

Cersei looked around at the five of them in their equally tacky thrift store wedding dresses. She’d insisted on the other girls joining her and Catelyn when she’d seen what Melisandre had planned. And well, Lysa didn’t take much convincing, and then it was three against two.

“Where are your grooms?” The guy grinned, running his hand through his hair.

“You’ve been watching us for the last twenty-five minutes and that’s the best you could come up with?” Cersei asked boredly.

“You’re a man. Do you suck?” Catelyn squinted at him suspiciously.

“Are you going to date me for six years and then try and get it on with my sister?” Lysa stuck out her tongue.

“Um what?” The guy gave a nervous laugh. “I should be getting back to my friends.”

“Please stay,” Melisandre purred, tossing her veil behind her. “You can marry all of us.”

The man fled.

There was a pause and then they all burst out laughing.

“Can you imagine Stannis’ expression if he heard you say that?” Brienne teased Melisandre.

“Hey what happens during the hen party stays with the hen party,” Melisandre tsked.

“But what happens at brunch needs to be shared with all of us,” Cersei put in.

“Maybe it’s just the beer but I’m rather looking forward to brunch,” Catelyn gave a rather dreamy smile. “I’ve been spending all this time trying to make everybody else happy. Well now we’re going to try something different.”

“That’s right! Hear me roar!” Cersei encouraged.

“You’re Catelyn fucking Tully-Stark!” Brienne piled on.

“Tell your dad where he can shove his eligible young men!” Melisandre whooped.

Lysa didn’t say anything, just slid a quarter into the jukebox.

In retrospect, Cersei was almost glad that she wasn’t allowed to drink. Had she been drunk, she might have missed the Tully sisters belting “I Will Survive” from on top of the table. Had she been drunk, she might have missed Melisandre dragging Brienne on a crazy cheek to cheek tango down the aisle. Or throwing a glass at the bartender when he cut her off. She would have missed them all fleeing into the night, laughing hysterically, when he called the cops. Catelyn insisted on carrying her bridal style as Brienne shout-sang the wedding march, and Lysa skipped ahead of them, stealing flowers from people’s window boxes to sprinkle in their path.

Had Cersei been drunk, she might have missed any number of details. But she didn’t take a single photo to use later. Now that was friendship.

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Ch 33

Robert had always wanted to be part of a stealth mission. People thought because he was big he couldn’t be stealthy. And it wasn’t true!! He just hadn’t had many opportunities to PROVE he could be stealthy, which was different. The closest he had come was back in high school, when they had rigged the school elections. Except his part in the scheme had been stupid. He’d just sat there and pretended to count votes while Beric and Stannis swapped the ballots out. So lame.

This was the real deal. He was wearing black jeans and a black sweatshirt that Stannis had somehow thought to pack for him. He’d put his camo war paint on, even though Stannis, Jaime and Thoros had all declined to join him. They were driving Beric’s Jeep to Harry‘s cache, which meant Stannis was driving while Harry gave directions from the passenger seat. (Robert wondered if Beric knew that Stannis took after his older brother when it came to car sex.)

That left him, Jaime and Thoros sitting in the back. The car went around a right turn, and recalling a moment from childhood, Robert launched himself into Jaime who then slid helplessly into Thoros, smashing him against the glass.

“Oops,” Robert sang. Thoros rubbed his head, glaring.

The car went around a left turn, and with a joyful war cry Thoros hurled himself into Jaime who then slid into Robert. Robert caught himself with a forearm before he hit the glass, only for Thoros to brace his feet against the car door and push harder.

“Nooo!” Robert shouted dramatically, as his face inched closer to his the pane.

“Nnnngh,” Thoros grunted as he twisted in his seatbelt, trying to get more leverage.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Jaime sighed, half in Robert’s lap and face shoved directly into his armpit.

“We’re here!” Harry announced cheerfully, as they pulled up to a security door that appeared to open a tunnel straight into the rocks of a cliff. He hopped out and entered the code, the door sliding noiselessly open.

“And we just drive straight in?” Stannis squinted into the darkness. Harry had insisted they drive without headlights—he didn’t know if the people tracking him (Interpol or bounty hunters) knew about this cache, and didn’t want to draw attention if they were watching it. So he’d swapped out their license plate with another car’s and they were driving in the pitch black. Stealthily.

“Yup, go slow, it’s about half a mile,” Harry answered.

Robert fairly bounced on his seat in anticipation. Harry was just the coolest! He always thought if he had been born a thousand years ago he would have been a sell sword for the Golden Company.

The oppressive blackness of the tunnel quieted what conversation there had been to find, and it was with some relief when they finally reached another door, this one clearly for people rather than cars, the white paint feebly standing out in the dark.

Harry led them over and entered another passcode, and the door opened soundlessly. Once inside, he fumbled for a light switch as the four of them huddled together. It took an agonizingly long time to find it, but then, click by click, the lights began to illuminate. Starting above them and then moving outward, a vast cavern came into view.

Renly was the one who was good with all the old movies and Stannis was the one who was good with all the old books. If Robert had to describe it, he would have said that it was maybe like the cave in Aladdin? The one with the piles of gold and jewels and those fancy carpets everywhere you stepped?

“How much does being a crime lord pay?!” Jaime Lannister breathed, and Robert was fairly sure that Jaime had never been impressed by anything in his life.

“As I said, I like my wealth mobile,” Harry smirked. “I’m going to get some of the specialty items. Bobby, you and your brother start bagging up the gold. Lannister, you take the jewels. Remember, go for the emeralds first. Thoros, load things in the car as they’re ready and if you steal anything else that belongs to me, they’ll be fishing your body out of the ocean three days from now. Are we all set?”

“So set,” Robert promised, as Thoros edged toward the exit.

Harry wanted them to be in and out in thirty minutes, which suited Robert just fine. He was hoping to get back to Orphan’s Cove in time to catch “his” duel with Edgar Yronwood. And maybe be present for rescuing his ex-girlfriend and watching her make out with Ned’s ex-girlfriend. He wondered if it had occurred to Ned that he had slept with someone who had slept with someone who had slept with Robert. Eskimo brothers!!!

As it turned out, it was kind of a long thirty minutes. Gold was really heavy. And Stannis was not helping things.

“Pivot,” Stannis was saying, as they tried to turn a particularly cumbersome duffel bag around a corner. “Pivot.”

Robert glared, and yanked the duffel bag hard. It lurched free, and Stannis staggered to avoid falling flat on his face.

“Watch it,” Jaime scolded. “Do you think Brienne would like these?” He showed them some enormous sapphire earrings.

“He’s so whipped,” Robert told Stannis once they were out of earshot.

“Kind of embarrassing,” Stannis agreed.

“But like, do you think we were supposed to get presents while we were here?”

“I mean I didn’t think so but if Lannister’s doing it...”

“Right! You don’t want to be in a situation where you’re the asshole who didn’t get something...”

Harry had been extracting certain canvases from their frames and rolling them up for ease of transport. Robert looked blankly at an old-timey portrait of a stocky black bearded nobleman. It kind of reminded him of something out of the Lannisters’ portrait gallery. The man was scowling. Robert wondered if he’d had to scowl like that the entire time the portrait was being painted. You’d think your face would hurt after a while right? Maybe the artist had been fucking his wife, but it was too late to switch artists so he’d just been stuck there staring at the guy. That’d probably be worth scowling for. 

“Robert! Stop spacing out, we’re leaving!” Jaime snapped.

The Jeep was considerably more full on the way home, due to the many duffel bags of Harry’s cache that they’d managed to cram in. 

“So I’ve wired the money to Lorch,” Harry announced after a few minutes on his phone. “Who’s getting the money to reclaim your engagement ring?”

“Beric and Thoros are driving home tomorrow morning, Stannis and Jaime are flying home tomorrow morning... I think it’s gotta be Oberyn or Mace,” Robert frowned. Technically this morning, seeing as it was 12:45.

“So Oberyn,” Stannis said from the front. Robert did not disagree.

Driving to Orphan’s Cove was actually much quicker, largely because Stannis was allowed to drive with headlights. 

And yet, as the Jeep pulled up, Robert was disappointed to see that the fight was already over. Lyanna wasn’t even making out with Ashara! She was holding the baby and talking to Ned, apart from the crowd. Arthur, Ashara, Oberyn, Mace and Beric were drinking beers on the sand, so Robert led his group over to them.

“How’d it go??” He said cheerfully.

“Well I won,” Arthur toasted him. “Congrats on your victory.”

“And Lyanna was okay?”

“Oh she was fine. She’d been mounting escape attempts all day, but the Yronwood estate is on a cliff of like sheer rock. They kept finding her and dragging it back. Honestly I think Edgar was relieved to be rid of her,” Oberyn laughed.

“Well what about the fight?” Robert asked hopefully. “Was it cool? Did you get it on video?”

“I tried,” Ashara pouted and handed him her phone.

“It’s so dark!” Robert frowned. “You can barely make out what’s going on! How did Arthur and Yronwood even see what they were doing?!”

“Well hold on, it gets a little better once Beric walks over,” Ashara said. “He used one of Yronwood’s spares and lit in on fire. Did you know that mace is flammable? He just coated the blade and the whoosh! We could sort of tell what was happening.”

“Wait...” Thoros abruptly joined the conversation. “He DID WHAT?!”

“It’s not what it sounds like,” Beric winced. 

“YOU MADE A FIRE SWORD WITHOUT ME?!”

“Oh wow, yeah that’s a lot better,” Robert studied the screen. He handed it back to Ashara. He still thought it would have been more exciting if more people had died. That was stupid first blood duels for you. Speaking of which...

“Where’s Yronwood?” Robert asked. He was a little surprised the guy hadn’t hung around. Had a beer or something.

“Oh, he got some alert to his phone about his underground vault being accessed, he just wanted to go check it out.”

“Ah,” Harry Strickland said, abruptly joining the conversation. “In that case, I think everybody who came with me should leave now.”

“We’ve got like ten minutes, I want to hear about your new girlfriend,” Robert protested, winking at Ashara. She rolled her eyes. Funny, that had been Lyanna’s typical reaction. Awwww maybe they were soulmates!

“Right,” Harry nodded. “Completely understandable. But the thing is, that cache we just visited?”

“Visited stealthily,” Robert added proudly.

“Quite right, very stealthily. Only maybe not quite stealthily enough, since Yronwood got that notification.”

“Wait,” Jaime butted in. “Are you saying we BURGLED Yronwood?!”

“Well no, technically only I burgled him, because the rest of you didn’t know what you were doing. I remember thinking you should have spent more time listening to your friend Beric’s explanation, but of course at the time I didn’t know you very well so I didn’t want to say anything—“

“You said it was your cache!” Thoros blurted. “You said you’d kill me if I took any of your stuff!”

“Listen chaps, I’m sorry you feel misled, but I’ve already wired Lorch and Oberyn your share. Also you know, I feel like I’ve given you very few reasons to think I’m a trustworthy person. So perhaps you’ve all learned a valuable lesson in judging a man’s character? Now if you’ll just help me move everything on to the beach,” Harry produced his gun and waved it at them and then to the trunk of Beric’s car, “this is where we part ways.”

Wait a minute...

“Does this mean you can’t come to my wedding?!” Robert blurted.

There was the sound of a motorboat approaching, and a very familiar figure woman standing at the helm.

“Captain Sara!” Oberyn exclaimed delightedly.

“I’m terribly sorry, Bobby, you know I would have loved to have made it,” Harry hugged him, the gun digging in to his ribs uncomfortably.

“As I said, everybody who helped me should really be leaving now,” Harry called to the others.

“Well I guess Beric can drive Thoros and Jaime back to Oldtown in his Jeep, and Ned and I can drop off Stannis in King’s Landing on the way to Riverrun?” Robert puzzled it out.

“Don’t forget Jon,” Lyanna kissed her baby on the forehead before she handed him to Ned, wiping away a tear.

“It’s only for a few months until the heat dies down,” Ashara wrapped her arms around Lyanna from behind. 

“I suppose I can give you and Mace a lift,” Arthur was saying to Oberyn. 

“It’ll be so cramped with Ashara and Lyanna as well, you take Mace and I’ll find my own way back,” Oberyn winked, moving toward the boat.

“So what, you’re saying that it’s too dangerous for me to do it but the moment my back is turned you’ll go off and do it yourself?!” Thoros was grumbling at Beric.

“Am I going to have to listen to this all the way back to Oldtown?” Jaime groaned.

“Probably,” Beric sighed.

Robert inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of sea air, the sounds of his friends arguing and laughing together, the starry sky above them. Then he looked down and his gaze fell on the 1962 Rhoynish Dragon.

“Cute kid,” he commented off-handed to Lyanna Stark.

“Congratulations on the wedding, it’s been all over the papers down here,” Lyanna smiled. 

“You better take care of her,” Robert told Ashara. “She’s my favorite ex-girlfriend.”

“I’ll try,” Ashara laughed, and Lyanna spun in her arms and kissed her.

Hot. So fucking hot.

“C’mon Neddy,” Robert dragged Ned away from them, as he was looking slightly ill. “We’ve got a family brunch to get to.”

They got in, Ned checked that the car seat was properly secure, and began to pull out.

“I can’t help but feel like we’re missing something,” Ned frowned. Robert blinked.

“Oh shit, Stannis!”

Five minutes later, once they had wrestled Stannis’ enormous suitcase into the not very large trunk of the Dragon, they were ready. Robert pressed down the accelerator and the car lurched forward with a roar. Such speed! Such power! It felt like flying.

They were already out of Sunspear, heading north on the interstate, Stannis and Jon sound asleep in the back, when Ned looked over.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Sorry?” Robert frowned. “Sorry about what?”

“Your whole stag party got ruined! Mace drugged us, Oberyn got us in all sorts of trouble, Jaime got kidnapped, my sister got kidnapped AND left her baby with us, you got blackmailed, we lost the ring... nothing went right at all!”

Robert laughed.

“I had a stag party in a palace in Dorne! We solved mysteries, I won a fight against ARTHUR DAYNE, I went to a hostage negotiation, tracked down a blackmailer, participated in a heist, and kind of sort of won a duel! Your hot sister is banging your smoking hot ex and they kissed right in front of me! I’m driving a Dragon! There’s only three left in the entire world! You’re going to be telling Jon about this some day, how he rode in a Dragon!”

“Wait, you’re saying...”

Robert tipped back his head.

“BEST! STAG! EVER!!!!!”

“I’m glad somebody’s happy,” Ned chuckled. “I’m fairly concerned about my father’s reaction when I show up with my sister’s love child. Let alone Hoster Tully’s.”

“More heat off you, right? Did Lyanna get into it at all?”

“Just that he was an abusive prick who threatened to fight her for custody when she tried to leave. Lyanna,” Ned sighed and rubbed his face. “She hasn’t always made the best choices but she deserves a lot better than some of the shit that’s happened to her, you know?”

“Yeah I get it,” Robert admitted. “But she has Ashara now. They seem pretty happy. Maybe this is when things start going her way.”

“I hope so,” Ned yawned. “Gods, I hope so.”

“Don’t you fall asleep on me,” Robert warned. “It sucks being the driver when everyone else is asleep.”

“Ugh you’re right. Okay, I know you think it was the best stag ever—“

“Because IT WAS!”

“—but if you could have done one more thing, what would you have wanted to do?” 

Robert thought for a minute.

“I would have wanted someone to get photos at the strip club!”

Ned laughed.

“Be serious!”

“I am serious! It was my last chance to drool over other women, and I don’t remember any of it!”

“Well I didn’t want to say anything, but Stannis leant me this extra phone battery he brought for me? And my phone is up and working again,” Ned began.

“Wait... are you saying...”

“There appear to be a lot of photos from the strip club,” Ned confirmed drily. “Honestly, at some point we should look at them all ONE TIME and then delete everything.”

“Why would we delete them?! If you have a photo of Mace getting his ass tattooed, I want it framed!”

They joked and talked, and the miles vanished under the Dragon, but try as he might, Ned finally drifted off to sleep. 

That was okay though, Robert thought, watching the sun break over the marches. It was nice to have some time to think too. 

Mace and Oberyn had both been kind of bummed that he was getting married, but he knew that the next adventure would be even better than this one. And he’d probably be able to remember a whole lot more of it. He hoped he’d be a good dad, but nine tenths of that was just showing up for the job right? Even Mace seemed like he was a pretty good dad, and that guy had never been able to do anything right. 

He was pretty sure he could figure it out, and if he didn’t, well Cersei would just tell him what to do.

Daydreaming about cuddling Cersei, finally getting to meet their little biscuit, Robert nearly missed the turn for King’s Landing. 

“Hey, wake up,” he shook Stannis gently. Stannis cracked an eye.

“End of the road. You okay getting the bus home? Give my love to Mel.”

“Wait bus?” Stannis blinked sleepily as he clambered out of the car.

“Yup,” Robert got his bag free with a grunt of effort. “The bus stop is just up that hill. Sorry buddy, I’ve gotta get Ned to this thing on time, I can’t drive you any further.”

“Hill?” Stannis’ face fell as he looked at his enormous suitcase and back at the hill.

“Oh it looks like you lost the wheel on that thing, by the way, you should get it replaced!” Robert waved and got back in the car.

Okay, half an hour to go, and they were about forty-five miles away. Robert cracked his knuckles.

He pulled back out onto the main highway and merged with the other cars. He’d thought he was a good wingman before, but wow, he was on fire.

He glared at a car that had cut him off. Asshole. Didn’t that guy know he had somewhere to be? It was a Riverlands plate too. Actually... Robert rubbed his eyes as he pulled into the lane next to it. That was Hoster Tully’s car!!!

“Ned,” he prodded his friend awake.

“Mmm?” Ned responded sleepily.

“Here, take the wheel for a second,” Robert tugged his arm onto it.

“Wait what?!” Ned protested, frantically trying to sit upright so he could see over the dashboard.

Robert rolled down his window and started frantically unbuckling his belt.

“What are you doing?!” Ned yelped. “You can’t piss out the window!”

“That’s not what I’m doing and false, I totally can, I do it all the time,” Robert grinned, pulling down his pants. “Now hold us steady.”

He slammed on the accelerator and twisted to hang his ass out the window. To top it off, he gave a loud three honks on the horn.

There was a responding honk and Robert withdrew, guffawing to see in the rear view mirror that the car had pulled over.

“Who did you just moon?!” Ned hissed.

“Awwww don’t worry about it,” Robert ruffled his hair. “It’s not like anybody recognizes us in this car anyway.”

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Chs 26-32

Stannis (Vice and Wish 1 of x)

Stannis woke up slowly, dimly aware that he was cozy and warm and in the most comfortable bed he’d ever been in in his life. 

There was something to be said for the Water Gardens, the ancestral summer palace of the Martells. It was a gorgeous oasis of greenery and fountains and sandstone arches that opened onto vistas of the sea. 

When Ned had first broached the idea of a stag party in Sunspear with the gang, Thoros and (naturally) Oberyn had enthusiastically agreed. And Mace had a habit of agreeing with Oberyn no matter what was said. Same vis a vis Beric and Thoros. As for Jaime... well he still seemed rather confused about how he had come to be roped into this mess. 

So it had fallen to Stannis to point out rather acidly that perhaps Dorne in AUGUST was not ideal.

To which he got:

“Fewer crowds!” (Ned)

“Off season prices!” (Thoros)

“The women wear much less in August, it is true.” (Oberyn)

And that’s when Robert decided they were going to Dorne.

“It’s only for three days,” Melisandre had laughed at his disgruntled expression. Or maybe his oversized suitcase.

“In my experience, that is ample time for Robert to get into trouble,” Stannis huffed, considering whether he should pack a light windbreaker (it could get breezy by the ocean and would come in handy if it did rain) or a heavy rain jacket (the only think that would stand up to Dorne’s infrequent but torrential downpours). After consideration, he decided to bring both.

“Do you even know what happened when they all went to Myr?”

“No, actually,” Melisandre frowned, a delicate wrinkle appearing on her forehead. “Do you?”

“No. And that is my point,” Stannis weighed a tube of waterproof sunscreen SPF 55 or non waterproof sunscreen SPF 70. After consideration, he decided to bring both. 

“We know they won a bunch of money, and once when Robert was really drunk, he said that the Myrrish mafia weren’t so bad. Also he lost a tooth.”

“I take your point,” Melisandre sighed and wrapped her arms around him. “Come back to me in one piece.”

Stannis put his hands over her own to keep her there and sighed. He looked at the rape whistle and the mace that he’d gotten for Melisandre which she never ever used. After consideration, he decided to bring both.

“Are you even going to be able to carry that thing?” Melisandre looked doubtfully at the suitcase, which Stannis was now sitting on and struggling to zip.

“I... won’t need... to,” Stannis panted as he finally got it closed. “It rolls.”

He dragged it out into the kitchen and left it by their door. Mission accomplished, he wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead.

“I wish I were staying here with you,” he told Melisandre glumly.

“I won’t even be here,” she gave him a wan smile back. “I’m having a luxury spa experience at the Isle of Faces. Just Cersei and her bridesmaids, eating seaweed for seventy-two hours.”

Stannis winced. He knew how Mel got when she hadn’t eaten a full meal in a while. Between a wedding crazed Cersei and a hangry Melisandre... Stannis was retroactively grateful that he would be all the way in Dorne. 

He was less grateful when he walked out of the airport to be greeted by a blistering wave of dry heat. Stannis squinted at the city of Sunspear before him, the air having the shimmery distorted quality of a desert. He had been the last to arrive, since he refused to take a half-day off work to humor Robert’s childish whims. Oberyn had gotten here days ago, Robert, Ned and Mace had arrived on a commercial flight earlier that morning, Beric and Thoros had driven down and Jaime had taken his family’s corporate helicopter. Stannis would have normally had some snark reserved for that particular expense, especially given that Jaime had not offered to give anybody else a lift, but Stannis had also gone out of his way to minimize the amount of time he had to spend with these people.

A short taxi ride later, Stannis was deposited in front of a walled gate.

“Is this the Water Gardens?” He asked, surprised at the relative shabbiness. His taxi driver managed to get the suitcase out with a groan of effort.

“No, that is the Water Gardens,” the driver pointed up to a large structure well beyond the gate and up an enormous hill. “I can’t take you further, there are no automobiles in the historic district. Tears up the cobblestones.”

“Cobblestones?” Stannis asked with some dismay, having already pulled out the handle to roll his bag.

“Aye. You’ll be on foot for the next couple miles.”

“...couple miles?” Stannis winced.

He had finally wrestled his bag up the promontory that he had initially described as a large hill and was now thinking of as a jagged alpine peak. Who knew Dorne had mountains?! He was sweating through his button-down shirt and starting to think he might prefer Cersei and her mud masks when he finally rang the buzzer.

“Stannis,” Oberyn opened the door, looking casually elegant and not sweaty in the slightest. “Welcome to the Water Gardens.”

And as a maid scurried to take his suitcase and a butler pressed some kind of frozen drink into his hand, Stannis slowly relaxed.

The others were hanging out by an infinity pool that looked out over the harbor. All sipping frozen cocktails or reading, Robert and Ned throwing a football back and forth in long lazy spirals over the water.

Was it just possible that Stannis was... wrong?

In his memory, this almost never happened. It was a foreign concept.

But a perfectly relaxing evening by the pool was followed by dinner in an open air courtyard with Oberyn’s older brother Doran and his wife Mellario. The fruits were deliciously fresh, the main curry dish a trifle hot for Stannis’ taste but still exquisite, and all the better when washed down with spiced wine.

He politely refrained from further helpings after cleaning his plate, instead sipping his wine and occasionally contributing to the conversation. Mace Tyrell apparently felt no such compunction, having gone back for fourths.

Doran was grilling Robert about the Sunspear Suns’ chances at a Super Bowl appearance, Mellario seemed delighted to find somebody who could speak Valyrian and was jabbering away with Thoros, Beric was trying to console Ned over the Tully Situation (as they were all calling it) and Oberyn had cornered Jaime and was trying to extract a commitment to go on a double date with him and Ellaria.

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Doran asked Oberyn, during a momentary lull in the conversation.

“I have arranged for a walking tour of the Winding Walls, with lunch at the observatory on top of Spear Tower. Then we’ll go for a drive to the beach, spend the afternoon there, and have dinner at the Old Palace. I have tickets to a theatrical production of Nymeria’s War tomorrow night,” Oberyn answered.

“What a delightful day,” Mellario chimed in.

Stannis agreed, although he noticed Robert and Mace looking a little put out. Ned and Thoros exchanged a glance. Beric and Jaime seemed relieved.

“Mother will be so pleased. As am I. I think you’ve really matured over the last two years,” Doran beamed benevolently at Oberyn.

Sure, if you consider three children with three different women maturation, Stannis internally snarked.

But Oberyn only smiled pleasantly.

“I’m so glad you think so.”

“I want you boys to take my convertible tomorrow,” Doran said.

“Oh we couldn’t,” Oberyn purred, rather looking like he absolutely could.

“You only have one car between the eight of you—I insist.”

“Well if you insist,” Oberyn said nonchalantly.

“You might ask Arthur to dinner,” Doran mentioned.

Stannis’ ears pricked. Arthur Dayne? He was several years older than Robert, and was something of a legend at King’s Landing Prep because he’d gone on to represent Westeros in the Olympics for fencing. He’d gotten a gold medal. He’d also been Elia Martell’s plus one to the engagement party.

Oberyn dipped his head in acknowledgment, although Stannis got the distinct sense that he was slightly annoyed by the suggestion. Which was odd because the Martells and the Daynes had always been close. Regardless, Stannis looked forward to making Arthur’s acquaintance. 

They had been escorted to their rooms, a guest suite well apart from Doran and Mellario’s living quarters, which had four rooms connected to a large common room and two bathrooms. Here at last came a slight fly in the ointment. By virtue of having arrived last, Stannis had no choice but to take the remaining sleeping quarters. Predictably, that was the other half of Jaime Lannister’s king bed.

“Hi Jaime,” said Stannis politely, rather aware that these were the first words he’d said to him since he’d locked his erstwhile ally in a room. He wondered if Jaime was still annoyed about that.

“You are my third least favorite person here,” Jaime informed him.

Stannis would take that as a yes.

“Why are you here?” Stannis asked, somewhat annoyed. Jaime was the one who had dragged his parents into this! All Stannis had done was lock a door!

Jaime only huffed and rolled over so his back was to Stannis.

The next day, Stannis carefully unpacked his belongings from his suitcase to create a daypack for the activities Oberyn had planned.

“Did you just pull a suitcase out of a larger suitcase?” Jaime stared.

“It is a daypack,” Stannis informed him frostily, having added his hiking boots, swim trunks, flip flops, towel, sun glasses, then a collared shirt and sports jacket for dinner and the theater. Then sunscreen for Robert, phone charger for Ned, snacks for Mace, a minibar sized container of rum for Thoros, breath mints for Oberyn... he hesitated and added the mace and the whistle for Beric... and... nothing for Jaime. He zipped up his daypack self-righteously. That would teach him a lesson in the importance of a daypack.

By the time he got to the breakfast room, people were done with breakfast and ready to go. Stannis certainly didn’t want to keep the tour guide waiting, so he eschewed the omelette bar that Doran’s personal chef had set up for a pop tart tucked in his pocket. The gang trooped out, to see Beric’s rather unremarkable jeep waiting alongside a gorgeous vintage convertible.

Stannis considered Robert to be more of the car person in the family, but even so he stopped dead. Robert was drooling, and Stannis pulled a napkin out of his day pack.

“Is that...” Robert began.

“A 1962 Rhoynar Dragon?” Oberyn grinned.

“Can I...”

“Drive it? Absolutely not. This thing is more precious to Doran than life itself. But I’ll let you ride shotgun.”

“SWEET! Ned, Stannis get in here!”

As Stannis sat back on the genuine leather bucket seat, a sea breeze ruffling through his hair as Oberyn pulled out of the Water Gardens, a smile may have even crept across his face.

However, Stannis couldn’t help but notice that they were not heading toward the Winding Walls.

“We’ll be late for the tour,” he pointed out.

“There’s no tour,” Ned said.

“I had to say something to get Doran to give us the Dragon,” Oberyn shouted over his shoulder.

Robert grinned.

“Does that mean...”

“Pretty much that entire schedule was made up,” Ned confirmed.

“But we are going to the beach,” Oberyn smirked.

Stannis tried to match the excitement of everybody else in the car. But all the same. He really wanted that historic walking tour.

“Mace and I were at Sunspear for college, if you’ll recall,” Oberyn was saying. “So I’ve arranged for a different tour. Of the local wildlife if you will.”

So snakes and wild horses? Stannis tried not to sulk.

But then they pulled up to a sparkling white beach that appeared to be overrun with college aged kids. And many of the ladies were... Stannis blushed, trying to keep his eyes firmly fixed on his feet. Topless. Many of the ladies were topless.

“Is this heaven?” Robert asked dazedly.

“This my friend is Dorne,” Oberyn grinned, extending his arms to encompass the sand, the sun, the sea, the sights as he walked backward from the car.

“Is this your car?” A particularly buxom young lady sauntered up.

“Absolutely,” Oberyn leaned against it.

Stannis fumed. Oberyn had three children. Ned had one, Robert was expecting. Were they really planning on flirting with co-eds?!

“You look familiar,” another woman was saying to Robert.

“I was the quarterback of the Suns for two years—I just got traded to Oldtown last year,” Robert preened.

Apparently they were. Stannis set to work changing from his walking tour clothes and into his beach clothes (and finding a discrete place to change, despite several women assuring him that it was entirely unnecessary). He had just emerged from behind a sand dune however, when there was the sound of a motor boat approaching.

“Is that our boat?” Robert asked delightedly. It wasn’t overlarge, but it had a small second floor platform that shaded the cockpit, and a water slide from that platform off the back. The boat was called the Feathered Kiss, Stannis noted. 

As it pulled up to the shore, the captain, a black woman with short hair and a broad smile swung herself out into the surf gracefully to pull it ashore.

“All aboard!” She sang cheerfully, with the lilt of the Summer Islands.

There was a minor scuffle between Robert and Oberyn as they both attempted to be the first to reach her. Oberyn got in front with an elbow to the ribs, only for Robert to pick him up by his collar and fling him backward.

“I’m the bachelor, or the stag if you will. Robert Baratheon,” Robert extended his hand even as he eyed her up and down.

“Sara,” the captain gave him a firm handshake and an eye roll.

“But I’m the one who hired you,” Oberyn took her hand and pressed a kiss on it. “Oberyn—“

“Martell, I know who you are,” Sara laughed. “I met you at the Yronwood’s last party.”

“Of course, you were there with Edgar. Are you still dating?”

“No we—“

“Thank the gods. A woman such as yourself is wasted on that lump. May I just say, I look forward to boarding your vessel,” Oberyn was still holding her hand.

“No we’re engaged,” Sara smiled sweetly and removed her hand from his grip. Oberyn laughed heartily, not the least bit phased.

“Now which of you lovely ladies wants to come on a boat ride?” He asked, turning to the women around him. As a handful of giggling girls jumped up and down (to the extreme delight of Robert), Jaime rolled his eyes.

“You are my fourth least favorite person here,” he informed Stannis, as Oberyn helped several of them on to the already crowded boat.

Stannis did not deign to respond, instead clambering over to join Ned where he had barricaded himself behind several coolers of drinks. Jaime contented himself with extracting a bottle of champagne from the coolers and retreating from the group to wrestle it open.

As Stannis considered what alcohol might best wash down a pop tart, the boat gave a series of lurches, a loud roar of the engine, and then sped toward open waters as everybody cheered.

Sara, with casual expertise, began taking the boat full throttle along the coastline, her passengers cheering as they bumped over the waves. Well all the passengers except Jaime, who was finding the turbulence to be highly disruptive to his bottle opening experience. At length, Sara came to an inlet where a veritable flotilla of boats had been anchored together.

“We came here all the time in college,” Oberyn grinned. “Nobody to police underage drinking, lots of sun, lots of swimming...”

The raft of boats had created a sheltered area where pool floats and water slides had been set up. There were the screams and laughter of fellow boaters splashing about in the warm water and Stannis had to shade his eyes against the dazzling sun. As if to punctuate the idyllic scene, there was a pop as Jaime finally got the champagne bottle open. And then a squawk of outrage as Robert yoinked it from his hands, gulped and passed it on. It made a quick round of the boat, and had almost made it around again to Jaime when it landed in Thoros’ hands. He promptly drained it in one go, and handed the empty bottle back.

“You are my fifth least favorite person here,” Jaime said glumly to Stannis.

“You look familiar,” a girl was saying to Beric. Beric swallowed and looked around panicked for Thoros, who had already disembarked and was paddling toward a floating game of beer pong.

“Here you go,” Stannis handed Beric the whistle. Beric studied it.

“Just whistle, and Jaime will come over and flirt with them until you can sneak away,” Stannis said.

“I’ll do say what now?” Jaime raised an eyebrow.

“You did abandon me dangling from a window,” Beric pointed out.

“Ugh fine,” Jaime groused.

“It’s from that commercial right? 1-877-CAMP4KIDS,” the girl sang the final jingle.

Beric blew his whistle.

“Sixth least favorite,” Jaime muttered to Stannis before turning to the girl with a smile.

“CANNONBALL!” Robert shouted from where he had clambered on to the motorboat’s second floor platform. Stannis automatically stepped back, as Jaime looked toward the source of the noise, only to be promptly doused by the wave.

Stannis took a bite of his pop tart, washed it down with a mimosa and smirked.

Maybe it was the mimosas or the sun or Robert challenging him to a swimming race to the rocks that Stannis actually managed to win, but the sun got higher and higher, and Sara was rounding them up and ushering them back onto the boat, and Stannis actually felt sad to leave.

“I love a woman in authority,” Oberyn purred as she hoisted him one-handed aboard. She ignored him and turned back to the engine, which caught with a roar. 

“Cut it out,” Stannis muttered as the boat began cutting back across the coastline, “she’s engaged.”

“Yeah aren’t the Yronwoods like super not big fans of yours?” Mace yawned.

“Stannis, a valuable lesson. Just because there’s a goalie…”

“Stop,” Stannis glared.

“Mace, you are correct as always, my good friend. But some might say it sweetens the pot,” Oberyn waggled his eyebrows. 

The boat bounced over a particularly large wave and soaked Oberyn to the bone.

“Sorry about that,” Sara called over her shoulder, dark eyes dancing in mirth. 

They waved goodbye to the Feathered Kiss some thirty minutes later, having hauled the remaining coolers onto the now empty beach by the cars.

Mace’s stomach growled.

“We’re having dinner at the Sandship,” Oberyn replied, as if in conversation with Mace’s stomach. Mace beamed.

“I thought we were having dinner at the Old Palace? Followed by tickets to Nymeria’s War?” Stannis asked wearily.

“Nope, we’re having dinner at the Sandship,” Oberyn grinned. 

“It’s pirate themed!” Oberyn told Beric cheerfully, and Beric self-consciously adjusted his eye-patch.

“All you can eat,” Mace assured Robert.

“All you can drink,” Oberyn told Thoros.

“And it becomes a club after hours,” Ned informed Stannis and Jaime proudly. Clearly he was very invested in ticking off all the traditional bachelor party activities.

“Sounds great,” Stannis managed, rather sleepily.

“I told Arthur to meet us,” Oberyn sighed heavily. “It’s the type of thing Doran would mention to the Daynes later.”

“I thought you liked Arthur,” Mace frowned.

“I did. But now he’s so intent on making things serious with Elia. They’re happy the way things are. Why does everything have to change?” Oberyn huffed.

“Marriage doesn’t have to change things,” Ned interjected timidly.

“Says the guy we never see because he’s got a wife and son,” Oberyn rolled his eyes.

“We never see him cuz he’s in Winterfell,” Robert slung an arm around Ned a trifle defensively. “Like sure things are changing, but wouldn’t it be boring if everything always stayed the same? We’re having cool new adventures! We’re killing it!”

Stannis wondered how drunk he was if Robert actually sounded like he was making sense.

“I’m team Oberyn,” Mace suddenly announced. “Everything’s been going way too fast. Meeting Alerie, getting married, having Loras... I was thinking about this the other day. Sometimes I think the moment I was truly happiest was spring break of our senior year in Myr.”

“Didn’t you spend like that entire time thinking you were going to have a heart attack?” Beric scrunched his face.

“Shhh! Not in front of the newbies!” Robert hushed him. 

“I’m not trying to be a downer,” Mace ignored them. “I just want to say that what we have right here is special too in its own right. So I wanted to propose a toast!”

Mace carefully took eight frozen shot glasses out of a cooler and poured something that looked neon blue into each of them from a thermos.

“What the hells is this?” Jaime held it up to the light dubiously.

“Tokio Electric Lemonade!”

“Can’t we just do normal shots?”

“Nope!”

Jaime scowled.

“You are my seventh least favorite person here,” he told Stannis.

“...There are only seven other people here.”

“To not growing up too fast,” Mace grinned, raising his shot glass. “We are still those five kids in Myr...”

“There were six of us,” Ned interjected. Stannis, who hadn’t even been invited on the Myr trip, rolled his eyes. 

“and here’s to recapturing that magic tonight!” Mace shouted.

Oberyn wolf whistled and the eight of them downed the electric blue concoction.

And then...

They had gone to that pirate restaurant? Had they seen Arthur? 

Stannis shifted in his bed uncertainly. That had only been yesterday up until like five o’clock. They’d been going to dinner, that was the plan. He remembered that, right?

He frowned.

Stannis didn’t remember anything after taking that shot. 

Stannis cracked a bleary eye open.

Bright. It was too fucking bright.

He twisted on his side, intending to see if Jaime was awake. 

But Jaime Lannister was gone.

Beric (Vice and Wish 2 of x)

Beric woke groggily, aware that he was half pinned down by Thoros. He struggled to extract his arm from under his drooling boyfriend without waking him, and then with a yawn, worked to get Oberyn’s grip around his waist loose. Once free of that, he sleepily pushed Ned’s leg off Thoros—that was his boyfriend Stark was spooning—and clambered over Thoros then Ned then Robert to get to the bathroom.

It was about the time that Beric put his foot down on Mace’s stomach where he was sleeping in a nest of couch pillows that he had the dawning sense that things had gone terribly awry in a way that he had perhaps experienced before.

“Sorry Mace,” he said slowly.

“S’fine,” Mace mumbled, turning over.

Beric backed away from the bed and rubbed his eyes.

Just because they were all in the same bed AGAIN and he couldn’t really remember what happened last night AGAIN didn’t mean...

He carefully rolled Robert over. Half his face was mottled purple and swollen into a black eye.

Shit.

But Ned was still here. Beric’s brain seized on the fact with relief, even as he moved Ned’s leg off Thoros a second time. Ned hadn’t disappeared, which meant probably things were fine and he had just blacked out because he did have a really low alcohol tolerance, especially considering who he was dating.

Beric cautiously crept toward the door, and then looked back, hoping that it had just been some kind of weird mirage and the bed would be empty except for Thoros.

Robert let out a snuffly grunt and rolled onto his stomach again. Ned shifted at the mattress movement and hooked his leg over Thoros once more.

No, their last day in Myr couldn’t have possibly repeated itself, Beric tried to console himself, as he pushed Ned’s leg off and then with a grunt deposited a very naked Oberyn between Ned and Thoros.

Oberyn yawned and wrapped his arms around Ned’s waist. Ned snuggled closer and over went the leg. Much better.

Statistically speaking, what were the odds? 

Beric wandered out into the common room, wincing at the disaster they had made. There was what looked like urine on the floor. Or beer? Beric leaned over and took a sniff. Definitely urine. A jaunty tricorne hat and a lacy thong on the coffee table. Buried in the ice bucket was an honest to goodness sword. And the entire couch looked like it had been clawed apart by a wild animal. 

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Okay, it couldn’t be like it had been before because Oberyn had been on that weird kick to find the cure to the hangover. He’d been crushing pills that entire week. Friday night, in contrast, there had been nary a drug in sight. And Beric for one had made a point of refusing to eat or drink anything Oberyn handed to him.

Beric proceeded into the bathroom, fished out a dead phone (Ned’s phone, fuck this was just like had happened before, but it couldn’t be because Ned was quite happily cuddling with Oberyn even now), and relieved himself.

He washed his face and blinked blearily at his reflection. 

Okay, he could do this, there was probably some perfectly logical explanation why six of the eight people in their group were camped out in his and Thoros’ room. 

Beric opened the door to Robert and Ned’s room hesitantly. There, set up next to the bed, was a bassinet. 

What.

Beric gulped and inched closer. With the feeling of someone in a horror movie, he carefully peeked over the side. 

A tiny baby with a floofy halo of black fuzz on its head was nestled there. As if sensing his presence, it gave an adorable yawn and opened its black eyes.

“Hi there,” Beric said nervously. The baby giggled. Beric edged out of the room and closed the door behind him. Then he leaned against it.

Had they abducted a baby?! Gods they were going to be in so much trouble. There was probably a manhunt going on this very minute, what if Cersei found out, she’d probably skin them all alive and this poor black haired black eyed baby would...

Wait a minute. Oberyn had black hair. And black eyes. Sure the baby was a little paler than him, but didn’t he mention a couple months ago that he’d just had a baby with a septa up north? The Northerners were a pale lot. Beric pressed his fingers to his temples, desperately trying to rationalize this. The septa probably wasn’t allowed to keep her baby, so she brought it to Oberyn and he’d installed it in one of the bedrooms while he found a nurse, so Doran wouldn’t find out? Because Beric definitely got the sense that Oberyn was a little intimidated by his older brother. 

With a sigh, Beric pushed open the door to Mace and Oberyn’s room, hoping (for the first time in his life) to see a young lady in a habit waiting for him. 

An enormous, simply enormous, dark grey direwolf was standing on the bed, its golden eyes locked onto Beric. He felt the breath rushing out of his lungs in a squeak, even as he saw the back legs bending, preparing to pounce. Acting purely on instinct, Beric threw himself to the left as the direwolf lunged with a snarl. Scrambling, he managed to slide back out the door and slam it shut even as it shuddered with the force of the direwolf’s second spring.

The sound of the door slamming apparently offended the baby’s sensibilities, and it began to wail.

The door to Jaime and Stannis’ room opened, and Beric braced. But it was only Stannis, his thinning black hair looking rumpled with sleep. Beric let out a sigh of relief.

“I think Jaime is missing,” Stannis said.

Beric flinched as his final feeble hope that this was not what he thought it was flickered out.

“Why is there a baby crying?” Stannis asked, seeing as Beric had made no response.

Beric was fumbling in his pockets for what he wanted.

“Is that piss?” Stannis wrinkled his nose at the floor.

His fingers closed on the item in question.

“Say Dondarrion, can you catch me up on what happened last night? My memory is a little...”

Beric blew his rape whistle loudly enough to wake the dead. 

Half an hour later found their party more or less dressed (minus Oberyn and Mace whose room was occupied by a direwolf) and in the common room. Thoros had pulled the sword from the chunk of ice in the ice bucket and used it to hack off enough for Robert to put on his face.

“I don’t see why you need to sleep naked,” Ned was glaring at (the still nude) Oberyn.

“Blame Thoros for stealing a direwolf and putting it in my room,” Oberyn shrugged.

“I didn’t steal a direwolf!” Thoros waved his sword. 

“Like you didn’t steal that elephant?”

“That’s objectively different! A direwolf is a predator! And like I’ve been mauled by a dog before, remember? I wouldn’t have stolen a direwolf!”

Oberyn looked unconvinced. As did Robert and Mace, who also remembered the elephant incident.

“You believe me don’t you?” Thoros asked Beric wanly.

“Of course,” Beric said firmly. Robert made a gagging sound.

“So we’ve lost Jaime, Thoros stole a direwolf, Robert probably has another Dothraki gang after him,” Mace began. “But what’s up with the baby? That wasn’t here last time.”

“Last time?” Stannis arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah in Myr—mmmf,” Mace was cut off as Robert clapped a hand over his mouth.

“We swore a vow of secrecy!” Robert scolded.

“That didn’t happen in Myr,” Ned frowned. “I was there, remember?”

“Except you weren’t there for the—,” Oberyn was cut off by Robert’s other hand.

“Does a vow of secrecy mean nothing to you guys?!” Robert whined.

Beric exchanged a glance with Thoros. Ned and Stannis were both looking supremely confused, and vows of secrecy or not, nothing was going to get done until they were all on the same page.

“The last morning in Myr, we woke up with no recollection of what happened the night before. Oberyn had accidentally poisoned us. It turned out that Robert had a fight with the khal of the local Dothraki, Thoros stole an elephant from the Golden Company, Mace married a stripper, and Oberyn accidentally stole sixty grand from the Tattered Prince. We thought he’d kidnapped you in retaliation, so we tried to ransom you back only to discover that his hostage was actually the girl Oberyn had brought home that night. Also we entered Robert in an underground boxing match and won a bunch of money,” Beric scratched his head, wondering if he was leaving anything out.

“What?” Stannis’ eye was twitching. Had it always done that?

“Wait, so the entire time I was just hanging out at the airport trying to move my flight, you thought I had been kidnapped?” Ned stared.

“Yup,” Robert nodded. “So Jaime is probably fine. Oberyn probably poisoned us. And Thoros probably stole that direwolf. But beats me about the baby.”

“Um I have a theory about that...” Beric began.

“I didn’t steal the direwolf!”

“I DIDN’T POISON YOU!”

Beric blew the whistle again. 

“Giving that to you was a mistake,” Stannis mumbled in the relative quiet.

“Look, there’s a black haired, black eyed baby in that room. I don’t see why it’s complicated. Who is most likely to have a child out of wedlock?”

Six people pointed at Oberyn. Oberyn pointed at Robert.

“I mean...” Thoros began, only for Robert to kick him.

“Didn’t you say you’d just had a baby?” Beric prodded Oberyn.

“Yes but...”

“Well had you seen it yet?”

“No but...”

“So why don’t you call your septa and ask her if she dropped off a child with you?” Beric growled.

“I can’t,” Oberyn admitted after a pause. “The sisters aren’t allowed electronics. I can call the sept?”

There was a minute or two of waiting.

“Um they haven’t seen her or her child in a day or two, but they say it’s normal. Lyene has family in the area she visits with,” Oberyn said hesitantly.

“Or she thought she’d take the opportunity to bring you the baby,” Beric pointed out. 

Ned had been keeping the child occupied, but at that, he handed him to Oberyn.

“C’mon, he could totally still be Robert’s!” Oberyn tried. “He’s more Robert’s skin tone, and Robert has black hair too!”

“Nuh-uh,” Robert crossed his arms. “He has dark eyes. All Baratheons have blue eyes.”

“...That’s not actually how genetics work, buddy,” Ned patted him on the shoulder. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Martell’s.”

“Fine,” Oberyn huffed, cradling him to his chest. “He’s too cute to be Robert’s anyway.”

“Okay, so that leaves finding Jaime and returning the direwolf,” Beric got them back on track.

“Jaime is totally at the airport, I’m not worried,” Robert yawned.

“Are we sure about that?” Stannis said, looking at his phone. He looked up at the group, face drawn. “Because I got a text this morning that says ‘Caught L snooping around the Water Gardens, threat neutralized, details to follow.’”

“Look, if Myr taught us anything, it’s that texting by initials allows for mixups,” Mace said earnestly. “It probably has nothing to do with Jaime.”

“It’s from Jaime’s cell phone number,” Stannis said flatly.

There was a dispirited pause.

“Well we all know what to do,” Beric sighed.

“We do?” Ned said, sounding rather frazzled. “Because I have literally no idea what to do about any of this.”

“We need to check our phones and our pockets for clues as to where we lost Jaime,” Robert patted Ned on the shoulder. “Relax, the last time was hilarious.”

“I have a sword,” Thoros struck a pose. “Umm nothing in my pockets.”

“My phone is out of juice. I’ll charge it after. And... I have a ticket to a pawn shop?” Robert offered. He frowned, looking around. “What could I have pawned though? Oh fuck, THE RING!”

“Right here,” Ned produced the ring from his pocket. “I would have never gotten so drunk that I let you carry it.”

“Thank the gods,” Stannis sighed. “I almost had a heart attack.”

“You’ll feel that way a lot for the next twenty-four hours,” Mace said sagely. 

“Okay, I had the ring. But I can’t find my phone,” Ned frowned, patting down his pockets.

“It was in the toilet. I left it on the bathroom counter,” Beric sighed. He’d had the whistle and a used condom (seriously?! He hoped the one on the tv wasn’t his). He checked his phone. 

“Nothing on my phone,” he said after a beat, trying to keep his face blank. Because there absolutely had to be some kind of rational explanation.

“I have a number on my arm and my phone is dead,” Oberyn offered.

A very logical and rational explanation.

Neither Stannis nor Mace had anything to contribute either, beyond Stannis’ text from Jaime’s phone. 

A very logical and rational explanation as to why he had ten missed calls.

“Robert, can I borrow some clothes?” Mace asked, with a nervous glance over his shoulder at the closed door beyond which a direwolf prowled.

From ten different numbers. Which were entered as ‘Beki from the Bar’ ranging to ‘Zenia Love Of Your Life’. Beric forced himself to put the phone away and focus.

Robert had procured Mace some gym clothes, as Mace (clearly rather embarrassed at his growing girth) turned his back to the group and wrestled his now very wrinkled shirt off and exchanged it for a Maesters tee shirt.

When he looked back, it was to find the entire group staring at him.

“It’s just a little dad bod,” he said self-consciously. 

“No,” Oberyn said flatly.

“Um my mom thinks it might be thyroid issue,” Mace mumbled, flushing red.

“No,” Beric pinched the bridge of his nose. “What Oberyn means to say is...” He trailed off, unable to continue.

There was an awkward pause.

“What?” Mace squeaked.

“Dude, you’ve got a tramp stamp of a rose on your ass,” Robert said bluntly.

The next few minutes were very loud. Mace proceeded to scream and then run in a circle trying to get a look at his backside. Oberyn, concerned that the noise would attract someone from Doran’s household and they would discover the disastrous mess the group had made, proceeded to launch himself at Mace’s head in an attempt to wrestle him to the ground. Now blinded, Mace ran straight into the plasma television, which dislodged from the walk with a crash and a shower of sparks. Robert was lying on the couch practically sobbing in laughter, as Ned and Stannis attempted to free the duo from beneath the television.

“I really don’t think I stole that direwolf,” Thoros edged over to Beric in the midst of the confusion. 

Beric tried to smile at him. He’d been avoiding eye contact since he’d checked his phone, firmly suppressing the last awful fact.

“I believe you,” he said, because he did. Just like he believed that there was a perfectly good reason that he’d had an hourlong phone conversation with Allyria Dayne at two in the morning.

“I’m going to keep the sword,” Thoros said cheerfully, leaning his head against Beric’s shoulder.

“Mmm,” Beric said neutrally. Allyria was a good friend, possibly their only friend who was initially Beric’s friend and not Thoros’. But Beric had once told his parents that he was dating Allyria before he came out to them as gay. And that had led to the one really terrible fight they’d ever had, a fight that still occasionally featured in Beric’s nightmares. And considering he’d legally died on two separate occasions, he was pretty sure his nightmares were more intense than most.

“Did you know mace is flammable? Like if you had a lighter and sprayed it, you’d have a mini flamethrower?”

“Mmm.” So there was probably some completely inane reason he’d had a heart to heart with Allyria at two in the morning. After collecting no fewer than ten women’s numbers. They had been supposed to meet up with Arthur Dayne after all, and he was Allyria’s cousin (although Beric knew the two branches of the Dayne family were not on good terms). And Beric had really never thought of her (or any woman) in a more than platonic way. Regardless of what Zenia, love of his life, might think. But that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t want to upset Thoros unnecessarily. Except him not telling Thoros made it seem way more sketchy, didn’t it? Oh gods, he was going to have to do this, wasn’t he?

“So in theory, you could coat the sword with mace and then light it, and have a fire sword!”

“I got a ton of numbers from strange women and it looks like I spoke to Allyria Dayne at like two in the morning last night,” Beric blurted.

Right as Thoros said:

“Can I borrow that mace Stannis lent you?”

There was a beat as they both tried to figure out what the other person was going on about.

“I’m like a thousand percent sure that Allyria had something to do with Arthur and not us,” Thoros offered.

“That sounds dangerous and I will not help you make a fire sword,” Beric ventured.

“Sometimes it’s like I can't predict your reactions at all,” Thoros sulked. Beric couldn’t agree more.

“Okay,” Oberyn got the group’s attention, rubbing his head and glaring at Mace. “Mace and I have discussed...”

“Is that what we’re calling what just happened?” Stannis groused.

“...and we think we know where he got that tattoo. It’s a parlor in the Shadow City that we went to once in college and he chickened out before he got anything.”

“I didn’t chicken out, I thought better of a bad idea!” Mace wailed, looking at the rose in the mirror.

“It’s nothing that some laser treatments won’t fix,” Ned tried to calm him down.

“And how am I supposed to keep that from my mother?! From Alerie?!”

“So the plan should probably be to go to the shadow city and talk to the people at the tattoo parlor and see when we were there and if Jaime was with us,” Oberyn pressed on.

There was a ding from the charger in the corner as Robert’s phone came back online.

“Oh I got a text!” Robert said cheerfully. “It says...” he appeared stymied by his inability to see out of one eye. With a harrumph, Stannis snatched it from him.

“Caught L snooping around the Water Gardens, meet me at the airport, Long Term Parking Lot J at 2 to discuss the terms of surrender,” Stannis read. “It’s an unknown number.”

“It’s eleven now,” Mace pointed out. “The airport isn’t that close to the shadow city, we need to get over there and figure out what we’re dealing with before we negotiate the return of what is definitely the wrong hostage.”

“Okay!” Robert bounded to his feet. “I’ve always wanted to see the shadow city! I mean, I guess I did last night, but since I don’t remember...”

Ned and Stannis exchanged a glance.

“Maybe you should stay here,” Ned began. 

“Actually, you and Oberyn and Thoros should all stay here,” Stannis said flatly.

“What?”

“Wait no!”

“C’mon, I DIDN’T STEAL THE DIREWOLF!”

“It’s just your face looks terrible,” Ned said hastily. “And Oberyn needs to take care of his baby. And both of your phones are basically dead, so if Thoros stayed...”

“You are all incredibly irresponsible and I am not taking you to a hostage negotiation,” Stannis shoved his hands in his pockets and stomped out.

“Please Robert, just stay out of trouble until we get back?” Ned asked with puppy dog eyes as he moved toward the door.

“Ugh fine, good luck out there,” Robert sighed, and slapped Mace on the lower back.

“FUCK!” Mace yelped, grabbing at his still tender tattoo, and scampered after Stannis and Ned.

“You don’t think I’m incredibly irresponsible do you?” Thoros asked Beric, scratching his head with the sword.

“Oh, look at the time!” Beric squeaked, and ran after the rest.

Oberyn (Vice and Wish 3 of x)

Oberyn finished wrapping the baby to his chest with the wrap carrier he’d used the last time Nymeria and Nymeria came to visit. The baby tilted his head back and giggled. Oberyn smirked down at him, carefully lifting his aviators and placing them on the baby’s nose.

Even though he and Thoros were essentially on babysitting duty (and he was referring to Robert, not the literal child strapped to his chest), he was in a great mood.

The reason was that he was in possession of a scrap of information that nobody else knew.

Unless he was very much mistaken, the sword that Thoros was currently using to mock fight a poker-wielding Robert was the literal Sword of the Morning. Aka Dawn, aka a priceless family heirloom of the Dayne family.

“I’m thirsty,” Thoros yawned, leaning on the sword like a walking stick.

Oberyn took a moment to visualize the expression of horror and outrage on Arthur Dayne’s face if he were here right now.

“Why don’t you use that sword to cut up some oranges for us?” Oberyn offered. “I’ll make mimosas and we can walk around the historic district. It’s all open container.”

“I love it here,” Thoros said dreamily.

“Less talking, more chopping,” Oberyn pushed him.

He had always gotten along well with Arthur and his younger sister Ashara. They were another old Dornish family who kept a pied a terre in King’s Landing so their children could attend the best schools. He and Elia had played with Arthur and Ashara often growing up. It had actually been through Arthur that Elia had met Rhaegar, way back in middle school.

Arthur had already graduated when the whole Rhaegar and Lyanna fiasco had happened, so it hadn’t even interfered with their friendship. And when Elia and Arthur had begun dating, Oberyn had been even a little relieved. It wasn’t healthy to nurse a broken heart for two years. Arthur was a safe rebound who could be counted on to treat Elia well. But maybe too well. She was 24 years old, what was the rush?!

So while he had no idea how they had managed to get a hold of Dawn, he couldn’t help but think good riddance to a certain charmingly modest Dornish swordsman who ran around sweeping certain sisters off their feet.

Once their phones were recharged Oberyn ushered Robert and Thoros out the door, thermoses of mimosas in hand (and keeping a wary eye out for Doran) and gave a deeply contented sigh. This was was the life. Let the others worry about Lannister and how the disappearance of the bride’s brother might impact the wedding. 

Ugh, the wedding.

He had always assumed Ned would get married depressingly early. Elia naturally. Arthur a bit of a surprise. Mace totally left field. But Robert?! ROBERT?!

Somehow Oberyn had always assumed that even if Elia and Doran and all his friends settled down, he could still count on Robert to be cheerfully stag. Was Oberyn going to be the awkward single guy at a thousand children’s birthdays?? He was Oberyn Nymeros Martell, for the seven’s sake! He didn’t do awkward!

“What a cutie!” An elderly woman approached him. Oberyn preened.

“What’s his name?”

Oh fuck she was talking about the kid.

“Daemon,” Oberyn said smoothly. “Daemon Sand.”

Right. Another fact he’d kept to himself.

“Awwww, you’re lucky to have such a super dad! Where’s your mommy?”

This kid.

“Her other daddy is right here,” Oberyn casually slung his arm around Thoros, just to see the woman’s face. 

“We used a surrogate and a special cocktail. So really either of us could be the biological father,” he continued.

The woman glanced at the black haired black eyed baby and then at red haired blue eyed Thoros. 

“Right,” she mumbled and backed away.

“Shove off,” Thoros pushed him.

“Hey! Baby on board!” Oberyn huffed.

The second bit of information that Oberyn had kept to himself was that there was no possible way this kid was Oberyn’s. Because Lyene sent him a letter that referred to his new daughter Tyene and used female pronouns throughout. And unless the sept was way way more comfortable with gender fluidity than he gave them credit for, he was pretty sure that meant little Tyene was not rocking the parts that this baby was equipped with.

He had neglected to share that fact for two reasons. The first was that he already had twice as many kids as Ned or Mace, let alone the rest of the crew. If anybody was equipped to hang out with some stranger’s baby for an afternoon, it was definitely him. 

“Awww, your son is adorable! You must be so proud!” Another, significantly more age appropriate, woman cooed.

“It’s hard as a single father but I do my best,” Oberyn smiled.

“Divorced?” The woman looked sympathetic.

“Widower,” Oberyn gave a tragic and wistful sigh.

“And so young!” His new friend shook her head.

“It is hard sometimes. But I know in my heart, she’d want me to move on with the right person,” Oberyn began.

The woman simpered.

Hello reason number two. As Oberyn flirted, he reflected that he might have to consider keeping little Daemon Sand around long term. The boy was really earning his keep.

“Hey, let me try,” Robert nudged him once Oberyn had collected her number.

“Sorry, only actual fathers can pull off this move,” Oberyn sniffed.

Thoros coughed and Robert kicked him.

“C’mon, that’s not a real rule,” Robert whined.

Oberyn was saved from having to answer by the chime of his phone.

“Sorry got a text,” he said glancing down.

I have L. Meet me in the shadow of the Tower of the Sun at 2.

“What?” Robert said, looking over his shoulder.

“Huh,” Thoros said, looking over his other shoulder.

“It’s not the same number as the text you got,” Oberyn frowned.

“And it’s a completely different location,” Thoros scratched his head.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Oberyn grinned.

“That we should check this out?” Thoros was also starting to smile.

“Ned said to stay here you guys,” Robert warned.

“Here like in the Water Gardens. We’ve already broken that rule,” Thoros waved a hand airily.

“We’re helping them,” Oberyn explained. “They can’t be in two places at once.”

Besides, why should Stannis and Ned and Mace and Beric get to have all the fun?! He couldn’t think of four individuals it was more wasted on.

“Well,” Robert wavered.

“Grrrglag,” Daemon said.

“Fine,” Robert caved immediately.

“Let’s head back to the Water Gardens and find this guy a car seat,” Oberyn patted his little curls.

Further buoyed by this intriguing text, Oberyn practically sauntered back to his brother’s. There was some formula in the room under the bassinet. He could heat that up and then... 

The intercom buzzed.

“Hello?” Oberyn asked.

“Sir, Arthur Dayne is here to see you. Shall I escort him to your suite?” One of his brother’s staff asked politely.

“Of course,” Oberyn said slowly. The intercom beeped off.

“Shit! Thoros, pull that throw over the sofa! Robert, grab a towels and get the floor!” Oberyn picked up the destroyed television and tried to prop it back up on its console table with mixed success. That would have to do—he threw the women’s panties in the bathroom, dumped the bottles and assorted other detritus in the trash—Thoros had cleared the floors and was ‘leaning’ against the television to hold it in place and Robert was sprawling semi casually on the couch in an attempt to keep the throw rug in place and conceal as much of the remaining couch as possible.

Daemon gurgled, and Oberyn hastily unwrapped him and put him in the bassinet that had been left in Robert’s room. And then put the bassinet in the closet. And then shut the door. And then the door to that room.

There was a knock from the hall.

Oberyn frantically scanned the common area. He thought it held up to inspection reasonably well. Robert was half lying to cover as much of the couch as possible and Thoros had put the sword down to prop up...

Fuck, the sword!

There was a second knock, and as the handle turned, Oberyn hastily shoved it into the umbrella stand with one hand as he swung open the door with the other.

“Arthur!” Oberyn gave him an enthusiastic hug, turning him with his back to the umbrella stand, even as he kicked the door shut in the maid’s face.

Arthur had black hair and striking violet eyes. He was not quite as tall nor as broad shouldered as Robert, but it was close, and he moved with a lithe gracefulness that was almost feline. And where Robert had never quite lost his baby fat around the face, making him look perpetually younger than he was, Arthur Dayne‘s jawline could have been chiseled from stone. Basically, Oberyn had always been just slightly resentful that Arthur was straight. 

“Oberyn,” Arthur said stiffly, taking off his sunglasses, and Oberyn noticed that he too looked badly beaten about the face. Robert and Thoros awkwardly waved while trying to move as little as possible from their stations.

“Look, last night got out of hand,” Arthur began sternly. “Obviously we all had far far too much to drink, but I want it back.”

Robert and Thoros both looked nonplussed. Oberyn tried not to glance at the umbrella stand.

“Right,” Robert said uncertainly. “So when you say you want it back...”

“I am not leaving this room until it is in my hands,” Arthur growled. “You might have won last night, but I assure you I’m sober now.”

He was advancing on Robert, who was still awkwardly half slouching half lying on the couch. Unable to move, Robert craned his neck to maintain eye contact.

“Won?” Robert said.

“Our stupid bet, who was the better boxer,” Arthur said impatiently. “Now stand up gods damnit.”

“...No,” Robert said after a pause.

“Robert Baratheon, you fucking child, stand up or I swear...”

“You had a boxing fight?” Oberyn interjected.

Arthur shot him a sour look.

There was a muffled sound of a baby crying, and Arthur wheeled.

“What the hells?!”

“Ahem,” Thoros cleared his throat loudly. “Sorry I think it’s allergies, it makes my throat itch.”

Another muffled cry.

Thoros immediately dissolved into a coughing fit to conceal it.

“If you’ll just excuse me,” he mumbled edging toward Robert’s room without ever loosening his grip on the television. Finally, he slowly let go. It stood on its own power, and with a sigh, Thoros hurried for the other room, swinging the door shut after him.

As it slammed, the television slowly toppled over and landed on the ground with a crash.

“What just... you know what, I don’t care,” Arthur massaged his temples. “Where the fuck is it?! Is it in here?” He stormed toward the room with the direwolf.

“Woah,” Oberyn scurried to intercept him, gently steering his shoulders back toward the room. And accidentally toward the umbrella stand. “Arthur!” He continued the spin until they had gone a full three quarter circle.

“Martell,” Dayne glared at him. “Start explaining. Now.”

“I was hoping you could do the same,” Oberyn said in a soothing tone. “You see, you find us somewhat... memory impaired.”

“What?”

“We were wasted. Blotto. Blacked out.”

“We can’t remember shit,” Robert contributed helpfully.

“You’re telling me you don’t remember what happened last night?” Arthur said slowly.

“And since you seem to...” Oberyn prodded. “I only ask because I trust you. You are one of my very best friends.”

Arthur made an incredulous sound.

“That’s not what you were saying last night! I had gotten the ring that I’m going to propose to Elia with...”

Wait, WHAT.

“And you told me that I had to prove myself worthy of Elia by winning a challenge.”

“A challenge?” Oberyn repeated.

“Yeah, against one of your stupid friends,” Arthur scowled.

“Hey!” Robert protested from the couch.

“Only I kept losing! Like the first was just to go up to a girl with your friend with the eye patch and she had to give me her number instead of him. But we went up to like ten girls and he got the number EVERY TIME! He wasn’t even trying!”

Heh. Okay that was kind of funny.

“So then you had me do this drinking game with that guy,” Arthur pointed towards the room where Thoros had disappeared to console the baby. “Who could do the most shots in a minute.”

Wait, this was hilarious. He loved drunk Oberyn.

“And then after I got crushed by that, and could barely see straight, you had me box Robert in the parking lot!”

“Oh I’m great at that,” Robert said. Arthur glared at him, or Oberyn assumed that’s what he was doing under all the bruises.

“And then you said to make it interesting, Robert and I should bet our engagement rings on the outcome, because Robert had gotten Cersei’s resized earlier,” Arthur poked Oberyn in the chest.

Oh this was just too wonderful.

“So what you’re saying is...”

“You hustled me out of my engagement ring! And if you don’t give it back right now, the next time I come, I will have Dawn and I will be using it to separate your heads from your shoulders,” Arthur growled.

This really seemed to be one of those good news bad news situations. 

The good news was that it sounded like last night was amazing and that drunk Oberyn was an absolute prince.

The bad news was that they definitely didn’t have the ring. And it sure sounded like Arthur hadn’t realized Dawn was missing, and he should under no circumstances be allowed to look at the umbrella stand.

“So the ring,” Oberyn began. “We will absolutely get it for you.”

“What do you mean get it for me?” Arthur grabbed Oberyn by the shoulders. “It’s not here?! Where the fuck is it?!”

“It’s not here, it’s ah...” Oberyn looked at the ceiling for inspiration. 

“With Ned,” Robert interjected. Oooh nice one.

Arthur wheeled on him, still holding Oberyn in a death grip.

“Explain,” Arthur growled.

“We’ve misplaced Lannister. Ned is off hunting him down with Stannis and Mace and Beric. He has the ring because I’m not to be trusted with valuables. I’d probably pawn it or something.”

Oberyn really respected Robert’s skills as an improvisational liar. Also he had definitely pawned Arthur’s ring. They should probably work on getting that back.

“Lannister?” Arthur frowned. “He was with you last night at the strip club. Everybody was there but him,” Arthur waved at the direction Thoros had gone, “and the guy with the eyepatch. Beric.”

Probably off stealing direwolves.

“What happened at the strip club?” Robert asked.

Arthur arched an eyebrow.

“Anything unusual could be helpful for tracking Jaime down,” Oberyn said smoothly.

“But also like did I get a lap dance? Was she hot? Are there pictures?”

Arthur sighed.

“You got several. Your friend Ned took plenty of photos. And the only unusual thing was Oberyn nearly got us kicked out trying to take pictures of Edgar Yronwood in the private room.”

“Yronwood was there?” Oberyn frowned.

“Getting the full service treatment it appeared. Anyway, we left around two in the morning and you appeared to be heading back to the Water Gardens. Jaime Lannister was present and accounted for.”

Arthur appeared to have calmed down somewhat, under the mistaken impression that his ring was in good hands. Oberyn thought now might be the appropriate time to escort him out.

“So we’ll call you the second Ned gets back and you can pick up the ring,” Oberyn said, walking him toward the door.

“Great, I didn’t mean to come on so strong, I just woke up this morning and was really freaked out,” Arthur was saying.

“It happens to all of us,” Oberyn accepted his apology with a wave of the hand.

“Thanks, and I owe you man for that fight!” Arthur turned over his shoulder to shout cheerfully at Robert. Robert guffawed, Oberyn opened the door, everyone was happy.

Arthur, turning back, looked at the umbrella stand. Oh no.

His head tilted.

There was only one thing to do.

“Is that—“ Arthur began, only to be cut off by Oberyn kissing him firmly on the mouth.

“What the fuck Martell!”

“Welcome to the family,” Oberyn purred. The door slammed.

“Is it safe?” Thoros poked his head out, baby in his arms.

“Yup,” Robert straightened up.

“What’d I miss?”

“We have to go the pawn shop and get Arthur Dayne’s ring back. Jaime was at the strip club. You were not,” Oberyn shrugged.

“Oberyn got to first base with his future brother in law,” Robert added.

“No accounting for taste,” Thoros shrugged.

“Yes some of us prefer Olympic athletes and some prefer blond beanpoles who blush if you say ‘balls’. Unfathomable,” Oberyn rolled his eyes.

“So the pawn shop?” Robert asked.

“Found a car seat in there,” Thoros jerked his head. 

“I’ll bring the car around,” Oberyn offered. Oh. The car. He really really hoped the Dragon was okay. There were only like three in existence.

Fortunately, it sat perfectly parked in the garage. Oberyn let out a sigh of relief and circled it, just to make sure there wasn’t any scratches he was missing. It appeared pristine. He got in and started the engine, and pulled it out into the road, preparing to drive it up to the main entrance.

THUMP! 

Uh oh. He looked around. Had he hit something?

THUMP!

Was that... coming from the trunk?

THUMP!

Oberyn sped up slightly, since he could hardly stop in the middle of the street. Had they locked Jaime in the trunk as some kind of practical joke? Drunk Oberyn had certainly been on a role last night, and if he were honest he would admit that there was something about Lannister’s attitude that had always annoyed him slightly...

THUMP!

“I’m coming!” Oberyn shouted, as he pulled into the driveway and parked the car. Robert was holding the baby, Thoros had the car seat, both patiently waiting some ten yards distant.

“He’s in the trunk!” Oberyn called to them, as he swung out of the driver’s seat and ran around. He flipped the latch, already wincing at what promised to be a rancid temper tantrum.

Instead, a naked middle aged man that was emphatically not Jaime Lannister stared up at him.

“AHHH!” Oberyn jumped back.

“AAAARRG!” The man surged up and forward, wielding a tire iron indiscriminately.

Fuck! Oberyn stumbled, barely sidestepping the first swing and blocking the second with his forearm, which sent a spiraling pain through the entire right side of his body. His pasty opponent pressed his advantage, getting in at least five more blows, mostly to Oberyn’s arms where he was shielding his face, and one hard strike to the ribs, before he saw Robert and Thoros running toward them.

Evidently deciding that three on one was not good odds, even with a tire iron, the naked assailant whipped it at Robert’s face and fled.

“Fuck,” Oberyn groaned, trying to straighten. “I think he broke my fucking arm.”

“Who the fuck WAS that?” Thoros stared after him.

“Fuck if I know,” Robert scratched his head with the tire iron, which he’d managed to catch one-handed. “Did he look just a little familiar to you?”

“He did not,” Oberyn wheezed. “Now go get the baby. We’ve got to get to the pawn shop or we’re fucked.”

“Maybe first the hospital,” Robert said tentatively, poking at Oberyn’s right arm.

“FUCK!”

Ned (Vice and Wish 4 of x)

“It’s going to be okay,” Catelyn had taken Ned’s chin in her hand the morning after the Incident, bringing his gaze from the ground up to meet her.

They had met at six in the morning, by the river in the Tully’s backyard, where they had used to sneak kisses in the groves of willows in high school. In high school, before Hoster Tully had realized how serious they were about each other, when he welcomed Ned with a benevolent smile and a question about his father or his brother. Before they had gotten married and Hoster had glowered disapprovingly through the entire ceremony. Before he had ceased talking to Ned entirely. Before he had started sabotaging their marriage and Ned had reacted like the deadbeat that Hoster Tully had always thought he was.

“Is it?” Ned asked dolefully. “I’m so sorry Cat, I don’t know what came over me, I feel terrible.”

“It wasn’t... ideal,” she admitted, eyebrows briefly knitting, and he wanted to kiss the wrinkle away. Instead he settled for kissing Robb, half asleep in his arms.

“You know his behavior has been every bit as appalling as yours,” Cat continued. “I just... it would have made things easier if you hadn’t stooped to his level.”

“I can’t think what came over me! I don’t even understand how I got the idea in the first place,” Ned groaned. “It’s just so out of character!”

“Look, at the end of the day, I love you and you love me, and that will always be enough. But if there’s a way for me to do this without losing my relationship with my father, I’d like to try,” Cat sighed, pressing her head into his chest. Ned shifted Robb to his hip and wrapped his free arm around her, a three-person hug that brought his arms around everything he needed in life.

“Of course Cat, I’ll do anything,” Ned promised into her hair.

Anything turned out to be a family brunch brokered by Catelyn the Monday after the Dorne trip. Ned’s father, who had always gotten along well with Hoster Tully, would be there, as would Brandon. Brandon had promised to act like an obnoxious cad to remind Hoster that high-powered finance careers weren’t EVERYTHING. Ned would swallow his pride and grovel and Hoster would apologize for how he acted. In theory. Or that’s what Cat thought would happen anyway. Ned had his doubts. Regardless, Ned primarily had to show up Monday at eleven sharp.

“It’ll be fine,” Robert had promised on the plane. “If anything, the problem is that you accidentally antagonized him. Have you tried intentionally antagonizing him?”

“When I’m attending your funeral after some ‘accident’, I’ll remember that,” Ned said drily.

“Listen,” Mace had said earnestly. “Why even get involved? When I knocked up Alerie, you can bet I was persona non grata at the Hightower household. But then my mother went and spoke to Old Leyton and next thing I knew it was all settled. Just send in your father and call it a day.”

“Well my father will be there,” Ned winced. “But I don’t know that he can produce quite the effect of Olenna Tyrell. She is unique in that regard.”

“No no no,” Thoros made a warding gesture when Ned tried to bring it up by the pool Friday evening. “This is not my forte. Just don’t get a haircut, you‘ll spend the rest of the year trying to grow it back.”

“You are a kind husband, a good father, and you love his daughter endlessly,” Beric said firmly at dinner. “He will see how happy you make her and he will find at the end of the day that’s all that matters. Even if you aren’t quite who he imagined Cat would end up with.”

“You think?” Ned said hopefully.

“Absolutely,” Beric smiled. “It worked out for me.”

Beric’s calm confidence was contagious. Friday evening went perfectly, the Saturday surprise boat ride impeccably executed, and as they motored back to Sunspear, Robert collapsed half on top of Ned.

“This is the best stag ever,” he said sleepily. Ned beamed. Oberyn had arranged for an evening in the shadow city next—including dinner and a strip club—and then Ned would have done his duty. They could sleep off their hangovers tomorrow, and he had a six p.m. flight back to King’s Landing, landing at ten, and he would be bright eyed and appropriately chagrined at brunch the next morning.

That was the plan. How it had devolved into standing outside a tattoo parlor as Mace tried to convince the owner to pull security footage quite escaped him.

“There’s no law that I have to pull security footage just because you ask,” the owner growled.

“But there is a law against giving intoxicated customers roses on THEIR FUCKING ASSES!” Mace roared.

Ned wasn’t sure this was going anywhere fast. Apparently Stannis agreed.

“What my companion means to say,” he interjected. “Is that if you pull the tapes, I will pay you two hundred dragons,” he emptied his billfold. “And if you do not, we will be contacting the Better Business Bureau.”

The bills vanished with magical speed. Ned was glad that Robert had invited Stannis, and doubly glad that Stannis had deigned to come.

“Look, I’m going to get some more cash. This has the feeling of an expensive day,” Stannis rubbed his forehead.

Which left Ned to stare blankly at footage of the eight of them laughing and drinking and Mace stumbling over to the chair and promptly passing out. Ned watched through partially covered eyes as Oberyn leaned over to talk to the tattoo artist. Was he supposed to take anything away from this? Other than that was definitely Jaime shaking his head as Mace snored?

Ned sighed. All he wanted was to throw his best friend, his brother in all but blood, the best stag ever. And be home in time for brunch tomorrow with his appalling father in law.

Speaking of appalling father in laws, what would Tywin Lannister’s reaction be to his eldest son’s disappearance?

He looked over to Stannis, who was scowling at an ATM. Beric, who was talking rather animatedly on his cell phone. Mace, who was still arguing with the owner of the tattoo parlor.

“Do you know my bank account has been frozen for fraudulent activity?” Stannis growled after a minute.

“Um, Allyria Dayne just told me that Oberyn bet me and Thoros five hundred dragons that we couldn’t steal the Dayne ancestral family sword. And she spent an hour on the phone walking us through her family’s security settings,” Beric looked on the verge of a panic attack.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN I PUT IT ON MY MOTHER’S CARD?!” 

Mace actually was having a panic attack.

Ned got the distinct impression that his troops were in disarray.

“Listen, Lannister was here,” Ned said, trying to be encouraging. 

“Do you think that sword in the ice bucket was the Dayne’s’ ancestral family sword?” Beric asked anxiously.

“So I think we should figure out where we went next,” Ned pressed on.

“If my account is frozen, then Robert’s cards are too, I routed all of his spending to go through mine so I could keep an eye on it,” Stannis frowned.

“Sir, did we say anything about where we were going next?” Ned asked the owner.

It took Mace emptying his own bill fold to procure an answer.

“The Sandship,” the owner snatched at the cash.

Mace thankfully knew where that was, and the group trudged deeper into the warrens of Sunspear’s infamous black market. It was casual and even at a late lunch hour, operating at a dim roar.  

“Well at least we know we here,” Stannis sighed. Ned looked over and Stannis jerked his head at the board.

Sure enough, under a list of banned customers, was a Polaroid of Robert grinning, face bloody.

“...is that Arthur Dayne?” Mace squinted at the photo next to it.

Ned stared. Arthur had been two years ahead of them in Prep, brilliant, kind, an all star athlete. He’d also been Ned’s girlfriend at the time’s older brother, and Ned had a tendency to get tongue-tied in his presence. When Ashara had dumped Ned on her way to college (it was amicable—even if he’d been disappointed, he recognized that she was not somebody who could make long distance work), Arthur had sent him a very kind text expressing his disappointment and best wishes for what would be an undoubtedly bright future. Ned still had the text saved somewhere, he occasionally pulled it out and reread it when he was feeling down. 

And here Arthur was, right next to Robert in the bar’s hall of shame, wincing at the flash of the camera and looking like he’d just been run over by a truck. Had they fought? That was impossible! Robert loved Arthur. EVERYBODY loved Arthur.

Accessing the security footage here took Beric emptying his wallet, and then they were treated to... well a disaster.

“Why am I hitting on all of those girls in front of ARTHUR DAYNE!” Beric groaned. “Well and Thoros. But also ARTHUR DAYNE!”

“Is he doing shots with Thoros?” Stannis frowned. “I can’t see that ending well.”

“Why am I handing the engagement ring to Robert?!” Ned pulled at his hair. “Never give the engagement ring to Robert!”

“Seriously,” Mace shook his head. “Trust me, rings turn out to be huge hassles in these scenarios.”

They all watched in silence as Robert and Arthur appeared to hand rings to Oberyn and walked out the door.

“Well Jaime is still with us at ten pm,” Stannis noted, pointing to the screen where Jaime had buried his head in his arms.

“Did you happen to hear where we were headed next?” Beric asked the manager hopefully.

“A strip club. The Dornishman’s Wife is the closest,” the manager said.

There was a pause.

“We’re supposed to show up for the hostage exchange at two,” Ned said at length.

“Oh it’s super close though, we definitely have time to visit the strip club,” Mace pointed out.

“You never know with traffic around here, and I really don’t feel comfortable speeding,” Beric interjected.

“What traffic? It’s in the middle of the day on a Sunday!” Mace gestured out the window to where there were no cars.

“Plus we should get there early, scout out the terrain,” Stannis said, lifting his voice to talk over Mace.

“What terrain?! We’re meeting some dude at the airport long-term parking lot! They are the same in every country!”

“Great point, Stannis,” Ned nodded.

“It’s a stupid point!”

“So we’re all agreed that we can skip the strip club?” Beric asked hopefully.

“NO!” Mace shouted.

“Absolutely,” Stannis said quickly.

“To the airport!” Ned cheered. He always liked when everybody got along.

Airport Long Term Parking Lot J did look the same as all other airport parking lots, Ned was prepared to admit. And since there was no traffic, Beric made very good time.

“Do you see anyone?” Ned whispered to the group at large as they slowly cruised down the lane of parked cars.

“Why would we, we’re an hour early,” Mace sulked. The rest of the group, by unspoken agreement, ignored him.

“Maybe we should just park and wait,” Stannis chipped in. Beric found a spot in the far corner, where they could see anybody who entered the lot. Even better, it was a straight shot to the exit in case things went bad. 

“So what should we talk about?” Beric asked brightly.

“Can I maybe run a couple of apologies to Hoster by you guys,” Ned began.

“NO!” Mace shouted.

“I will get out of this car and wait outside if I have to,” Stannis glared.

“Actually, maybe we don’t need to talk,” Beric demurred.

So the next hour passed in semi-companionable silence. 

And then Robert’s phone rang.

“Fuck! What do I do?!” Ned stared at the unknown caller ID.

“Just answer it,” Stannis huffed.

“But what if he asks why it isn’t Robert? Or what if he wants cash? Fuck, we barely have any cash! Or what if—“

“Knock knock,” said a blond man, tapping his gun against the passenger side window.

“What do I do?!” Ned squeaked.

“Open the door!” Stannis hissed from behind him. As that was also what the fellow with the gun wanted him to do, that seemed like sound strategy.

“All right, out of the car. Let’s have a look at you,” the gunman drawled, waving Ned out. He was wearing a crisp looking white linen suit and had mild gray eyes that made him look rather friendly. This friendliness was somewhat belied by the gun.

“You must be Ned,” the stranger said. “Bobby has told me so much about you!” He clapped Ned into a hug.

“Bobby?” Ned managed, trying to keep an eye on the revolver.

“Bobby B!” The man waved his hand and Ned ducked instinctively.

“Wait is that...” Mace pushed out of the car and stared, blinking.

“Harry Strickland?” Beric also got out of the car, looking more like he was contemplating doing a runner.

“Mace Tyrell! Never forget a face! How the hells are you?” The man slapped Mace amiably on the back.

“What are you doing here?!” Beric spluttered.

“And you. Beric Dondarrion,” this Harry fellow said flatly. Beric gulped.

“Forget that. Who are you?!” Stannis demanded.

Harry frowned.

“Who are you?”

“I asked first! And I am Robert’s brother!”

“... Robert has a brother?” Harry looked genuinely baffled.

Ned winced. Stannis’ face was going a dark red and he seemed to have lost the power of speech.

“Homeless Harry Strickland,” Beric whispered in Ned’s ear, “is the head of the Golden Company.”

Ned blinked. 

The Golden Company was a criminal syndicate that could trace its roots back to the Middle Ages. They were primarily active in Essos, but they had operations as far east as Yi Ti and as far west as well, Westeros. 

“Alas,” Harry shrugged lackadaisically. “I have been ousted. Homeless Harry again, in more ways than one. I had to leave Myr rather unexpectedly.”

“Ousted?” Mace frowned.

“By a blue-haired cunt who I could cheerfully disembowel with a butter knife,” Harry wrinkled his nose. “I came to Sunspear to pick up a cache I left for a rainy day like this one, and then this morning I remembered that Bobby was in town for his stag!”

“Robert has TWO brothers!” Stannis snapped, having finally found his voice.

“I thought I’d drop by, say hello, wish him all the best, catch up on tricks,” Harry continued, unconcerned. “And that’s when I saw him!”

“Saw who?” Ned scratched his head.

“Jaime Lannister! I recognized him from the engagement party spread in Agora! He was sneaking out of the grounds of the Water Gardens, carrying some kind of package! And he threw it into the river! The whole thing was done in a furtive manner, highly suspicious. And that’s when I remembered.”

“Remembered...?” Beric prompted.

“That he was trying to sabotage the wedding! Robert told me all about it, he was thinking about disappearing him. You and he talked about it remember?” (This last was addressed directly to Ned, and Ned had a slightly sinking feeling that he did possibly remember this. He hoped the trunk was soundproof.) “He clearly followed you down to Dorne and stole something in the middle of the night! At a guess I thought it might be the wedding ring,” Harry continued. “Robert was very clear that Lannister said to Robert that the wedding was happening over his dead body. And I thought, what the hell, right? That can be arranged.”

Ned felt the ground spin beneath his feet.

“You didn’t...”

“Of course not!” Harry laughed heartily, and Ned laughed too, a little weak at the knees. “It’s not much of a wedding gift if I get to have all the fun!”

“Hahaha what?” Ned’s chuckling dropped off.

“Oh I thought Robert would be coming naturally, but you are his best man. Fitting for you to do the honors.”

“The honors?”

Harry smiled and offered his gun to Ned. Ned stared at it stupidly.

“That silver sedan six cars down. Just pop a couple shots through the trunk. The beauty of long term parking is that it’ll be weeks before anyone notices.”

“Jaime Lannister is in the trunk of your car and you want me to shoot him?” Ned said slowly.

“Well it’s not my car of course. That would be crazy,” Harry beamed. 

“Right, crazy,” Ned repeated.

“I got here a couple hours ago and hot wired one with a permit through the end of the summer. It’s always best to arrive to a hostage negotiation early I’ve found. Four hours at the very latest,” Harry tapped his temple and winked.

“Is he always... quite this murder-y?” Ned asked Mace and Beric under his breath.

“Always,” Beric said glumly.

“Harry, this is a lovely gesture,” Ned sighed, trying to think how to get placate the psycho and get Jaime back unharmed. “Robert will be very touched. It’s just... well there seems to have been a miscommunication.”

“A miscommunication?” Harry frowned.

“Jaime realized he was being an idiot and patched things up with Robert. He wasn’t sneaking around the Water Gardens, he was a guest. Robert invited him. And he definitely didn’t steal the ring, see?” Ned produced it. 

Harry considered, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“How embarrassing!” He laughed at length. “Oh well, an honest misunderstanding, right chaps?”

They all laughed nervously.

“I would love to know what he was throwing in the river though. I suppose we can ask him!” Harry chuckled and shook his head, ambling down the row to the aforementioned silver sedan.

Ned trailed after, trying to remember to breathe.

Humming a jaunty little tune, Harry popped the trunk and took a step back. Ned peeked over the edge.

A bound and gagged Jaime Lannister glared back at him, a blazing hatred twisting his face into a scowl. Seeing Ned, his eyes widened.

“MMMMMF! MRG MF MMMM!” Jaime thrashed, looking like he might break free of the trunk through sheer frenzied struggle.

“So,” Harry said tentatively, shutting the trunk again. “Last chance.”

“What?” Ned asked, startled.

“Well he’s clearly very upset. In my experience these things are always a downer at weddings. Still time to just shoot him and call it a day.”

“Ah,” Ned swallowed. “Right. I thank you for the very tempting offer, but I think we’d better let him out.”

“Your funeral,” Harry sighed, looking rather disappointed.

Ned popped the trunk, and with some assistance from the others, managed to wrestle Jaime out. 

“Don’t you have a pocket-knife in your day pack?” Ned asked Stannis, fumbling with the knots that were keeping Jaime’s hands behind his back.

Stannis muttered something about a good day pack being wasted on Lannister, but they had Jaime free in short work.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Jaime howled, when they removed the gag.

“I did warn you,” Harry stuck his pinkie in his ear.

“WHO IS THIS NUTJOB AND WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

“Jaime, this is Harry Strickland. Harry, this is Jaime Lannister,” Mace introduced them politely.

“Charmed, simply charmed old chap,” Harry tipped his head in acknowledgement.

“You chloroformed me! I AM THE OPPOSITE OF CHARMED!”

“Bit of a mix up, that! We’ll laugh about this in a few months, I’m sure,” Harry patted Jaime on the shoulder. Jaime growled.

“What happened?” Ned asked cautiously, moving between Jaime and the ex-mafia killer. Situations with Jaime had a habit of escalating.

“Before this weirdo with a pocket square mugged me?!” Jaime spat. 

“Uh yes. Harry said he saw you throwing something in a river?”

“Right,” Jaime took a deep breath, still staring daggers over Ned’s shoulder.

“I caught Armory Lorch snooping around the Water Gardens this morning with a camera. He’s one of my father’s guard dogs. Clearly father sent him to tail Robert. And since I don’t have a fucking clue what we got up to last night, I thought it safest to knock him out. I put him in a judo sleeper hold, stole his clothes so he couldn’t go anywhere, then dumped his clothes and his camera in the river. I left him in the trunk of the car, I was texting Stannis when I was VICIOUSLY ASSAULTED!”

“Just to play devil’s advocate,” Harry interjected amiably, “at least I didn’t strip you naked and dump your clothes in a river.”

“AAAAAHHHHH!” Jaime dove for Harry, and it took both Ned and Mace to restrain him.

“Look on the bright side,” Harry said at length. “You have done Robert a great service. You lot can go, get the car, drive it out to a long term parking lot and put an end to all this nonsense.”

Ned, Stannis, Mace and Beric exchanged an uneasy look.

“Where is Robert anyway?” Jaime pinched his nose.

“Oh... we left him and Oberyn and Thoros back at the palace,” Ned said uncertainly.

“And the car?” Jaime looked at him in dawning horror.

“Also at the palace. But we told them not to leave,” Mace said, wringing his hands.

The five of them looked at each other. 

“FUCK!”

Thoros (Vice and Wish 5 of x)

“How am I supposed to have sex in this?!” Oberyn complained, flapping the sling that his arm had been wrapped in. He looked like an angry albeit lopsided bird, and Thoros concealed his smile by pulling a face at the baby currently in Robert’s arms.

“Agug,” the baby giggled. Thoros’ sentiments exactly.

“Doggie style or her on top, I would think,” Robert pondered. “Or if you were lying on your left side, and she was doing the work. Reverse cowgirl. Wheelbarrow. Dornish Lotus. Put her on a table and—“

“Okay,” Thoros interjected, because the last thing he wanted to do was get stuck in a conversation where Robert and Oberyn swapped sex positions. They had somewhere to be in two hours. “Did you go through the printout the doctor gave you?”

“Two fractured ribs and a broken arm,” Oberyn sighed. “Here, you can read the fine print.” He shoved the papers at Thoros. “How do you figure a Dornish Lotus?” He turned back to Robert.

Thoros rolled his eyes and looked at the pages. The doctor had given Oberyn some pain medication, and a prescription for some more. There were notes here on follow up visits, a toxicology report, medical hist—hold the phone.

“You were roofied!” Thoros blurted.

“Come again?” Oberyn frowned.

“It’s here in your toxicology report! Rohypnol!”

“Wait, does this mean THAT’S why none of us can remember anything?” Robert frowned. “I assumed Oberyn brought back his hangover cure.”

“I never could remember the exact proportions,” Oberyn shook his head sadly. 

“Ugh this is way creepier. Who would want to roofie us?! I mean, probably a lot of women actually. Who would want to roofie Thoros?!”

“Everybody got roofied, not just the three of us,” Thoros rolled his eyes.

“Oooh so you think it was one of Beric’s groupies? Like if we were ordering pitchers at dinner or something, and they just dosed the whole thing?” Robert grinned.

“No I don’t think that!” Thoros spluttered. Well he HADN’T anyway. Thanks Robert.

“Look, we should get going if we’re going to get Arthur’s ring back before our meeting,” Oberyn pointed out. “Let’s put a pin in this mystery.”

“Along with the naked man,” Thoros sighed.

“Awuhah,” said the baby.

“Right, don’t forget the direwolf,” Robert patted the baby on the head.

The good news was that the ring was still there. The bad news was that the proprietor wasn’t giving it up for less than thirty-five thousand dragons. 

“Fuck, Stannis froze all my cards,” Robert winced, as an unamused Dornishman tried a fourth credit card unsuccessfully.

“It might be all of us,” Oberyn frowned, standing at an ATM. “Thoros, you try.”

Thoros’ card was not rejected by the ATM.

“Sweet, two hundred seventeen thousand. Use your debit card and I’ll pay you back,” Robert said, peering over his shoulder.

“That doesn’t say two hundred seventeen thousand,” Oberyn squinted. “It says two hundred and seventeen cents.”

“Wow you must contribute a lot to your retirement account,” Robert blinked.

“Let’s go with that,” Thoros sighed and shoved his card back in his wallet.

“No money, no ring,” the proprietor glared at them.

“What if we could get you a different ring?” Oberyn asked.

“Eh?” The proprietor considered. “A better ring?”

“Yes, a better ring,” Oberyn assured him.

“Wait...” Robert began.

“Would depend on ring. But yes, I’d trade.”

“I don’t really like this idea—“

“Then sir, I suggest you keep this ring out of sight. Because I have a far better alternative for you,” Oberyn grinned. “Remember to get it from Ned,” he told Robert.

“Look, Martell, I might be scared of Arthur Dayne but I’m terrified of Cersei. I am absolutely not trading my engagement ring for his,” Robert glared.

“You’re not losing it. C’mon, you’re a millionaire. We’ll swap rings and figure out how to get some funds unfrozen.”

“Ugh fine,” Robert huffed.

“So the shadow of the Tower of the Sun, yeah?” Thoros checked his watch.

“Maybe Jaime has money!” Robert brightened.

“Onward!” Thoros jabbed his sword. Half the fun of having a sword, he’d discovered, was making epic gestures. The other half would be making a fire sword if SOMEONE wasn’t such a buzz kill.

“Sir, I might be willing to trade that sword for the ring,” the proprietor suddenly interjected.

“Hardly necessary,” Oberyn jumped in. Thoros frowned suspiciously. While he would obviously prefer to keep this awesome sword he’d plucked from the ice bucket like Excalibur, he would have thought Oberyn would jump at the opportunity.

“Yeah wait, why not?” Robert scratched his head.

“Well we’re going to negotiate the return of a hostage right? ONE of us should be armed, don’t you think?” Oberyn said.

Okay, he was clearly lying. This was the dumbest thing Thoros had ever—

“Great idea! Here, Thoros, let’s trade,” Robert shoved the baby into his arms.

And thus Excalibur was lost.

At three pm the shadow cast by the tower of the spear was small indeed. Thoros, who had been skeptical of this as a meeting place (he considered himself something of an expert, as the only one of the three who had been present for the last ill-fated exchange in Myr), was prepared to concede it had merits. Lots of people though. Witnesses, which was a good thing if they were worried about getting stabbed. A bad thing if Robert planned to be doing the stabbing.

A man was already waiting for them, perhaps early forties, black bearded and swarthy. He stood about Oberyn and Thoros’ height, lean and scowling.

“Oh shit,” Oberyn breathed. “That’s Edgar Yronwood.”

“Who?” Robert scratched his head.

“The Yronwoods are like the second family in Dorne after the Martells. This guy is super loaded, it can’t be about money. He literally has an enormous basement treasure room filled with priceless artifacts,” Oberyn muttered under his breath. “It’s supposed to be nearly as good as my parents’,” he added smugly.

“Martell,” Yronwood hissed, stiffening as he spotted them. “I’m surprised you even have the nerve to show your face in person after what you’ve done.”

Thoros was having flashbacks to Arthur Dayne. Why did everybody have to be so friggin’ vague?!

“Whatever it was, I’m sure you deserved it,” Oberyn said flippantly. 

“Whatever it was?!” Yronwood spluttered. “Don’t you dare act like you don’t remember!”

“Hang on, I got this one!” Robert shouted, gesturing with the sword. Thoros looked sadly down at the baby. Nobody ever gestured with a baby. “Oberyn crashed your private room at the strip club! Dayne said it earlier, remember? Say, I don’t suppose you could describe to us in highly specific and measured detail the proportions of our time there?” Robert turned to Yronwood hopefully. The man looked nonplussed.

“Wait, this is about depriving you of a happy ending?!” Oberyn laughed. “Are you serious?!”

Thoros did not consider himself heavily invested in Jaime Lannister’s personal safety, but he wondered if blatant antagonism was really the appropriate route here.

“Yes! It is about depriving me of a happy ending!” Yronwood roared, loud enough that several passersby gave them strange looks. 

“Just go back tonight, jeez,” Robert muttered under his breath.

“You took photos of me having sex with a prostitute and sent them to my fiancé!” Yronwood jabbed at Oberyn.

Oh dear.

“She’s broken the engagement! My life is in shambles!”

Oberyn rolled his eyes.

“You’ve stolen the greatest love I will ever know!” 

At this Oberyn’s eyebrows knitted slightly. 

“Are you saying...” he cleared his throat, “that Captain Sara is single?”

Were it possible to spontaneously combust, Thoros would have run for cover. Yronwood was glaring at Oberyn with deep loathing, fists balled and clenched at his sides.

“This is exactly how I thought someone of your... ilk would respond.”

“My ilk?” Oberyn still sounded amused.

“A bisexual butterfly of a dilettante, shaming your family’s traditions, leaving bastard children everywhere you go, no sense of duty or honor or...”

“No need to get personal,” Robert said mildly.

“I want a duel,” Yronwood said flatly.

“A duel?” Thoros blurted, forgetting he wasn’t really part of this conversation. But still, seriously?! And Westerosis thought people from Essos were crazy.

“As my red-headed friend says, come again?” Oberyn tilted his head.

“I knew you would react like this,” Yronwood crossed his arms. Thoros wondered if he realized MOST people would react like this. 

“It is high time you learned the value of honor. And anticipating your reaction, I took the liberty of insuring your participation. I have abducted your paramour!” 

He announced the last dramatically, clearly expecting it to land like a bombshell. 

There was a stifled pause, heavy with the anticipation of who was going to break first. Thoros put his hand to his mouth to try and hold in the guffaw.

“BAHAHAHAHAHA,” Robert finally broke with a belly laugh that could be heard across the plaza. Thoros finally let slip his own laughter which had been shaking him in silent paroxysms of mirth. 

Oberyn only smirked at Yronwood.

“He is pretty, I’ll give you that. But no, I do not know Lannister on those terms.”

Yronwood looked confused, both nonplussed by the less than intimidated reaction from the group and Oberyn’s response in particular.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was waiting outside the Water Gardens this morning to confront you about your despicable and cowardly behavior, when I saw a young woman in a septa’s habit emerging. She had a furtive air, as I imagine so many young women who awaken to find themselves in your bed. I trailed her for a block or two, and then had my chauffeur escort her to my estate.”

They all blinked at him.

“A septa’s habit?” Oberyn said slowly.

“Yes, thought some of the language that came out of her mouth was certainly not learned in a sept.”

“Was her name Lyene?” Oberyn growled.

“That sounds correct,” Yronwood sneered disdainfully. “I can only imagine what Sara would say if she knew that even as you were trying to lure her into your arms, you were debauching a septa. I thank the gods that Doran was born first. I imagine your parents and their shareholders do as well.”

“So let me get this straight. You are holding a septa, the mother of my child, I might add, hostage until I agree to DUEL you?!” Oberyn said quietly. 

“Yes. Pistols or swords, your choice. In light of your youth and my long-standing friendship with your family, I shall agree to first blood,” Yronwood replied. How magnanimous of him.

Oberyn was grinding his teeth.

“I can’t,” he said finally.

“This craven behavior will not stand. You will take your lumps or this so called septa will be my permanent—“

“No you blithering idiot,” Oberyn snapped. “Has it honestly escaped your attention that my arm is in a sling?! It’s broken you twat.”

“We have a doctor’s note,” Thoros said helpfully, shifting the baby so he could dig through his pocket.

“Fuck your doctor’s note,” Yronwood snarled. Rude. “I demand satisfaction!”

Oberyn rocked on the balls of his feet, clearly trying to resist the urge to leap forward and beat Yronwood about the head with his cast. 

“I have a proposal,” Oberyn said at length.

“Make it good,” Yronwood said.

“My friend Robert here will be my champion.”

“I will?”

“As you can see, he’s a reasonably adept swordsman.”

“I am?”

“The only caveat is, as you may be aware, he has a heavily publicized wedding next weekend. So he really can’t be seen engaging in this sort of thing.”

“I can’t?”

“So we will meet you tonight at midnight on the beach. Bring Lyene and wear a baclava or something similar to conceal your features and Robert shall do the same. You shall have your duel, and I shall have my septa. Are we agreed?”

Thoros had no idea what game Oberyn was playing, but at least he wasn’t the only one.

“You are missing a key element,” Yronwood interjected. “That my primary motivation in dueling you is the opportunity to beat you silly.”

Oberyn arched an eyebrow that indicated he held that possibility to be remote indeed.

“Very well,” he said after a beat. “Let’s say we sweeten the pot. Do you see that sword my friend is carrying?”

Yronwood tilted his head, interest piqued.

“A priceless artificial that quite recently came into the Martell family collection. Would you care to examine it?”

The man walked over to Robert and tried to take it. There was a brief tug of war, before he realized he would have to content himself with inspecting it while it remained in Robert’s grip.

“Is this...” Yronwood suddenly looked up.

“It is,” Oberyn said silkily. Thoros wished someone would just explain what was going on.

“Why this is one of a kind,” Yronwood said, and for the first time since their conversation began, he sounded almost... excited?

“Why if the owner of the second greatest treasure hoard in Dorne came into possession of such an artifact...”

“They would undoubtedly be the owner of the second greatest treasure hoard no longer,” Yronwood finished.

“The deal is simple. If my champion loses, you get the sword.”

Yronwood eyed Robert, who was nonchalantly holding it like a baseball bat.

“You surprise me Martell. Midnight on the beach was it?”

“Let’s say the Orphan’s Cove. Don’t forget your baclava,” Oberyn tipped his head. 

Yronwood scoffed and walked away.

“Give me my son,” Oberyn turned on Thoros.

“Oh now he’s your son,” Thoros rolled his eyes, but handed the baby over. He didn’t actually like babies that much. If he had to be responsible for a child, he would prefer it clock in at the eight to twelve age range.

“Gentlemen, I present Tyene Sand,” Oberyn beamed.

“That’s a girl’s name, dude,” Robert pointed out.

“Super girly,” Thoros agreed. “Kid’s going to get bullied.”

“I do not disagree. Lyene has her eccentricities. As any sexually deviant septa does, I suppose. I will be legally changing it to Daemon as soon as time permits.”

“So did you just volunteer Robert for a duel with like swords and stuff?” Thoros brought them back to their more immediate problems. Because yeah Robert was pretty much an unstoppable fighting machine, but didn’t sword fights have rules? He was pretty sure Robert hadn’t been getting up on Saturday mornings to put on a mask and learn en pointe or whatever. 

“Also did that guy say this was a priceless historical artifact?” Robert said, using the blade to scrap some mud off his shoe.

“I did. Because it is,” Oberyn said, matter of factly. “Yronwood is famous for having a massive underground treasure chamber. Think Indyana Giones. He would have immediately recognized that as the Dayne family’s ancestral blade, Dawn. Allegedly it was forged from a meteorite more than fifteen hundred years ago.”

“Dayne? Like Arthur Dayne?” 

“Yes, I can’t imagine how it came to be in our possession. But that brings me to my next point. We need to return it. Immediately.”

“We can’t return it! You just bet the damned thing!” Robert said incredulously.

“Right. But you won’t actually be fighting him. No offense Robert, but have you ever even held a sword until today?”

“Nope.”

“Right, you don’t have a shot at winning. Yronwood is an accomplished duelist, he’s been doing this for decades.”

“He’s been challenging random people who flirt with his fiancé to duels for decades?” Thoros scratched his head. Dorne was so weird. And he had lived in Ibben.

“So here’s the plan. We’ll tell Arthur that in exchange for getting his wedding ring back, he has to be my champion in the duel.”

“But there’s no way Yronwood would voluntarily fight the current gold medal holder,” Robert pointed out.

“Right, but he thinks he’s fighting you. At midnight? Wearing a mask? You and Dayne are about the same height and build. I’m betting he thinks it’s you,” Oberyn shrugged. 

Robert and Thoros looked at each other. Well it wasn’t the worst idea? 

“But he’ll definitely want to use Dawn. So once we swap the rings, we’ll need to call Arthur to come to the Water Gardens and pick it up and then use the time that he’s away from Starfall to put the sword back,” Oberyn said.

“How are we going to get in to Starfall?” Thoros ventured.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Oberyn admitted.

“Wait a minute,” Robert frowned. “If Yronwood had your septa, does that mean the other guys found Jaime?”

“Only one way to find out,” Thoros said, feeling cheerful. All things considered, this was much better than their first go round. After all, they had a plan! One that didn’t require him to transport a wild animal anywhere!

His good mood lasted until approximately two steps into their quarters in the Water Gardens. Because that’s when he saw Homeless Harry Strickland, the leader of the Golden Company, homeless in the sense that he was very much a fugitive in like fifteen different countries, sitting on their couch with a mimosa.

“Bobby!!! D’you know you have a direwolf in there? Bloody thing nearly took my fingers off!” Harry Strickland waved cheerfully, as if it were completely normal that he would be hanging out in their private suite and not watching a body slowly disintegrate into acid or whatever organized crime leaders did in their spare time. 

Thoros dropped back uneasily, aware that he was really not this guy’s favorite person. How had this even happened? He couldn’t still be mad about the elephant thing right? But then why was he here?

“HARRY!!! You got my text!” Robert bounced across the room and scooped up the man into a bear hug.

Oh. That was why.

“Marriage?! Bobby I still can’t believe it,” Harry tsked jokingly.

“None of us can,” Oberyn chipped in, a trifle grumpily. 

“She must be one of a kind,” Harry dusted himself off as Robert set him down.

“Most certainly,” Oberyn assured him.

“Oby, it’s been ages! So nice to see you again,” Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

“And this is Thoros, I don’t think you’ve met,” Robert waved to him, making introductions. Was it Thoros’ imagination, or did Harry Strickland narrow his eyes ever so slightly?

“ROBERT!” Ned suddenly barreled in. “Where have you been?! We’ve been combing the palace for you! Guys, they’re back in the suite!” Ned called over his shoulder.

“I thought you were specifically instructed to stay put,” Stannis put in sourly as he entered.

“Jaime! You’re okay!” Robert beamed as Jaime and Beric came in. And he did appear to be fine. 

“Where is the car,” Jaime grabbed Robert’s shoulders and shook. Experience had taught Thoros that was not the best way to get answers from Robert as he found sustained thought difficult even under ideal conditions. 

“Woah, what happened to your arm?” Mace puffed to Oberyn as finally caught up.

“Believe it or not, I was attacked by a naked crowbar wielding maniac who leapt out of the trunk of the Dragon,” Oberyn shook his head, as if sharing one of the mundane inconveniences of ordinary life on par with traffic jams or being caught in the rain.

“Fuck,” Jaime dropped Robert.

“You all seem rather unsurprised,” Thoros said slowly. Even Beric looked unsurprised! What was the point of having a bizarre adventure full of duels and naked assailants if nobody acted impressed afterward?

“That was Armory Lorch,” Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose. “He works for my father. I saw him this morning outside of the Water Palace taking photos of something. I can’t think what he saw, but you can bet it’s getting back to Tywin if we don’t find him and fast.”

“Ah,” Oberyn scratched the back of his head. “I might have some ideas about that.”

“Oh?” Stannis growled.

“Well you know how Lyene, the septa I knocked up, was here last night dropping off Tyene?”

“Who’s Tyene?”

“Tyene!” Oberyn lifted the baby.

“That’s a girl’s name,” Mace said helpfully.

“Ugh I know, look I’ll take care of it at some point, but what I’m trying to say is that we have it on good authority that a septa was seen sneaking out of the Water Palace very early this morning.”

“And she was in Robert and Ned’s bedroom,” Beric suddenly said slowly. “That’s where the baby was.”

“Right. So someone had somehow gotten photos of her in Robert’s bedroom and leaving the next morning...”

“Then Tywin Lannister would hypothetically be very interested,” Jaime finished grimly.

Mace (Vice and Wish 6 of x)

“I told you to stay out of trouble!!!” Ned groaned.

“But we got a text! We thought we were going to save Jaime from being kidnapped!” Robert protested. “Because we’re family,” he tried to pull Jaime into a hug.

“You tried to DISAPPEAR ME!” Jaime fought him off.

“Uh I didn’t,” Robert said. “That was a misunderstanding!”

“Complete misunderstanding, these things happen constantly in my line of work,” Harry nodded emphatically.

“Maybe that’s why you lost your job!” Jaime growled at Harry. “And no Robert, you didn’t try to disappear me, you just forgot to tell your psychotic friend not to!”

“Which is better,” Robert pointed out.

“Shut up!” Jaime snapped. “The only person I’m currently angrier at is Ned!”

“Wait what?!” Ned blurted.

“I heard what Harry said! Robert told you about this stupid plan AND YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!”

“Oh um,” Ned’s shoulders hunched. “In my defense...”

“WHAT?!”

“... I was really drunk?” Ned offered hopefully.

Mace stepped out of the way as Jaime dove at him, and then stepped the other way to allow Stannis to get by to separate them. 

“So Allyria said that Oberyn best us five hundred dragons we couldn’t steal that sword!” Beric was saying to Thoros.

“And now Oberyn has this plan to have Arthur Dayne duel Edgar Yronwood at midnight to save the septa he’s been boinking!” Robert was telling Harry.

Mace took a deep breath, and felt a wave of tranquility washing over him. Yes, his lower back itched terribly. And yes, his mother would probably find a way to work this into her funeral. But as the chaos spun out around him, he savored the chaos, the unpredictability, the... excitement!

At some point, his life had gone... askew. It’s not that he didn’t love Alerie and Loras. Gods, sometimes Loras looked at him with his adorable brown ringlets that were growing absurdly long—the boy refused to let anybody near him with scissors—and Mace felt like there was nothing in the world that could matter when compared to this. 

But there were also other times when he politely listening to his department heads, knowing if he didn’t do what they wanted that they would over his head to his mother, that he remembered that he’d taken a job he’d hated under the thumb of his mother because he had to make money to support a family that he’d accidentally created when he was twenty. 

At an age when most of his peers were drinking and smoking and having bar fights and hookups and FUN, he had been worrying about why Loras wasn’t walking when other kids were walking and still didn’t have his pincer grip down.

It wasn’t fair! Mace didn’t deserve a life of premature adulthood! Maybe somebody like Ned deserved this, he was exactly the type who was happiest cuddled up with a wife next to a wood burning fire with a few rugrats underfoot. But Mace wasn’t like that! He’d been the chubby boy at the popular table, pompous and a little awkward, all through high school. College was supposed to be different. Oberyn Martell, only the coolest guy in their year, somebody he’d basically been friends with only by proximity, had inexplicably decided that they were going to Sunspear together and be roommates. 

Maybe there had been a touch of pity to the offer of friendship, but Mace hadn’t cared. His mother had expected him to attend Highgarden. Sunspear, to room with a Martell, of all people... it was not according to her plan but also proof that he was quite capable of fending for himself.

And those two years had been magical! They had rushed the Second Sons fraternity, they’d had girls and booze and plenty of drugs. And then he’d met Alerie. She was from their sister sorority, she was cute and bubbly and her tits bounced when she laughed. Mace had been in love. Then there was the pregnancy, and then his mother had said of course he would get married, a Tyrell couldn’t possibly have a child out of wedlock, so he’d proposed and Alerie had said yes and four years later, here they were.

This bachelor party was his mini do over. His chance to do his twenties right. Make mistakes, have adventures, live life as it was meant to be lived. And, unfortunate tattoo aside, it really seemed like things were working out. Though fuck, was it supposed to itch like that?

“Mace, we need to talk,” Oberyn suddenly appeared at his side.

“Okay, great. Do you think it’s supposed to itch this much? What if it’s infected?” Mace pulled his shirt up.

“Mace Tyrell, I am not talking about your tattoo,” Oberyn glared at him.

“Oh?” Mace hastily pulled the shirt back down. “What’s wrong?”

“I know it was you,” Oberyn said quietly.

“You know what was me?” Mace pasted his most innocent expression on his face. Oberyn arched an eyebrow, showing that it was about as effective as it was on his mother.

“I know you roofied us,” Oberyn hissed under his breath.

Mace looked around nervously to make sure nobody else had heard.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, swallowing.

“Mace, why would you do this?” Oberyn’s brows knitted. “Don’t you remember Myr? Don’t you remember the hit men? The underground boxing ring? The PRISON?!”

“Yes, I remember!” Mace whispered back, equally heatedly. “We were crazy! We were kids! It was the first time I can remember actually having fun!”

“So you admit it!” Oberyn drew back.

“It’s not like I wanted to use rohypnol, but I couldn’t recreate your hangover cure! I spent weeks on it!” Mace exclaimed. “Look you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, you have to understand. If anything it was like a tribute to you!!”

“How is roofying all of us a tribute to me?!” Oberyn shouted.

Mace started to shout back and then realized everybody was staring at them.

“He’s joking,” Mace laughed weakly.

“Oh gods,” Ned stared.

“It was those fucking shots!” Jaime exclaimed.

“You just don’t understand...”

“Wait, you’re why we STILL don’t know why there’s a direwolf in that room?!” Beric scowled.

“Weird dude,” Robert frowned.

“NONE OF YOU UNDERSTAND!” Mace yelled. “I AM SUPPOSED TO BE A KID! Not being four fifths of the way to a midlife crisis! I hate my job, I’ve missed vital life experiences and everything has gone terribly wrong!”

There was a long pause. Mace wondered if there wasn’t just a tinge of judgement in those stares.

“Okay,” Harry Strickland said finally. “As the oldest person here by at least ten years, I think I can say that you've got the wrong end of the stick here. I spent my twenties traveling the world. Did I sleep with super models and actresses and occasionally royalty? Of course. Did I have exciting death-defying adventures? Obviously. Was my life a constant whirlpool of hedonistic self-gratification? It was. And yeah, it was really great. But then some blue haired asshole WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS gets financially backed by your enemies to orchestrate an internal coup and next thing you know you’re escaping down the streets of Myr on elephant in the dead of night.”

Mace blinked. He wasn’t sure he totally understood the point of this story. Seeing his confusion, Harry sighed.

“Look, jobs, even amazingly awesome dream jobs, come and go. All the things you’ve thought you’ve missed? They’re pretty ephemeral. You’ve been building a life for yourself, a family. That’s what’s going to be around ten, twenty years from now. So I get why you feel like you’re floundering, but the grass is always greener on the other side. From where I’m sitting, at thirty-six with no family and no job and ninety-five percent of my assets frozen by some bullshit international justice agency and I’m just trying to hit up some caches so I can survive the fucking hit my replacement hit on me... well your life doesn’t sound so bad,” Harry poked him.

“That was really deep,” Robert patted Harry on the back.

“I try,” Harry beamed. “Y’know I’ve been thinking of writing my memoirs? Like a self help book. ‘So You’re On The Run from an International Criminal Justice Agency’ by Harry Strickland. Catchy right?”

Mace settled deeper into the couch, hoping that people had mostly moved on from the part where he had roofied everyone.

“We really need to track down Armory Lorch,” Jaime butted in. “I don’t suppose with any of your vast expertise of being on the run, you have any ideas?”

“Yes actually,” Harry pulled out his phone. “I hacked into the local police intranet. Anybody running naked through the streets of Dorne is bound to raise a couple of phone calls to local authorities. With any luck, they’ve filed incident reports that will give us some idea of his location.”

“The group that’s tracking down Lorch also needs to swap rings at the pawn shop and call Arthur Dayne, so a second group can break into the Daynes’ and return that sword,” Oberyn interjected.

“I’m clearly on the Lorch team, since I’m the one who knows what he looks like,” Jaime sighed. “Beric and Thoros should be on the Dayne team, since they broke in there last night. Maybe they’ll have muscle memory or something.”

“I’ve actually been to the Dayne estate, so I can go with them,” Oberyn offered.

“Right, Robert, you and Stannis come with me. With any luck, we can bribe him to sell the photos back to you instead of sending them to father,” Jaime frowned. “Ned, go with Oberyn.”

“Wait why? I really don’t trust Robert to carry the ring you guys, and I cannot miss my flight tonight—“

“Because I hate you. Stannis, take the ring from Ned,” Jaime ground out. 

“Who do I go with?” Mace asked timidly. Breaking into a house sounded exciting.

There was a pause.

“Um guys, I think I probably shouldn’t call Allyria again,” Beric cleared his throat. “There has to be a limit to the number of times in twenty-four hours that you’ll give your family’s security information out as a lark.”

“No problem, I spent about a week last month posing as an alarm technician to get the access codes to a number of the wealthy estates,” Harry assured Beric. “I’ll pull the Dayne numbers from my files and write them down for you.”

“Why would you do that?” Thoros asked suspiciously.

“Reasons,” Harry smiled in a not entirely friendly fashion. 

“Right... I think Harry should go with Bobby... I mean Robert,” Oberyn said slowly.

“Where am I going?” Mace asked again, crossing his fingers for the Daynes.

Another one of those awkward pauses.

“Nowhere Mace,” Stannis said flatly. “You roofied all of us for literally no reason.”

“Wait what?! You can’t just leave me behind by myself,” Mace protested. They hadn’t even left Robert behind by himself! And they couldn’t cut him out! He could be helpful, he was definitely helpful, like all the time! Like... like... well maybe not in the last twenty-four hours specifically, but most people found him to be a helpful person!

“Of course we won’t leave you by yourself,” Oberyn said soothingly. “You have the most important job of all.”

“Great, whatever it is, I’m game, I promise I won’t let you guys down,” Mace swore earnestly.

“Here,” Oberyn handed the baby to Mace.

“What?” Mace blinked down at the little boy.

“Well I can’t take Daemon on a burglary expedition,” Oberyn explained.

“Is it burglary if you’re returning something?” Thoros asked.

“No, burglary has two elements, namely illegal entry into a building and intent to commit theft,” Beric responded. “Without an intent to commit theft you don’t have the necessary mens rea. You could even break into a building and then if you stole something by accident, you still couldn’t be convicted.”

“How would you steal something by accident?”

“Like sleep walking, or if you thought something was yours or you thought you had permission to take—“

“NOBODY CARES BERIC!” Jaime shouted. Beric looked hurt. 

“You’ve been in such a grouchy mood Lannister,” Robert said reprovingly.

“Look, I have been roofied and chloroformed and shoved in a trunk and I am just trying to save YOUR skin,” Jaime growled.

“Which we’re all very appreciative of,” Ned put in.

“Stop sucking up!” Jaime snapped.

“What everyone means to say,” Stannis cut through their bickering stoically, still glaring at Mace, “is you’re going to stay here and mind the baby.”

“No. No no no no no,” Mace raised his hands, looking down at the child in his lap. “That’s all I do is mind the baby! I literally came here to escape minding the baby! Please, I will do anything BUT mind the baby!”

“Loras is four, which gives you approximately four times as much experience in this area as Ned, and infinitely times more experience as everyone else,” Oberyn pointed out. “There is simply nobody I would trust more with my son and nobody I would trust less with anything else.”

“C’mon guys, we could get one of the maids to do this,” Mace pleaded.

“Everyone in favor of Mace staying here to watch the baby raise their hands,” Stannis growled.

Eight people raised their hands. Mace glared.

“Sit on this couch where you can’t mess anything up more than you already have,” Stannis said sternly.

As the gang all trooped off to their relative assignments, Mace sighed and found the bassinet. At least he could watch television... he looked over at the smashed screen across the room. Oh. Right.

Worst. Stag. Ever.

Mace gently placed the baby down in the bassinet, and poked around in the bags below. Sure enough, there was some formula and several brightly colored plastic bottles.

“You’re probably hungry, aren’t you?” Mace cooed absentmindedly. Certainly Loras had always been hungry at this age. And fussy. Hungry and fussy. Really not much had changed in three and a half years. The formula was thankfully ready to use and Mace poured it into a bottle at hand, attached the cap and gave it a good shake.

“Welcome to Mace Tyrell’s famous restaurant, the Highgarden Rose,” Mace bowed to the little baby. “Here at the Rose, we offer only the finest in food and service. Now what vintage can I offer you sir?”

“Gigity,” the baby said smiling sweetly.

“A very good decision sir, that’s our finest year,” Mace assured him, lifting him up and giving him the bottle, one hand beneath to steady it.

Listening to the contended slurping sounds of an exceptionally placid child, Mace felt almost at ease. 

And then there was a knock at the door.

“A Miss Ashara Dayne to see you,” came the voice of one of the Martell staff.

“Oh um, send her in?” Mace called back uncertainly. Was Daemon a secret? He wished Oberyn had given him more direction on this matter. He settled for arranging him back in the bassinet and pushing it into a closet.

“Hi everybody,” Ashara sang as she stepped into the room, and Mace had the usual disorienting moment when it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of his lungs. 

Ashara Dayne, younger sister to Arthur Dayne, one year above Mace at Prep, was shockingly beautiful. It shouldn’t even be allowed, how jaw-droppingly stunning she was. Olive skin, silky black hair, enormous purple-blue eyes. Mace felt his palms start to get sweaty, and if experience was any indicator, his eyes had probably gone all bulgy as well.

“Hullo Mace, where is everybody?” Ashara gave him a slight smile, and though it was but a gesture of politeness, Mace felt as if the entire world had fallen away and there was nobody there but the two of them.

“Oberyn, Ned, Beric and Thoros went over to your family’s house and Robert, Stannis, Jaime and our friend Harry, I don’t know if you’ve met him, went to a pawn shop to get Arthur’s ring back. Oberyn needs Arthur to fight Edgar Yronwood in a duel because a naked man broke Oberyn’s arm with a crowbar,” Mace was dimly aware that there was a voice babbling. Was that his voice? Shut up you idiot! But then Ashara’s smile widened, and even that feeble glimmer of independent thought flickered out.

“Then once they get Arthur’s ring, Jaime and Robert have to find the naked man, because he took these incriminating photos and he’s going to give them to Tywin Lannister and it’ll blow up the wedding!” Mace finished, nearly gasping for breath.

“Where’s the baby, Mace?” Ashara tilted her head quizzically.

“The... baby?” Mace repeated slowly, fighting to come up with a response in the face of her bewitching aura.

“The baby,” Ashara smiled again. 

“He’s in the closet,” the words were out of Mace’s mouth almost before the question had finished.

“You’re a sweetheart to look after him,” Ashara crooned, walking over and opening the door to poke her head in.

“I like to be helpful,” Mace puffed out his chest. “I have one of my own you know. Four years old. Do you want to see a picture?”

“Of course,” Ashara laughed, turning back toward him. Her own black hair and the baby’s were nearly identical. The baby was pale though. Northern complexion.

“This is Loras,” Mace showed her his lock screen. “I know his hair is long and he’s wearing a tutu, but he’s a boy.”

“No wonder Ned entrusted Jon to you,” Ashara smiled.

Mace blinked.

“Oberyn entrusted Daemon to me. I mean Tyene. But he’s going to get it legally changed,” Mace said.

Ashara frowned, and just the faintest sign of displeasure marring her lovely features was enough to send Mace into a spiral of apologies and explanations.

“I know it’s confusing, I like the name Tyene myself, but Oberyn doesn’t want him to be teased. I think that’s silly, I think affirmation from a parent is the most important gift you can give, you know Alerie is always saying that Loras needs to be less girly, but my mother for example was always very hard on me and it’s led to a very fraught—“

“Mace,” Ashara lifted a finger. Mace immediately quieted. “That’s not Oberyn’s baby. His name is Jon.”

“Oh,” Mace said stupidly. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Ashara raised an eyebrow. “I did name him.”

“Oh,” Mace blushed, the revelation suddenly dawning on him. “Ohhhhhh.”

“I explained everything to Ned of course, but the fact is that things aren’t safe for a newborn baby on the run, and I knew Ned would know what to do. He’s Jon’s family!”

“Erm yes,” Mace agreed automatically. “Ned is a wonderful father.”

“And he’ll be a wonderful father to Jon too, I know he will,” Ashara beamed. “I’m glad he’s doing okay, I just wanted to check in.”

And with a wave of her hand, the willowy silhouette of Ashara Dayne disappeared.

Mace let out a gasping shuddering breath.

Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne?!?!?!

But Ned was married! To Catelyn! He was going to a Stark-Tully family brunch tomorrow!

Mace’s phone began to ring and he clutched at it, certain it would be Oberyn, calling him to talk him through this mess.

“Mace, pookie, I’m missing you,” chirped the voice of his wife.

“Alerie,” he squeaked.

“Are you okay? You didn’t eat too many of those Dornish spicy foods did you, you know they dont agree with your constitution.”

“No,” Mace gulped in some air. “It’s not that, I...”

“And you know your mother has been getting exceptionally nasty about you sticking to that paleo diet. Honestly Mace, I think we’re going to wake up one morning with a personal chef to monitor your caloric intake. And that’s fine for me, but you know how angry Loras gets when he doesn’t get his sweets. Isn’t that right, my little sugar bear!”

“I think Ned had a baby with Ashara Dayne,” Mace blurted. Immediately, the pain in the left side of his chest lessened, as if the secret had been a physical creature clawing to escape his body. But at what cost??

“Come again?” Alerie said slowly.

“Look, you can’t tell anyone, promise you won’t tell a soul,” Mace said, fear beginning to seep in.

“Of course,” Mace could practically hear Alerie’s excitement through the phone. There was nothing she liked more than hearing good gossip. Well, other than sharing it.

“This isn’t for certain okay? It’s not like she came out and said this is my love child with Ned,” Mace tried to walk it back.

“They dated in high school, didn’t they? Ashara was in my sorority at Sunspear, you remember sweetie,” Alerie purred. Was that the sound of text being sent?

“Look forget it, I’m sure I misunderstood,” Mace frantically backpeddled.

“What exactly did she say?” Alerie asked.

“Um something like how Ned would be a wonderful father for Jon and how they were family?” 

There! Just there! He heard the distinct sound of another text being sent.

“You’re right, that could be anything,” Alerie giggled.

“No I’m serious, I definitely misunderstood!” Mace protested. “Please you can’t tell anyone about this, things are really delicate between Ned and Cat right—“

There was a whoosh of another text.

“I can’t hear you darling, you’re breaking up!” Alerie called. “Lots of love from me and Loras, you stay out of trouble!”

The phone went dead.

Mace groaned and looked over at the baby.

“Gooolah,” Tyene/Daemon/Jon agreed amiably.

What had Stannis said? Stay on the couch where you can’t mess things up more than you already have?

Jaime (Vice and Wish 7 of x)

Jaime leaned against the window of a thoroughly disreputable pawn shop in the shadow city of Sunspear, nursing a throbbing headache and the newfound knowledge that all of his cards were frozen. On another trip, he could almost imagine enjoying this scene—the cloudless blue sky, the sandstone architecture, the colorful silks that the women all seemed to wear. He thought about buying Brienne a dress in the Dornish style, though he knew she’d never wear it in public. Still, the thought of Brienne striding toward him, legs wrapped in diaphanous blue silk... maybe it would be worth it, even if she only wore it in private.

Yes someday he would come back with Brienne and they would do Sunspear properly and there would be no rohypnol and no chloroform and no locking people or being locked by people into car trunks.

All the same, Jaime was grimly determined to see this through. 

He didn’t feel guilty exactly, but he did have the vague sense that in the grand scheme of things, he had perhaps done Robert a disservice. Certainly he owed it to his sister to prevent their father from ruining everything. At the very least, he refused to let his father achieve what he had so miserably failed at.

So he would grin and bear it. Or at least bear it.

“Taken care of,” Stannis announced, emerging into the sunlight and displaying a simple but elegant diamond with a golden band for inspection.

“Arthur says he’s five minutes away,” Robert looked up from his phone.

Strickland took out an earbud from where he had been listening to something on his laptop.

“There have been four complaints from Plankytown about a naked man since noon.”

“Is that far?” Jaime asked the lanky menace begrudgingly.

“About forty minutes east of here along the Greenblood. My guess is he got to the river and swam out to one of the barges and got a lift without anyone noticing,” Strickland said matter of factly.

“Oh is that Arthur?” Robert looked up as a car pulled in across the street. 

“Where is it?” The man ran across the street, nearly getting run over by a taxi and a rickshaw.

“Stannis has it,” Robert assured him.

“Well?” Arthur held his hand out. Stannis sighed.

“Robert, wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Arthur?” Stannis prodded through gritted teeth.

“Right,” Robert cleared his throat. “Arthur, I’ve always considered you a man of honor and integrity.”

“Thanks, Baratheon,” Arthur rolled his eyes, pointedly not returning the compliment.

“So here’s the thing. I beat you. Fair and square,” Robert pressed on.

Jaime admitted to feeling curious as to how this was going to turn out.

“If you consider fair me being drunk off my ass,” Arthur growled.

“I do. So if I’m giving you back this ring that I won fair and square, I kind of think you owe me a favor,” Robert continued, seemingly unruffled by the hostility.

“And let me guess, you have something specific in mind,” Arthur grimaced.

“Yup! And it’s one you’ll be happy to do!”

“Enlighten me.”

“I need you to pretend to be me to fight a duel to defend your future brother-in-law’s honor!”

Arthur fixed Robert with the kind of baffled and incredulous look that Jaime saw too often on people who didn’t know Robert well.

“He’s quite serious,” Jaime interjected helpfully.

“Who am I dueling?” Arthur pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Edgar Yronwood. Middle-aged angry chap. Yells a lot.”

“I know who he is,” Arthur sighed. “Why does he want to duel Oberyn?”

“Remember how you were telling us that Oberyn got us all kicked out of that strip club for breaking into Yronwood’s private room? Well it turned out, he got a whole bunch of pictures of Yronwood having sex with a prostitute and then texted them to his fiancé, this smoking hot pirate girl, and she gave Yronwood the heave ho.”

“Oberyn did WHAT?!”

“I know right?! All those pictures of that creep having sex, and not a single one of me getting a lap dance!”

“But why did you get involved?! And why...”

“Listen, once you spend more time with Robert, you’ll learn that the ‘why’ is beside the point. It’s always strange or nonsensical and distracts from the when and the where,” Jaime cut in smoothly.

“Midnight. Orphan’s Cove. Please wear a baclava,” Stannis added, opening his hand once more to show Arthur the ring.

Arthur wavered, but it was clearly taking all of his will power to not snatch it straight away.

“Fine,” he huffed. “But only because he’s about to be family.”

Jaime could really relate.

“Knew we could count on you Dayne,” Robert grinned.

“Good show old chap,” Harry said absently, before turning back to his laptop.

“Who is that?” Arthur frowned, turning to Jaime, who he had identified as the voice of reason in this group.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jaime assured him. “Besides the point. Just midnight at the Orphan’s Cove.”

“With a baclava,” Stannis added.

Jaime rolled his eyes.

“With a baclava,” he conceded.

“Do you need one?” Stannis asked solicitously. “I have one in my suitcase.”

Oberyn’s champion procured, they piled into Beric’s car to drive to Plankytown. (Oberyn had refused to let the Dragon out of his sight, which had led to a compromise whereby Beric had given the keys to Stannis on the understanding that they would be given to nobody else. Jaime wondered if Beric was aware of Stannis’ sordid history of having sex on the hoods of people’s cars.)

“Fortunately, I have a number of connections with the Orphans of the Greenblood. They basically run Plankytown, they’ll know where this man is hiding,” Harry said cheerfully to Robert in the back.

“Sweet,” Robert said cheerfully.

“The Orphans of the Greenblood?!” Jaime said through gritted teeth. “Aren’t they that crazy fringe separatist group that wants to secede from Dorne?”

“Don’t get them started on that or we’ll never have time to track Lorch down,” Harry acknowledged the question cheerfully. “Bloody fanatics on the subject.”

“They are terrorists!” Jaime hissed at Stannis. Stannis was focused on adjusting and readjusting his rear view mirror.

“I’ve been doing business with them for years,” Harry continued blithely. “Military grade weapons for the most part, branching into explosives in the last few years. Always pay on time.”

“Stannis!” Jaime hissed again.

Stannis carefully signaled a lane shift, checked and re-checked his blind spot, and then pulled out.

“And never any problem meeting in international waters, it’s marvelous how far out those houseboats can go.”

“Stannis!”

“Jaime,” Stannis looked at him wearily. “Do you have any better ideas?”

Jaime had to concede that he did not.

“This is such an adventure Lannister! You and me and Stannis, hunting down a spy! If only Ned were here, I’d have all my brothers!”

“You’re forgetting about Renly,” Stannis noted acidly.

“Am I?” Robert yawned.

Harry Strickland’s contact Garin was a dark skinned man with closely shorn curly black hair and a jade stud in one of his ears. He seemed easy-going and affable of manner, although he had an initial exchange at the outset with Harry about the fireworks at Sevenmas that left Jaime uneasy.

“I’ve made the inquiries about this man as you requested. It’s a tight-knit community, and well it’s been a subject of some amusement and concern amongst the orphans. Yandry from the Shy Maid reported a number of his clothes missing from his washing line, and a northerner in Rhoynish garb rented a room for the night in one of the pole boats. Here’s the address,” Garin handed them a scrap of paper.

“Armory Lorch isn’t a northerner, he’s from Lannisport,” Jaime frowned.

“You’re all northerners to us,” Garin smiled, and the glint of a golden tooth winked at them.

“D’you think I should get a gold tooth?” Robert asked the group at large as they walked their way along the wooden docks and boardwalks of Plankytown. He wiggled his tongue through the gap in his own grin.

“No,” Stannis said, right as Strickland said “Definitely.”

“Tie-breaker, Lannister!”

Jaime, who had been marveling at the colorful and wonderfully intricate houseboats that filled the harbor—truly a town afloat—blinked.

“Gold retains value in all markets, and you can’t put a price on having your wealth mobile and on your person at all times,” Strickland rolled up a sleeve to reveal a rather garish gold watch.

“You would look ridiculous,” Stannis crossed his arms.

“Oh look we’re here,” Jaime said, to avoid having to answer.

The pole boat in question was broad and garishly decorated, advertising rooms that could be let by the night or by the hour and free internet.

As the four shuffled on board, Harry smiled at the proprietor and cracked his back, which revealed the gun brace under his jacket. The proprietor bowed nervously, gave them the key to the northerner’s room and promptly exited the boat.

Armory Lorch was a pasty unpleasant man, who Jaime disliked intensely. He was stupid and cruel and had replaced Gregor Clegane’s father on Tywin Lannister’s security team. 

They found him at the desk of the small room on a beat up laptop of some sort. His face twisted with barely repressed fury when he saw Jaime.

“Lorch, we have to stop running into each other like this,” Jaime said lightly. The man’s beady eyes darted to a crowbar that was lying on the bed.

“What do you want?” He snapped. “I work for your father not for you.”

“And what does my father have you doing?” Jaime asked, baring his teeth in a smile.

“Surveillance,” Lorch crossed his arms, and pushed the laptop toward them. “You thought you were awfully cute throwing my camera in the river. Well the photos uploaded the moment I took them.”

Jaime looked down. Sure enough, there was a slim girl exiting the Water Gardens, head down, face concealed by her habit. There she was turning the corner. And there she was frowning directly at the camera.

Jaime swallowed, temporarily speechless.

It was Lyanna Stark.

He hadn’t seen her since before finals of junior year of high school. That had been what—six years? But it was still unmistakably her, the dark brown hair, the pale skin, the flashing gray eyes. 

Lyanna Stark, Robert’s first girlfriend, photographed holding a baby in his bedroom, sneaking out of his bedroom disguised as a nun.

“Jackpot,” Lorch gave them a wormy smile.

“Jaime, I didn’t... I wouldn’t have...” Robert stammered.

“I know,” Jaime said. And surprisingly, despite his low opinion of Robert, he did know. He doubted many things about Robert’s fitness as a husband and a parent, but one thing he did not doubt was that Robert genuinely loved Cersei.

“It was Ned’s bedroom too,” Stannis pointed out. “She could have wanted to bring him the baby.”

“I doubt Mr. Lannister will see it that way,” Lorch sneered.

“Which is why you will not be sending those photos to father,” Jaime said firmly. 

“I believe I’ve made it clear that you don’t tell me what to do.”

“If it’s a question of money,” Stannis said stiffly. “I think you’ll find we can double whatever Tywin Lannister is offering.”

“It’d be a lot of money to make it worth it when Tywin Lannister found I’d screwed him over,” Lorch scoffed. “Thanks but I’ll pass.”

“You seem very scared of Tywin Lannister,” Robert growled, nostrils flaring. “Perhaps you should be more concerned about threats closer at hand.”

“Do you want to fight?” Lorch snapped back, grabbing the crowbar.

It’s anybody’s guess what would have happened next, except Harry Strickland stepped forward.

“Left knee,” he said.

“Wha—“ Lorch began and then there was a gunshot and it was so loud that every rational thought escaped Jaime’s brain.

The next thing he was aware of was Stannis pinching his arm. He was on the ground and there was someone howling in the background and then abrupt silence.

“Ow,” Jaime glared.

“I’m okay,” Stannis said.

“Okay?” Jaime repeated slightly sarcastically.

“So you can let go now,” Stannis said stiffly. Jaime realized with some embarrassment that he had thrown himself on top of the middle Baratheon. 

“Right,” he scrambled off, face feeling flushed and overwarm. He was trembling, he realized. The gunshot...

“It’s fine,” Stannis said uncertainly.

“Yeah, sorry, it just reminded me...” Jaime’s voice thickened, and he realized with some alarm that he might be on the verge of crying. Six years of fucking therapy, and all it took was a gunshot to set him off?

“Yeah me too,” Stannis took a deep breath. “Do you want a candy bar? I have some in my day pack.”

“Uh yeah some chocolate would be good,” the laugh came out a little shaky.

There was no crazy mayor, just a crazy hitman, and he was on their side, Jaime told himself as he bit into a Snickers. Get a grip on yourself.

Strickland had proceeded to gag Lorch and then bind up his leg with a bed sheet. Now he was sitting on the bed, directly across from Lorch at the desk.

“I always like to call my shots, you see,” Harry was saying. “More sporting.”

Lorch said something through the gag that was definitely not complimentary.

“I’m sympathetic to what you’ve been through, really. You’re just trying to do your job and the next thing you know your naked in a car trunk. We’ve all been there.  I think any reasonable man would agree that you deserve to be compensated for your suffering. And for the photos that were tragically lost when they were thrown in the river,” Harry continued pleasantly. 

“I noticed you said that it would take a lot of money to make it worth screwing over Tywin Lannister. Not no amount of money. So I guess the question is, what is your number?” Harry asked slowly, tapping the gun against the palm of his other hand.

Lorch glared and shouted something through the towel that Jaime was pretty sure was a suggest to perform a physically impossible anatomical act.

“I see,” Harry scratched his head with the gun. “Well in that case, right testes.”

Lorch’s number was fifty thousand dragons, wired to his account in the next twenty-four hours, or Tywin Lannister would be perusing the photos over Tuesday’s morning coffee.

“But all our cards are frozen,” Oberyn frowned when they ran into him, Beric, Thoros and Ned back at the entrance of the Water Gardens. THEIR leg of the adventure appeared to have gone seamlessly as they were minus one antique sword.

“Not to worry chaps, I have a plan,” Harry said brightly. Jaime flinched. He was discovering that Harry Strickland’s plans were like Robert’s plans on acid.

“I just need to hit my cache tonight. If a couple of you help me with carrying it out, maybe while the rest of you are at this duel, I’ll spot you the money.”

Jaime waited for the catch. Where did the murder or terrorists or chloroform come in?

“You can get your ring back AND pay off Lorch in one go,” Harry said jovially to Robert.

“Geez dude, I don’t know how to thank you,” Robert breathed. “Like you’re rescuing me from getting blackmailed on my bachelor party by my future father-in-law’s security goon!”

“We’ve all been there,” Harry beamed.

“That means entrusting somebody else with the ring though Ned,” Robert joked, patting Ned on the back.

Ned had been completely silent throughout this proceeding, his face gray.

“... because you know, you have to get your flight back tonight. For your brunch with Cat and the family tomorrow,” Robert continued uncertainly, when Ned looked at him uncomprehendingly. 

“I’m not going to make the flight,” Ned said flatly after a beat.

“You have to make the flight, Cat’s counting on you,” Beric interjected, frowning.

“Don’t you guys get it? The girl that Yronwood kidnapped coming out of the Water Gardens,” Ned snapped. “It wasn’t Oberyn’s septa. It was Lyanna. Yronwood has Lyanna, and I’m not leaving Dorne without her.”

“Oh fuck,” Robert said slowly.

“You NEED to be at King’s Landing tomorrow,” Jaime ground out grudgingly. Since arguably he’d had a hand in making that mess. “We can get Lyanna back.”

“I appreciate it, but I just can’t. She’s my sister, I need to know she’s safe,” Ned said firmly.

“I don’t understand what she was even doing here!” Stannis huffed. 

“Um I know who might be able to clear up a few things,” Mace squeaked from the couch. Was it just Jaime or did Mace look rather unwell?

On Ashara Dayne’s arrival, everybody in the room straightened up. Even Jaime, though he’d always preferred blonds. You couldn’t help it, she just had the kind of presence that made you take notice.

“How do you not remember agreeing to take YOUR NEPHEW?!” Ashara snapped at Ned. Ned glared at Mace. Mace slumped deeper into the couch.

“You have to understand a bachelor party can get a little out of hand. Some substances were consumed that emphatically should not have been,” Oberyn jumped in, also glaring at Mace. 

The story was simple. Ashara had bumped into Lyanna in Essos, pregnant, penniless, and on the run from Jon’s father, a married man with whom she’d embarked on a supremely ill-advised affair. When Lyanna had tried to end things, he’d gotten nasty, and she’d had to get out of there in a hurry.

Ashara had smuggled her into Dorne, had been with her every step of the way, up to and including Jon’s birth. It had been Ashara who had named him Jon—something nice and ordinary—Jon Snow, which was about as common a name as you could find. 

When they’d heard that Ned was coming to Sunspear, they knew this was their chance to at least get Lyanna’s son back to her family. Her ex had people monitoring Sunspear, he suspected that’s where she had fled, but he would be hardly expecting an ordinary tourist who’d had tickets for months to be smuggling out his child.

“And you expected me to leave Lyanna here alone?!” Ned spluttered.

“She wouldn’t be alone, she has me,” Ashara snapped back, hands on her hips.

Oh. Ohhhhhh.

“Hot,” Robert breathed behind him, and Jaime smacked him in the back of the head.

It wouldn’t be forever, just for a couple years until the heat died down. And Ned had agreed, he’d promised, Ashara’s gorgeous violet eyes began to shimmer with tears.

“Of course, I would do anything for Lyanna. And Jon,” Ned said firmly. “But I NEED to see my sister. More so now than ever.” 

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Robert said after a beat. “You’ll go to the duel at midnight. It’ll be done by what, one? The brunch is at eleven? Then we’ll get in the car and haul ass for Riverrun.”

“It’s a fifteen hour drive, Robert,” Ned sighed. “I really appreciate that you’re trying to help, but it can’t be done.”

“Not the way you drive,” Robert smirked. “And that’s why we’ll be taking the Dragon.”

“Come again?” Oberyn cocked his head.

“You don’t understand how fast these things go, Ned. Distance is like meaningless with one of these bad boys. And look Martell, you were the one who pissed off Yronwood. It’s YOUR fault that Lyanna got kidnapped in the first place. So you will let us take the Dragon.”

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” Ned bit his lip. “Oberyn obviously has to be at the duel, Robert obviously can’t be.”

“He can come with me to access my cache,” Harry put in. “A couple more strong backs wouldn’t be amiss.”

“So let’s say Robert, Stannis, Jaime and Thoros go with Harry, and Beric you come with me, Arthur and Oberyn,” Ned plotted out slowly. “As soon as you have the cache, meet us at Orphan’s Cove and we’ll take the Dragon from there. One of you guys leaving tomorrow morning will need to get the ring back from the pawn shop tomorrow.”

“What do I do?” Mace asked timidly.

“Stay in the car and mind the baby,” Jaime snapped. Because honestly. It was a Robert plan fused with a Harry plan fused with an Oberyn plan. It wasn’t a question so much of what would go wrong as when. And how badly.

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Ch 25

A long time ago, there was a crumbling mansion on a hill. Once all the land around for as far as the eye could see had been a part of the grounds, but it had been sold off bit by bit to fund the family in the mansion’s lavish lifestyle. 

Well the grounds were gone. There was nothing left but a mansion that his father couldn’t afford to maintain, so everything was broken and the roof was leaking and when the utilities company shut the heat off because father hadn’t paid the bill, all of the children had to sleep in the same bed to keep from freezing.

It was on one such night that Tywin got up, awoken by Kevan turning in his sleep and elbowing him the gut. He got out of bed and put on his hand me down boots from father, still much too large, and two jackets over his pajamas. He looked back at his siblings, the four of them subconsciously rolling closer together to fill the space in the bed that he’d left. 

He jammed his hands in his pockets and walked out, nearly tripping on a wine bottle that his father had left on the stairs. The man himself had passed out in an armchair by a now dead fire, pants around his ankles, and there was a woman, a prostitute likely, going through their family’s china cabinet.

“There’s nothing left,” Tywin said acidly, and she had the grace to look embarrassed.

“He hasn’t paid me, hun, I’m just trying to make rent,” she said and opened the next drawer. 

“Next time consider asking for the money up front,” Tywin bit. “Now leave before I call the police.”

He couldn’t call the police of course, not without implicating his father, not without some awful blurb in the Tattler like “Last of the Lannisters” illustrating his family’s fall from grace. And then the world would know how far they had truly fallen. And then would come the social workers, and they would split them up, and Tywin would never let that happen.

The prostitute left all the same, with a sad backward look that verged too close to pity.

Tywin ignored it. Once he was sure she was gone, he locked the door. He threw a blanket over his father and then began climbing the steps to the attic. A falling tree had taken a chunk from the roof and the wall here, and only starlight met him as he opened the door, starlight and blast of icy winter air.

He sat there, looking out over all the places that had once belonged to his house, blowing on his fingers to keep them warm, and as the sun began to rise, he vowed that someday they would belong to his house again. He would rebuild everything, brick by brick, just how it had been. 

In that moment, things had seemed... not easy exactly, but clear. He knew what had to be done and he never shirked from his duty.

He had met Steffon Baratheon at King’s Landing Prep. It had been all male then, and they’d had uniforms. Tywin had always been thankful for that fact, didn’t know how he would have concealed his impoverishment otherwise. He had a reputation as being a bit of a swot, all the better to explain why he didn’t fraternize with the others. Not because he was working two part-time jobs, not because he didn’t have the clothes or the car to fit in, but because he spent all his time studying and thought he was better than them. Well, they were half right. He did think he was better than them.

Steffon was his year and failing math. His father had asked if another student would be able to tutor him for some money and the teacher had recommended Tywin. They met in a classroom after school let out.

Steffon was big for their year and had pitch black hair and dark blue eyes, once currently swollen shut from some fight. He had a loud voice and a louder laugh, and next to him Tywin felt pale and skinny and mouselike. Tywin hated him immediately.

“How’s this work?” Steffon had asked, kicking his feet up on a desk and leaning back in his chair. Tywin itched to knock the chair out from under them.

“How this works is that I don’t have the time nor the inclination to spend my afternoons sitting in a classroom with you. I have the key to Mr. Swyft’s office. I’ll get the answer key before our next test and give it to you. I trust you can handle some memorization?”

“No shit,” Steffon raised an eyebrow, looking at him appraisingly.

“Well can you?” Tywin asked testily.

“Yeah. But I want half.”

“Half?”

“Of what you’re making to tutor me,” Steffon smirked. “To keep my mouth shut to my father.”

Tywin ground his teeth. Of course this money had been a windfall, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t earmarked it for new shoes for Genna (all the boys got each other’s hand me downs) and a warmer jacket for himself. But really, what choice did he have?

“Deal,” he said.

“Now c’mon. If you’re not going to teach me maths, let’s go smoke at the quarry.”

Tywin was taken aback. He was not the kind of boy who hid out in the quarry drinking and smoking and fighting and gods knew what else.

“Whassa matter, doesn’t cost anything to have fun,” Steffon rolled his eyes.

“I have money,” Tywin said stiffly.

“Nah, you don’t or you wouldn’t have said yes to begin with. You patch your uniform instead of buying a new one and I saw you cutting coupons out of a newspaper once.”

“If you think you can spread such slander about me, you are mistaken,” Tywin glared.

“If you think I care about you and your problems, you are mistaken,” Steffon yawned. “Now come on. Don’t pretend like you have anywhere better to be.”

So that’s how it happened. On days when Tywin was supposed to be tutoring Steffon, they would drive out to the quarry and Steffon would buy beers and cigarettes off the older kids and they would lie on their backs on the edge of the world and talk. And Steffon would pretend he believed that Tywin was going to pay him back for that six pack someday and Tywin would pretend he believed Steffon had busted his nose playing street hockey and they spun each other tales of how the world would be.

Daydreams for the most part, looking back, that’s all it was. But it was comforting to have someone to confide in who didn’t rely on him for their next meal, someone with whom he could be his age and not some kind of protector-father figure.

“Some day,” Tywin had said lazily, watching the sun set on King’s Landing far below them, “some day I am going to own this town.”

He exhaled a stream of smoke, held the cigarette lazily between two fingers as Steffon did, like he didn’t give a damn whether it fell. Like there were more where that came from.

“This town?! Pfff,” Steffon threw a rock hard and there was a long beat before it splashed far below. He had a fading bruise across his jaw, mottling his skin in the dying light. “I’m going to travel the world. See everything, do everything, leave this shithole in the rear view mirror.”

“You can’t leave, you have to take over Stormsend,” Tywin pointed out drily.

“Fuck that,” Steffon sang and threw another rock.

The year after that, they’d coordinated their schedules to have the same classes. The year after that one, they’d gotten to the cafeteria to see a stranger sitting at THEIR table. He’d been almost girlish looking. Long white hair pulled back into a low ponytail. It was against regulation, Tywin was shocked the teachers hadn’t made him cut it. And then he looked up, directly at them, and his eyes were honest to gods purple.

“That’s Aerys Targaryen,” Tywin had grabbed Steffon’s arm. “They say his entire family is crazy.”

“Yeah?” Steffon eyed him consideringly. Then he’d grinned. “He looks fun.”

The year after that, they’d run the school.

And yeah, it had been Steffon who had elbowed Tywin in the side at a fraternity mixer in college, and nodded at a girl across the room with curling blonde hair and the greenest eyes that Tywin had ever seen in his life. 

“She’s cute,” Steffon smirked. “Why don’t you talk to her?”

Steffon who had hunted down Miss Joanna Marbrand’s number when Tywin had been so starstruck that he hadn’t even thought to ask before she left.

Steffon who had been best man at their wedding.

Steffon who had shoved him in the chest so hard that he’d fallen, who’d made no move to help him back up.

“He’s sick, Tywin. Really sick. If you support his re-election campaign, you’re enabling him. He’s going to get worse, not better. He’s a paranoid delusional psycho, and the twisted part is that you’re worse. Because you know exactly what you’re doing.”

And Tywin had seen the people around them staring, could imagine the headlines, the implications for Mayor Aerys Targaryen if it got out, and his mental calculator spit out the only response.

“I take it we shouldn’t expect your vote,” he’d snarked.

And he’d seen the shuttered expression when he’d chosen Aerys over Steffon, knew there wasn’t any coming back from that. All the same, he’d thought some things were sacred. He’d thought Joanna was sacred. Right up until he saw the perfectly tasteful perfectly bland flower arrangement from the Baratheons at her funeral. They weren’t coming.

Sometimes he wondered where things went wrong. Things had started so simple. That night watching the sunrise over the property Tytos Lannister had let slide into ruin. Or that summer evening with Steffon, all of King’s Landing stretches out before him. Or that moment he had knelt on one knee in front of Joanna, and asked her to be his and only his until the end of time.

Was it when he had gone to Aerys’ office to discuss Denys Darklyn’s latest corruption accusations? And Aerys had looked at him oddly and said it was already taken care of. They’d found the body two days later.

Was it when Steffon had demanded he choose between him or Aerys? And Tywin hadn’t come this far, hadn’t worked this hard, to sacrifice his career on the altar of butterflies and friendship. 

Was it sitting in the doctor’s office with Joanna, squeezing her left hand in his own as she’d rested her right hand on her swelling bump? If we start treatments now, the doctors say there’s still a chance, he’d tried. And she looked at him, her normally luminous eyes now wild and fierce. I will not hurt this baby, she’d said.

Was it looking at that fucking flower arrangement in the funeral parlor? Jaime’s hand in his left hand and Cersei’s hand in his right, little Tyrion asleep across some chairs. He’d felt like he was drowning, sinking at last under the weight of all these impossible expectations. He’d looked at those polite impersonal flowers and they’d held a truth he’d been trying to suppress since his wife had died. In the whole world, his children had only one person they could turn to. And he was not up to the task.

“Money won’t make you happy Ty!” Genna had screamed at him when he’d missed her wedding to oversee a hostile takeover.

He’d wanted to retort that having it made him a hell of a lot happier than not having it. That who was she to lecture him? Only Kevan had really been old enough to remember the bad times, only Kevan could understand how far they’d come. Kevan who’d been half a world away opening their Essosi branch. And Gerion and Tygett, forget it. They had been babies.

But the irony was in the end perhaps Genna was right. He’d found himself without friends, without family, without his wife. And he could give his children everything, literally everything, but happiness.

The question of whether or not his children were happy had not bothered him initially. There were so many other things—Jaime’s dyslexia, Tyrion’s myriad health problems, Cersei’s bewilderingly violent tantrums—to just endure. And add to that the struggle of waking up each day on his side of the bed, knowing he would never again roll over and see Joanna smiling back at him. Every morning was another bleak foray into a world that no longer interested him. A world where nothing made sense any longer except his business. He retreated into Lannister Corp, admittedly, but it had become the only thing he understood.

The turning point had come one November when two things had happened in short order. The first had been a long time coming. He and Aerys had finally, irreparably fallen out. The second was that Jaime had suffered a horrendous football injury, ending his career and leaving his right hand shattered.

It occurred to Tywin, as he was researching neurosurgeons on his tablet, with a doctor on his cell, a surgeon on his work phone and the Chief of Staff at Crone’s Mercy videoconference in on his desktop, that his children were terrifyingly vulnerable. That he could not simply sever his relationship with Aerys and retreat. That Aerys had to be permanently destroyed, or his family would never be safe.

The ensuing events were well known to the world of course. And in the next six years, Tywin thought it imminently reasonable that he had been primarily concerned with Jaime. The boy had been taken hostage, witnessed horrifying acts of violence and then forced to kill somebody in self-defense. 

He’d gotten him the best therapy money could buy, backed off on pushing academics, encouraged him to pursue his relationship and held his tongue as his son went to an average university and made average marks and now barely worked at the company with no clear idea of what he wanted to do in life. And all that could be endured, if only Tywin knew he were happy. That by his continued association with Aerys, he hadn’t damaged his son beyond repair.

So when the tracker that he’d had installed on the car he’d gifted to Cersei for her birthday showed an unscheduled trip to the doctor, he’d barely paid it any mind.

It wasn’t until the doctor called, as he had been paid handsomely to do, and gave Tywin the news.

His only daughter, pregnant.

Embarrassingly, the first emotion he felt was panic. Of his children, he had always felt least at ease with Cersei. A girl needed a mother. But it was more than that. She looked so much like Joanna and was so unlike her... well it had always left Tywin at a loss. Joanna had been warm and empathetic, quick to laugh and quick to forgive. Cersei was prickly and complicated and if given advice had always been prone to run out and do the opposite. Fortunately, Tywin wasn’t in the habit of giving advice. He was in the habit of giving orders.

The burden of being a single parent had been one he had struggled with immensely. Frankly, he did not believe he had acquitted himself particularly well. No daughter of his would ever know that loneliness. Over his dead body. Or, far more likely, Robert Baratheon’s.

Had Tywin believed in karmic justice, he would have found some humor in this situation. A neatly executed irony in the idea that Steffon had managed to have the last laugh. But he did not. There was only the dull aching guilt that he had once more failed to be the father his children had needed, and a stoic determination to minimize damage at all costs.

And now he had been dispatched to pour drinks for Steffon Baratheon in the library. Tywin exhaled a shakier breath than he’d realized, sitting down heavily on the bed. He looked at his and Joanna’s wedding photo, pretended she were here. Telling him he was a self-centered idiot, promising him that their children were stronger and more resilient than he gave them credit for. His frazzled nerves even managed to conjure a thump of approval when he brought up burying the hatchet, and Tywin considered whether it might not be time for him to find his own mental health specialist. Joanna as a ghost was one thing, but a poltergeist might be a step too far.

Snorting at the idea, he managed to sustain himself through the walk back to the library, through pouring out two glasses of scotch. And then the door pushed open and Steffon Baratheon walked in.

Steffon still looked youthful (and why wouldn’t he, what does he know about the stresses of a career or raising a family, a bitter though brushing the back of his mind), still looked like the charming flippant friend who’d had all the confidence Tywin lacked, who’d looked down at the city below them and sang ‘fuuuuuck that’.

Steffon was staring back at him, uncertainly. Tywin wondered what he saw, knew he had aged and hardened where time had left Steffon untouched. For the briefest instant, he wondered if Steffon was going to bring up Aerys, was going to point out that he had been right and Tywin had been wrong, and even had it been the opposite, by what right had Tywin cut him put?

But instead, Steffon only smiled, affecting an air of surprise.

“Ty! It’s been too long!”

Tywin stuck out his hand with the glass of scotch.

“Far too long.”

And then Steffon’s smile broadened into the grin be remembered, and he took a long draught from the glass.

“My boy, your girl... who’d have thunk it?”

Tywin shook his head, a smile at the ridiculousness of life.

“To a Lannister-Baratheon dynasty! Long may they reign!” Steffon toasted exuberantly, the scotch sloshing in his glass, and Tywin laughed at his antics. And so, some fifteen years later, they came full circle, two overgrown boys with delusions of grandeur. Only one thing was missing.

“Do you want a cigar?” He asked abruptly. “They’re from Ahvana, I was saving them for a special occasion.”

“Ahvana?! I could always count on you to have the best of everything.”

Tywin opened the humidifier and they strolled out to the balcony to observe the festivities below.

Steffon lit his cigar, and took a few luxuriant puffs.

“Gods it’s good to be us,” he smirked, sitting in a chair and leaning back. 

Tywin sat down as well, picking out the people below as the fireworks sporadically illuminated them. There was Tyrion, snickering with Renly Baratheon. There was Jaime, laughing hand in hand with his girlfriend Brienne Tarth. Where was Cersei? 

Another cursory inspection revealed Robert was nowhere in sight either. 

“Where did our children run off to anyway,” Tywin leaned forward.

Steffon snorted. Tywin glanced over his shoulder.

“Please, you know where they ran off to,” Steffon said drily.

Tywin, realizing what he was implying, reddened.

“Certainly not!” 

Did Steffon know Cersei was pregnant? Somehow Tywin doubted it.

“Please, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Steffon stretched. “I could barely keep my hands off Cassana at my engagement party.”

Tywin remembered that engagement party. He remembered Steffon had disappeared for an hour in a cloakroom with a cocktail waitress. Not to be confused with the wedding, when it had been twenty minutes with a florist in a confessional.

There was another round of applause from the people on the lawn, as Cersei and Robert appeared on the staircase under a shower of Golden sparks, arms around each other. Tywin ground his teeth as below them, Robert discretely pulled Cersei’s dress down in the back.

“What did I tell you?” Steffon laughed, taking another puff of his cigar. “He’s the spitting image of me. Never had a thought I didn’t do first. And Cersei is Joanna come again.”

As the fireworks crescendoed, Tywin remembered how Steffon had kept three girlfriends at three different schools from age sixteen to eighteen.

As Tywin clapped his friend on the back, he remembered how Steffon met Cassana at an opera he’d been invited to by another woman.

As Tywin mechanically shook hands with the gradually dispersing guests, he remembered Steffon in college with a different date to every event, Steffon laughing about making the seven sororities, Steffon hanging a sock from their dorm room every night until Tywin had threatened to hide his condoms.

As Tywin dealt with a flustered Tygett, pinching his son Tyrek’s ear with one hand, and carrying a bundle of a woman’s shawl and men’s trousers and what looked like two different cell phones and a ring, he remembered back to that night when he’d met Joanna.

“She’s cute, why don’t you talk to her?” Steffon had whispered.

“—and I told that nanny he has to be WATCHED, how the hells did he get a pair of trousers? How am I even supposed to identify the owner?! ‘Paging the man with no pants’?! Not to mention—“

“I couldn’t, I don’t know her,” Tywin had stammered.

“—the cost of this ring?! Tell me there’s some kind of lost and found that I can just dump these in, it’s too humiliating for words—“

“If you don’t,” Steffon had leaned in, leering. “I will.”

“Darlessa says he’ll grow out of it, that it’s a phase. Some phase, it’s been two years, I keep telling her—“

Tywin swallowed. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Joanna come again. Gods. What had he done?!

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Ch 24

Cersei was not going to scream. First that... horrid woman had landed her horrid helicopter on the grass, ruining Cersei’s entrance (you only get one shot to make a first impression unless you roofie somebody, and how was she going to drug the entire party?!) and then she had the gall, the unbelievable gall to wear red! Red was the Lannister color! CERSEI WAS WEARING RED!

There would be vengeance. Oh there would be vengeance.

“Cersei, darling!” Cassana Baratheon called, sweeping her into the lightest breeze of an embrace as she air kissed her cheeks. “Don’t you look just like Joanna! A little plumper, but really the spitting image!”

Plumper?! PLUMPER?!

“I love your dress,” Cersei gave her a mega-watt smile. “It’s so refreshing to see women of a certain age embracing today’s fashion.”

Cassana laughed, and hooked her arm into Cersei’s.

“Let’s get a glass of wine my dear. Something better than this dreadful vintage they’re passing around.”

Cersei inwardly seethed. Of course the vintage was rather dreadful, she’d told that tart Tysha Crofter she didn’t want anything younger than her, but STILL!

“Assuming you’re still drinking,” Cassana Baratheon arched an eyebrow and their audience tittered.

“Still drinking,” Cersei assured her, and mentally apologized to the biscuit. “Although in my experience, it’s rather hard to keep up with the Baratheons on that score.”

“Robert does love his vices,” Cassana replied, giving her arm a little squeeze just to be clear which vices she was referring to.

They had gotten to the bar. As Cassana hailed the bartender, Varys hurried over, beads of sweat dotting his bald head.

“Moonboy has backed out,” he hissed in an undertone.

“What?!” Cersei reeled.

“He said his agent got him a gig last minute at the National Theater doing stand up! He’ll be the first stand up comedian in history to perform at the National Theater!”

“Last minute? They book their performers years in advance! And it’s all wrong... they do ballet and musicals and.. what am I missing?!”

“What you’re missing,” Cassana handed Cersei a glass of Merlot. “Is that I’m on the board of the National Theater. Drink up sweetie, you look so pale. I didn’t want to say this in front of everybody, but I’m not sure red is your color. I think you would have been better off in a nice forest green.”

Cersei drained her glass in one go.

“Why I’m rather surprised that Robert can keep up with YOU!” Cassana smiled.

Cersei wiped a droplet of wine from her lip and glared. 

How was she supposed to make front page of the tabloids if she didn’t have a blow out fight? She knew all the classier outlets would carry her party anyway, but for the Daily Raven and Yes! she needed some whiff of scandal that the other papers and magazines would be too refined to mention.

First things first. Steffon and Tywin was a disaster in the making. She went to the treehouse, which was always where Robert and Stannis had retreated when they were grubby little boys who couldn’t handle a girl beating them at laser tag. Saying it was unfair that she had swapped out her and Jaime’s guns for pellet guns. Please. 

Sure enough there they were, along with Renly (unsurprising) and Melisandre (a bit surprising). Maybe Melisandre hadn’t been lying when she said how much she enjoyed helping with the wedding? That one was hard to read. Probably she was just sad that her relationship with Stannis wasn’t as advanced as Cersei’s with Robert’s. Yes that must be it. She was hoping Stannis would propose soon, and had a touch of wistful envy when surrounded by the majesty of Cersei’s wedding. Cersei benevolently decided to give Stannis a kick in the pants by tossing her bouquet to Melisandre. If nothing else, it would spark a conversation.

That problem dispatched, Cersei hurried back to the lawn. Marillion was supposed to serenade Cersei on the steps, just a teaser of his concert before the fireworks (gods she still needed to do something about that helicopter). She artfully arranged herself next to the flowers, waiting for the spotlights that would train on her and the singer at his piano, composing her features into demure delight.

On cue, the spotlights flickered on. Well, not exactly. One spotlight flickered on.

Cassana Baratheon, dramatically illuminated as she sat at the piano.

There was a ripple of applause through the audience and she smiled. 

“As some of you know,” her voice, technologically amplified, echoed mellifluously across the grounds. How the fuck had she gotten mic’ed?! Cersei, alone and abandoned on the steps, clenched her fists.

“As some of you know, I am a classically trained pianist and opera singer. It was actually at my debut as the lead singer in Florian and Jonquil that I met Steffon and he swept me off my feet. The rest, as they say, is history.”

There was again a murmur of appreciation from the assembled guests. Cersei’s expression of demure delight slipped into a scowl. Had she known that? It certainly explained a great deal about Renly. And she supposed that on the few occasions that Robert had broken into drunken karaoke with the car radio, she remembered thinking that he had a remarkably good voice. And now that she was really thinking about it, all of the Baratheons, even Stannis, were quite good dancers. Still, lead singer, big whoop. 

“In honor of my son’s engagement and his beautiful bride,” Was that a hint of sarcasm? SHE WASN’T PLUMP! “I’d like to dedicate this song to them.”

Cassana sat down to the piano and began a beautiful haunting melody.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone...”

Cersei, utterly forgotten, decided to refill her glass of wine. Even if she had no intention of drinking it, it would subtly reinforce the idea that she had been drinking, ergo was not pregnant. 

At the bar, she googled Cassana Baratheon. Just a bunch of the usual philanthropy garbage. Breaking ground on an orphanage? Really? So nineteenth century. She tried to remember Cassana’s maiden name. Estermont, wasn’t it?

Cassana Estermont had been the youngest prima donna in Westerosi history. Her debut, in The Wildling, had broken attendance records for the King’s Landing opera house, rave reviews, world tours, the usual nonsense. Cersei ground her teeth and shoved her phone back in her pocket.

Trying to put as much distance between herself and that... witch as possible, Cersei began to push through the crowd. She was only stopped briefly by Brienne (poor dear looking quite out of her element) and then she was alone, staring that thrice-damned helicopter.

“I thought she sounded rather flat, didn’t you?” Renly sniffed, coming to join her.

“We have to make allowances for singers who are past their prime,” Cersei said haughtily. Renly gave an uncharitable snort.

“I’ve handled Tywin. I suspect Robert’s coming over now to tell you dad has been dealt with.”

“Well it’s a start. Meet me back here in half an hour, I’ll corral Tyrion and we’ll discuss the next phase of the plan.”

“All these potential agents, and of course Mother steals the spotlight! LITERALLY! I saw her having the staff move the equipment!”

Renly stomped off, only to be replaced by Petyr, swallowing nervously.

“Should I even ask what happened to Marillion?” Cersei said dully.

“Gig at King’s Landing Observatory.”

“And Cassana Baratheon is on the board?”

“Chairwoman.”

Cersei nodded absently. Robert had finally arrived and wrapped her into a hug from behind. Petyr took the opportunity to run, the little weasel. Naturally Robert had one thing on the brain. 

“Relax? RELAX?!” Cersei hissed. “Robert, Petyr just told me that your mother poached Marillion to keep him from upstaging HER at MY party! She’s already cancelled Moonboy, and if we don’t get press today, it’s over! This is our last best chance to get Vogue! And Cassana Baratheon is RUINING EVERYTHING!!!”

She paused for a breath. Robert only gave her a pleasantly puzzled smile which meant he’d heard one word in ten. Cersei sighed and pecked him on the cheek. It was a good thing he was pretty.

Having dispatched him to find a way to move that gods damned chopper, Cersei started to leave only to bump into her brother. The brother not in love with a whore.

She assured Jaime she would take care of THAT problem, as she half dragged him into the house. She had very little time here to give Jaime their mother’s ring, but she also could hardly pass up an opportunity like this one. Of course Jaime had to go and get all maudlin on her. It was just the cut of the ring would really look much nicer on Brienne than it would on Cersei. And Cersei had wanted to design her own ring anyway. And yes she knew in every bone of her body that Joanna Lannister would have ADORED Brienne. She didn’t see why Jaime had to make such a big deal of everything and drag Robert into it.

The moment he left, she hurried back toward the wine cellar, positive that would be where the brother who WAS in love with a whore was lurking. Sure enough, she caught him mooning over a text from that sommelier slut. 

“Tyrion, we have to stop father from killing Steffon Baratheon. Can you help?”

The little monster immediately closed his phone and got up to follow her, and Cersei felt a surge of affection for him. A surge of affection that was strongly tied to an all-consuming rage for anyone who might toy with his heart.

“We’re going to meet with Renly and I’ll explain the plain,” she said curtly.

“How’s everything else going?”

“A complete disaster. It’s just too vexing for words! I can’t believe none of the staff here can fly a helicopter! I would have thought that at least Westerling...” Cersei pursed her lips. Westerling had been distraught not to be able to assist, but she really had to put her foot down when he’d proposed dedicating the next two hours to learning how to fly through YouTube videos. Good help was just too hard to find to risk losing the man.

“Just accept that you’re going to have to ask Steffon to repark his vehicle. Maybe you can make an announcement. ‘Will the owner of the corporate helicopter obnoxiously parked on the lawn please move their vehicle?’” Tyrion snickered, mismatched green eyes lighting up in good humor.

“Everything’s a joke with you!” Cersei scolded. Didn’t he understand this was life and death? Vogue hung in the balance! “Look, can I at least borrow your phone?”

“Fine, here,” Tyrion handed it to her. It was a simple matter to open his thread with Tysha, give her strict instructions for a naked rendez-vous, then delete the brief convo and hand the phone back to Tyrion with him none the wiser.

When they emerged back on the lawn, she immediately saw that the helicopter had been moved, thank the gods. Occasionally Robert did surprise her. She gave Tyrion his marching orders, Renly his marching orders, Robert some marching orders for good measure. And then Westerling rang the bells for dinner.

She eyed the crowd moving toward the courtyard broodingly. Everybody seemed to be having a grand time. But Vogue didn’t cover weddings because people were happy and their guests had a grand time. She needed an edge. What was her edge?

Cersei noted with some horror that the Tyrells were moving to the table directly next to their own. She had specifically put Olenna Tyrell as far as humanly possible from their entire family. Brienne had even double checked! And Ned was going toward the Tully family table... she had promised Robert he and Cat would sit with the Starks! What was this... this... chaos?!

“I moved a few of the placecards around a bit, I hope you don’t mind,” Cassana Baratheon placed her hand on Cersei’s shoulder. “I know how... irrationally territorial some people can get about these things...”

Cersei eyed the hand on her person and contemplated what it would look like taxidermied and hung over her mantelpiece.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she smiled sweetly. “In fact,” she plucked the hand off her shoulder, and held it in both of her own. “I had something very important I wanted to ask you.”

Cassana looked nonplussed, but the crowd she’d gathered around her as witnesses to ask whether Cersei would be a territorial bitch about the placecards hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Anything darling. We’re family now,” she said and touched her hair to make sure it fell just right for the camera snap.

“I was wondering,” Cersei bit her lip. “Oh I couldn’t. It’s too much to ask.”

Cassana and her high society minions all looked intrigued.

“Would you... would you consider coming out of retirement to sing at my wedding?”

Cassana hesitated for a second, suspicion clouding her features. Cersei could almost see the gears turning behind her tastefully Botoxed and dermabrased mask of a face. The lure of more attention, all eyes on her, the chance to play the gracious mother of the groom, the accolades...

“I would be delighted,” Cassana squeezed her hands. And Cersei was willing to bet those were the first sincere words to pass her lips all night.

“Oh Cersei, where is your engagement ring?” Cassana suddenly asked. Cersei blinked at her bare finger.

“Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise already!” Cassana tittered.

“Of course not,” Cersei said smoothly. “Just a sizing issue.”

“It’s so hard for women with fat fingers, nothing fits,” Cassana patted her. 

Cersei would have been infuriated if she weren’t busy wondering when in the seven hells she was going to be able to look for her ring on top of dealing with Tysha and meeting with Varys. It must have slipped off in the grass somewhere. Somebody would find it, surely? She would get Westerling on the job first thing tomorrow otherwise. He would be out there with a fine-toothed comb if necessary.

She sat down at the head table still reeling over the latest wrinkle.

Her father and her numerous aunts and uncles and cousins were all present, as was Tyrion. Jaime and Brienne were conspicuously absent.

“Poor girl has probably given him the heave-ho after his disgraceful performance tonight,” Aunt Genna stabbed her filet viciously. “I would castrate any man that did that to me,” she continued, this directed at poor scrawny Uncle Emmon who fairly shivered in his seat.

“Quite right dear,” he said immediately. Cersei was rather fond of her Aunt Genna.

“Where is Tyrek?” Uncle Tygett frowned and looked around. Tyrion sputtered and choked on his wine. Cersei scanned the cousins indifferently. Was that pimply one not Tyrek?

“I’m rather impressed that we’re halfway through his daughter’s engagement party and old Tywin hasn’t smiled once,” Olenna Tyrell’s light laugh floated over from the next table. Her father’s eyes narrowed, and Cersei kicked Tyrion. Best to move up the timetable.

“Father,” Tyrion began hesitantly. Tywin was still glaring at Olenna Tyrell. “Tywin!”

That got his attention.

“Steffon Baratheon was hoping to have a drink with you in the library between courses,” Tyrion said brightly. “I told him you’d meet him there.”

“Really Tyrion, I wish you’d consult me before volunteering my time,” Tywin said, nostrils flaring. “I am the host of this event, I can’t just disappear.”

“Don’t worry father, I have it under control,” Cersei patted his hand. He withdrew the hand and fixed her with a glare as well.

“Well off you go,” she said.

There was a lengthy cold stare. 

“I will return shortly,” Tywin addressed the table. Amidst the hubbub of typical family feuding, Cersei and Tyrion were probably the only ones who heard him.

Cersei looked over to Renly and gave him a meaningful nod. Then she politely excused herself to take a quick look through the grass for her engagement ring.

There was the merest whisper of a rustle and Varys materialized. 

“You texted?” He said smoothly.

“I want you to leak to the appropriate publications that world renowned opera singer Cassana Estermont is coming out of retirement to give a private performance at my wedding,” Cersei instructed curtly, continuing to walk with head bent, scrutinizing the grass. “And tell Petyr to have his camera ready. She’s put Ned at Hoster’s table and he’ll have a front row seat to the show.”

“Of course,” Varys nodded and faded back into the shadows.

Cersei noticed a significant chunk of the trellises had collapsed on the East Wing, and a small army of staff were working to clear the debris. That would be coming out of the Garth Greenhands invoice, she noted to herself. She checked the time. The ring would have to wait.

Exactly three minutes after she had instructed Tysha to meet Tyrion in the cellar, she strolled by and scooped up the girl’s clothing. Including a lacy red thong that had been left hanging on the door handle. Skank.

She shoved her loot into some old chest nobody would ever think to look in and flagged a waiter to initiate the hunt. Then she made it back outside to see Ned Stark landing a tremendous right hook into Hoster Tully’s snarling face, punctuated by a camera burst. Nobody but Lysa noticed Petyr politely excusing himself to touch up the images before he sent them to the Daily Raven.

She allocated Petyr twenty minutes to edit, the Daily Raven thirty minutes to process and post, the world another ten to take the story and run with it.

She sat back down at her table, which had gone rather quiet.

“I heard Stannis Baratheon say that his company is going to beat projected earnings for the third quarter in row,” Cersei mentioned off-handedly to Tyrion.

“Emmon, call our broker,” Genna said.

“Where the hell is my phone,” Gerion patted his pockets.

“I keep telling Tywin we need to expand into shipping,” Kevan announced to the table.

“Mining has been good enough for our family for seven generations!” Tygett pointed at him with his fork, spattering Kevan’s wife Dorna with salad dressing.

“I’d thank you to watch your tone with me!”

“This is silk!” Dorna wailed.

“Blended silk at best,” Darlessa, Tygett’s wife sniffed.

Willem and Martyn seized the chaos to attempt second helpings of dessert, but promptly got into an argument over who could claim the largest eclair.

Cersei sat back and smiled as the volume in the courtyard returned to a dim roar.

Exactly one hour and five minutes after Petyr snapped his photo and thirty four minutes after the Times touted Cassana Estermont’s return, Cersei’s phone buzzed.

Dear Miss Lannister,

We have moved some features in our August edition and are wondering if you would still be interested in a collaboration with Vogue...

Cersei stopped reading and excused herself. Ned had run into the mansion, which meant Robert was doubtlessly somewhere nearby. It was a moment’s work to find him. And as she raked her hands through his shaggy black hair, felt her dress slipping like water off her shoulders, saw the way his stormy blue eyes ignited with a molten heat that she would never not love, Cersei reflected that nothing put her in the mood like winning.

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Ch 23

In Robert’s experience, most things just sort of worked out if you left them alone for long enough.

Maybe Ned would come along (“Hey buddy, let me help you with that”) or Cersei (“Really, Robert, it’s not like it’s hard”) or Jon Arryn (“I don’t care if your father said you could, you have a concussion and you’re not playing tomorrow”).

So it was unfortunate that this engagement party was proving to be the exception to the rule.

That in and of itself was odd. Robert loved parties! Especially parties that Tywin Lannister had to pay for! Plus there was the added bonus of standing across from the man in the relative safety of a public setting and just slowly, subtly twisting the knife.

“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my days with Cersei,” he confided loudly to Hoster Tully. “But it’s the nights I’m really excited for.”

Okay, he didn’t really do subtle. Still, the death glare from Tywin warmed the cockles of his heart.

“Your bride’s coming toward us,” Rickard Stark noted. 

“Wait till you see her walking away,” Robert winked, and behind Rickard’s left shoulder, Tywin Lannister started turning purple. Robert wondered if he could get him to have a heart attack in the greeting line. 

Then the helicopter landed and Robert had the first inklings that this party might be a bit different.

The thing about his mom was that she cared first and foremost about appearances. And the thing about his dad was that he cared first and foremost about having a good time. They were just the kind of people who probably shouldn’t have been parents, but his mom wanted to have the picture perfect family and had instead ended up with three boys that she’d had very little interest in.

Robert knew it drove Stannis crazy. The injustice of it, the unfairness. He knew it drove Renly crazy, the vacuum where love and attention should have been. It wasn’t Robert’s fault that it bothered him less. Literally everything bothered him less. Cersei said it was because he was emotionally stunted, whatever that meant. Probably something good, because she’d said it in an admiring tone of voice.

He’d mostly been worried that Stannis would get mad at him. He had always been his parents’ favorite. Maybe as a result of the whole not giving a shit that they were terrible parents thing. But that was super not his fault, and he didn’t need Stannis going into a sulk and ruining the whole night. Only he managed to navigate pacifying his parents without pissing off his brother, and as Stannis strode off, bent on righteous retribution, Robert slowly let his shoulders drop and released the breath he’d been holding.

It kind of seemed to him that Cersei would be pleased he had handled this so deftly. Would engagement sex be back on the table? He certainly thought it should be. He excused himself from a conversation with his father and Samwyle Tarly to go ask.

He found her talking to that weedy guy that hung around the Tully sisters all the time. 

“Have I mentioned that you look breathtaking,” Robert came up behind Cersei to whisper in her ear. Over her shoulder, he raised an eyebrow at the guy... Baelor? That sounded right. Baelor got the hint and promptly scarpered. 

“Robert, not now, I’m busy,” Cersei turned over her shoulder to look at him. From somewhere, the flash bulb of a camera went off.

Knowing that they were under public scrutiny and therefore there was little Cersei could to do to stop him, Robert took her hand and spun her into him, so she was pressed up against his chest. Another flash went off somewhere.

“Dad’s taken care of. Tywin as good as. Stannis is handling Jaim... the Jamison. We’re out of Jamison,” Robert recovered, barely missing a beat. 

“That useless tramp! She said the bar was stocked!” Cersei clenched a fist. 

“Well we’re taking care of it,” Robert took the fist and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “It’s going to be fine. Let’s just relax and find somewhere nice and quiet to...”

“Relax?! RELAX?!” Cersei growled. When another camera went off, she dropped her voice into an angry whisper. “Robert, Petyr Baelish just told me...”

Baelish! That was it! He’d been pretty close with Baelor. 

“and everything will be ruined!” Cersei was finishing up as Robert tuned back in. She stared at him, waiting for some kind of reaction. Shit.

“Well just tell me what I can do?” Robert tried. She narrowed her eyes, and he hoped he hadn’t miscalculated. That response usually worked.

“Find someone who can fly a helicopter,” she hissed. Then she stood on tiptoe to place a chaste kiss on his cheek and waltzed off as everybody applauded.

Robert was left standing there a little stymied. Engagement sex was on hold until he could find someone to fly a helicopter?!

He wondered if this was something Ned could help with.

Where was Ned?

He knew Hoster Tully had been giving Ned a hard time since he’d married Cat... he’d offered to talk to the man on Ned’s behalf, but Ned had gotten a little squirrely about it. Like he thought Robert would mess things up more, but didn’t want to say so. Which was ridiculous. If the last hour had proved anything, it was that Robert was great at this kind of stuff. 

Case in point—Ned has been pigeonholed by Walder Frey, the man’s bony arm on his shoulder preventing escape.

Robert strode up and put his own arm around Ned.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding! Pardon me, Walder, I’ve got to talk to my best man here about his duties! He’s arranging my stag party you know,” Robert winked. Walder gave an appreciative guffaw.

“It’s only going to be the BEST STAG EVER!” Robert beamed, giving Ned a little shake. Ned mustered a weak smile.

“Nothing wrong with boys being boys, that’s what I always say,” Walder said heartily. “Now Ned, remember what I said about my daughter Tyta!”

Robert raised one hand in a backward wave as he walked Ned away.

“Never under any circumstances get into a room with Tyta Frey,” he snorted. “She’s got more of a mustache than half her brothers.”

“Robert,” Ned mumbled, in a tepid attempt to sound reproving.

“Oh you prefer mustaches? Poor Cat, does she know? Does Oberyn?”

Ned gave him a significantly less tepid shove and Robert laughed, pleased to have jolted him out of whatever mood he was in.

“Walder heard my marriage is on the rocks. He wanted to set me up,” Ned confided.

“With his own daughter? That man is shameless!” Robert shook his head in commiseration.

“It’s Hoster Tully! He’s going around telling everybody that Cat wants a divorce, and Cat’s so stressed as it is, I don’t want to put more on her. But I’m really losing my head over this!”

“Okay, calm down,” Robert sighed. “Is there any chance you can fly a helicopter?”

Ned raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure I’ve reached fleeing the party in your parents’ chopper, Robert, but I appreciate the problem solving,” he said drily.

“Problem solving for myself. I need to get it off the lawn. Can you?”

“Of course not! Where on earth would I have learned?!”

“I was just asking! Okay, you sit right here on this bar stool,” Robert deposited his charge, “and don’t move a muscle. Drinks are on me.”

“Drinks are on Tywin Lannister.”

“All the more reason to drink up,” Robert smirked. Ned just buried his head in his arms.

Okay, he needed to find someone to fly a helicopter and something to help Ned.

It seemed to him, seeing as Cersei and Ned had only saddled him with MORE problems, that the person to talk to was Jon Arryn.

Jon was tall, with graying blond hair, blue eyes and a rather beaky nose. He was their fathers’ age, but had no children of his own. He’d had a wife once but she had died, and it had been hard for him to move on. He’d been Robert and Ned’s pee wee football coach and later their teacher and had kind of adopted them. 

So of course Jon Arryn put down his glass and excused himself from talking to Olenna Tyrell the moment he saw Robert.

“My boy!” He ruffled Robert’s hair. “Getting married?! What’s happening, I’m getting old!”

“You were always old,” Robert swatted him off.

“Careful Baratheon, I’m not too old to make you run sprints!”

Robert rolled his eyes and downed his beer in one go, before letting out an enormous burp.

“My life is running sprints. You’d better come up with a new punishment.”

“I’ll make you finally turn in that essay on Wuthering Heights you owe me from senior year,” Jon Arryn teased.

Robert gave a mock shudder that was perhaps just a teensy bit real.

“How about instead you make your buddy Hoster back off of Ned? He’s driving him crazy!”

Jon Arryn winced.

“I did my duty on that already. I escorted Cat all over that sandbar they called an island. And her sister too. Speaking of which...” Jon paused, uncertainly. Robert tilted his head. He’d never know his father figure/coach/teacher/mentor to be shy.

“Well, what do you think about Lysa Tully?” Jon asked finally, his ears turning just the faintest shade of pink.

Mother have mercy. Jon Arryn, his Jon Arryn, was a dog!

“I think she’s half your age!” Robert elbowed him, unable to stop the delighted smile that was spreading across his face. Jon who force fed him dusty books about men with estates and women with fans, Jon who pined after his dearly departed childhood love, his Jon Arryn was a total scoundrel!

“She is twenty-one!” Jon stammered, seeming much younger than the man who had once torn him a new one for hiding under the bleachers during cheerleader tryouts.

“And you’re... sixty?” 

“I am forty-five! Gods Robert, I’m not ancient!”

He kind of was. At least in Robert’s head.

“I am proud of you,” Robert slung his arm around the man’s shoulders. “Now what do you need advice on? Is unclasping bras? It’s just practice Jon. I know they probably didn’t have bras back when you were a kid and dragons roamed the earth but...”

“Robert, if you don’t shut up this instant, I’ll tell Hoster Tully who mooned him from the eighteenth hole when he was teeing off for the club championship,” Jon growled.

Robert chortled at the memory. Good times.

“Fine, little Lysa Tully. Little sweet de-lect-able Lysa Tully...”

“Robert!”

“You’re no fun. What do you want to know?”

“Is she single? Does she date? What kind of man is she looking for? Is age an issue? What kind of books does she read?” Jon Arryn asked expectantly.

Robert blinked. He knew the answers to exactly zero of those questions. Kidding aside, Lysa was just Cat’s sister. A little annoying and shrill, kind of a tag along. Cat adored her though, so she couldn’t be all bad. 

“You don’t know do you?” Jon sighed.

“Nope,” Robert admitted. “But I can find out for you. 

“Okay,” Jon looked hesitant. “Just... maybe don’t mention the book thing. I don’t want her to think of me as her teacher.”

“Why not?” Robert grinned. “You bring the ruler, she brings a short skirt and some knee socks...”

“ROBERT!”

The more he thought about it, the more he felt like getting laid would do Jon Arryn some good.

“Look, if you must mention something, you can tell her that I was in the Air Force. Or that I...”

“Wait, you were in the Air Force?!”

“Yes, for ten years. I’ve told you this Robert, you know—“

“Can you fly a helicopter?!”

It was a miracle. Jon Arryn, HIS Jon Arryn, could fly a helicopter. And he’d promised to talk to Ned. All Robert had to do was talk to Lysa.

He found her naturally with Cat.

“Ladies,” he waggled his eyebrows at them.

“Please,” Catelyn rolled her eyes but looked amused. Lysa giggled.

“I’ve missed you while you’ve been away! Ned’s no fun without you Cat, you have to move to Oldtown immediately,” Robert sighed. 

Catelyn rolled her eyes but looked amused. Lysa giggled.

“And Lysa!” He turned his best charming smile on her. The giggling increased. “What’s new with you?”

“Excuse me Robert, I need a refill. Ned and I are so so happy for you,” Catelyn squeezed his hand and bowed out of the conversation gracefully.

“She shouldn’t even be drinking, not while she’s breast-feeding,” Lysa’s face darkened for a second.

“Hnn,” Robert said, briefly distracted by the thought of breast feeding. And breasts. He wondered what Cersei would look like breast feeding...

“...and then he just left me here!” Lysa finished what had been apparently an in depth recounting of her day. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for some kind of reaction. Shit. Why did this keep happening to him?!

“So are you single?” Robert asked after a beat. Because only Cersei got the what-can-I-do-for-you-your-majesty treatment. “Asking for a friend,” he added hastily when that seemed to potentially trigger another giggle fit.

“Of course not, I just told you I’m with Petyr,” Lysa smiled at him. “But he really is too rude! He just left me by himself! He’s my plus one you know, he didn’t even get his own invite...”

“Sounds like you need someone more mature,” Robert said smoothly. Gods he was a great wingman.

“That’s what I was just telling Cat! I have options you know, if Petyr thinks he can just disappear on me, I happen to know a very dashing older man who...”

“You know what you should really do,” Robert said in a conspiratorial tone of voice, cutting off her monologue because he could tell it was going to be boring. “Disappear on Petyr.”

“Hmm?” Lysa looked intrigued.

“You know, if you asked, my good buddy Jon Arryn over there would give you a ride in that helicopter. You could see the sunset over King’s Landing from a mile up!” 

“Jon Arryn? What that was—“

“And Petyr will have no idea where you are! And wait till people tell him you left in a helicopter with some other guy!”

“You know what?” Lysa downed her glass of Sauvignon. “That is an excellent idea.”

She turned to go. Was he forgetting anything? Oh right!

“HE WAS IN THE AIR FORCE!” He shouted after her.

Robert watched her walk over to Jon Arryn proudly. There. He’d done that. Zero to sixty after a thirty second pep talk. He wondered if they gave awards for the very best wingmen.

Okay, so now he just needed to go sit with Ned and make sure he didn’t do anything silly until Jon got back. 

Robert fairly swaggered back to the bar, ready to catch up Ned on the best gossip of all time (Jon Arryn and LYSA?!?!) and his amazing intervention to save the day. But the bar had nary a Stark in sight.

Huh. Odd. Oh well, he was sure Ned had found someone to offer advice and lend support. Who didn’t like Ned Stark?! Ned was probably doing just fine.

Now that the helicopter had lifted off, Robert decided to check back in with Cersei about that engagement party sex.

He found her with Tyrion and Renly.

“Halfway through dinner, I want you to tell father that Steffon was hoping to have a drink with him in the library in private,” she was instructing Tyrion. She turned to Renly, “And once you see father leave, I want YOU to tell your father that Tywin Lannister was hoping to speak with him in the library.”

“Hey Robert,” Renly lifted a hand in greeting. Robert gave him the traditional Baratheon headlock hello.

“Guess what?” Tyrion asked, as Renly squirmed, trying to break free of Robert’s grip.

“What?” Robert said, finally releasing his youngest brother, who promptly pulled out a comb and set to work fixing the damage.

“I lost my virginity!”

“NICE!”

Robert thumped Tyrion on the back and only Cersei’s quick reflexes kept him from a face plant.

“And I’m in love!”

Robert raised an eyebrow at Cersei, who looked like she had bitten into a lemon.

“Speaking of being in love and expressing that love...”

Renly made a gagging noise and Robert punched him.

“OW!”

“Robert, we’ve set everything up. Father is going to go to the library thinking Steffon wants to have a drink with him. Steffon will go to the library thinking father has something to say. He’ll get there, father will have poured the Scotch for him, Steffon will take that as an apology, and be conciliatory and father will take THAT as an apology. All I need you to do is wait twenty minutes after your father leaves the table and check in on them,” Cersei rattled off. Was it just Robert or did she seem a little stressed?

“Okay, will do,” he said, wondering if engagement party sex had to wait until after that. He tentatively put his arm around Cersei’s waist and she shrugged him off. Yeah, probably had to wait.

He and Ren walked back to the courtyard where the tables were set up and mingled with the guests until dinner was announced. As he sat down with his parents and his brothers, he cast a forlorn look at the table where most of his friends were seated. Then he looked over to the Tully table to commiserate with Ned. 

Hoster Tully and Ned were having a heated conversation, as Edmure, Edmure’s date, Lysa and Baelor looked on with interest. Oh dear. Where was Cat when you needed her?! Robert walked over and plopped himself down on the empty chair between them.

“How’s it going?” He asked cheerfully. “Everyone enjoying the filet mignon?”

His presence managed to keep things on a low simmer, which was great until he saw Renly frantically waving at him. He looked over to his father’s seat which was... empty.

Shit. Shitshitshit. How long had he been gone? Had it been twenty minutes? It seemed like more judging from Renly’s level of frantic and Stannis’ level of flower. 

“Um I need to go,” Robert stood up abruptly, interrupting one of Edmure’s fly fishing stories.

“But...” Ned looked pale.

“I’m sure Cat will be here any minute,” Robert offered, feeling bad for leaving Ned in the lurch. But... engagement party sex! Oh, and not letting his father get murdered by Tywin Lannister. That too.

“Where is my daughter anyway?” Hoster huffed.

Robert missed the end of that conversation because he was power walking to the library. And then jogging. And then running.

He was just taking the corner at a slide, fully prepared to tackle Tywin to the ground if things had gotten violent, when Jaime Lannister suddenly grabbed him.

“Whoah!” Jaime hissed. “They are by some miracle getting along.”

How had he gotten out of whatever trap Stannis had set? Ugh Stannis was seriously off his game lately. He realized Jaime had stopped talking and was staring at him. Why did this keep happening?!

Fortunately, Jaime at least did not wait for a response.

“Nobody is in trouble. Don’t go into the library or you’ll ruin it.”

Oh. Great. He was much better at not doing things than doing things. UNLESS... this was a trap! Because Jaime hated him! 

“Why should I listen to you?! You’ve done nothing but try to sabotage this wedding from the beginning!”

“Yes but... I was wrong,” Jaime mumbled.

Robert waited for the sarcastic shoe to drop. In his experience, most of what Jaime Lannister said was sarcasm. But nothing happened. They just stood there staring at each other really awkwardly. Gods... was this real?

“Didn’t catch that,” Robert said, because if it was real, he definitely wanted to savor this moment. 

“I have spoken to my sister. I think, for quite unfathomable reasons, she might actually like you. So… you know. I’m done trying to mess things up for you. And for what it’s worth, if we’re going to be family, we’re going to be family,” Jaime managed to get out, looking more uncomfortable by the second.

Awww that was nice! And look at him standing there all awkward! Robert pulled him into a big Baratheon bear hug. He wasn’t so bad! And he should definitely come to the stag party. A good way to bury the hatchet and put all of this ugliness behind them. A gasping sound alerted him to the fact that he might be crushing his newest family member.

Robert gently released him back to the wild. But not without extracting a promise that Jaime was in for Dorne. Now back to Cersei to see about that engagement party sex...

“Robert!!!” Ned came skidding around the corner. “Help me!!!!”

“Yikes, not in there,” Robert caught him before he could go crashing into the library. “In here,” Robert pushed a door open at random. It turned out to be a small bathroom. 

Ned half collapsed on the toilet looking ashen.

“Would you have said that Hoster Tully was a bully who would respond to confrontation by crumbling like cheese?” He asked after a beat.

Robert considered. Hoster still harbored a grudge against that mysterious individual who had mooned him in the final round of the club championship ten years ago. He seemed more like the kind of person who nursed vindictive fury for a very long time, allowing it to distill into unstoppable rage.

“Not really,” Robert said. Ned’s shoulders slumped still further, if possible.

“What happened?” Robert asked.

“I might have accused Hoster Tully of destroying my marriage. And then he accused me of destroying his daughter’s life. And then I might have... popped him?”

“Popped him?”

“In the nose.”

“Ah.” Robert sat down against the door. Because really, what do you say to someone who has just punched their father in law in the nose?

“Any blood?”

“Heaps.”

Another pause.

“Does Cat—?”

“No. Not yet anyway.”

And then they heard the scream. It sounded as if it came from beyond the grave. Ned grabbed Robert’s hand.

“Now she knows.”

“Do you think maybe you should leave?” Robert asked tentatively.

Ned gulped.

“That might be for the best.”

“Give tempers time to cool down.”

“Not cause more of a scene than I already have.”

Robert sighed and fished out his car keys, tossing them to Ned.

“If I see Cat, what should I tell her?”

“That I’ve gone back to my parents’ house,” Ned said slowly. Then he looked up.

“And that I am so SO very sorry,” he said finally.

“It’s going to be okay,” Robert tried to comfort him.

“Is it?” Ned said hollowly.

Robert shrugged. Ned gave a dry dark laugh.

“Well up you go,” Robert said, struggling to his own feet and pushing open the window. “At least we’re on the ground floor. Just think, you might have to jump for it!”

Ned only gave him a forlorn wave as he clambered out the window and vanished into the night.

“I know he’s sorry Robert,” Cat said immediately when he found her. 

“I just... ARG!” She thudded her head against Robert’s shoulder dolefully. 

“Your dad is an ass,” Robert huffed.

“I know! But Ned has made a royal mess of things. HE PUNCHED HIM IN THE FACE!”

“He had it coming.”

“Violence is not the answer, Robert,” Catelyn scolded. But false. Violence was often the answer. Just maybe not here. “Look... can he stay with you in Oldtown a while longer? I just need some time to process this. And have a long talk with my father. That it would be better if Ned weren’t there for because they really do bring out the worst in each other. The stag and hen parties are next weekend anyway.”

“Of course.”

“Okay... tell him I love him. And also that I want to kill him. But mostly that I love him.”

Robert saluted and Cat gave a weak smile of acknowledgment.

They would be fine. They always were. He hoped he and Cersei were like that someday. Oof, Cersei. She was not going to happy about this. Engagement sex was probably off indefinitely.

With a sigh, Robert began trudging back to the courtyard.

And then it happened.

A door swung open, and Cersei pulled him through.

Robert staggered into what appeared to be some kind of mechanical room.

“Hi Qu—mmmph,” he said less than articulately as he was cut off by her pulling him into a deep kiss.

Did she not know yet? What were the moral and ethical ramifications if he just say, didn’t tell her?

Robert automatically was unhooking the clasps at the back of her dress, letting his fingers trace down her spine as Cersei started fumbling with his belt.

What were the physical ramifications if say, she found out he didn’t tell her?

With a sigh he caught her hands as they started to unzip him.

“Ned punched Hoster Tully in the face in front of all of your dinner guests,” Robert told her bluntly. There, like ripping off a bandaid.

“I don’t care,” Cersei laughed, and pulled his pants and briefs down in one go. 

“You don’t?” Robert said uncertainly, ever as she stepped over the puddle of clothing to stand between his legs.

“Not at all,” she breathed as he picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, and he pressed her against the wall. 

“We’ll miss the fireworks,” Robert panted at some point, senses fogged by the tang of her sweat and perfume, and her blonde hair wrapped around his hand, the expression of her face as he thrust deeper.

“Fuck the fireworks,” Cersei managed and then she bit his shoulder so she wouldn’t cry out.

“Fuck the fireworks,” Robert said agreeably after, as they lay in a nest of their abandoned clothing. He pulled his jacket over them both.

“Robby,” Cersei purred, and she only ever called him that when she was truly and deliriously happy.

“Hnn?” Robert asked sleepily. He looked down to see her face on his chest tilted up at him—the enormous green eyes looking almost soft in the dim light.

“Robby, we got Vogue.”

Like he always said, things just seemed to work out.

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding Chapter 22

Beric squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about the fifteen to twenty foot drop below him. Tried not to think about the distinctly breezy feeling between his legs. Tried not to think about how that giant crash of the trellises would have staff running any second.

All he had to do was clamber over a couple feet to where the next window was and pop in.

Or maybe he would slip, fall and sustain a horrendous injury. Again. And they could find his mangled half-naked body in the rubble.

Beric gritted his teeth and forced himself to open his eyes. With superhuman effort, he scooted himself one rung over. There, that wasn’t so hard. Then another. Then another.

He had reached a portion of the trellises that had managed to survive Jaime Lannister, and he slid his feet into the rungs gratefully. Maybe things were finally turning around.

The distinct sound of voices floating from around the corner caught his ear. Or not.

Beric scrambled to the window, prior fears vanishing when faced with the all-consuming imperative of not being caught at a fancy dress party in purple lightning bolt undies. The window thankfully opened easily, although it might have just been the adrenaline lending him superhuman strength. He flung himself through and hit the carpet in a dive and roll, just as two chatty workmen came around the corner to inspect the damage.

Beric allowed himself to take a deep breath. For the first time in several hours, he was finally, mercifully alone.

He was used to being alone. He had no siblings and had struggled for most of his life to make friends. His one previous relationship had been with a guy who was in love with someone else, and that was really its own special brand of loneliness. 

Solitude could be comforting. There weren’t expectations for one. Nobody to disappoint. 

Then Thoros had come along, and dragged him from that little half-life which had been cozy in its own way, but also painfully dull. Life with Thoros was never dull. In fact, Beric smiled ruefully to himself, sometimes it was rather too exciting.

How on earth Robert getting married to Cersei had managed to upend his own life, he honestly had no idea. He had just been trying to be a good friend when Robert asked him to be in that stupid commercial. Wasn’t saying yes the right thing to do?

Beric had been sixteen when he’d had his motorcycle accident. As far as he was concerned, little good had come from that episode. But one silver (okay maybe more like brass) lining had been that he’d stopped getting attention he’d been quite uncomfortable with in the first place. He’d gotten plenty of stares instead of course (and to this day he couldn’t quite look in the mirror without flinching) but he’d built up walls and walls of self-defense to those.

It was quite another thing to have undergraduate girls giggling as he hurried through the quad on his way to class. He’d had to get a lock for the cubby where he kept his books, lest it look like a flower bomb had gone off. Even some of the law school girls would nudge each other, and the law school boys, particularly Crakehall and his crew did not like that at all.

“It doesn’t seem to bother you when you’re tending bar with me,” Thoros had said earlier that week counting up their tips so they could split them.

“You’re there to protect me,” Beric said matter of factly. “Plus it feels like it has a point. Like I’m getting something out of all the embarrassment. When I’m just sitting on a bus and some tween is taking photos of me... that is completely pointless,” he finished and flopped back on their bed.

Thoros, having finished divvying up the spoils, proceeded to start sprinkling Beric’s bills on top of him.

“Stop making it rain on me,” Beric rolled on his side to better glare at him. 

“I’m practicing for Sunspear,” Thoros said cheerfully, flicking a ten-dragon note at his nose.

Beric propped himself into a seated position.

“You’re using the money to rent a tuxedo for the engagement party remember?” He said sternly. 

“I was thinking...”

“No.”

“But...”

“No.”

“You’re not even listening!” Thoros said in a joking whine.

“There’s no justification for skipping your friend’s engagement party so you have money for a strip club,” Beric huffed.

“I hate tuxedos,” Thoros pulled a face. “I look like a waiter.”

“Only because you always rent so they don’t fit well. If you bought one...”

“Are you taking me to many fancy parties my lord?” Thoros teased. “Besides, we can both skip. You can’t tell me you’re looking forward to this.”

“Of course not.”

“So let’s stay home. Robert won’t even notice we’re not there,” Thoros wheedled, crawling across the bed to straddle Beric’s lap. And as Beric looked at Thoros’ perfect crooked smile, he really wanted to say yes.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad. There can’t be many tween girls in attendance,” is what Beric said instead.

He should have said yes.

For starters, the dry cleaners had misplaced a number of his clothes, most upsettingly his tuxedo. So come Friday, both he and Thoros were at the store to rent tuxedos. 

“See? Waiter vibes,” Thoros said glumly, looking at himself in a mirror.

Beric scowled as he tried on yet another pair of trousers. He knew he was lanky, but it was infuriating that the only sizes that were long enough were for men of much wider girth.

“It’s just for one night,” he said finally. He had no idea whether he was trying to convince himself or Thoros.

Then Saturday morning, he woke up to discover three new fan accounts dedicated to #oneeyedhottie. He groaned.

“You seriously don’t see the humor in this?” Thoros asked drily, looking over his shoulder. “Is that your highschool yearbook photo?”

“Where did they even find it?!” Beric fretted. “And no. I don’t see the humor in being MORE of a freak show.”

“I don’t like it when you say those things,” Thoros wrapped his arms around Beric. “First, I would deck anybody who said that about my boyfriend. So you’re treading on thin ice ser. Second, I have plenty of scars myself.”

Beric turned hastily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not the scars. I just don’t like people looking at me like I’m something I’m not.”

“Like?”

“I dunno. Somebody to be admired.”

“I admire you,” Thoros said bluntly. “You’re my hero.”

“I think we’ve already proven your judgment is questionable,” Beric noted. When that failed to provoke a smile, he shifted tactics.

“What will make you forget I ever said anything?” He asked, running an idle finger down Thoros’ side, pleased when he got a shiver in response.

“You could...” Thoros broke off as he squirmed away, making a sound of mock exasperation. “You could give me your phone. It’s making you all broody.”

“My life is making me broody,” Beric rolled his eye, but he tossed the phone, and used Thoros’ momentary distraction to pull him close again.

But Thoros might have been on to something, because by the time they had gotten to King’s Landing that evening, his spirits were feeling markedly lifted. In contrast to Thoros, who ground his teeth as yet another person handed him an empty glass.

“Maybe I should just start chucking them into the crowd,” Thoros scowled.

“You will not,” Beric yoinked it from him gently. “I’ll find somewhere to put it down.”

“Okay, I’m going to go stand over there on the lawn where there’s no people to hand me garbage,” Thoros said. “Are you good by yourself?”

“Yup,” Beric said cheerfully. And of course, no sooner had he set down the empty glass on the bar then he became cognizant of a young girl staring at him. He moved to the garden. Seconds later, she appeared in the tree line, this time slightly closer. Beric swallowed, a little unnerved by her unblinking gaze, and decided to go into the house. Only to hear her soft footfalls trailing eerily behind him.

That he had proceeded to lose her, only to end up locked in a room with Jaime Lannister, only to escape to find himself without pants entirely (he knew the rental tuxedo was too big!) was only indicative of the fact that he was no hero. He was a hapless idiot who screwed everything up. He’d tried to do the chivalrous thing and give that girl the slip without hurting her feelings. Then he’d tried to be a nice person and help Jaime Lannister. And where did all of this trying ever get him?

Beric dusted himself off glumly and looked around. Jaime Lannister’s bedroom had the forlorn look of a room that had not received much use in four or five years. He walked over to the bureau and pulled open a drawer, thinking that while Jaime was an inch or two shorter than him, at this point any pants were better than no...

The drawer was empty.

Beric, with increasing anxiety, began to pull out the other drawers. Empty, empty, empty. He checked the closet. Empty.

Fuck. He sat on the foot of the bed heavily. He knew Jaime hadn’t lived at Casterly Rock since high school, but he’d assumed he would have some clothing left lying around. 

Okay think. Brienne’s suitcase in the corner would be of no help. Who lived here? Tyrion was still here—Beric shook his head at the idea of trying to use any of Tyrion’s clothing—and... Tywin. 

Tywin Lannister was Jaime’s height, so they would be short on him, but he was also thin. They’d probably fit better than any of Jaime’s old clothes. All the same... Beric winced at the idea of having to explain to the host of this party what exactly Beric was doing running around in his trousers.

But it would only be for the ten minutes it took to get down to the garden and retrieve his own. The odds of running into Tywin were infinitesimally small.

Beric took a deep breath and opened the door, poking his head out. He looked left, he looked right. The hall appeared abandoned.

He edged out. Okay first question. Where exactly was Tywin’s bedroom?

After several wrong turns and dead ends, Beric heard voices. Quickly he withdrew into what appeared to be a linen closet and held his breath.

“It’s just too vexing for words! I can’t believe none of the staff here can fly a helicopter! I would have thought that at least Westerling...”

“Leave the poor man alone. Just accept that you’re going to have to ask Steffon to repark his vehicle. Maybe you can make an announcement. ‘Will the owner of the corporate helicopter obnoxiously parked on the lawn please move their vehicle?’”

“Everything’s a joke with you! Look, can I at least borrow your phone?”

“Fine here.”

Beric peeked through the crack in the door to see Cersei typing out a text, an experience of concentration on her face as Tyrion tapped his foot impatiently. He briefly considered poking his head out and asking for assistance, but then considered that every time Cersei had involved herself in his life it had gotten worse. He kept his mouth shut and watched as they slowly ambled down the hallway.

“Who you texting?” Tyrion asked when Cersei tossed his phone back.

“Just responding to Jaime,” Cersei said and then they were gone.

Beric counted to a hundred while considering that when last seen, Jaime didn’t even have a phone. He decided to walk in the opposite direction.

Finally he got a break, when he saw the cavernous oaken doors of what could only be the master bedroom. 

If bedrooms were windows to the soul, Tywin’s soul was dark and rather minimalist.

Beric mentally apologized to the wedding photo of Tywin and his late wife, the silent witnesses to his crime. He opened a closet and... voila! 

Beric wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything more beautiful.

Less than a minute later, he was at the very least decent, even if he also looked like he expected an imminent flood.

Being somewhat fully dressed turned out to be a relief, because the aforementioned oaken doors unexpectedly started to open.

For the second time in perhaps twenty minutes, Beric found himself hastily darting into a closet.

Tywin Lannister slowly let himself in, and Beric tried to retreat even further into the closet. 

Please don’t let him find me, Beric begged a universe that had never been particularly kind to him. Dear gods, I can’t go like this. Cowering in a closet in the man’s trousers.

Tywin, instead of turning to the closet, went to the bathroom. Beric heard the faucet turn on briefly, a splashing sound. He peered through the crack in the door. 

There was a second of nothing, and then Tywin returned to the bedroom, his tie and cuffs unloosened. He sat on the foot of the bed heavily, staring at the same photo that Beric had noticed earlier.

“She’s your daughter,” Tywin huffed at length. “What am I supposed to do here?”

He’s talking to his dead wife. Please don’t let him find me cowering in his closet wearing his trousers listening to him talk to his dead wife. They’ll never even find my body.

“Part of me wants to just drop it. Steffon was my first friend. He warned me about Aerys and I chose money, I chose power. I chose incorrectly. I think... I think had you been there I might have done things differently. But it you weren’t. You died. And fuck that asshole, he wasn’t there. He betrayed me first, you know he did.”

There was a long pause.

“If you were here, you’d tell me to get over myself,” Tywin sighed. “Gods I can hear you in my ear sometimes. I just wish I could get some kind of sign, that this will be okay, that I’m not making more of a godawful mess of my children’s lives than they have already done on their own.”

There was a longer pause. One that seemed to last an eternity. Beric swallowed, screwed his eyes shut, and then kicked the back wall of the closet hard.

The echo of that thump seemed to last even longer than an eternity.

“Fucking mice. I’m calling the exterminator tomorrow,” Tywin grumbled. But maybe it was Beric’s imagination, only he didn’t seem quite as sad.

Beric counted to a thousand after Tywin left.

Thankfully this time he knew where he was going. Outside, outside and over to the east wing. And there, somewhere on the ground amidst the rubble, would be his pants.

He hurried out through the maze of Casterly Rock, a mansion whose floor plan he was now unfortunately and intimately familiar with. He cut across the second floor, smiling to see Brienne Tarth and Catelyn Stark, sequestered in a reading room laughing together. He slipped by, not wanting to intrude on their moment, even less as he was currently dressed.

Upon reaching the outdoors, Beric was momentarily disoriented by how dark it had gotten. People were having dinner now, he could hear the clink of silverware. He hoped Thoros wouldn’t feel abandoned at their table—probably not, he was fairly sure Cersei had relegated all of Robert’s unattached friends to a table in the back. Thoros would be laughing with Melisandre and Oberyn and Elia, her boyfriend Arthur, and Mace… no Mace would be at his mother’s table, Beric corrected himself. Regardless, he looked forward to sitting down with friends and putting this entire sordid ordeal behind him.

He rounded the bend, noted that there had been little effort to clean up the massive collapse of flowers. He could see the window where he and Jaime had crawled out, the broken bushes where Jaime had fallen, which meant he would have put Beric’s pants down right... there.

Beric looked blankly at the bare ground before him. He nudged some plywood away, lifted some flowers up. He proceeded to work with greater urgency, in a wider and wider circle around where he had been sure Jaime had put them.

Thirty minutes later, he sat down with a sigh, wincing as the trousers rode up even higher. He had to face the facts. He looked ridiculous and his the bottom half of his rental tux was nowhere to be found.

He nudged a bit of broken wood with his foot forlornly. Maybe he should just go find his dinner table. Even if people stared, Thoros would have some silly story for him that would take his mind off things.

Beric brushed himself off and headed toward the courtyard. As it happened, he had a perfect view for what happened next. As did several hundred dinner guests.

Ned Stark slammed both hands against the table where he was sitting and stood up, his chair tipping backwards with a crash. He looked furious, and yes, maybe a little tipsy.

“Well MAYBE,” he shouted at Hoster Tully, seated a mere two seats away, “she isn’t here because you humiliated her in front of all these people!”

Hoster Tully, refusing to be talked down to, stood up as well.

“How dare you take that tone of voice with me?!”

“See?! You don’t even deny it! That’s the worst part, that you know what you’re doing and you just DON’T CARE!”

“Lower your voice this instant or I’ll...”

“YOU’LL WHAT?!”

And then Hoster grabbed Ned’s shoulder, and Ned hauled back and punched him square in the nose.

Even from a distance, Beric could see the spurt of blood, and he could almost feel the silence radiating outward across the courtyard.

Beric closed his eyes. With everyone distracted, now would be the perfect time to walk to his table and plop down. Thoros would hand him his flask and Beric could have a swig of rum and he could just relax and enjoy the party.

Or he could go back into that gods-damned maze of a house and find Catelyn and send her out to rescue her husband and hope she didn’t notice he was wearing Tywin Lannister’s clothing.

It was a very easy choice, but Beric was already heading back to the mansion.

He found Catelyn more or less where he left her, with Brienne. Both girls were holding empty wine glasses, and Beric thought rather wistfully to the flask waiting for him in Thoros’ pocket.

“Catelyn, Brienne, I’m so sorry to interrupt. There’s been an um incident, Ned rather needs your help,” he said to Catelyn.

He knew she’d registered the ill-fitting trousers because her gaze had drifted briefly to them, but she was too polite to say anything.

“Of course Beric,” Catelyn rose. She turned to smile at Brienne. “I suppose I’d better rescue Ned.”

“Of course,” Brienne gave a bright slightly unfocused smile. “Beric, I thought that commercial was terrific. It was really nice of you to help out Robert like that.”

Beric began to redden at the reminder of the commercial that as far as he was concerned had started this entire mess. But Brienne’s gaze was open and guileless and he knew that she just meant the comment sincerely in the same way he knew she hadn’t noticed his outfit at all.

“Thanks Brienne,” he gave her a small smile back. She was already snuggling deeper into her arm chair, the strap on her pink-ish dress falling down one white shoulder. He thought in that moment she looked rather like a modern day Cinderella after midnight, tired of glass slippers and needing a nap.

“So what’s Ned need a rescue for?” Catelyn asked drily.

“Oh! Right,” Beric took a deep breath. “He punched your father in the face.”

“HE WHAT?!”

Catelyn Stark née Tully was truly frightening when she got angry. An almost dead expression in her eyes. Beric, feeling slightly guilty about being responsible for such a transformation, decided to hang back and let her march ahead.

And that was how he noticed Cersei hurrying from a cellar corridor, a bundle of clothing in her arms.

Beric did a double take. Surely she hadn’t purloined his trousers?! But no, it was all women’s clothing. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to follow her.

Cersei casually shoved the garments into an antique highboy drawer and then flagged a waiter.

“Sir, where is the sommelier? I’ve been looking for her all night. I must say, I’m finding this dereliction of duty to be rather... unprofessional.”

“So sorry Miss Lannister, I’ll track her down right away,” the waiter bobbed his head nervously.

Cersei gave him a charming smile.

“You might start with the wine cellars.”

“As soon as I deliver these desserts,” the waiter promised.

Cersei floated back to the courtyard, and after a brief pause to wipe the sweat off his brow, the waiter did the same.

Beric hesitated. This really REALLY wasn’t his business. But...

He quickly went to the highboy and retrieved the clothes, and set off for the wine cellars.

“Hello?” Beric called cautiously as he opened the first door. This far down, the air was cold and clammy. It reminded him of a different cellar, Gregor Clegane’s hands around his neck, drowning... Beric forced himself to take a deep breath. In all likelihood there was a scared girl who had fallen afoul of Cersei Lannister out there. This was not the time to be having a panic attack.

“Hello, um miss? I found your clothes, are you okay?”

Beric listened for a moment and upon hearing nothing was turning to exit when there was rustle.

“Wait! I’m here, um behind this rack. Please don’t look, I’m um... not wearing much.”

Beric could relate.

“I’ll toss your clothes in that direction, and I’ll wait for you in the hall. But you need to hurry, I think a search party will be looking for you.”

A minute later, a rather bedraggled looking girl a year or two younger than Beric emerged, trying to smooth her skirt suit. A lacy black bra was still visible under her white shirt, and Beric coughed and nodded in the general direction. The girl looked a tad confused.

“Oh!” She tucked the shirt in, which had the effect of pulling it even further down and revealing more cleavage. Beric winced.

“Here why don’t you wear this,” he shrugged out of his jacket. 

“I know these cellars are cold but I’m rather used to—“

“I insist,” Beric said firmly and draped it over her shoulders, rendering the outfit somewhat more work appropriate. “Now we really must be going.”

He led her out, barely skirting several waiters who had clearly been dispatched to fetch her.

“I don’t know what happened, I had the most lovely romp with Tyrion and then he texted me for a repeat during dinner and that he would wear his birthday suit if I would. And I went and I waited and...”

Beric was glad it was dark because he knew he was blushing terribly. They had made it out of the mansion, and were now hurrying across the lawn. He had the vague idea that if he could get her to the catering prep tent, she could act surprised that anyone would think her missing. It was pitch black, and their progress was only occasionally punctuated by the flash of the fireworks from above.

“I can’t think what was taking him so long, and what on earth happened to my clothes,” the girl was saying. Beric flashed back on Cersei borrowing Tyrion’s phone and rather doubted that “Tyrion” had been planning to come at all.

“I suppose I’m just—oof!” The girl lost her footing and landed on her knees. 

“I think I broke my heel!” She cried, clutching the shoe to her person as if it were a small pet.

“Shhh,” Beric tried to shush her. They were so close, but any noise could call the attention of the staff. “Can you walk?”

“No I don’t think so,” the sommelier tried some weight on her foot and winced.

“Okay, I’ll carry you,” Beric decided, looking doubtfully at the tent. It wasn’t terribly far. He could manage.

He staggered the remainder of the way, her arms around his neck, head buried in his shoulder, before at length he could put her down on a folding chair.

“New plan,” he panted as he set her down. “You twisted your ankle in the cellar and have been icing it here for the last hour.”

He cast around for some ice and knotted it into a dishrag as a makeshift ice pack.

“They’ll be so mad at me for playing hooky and not getting anyone to cover!” The girl bit her lip. Then she looked at him more closely.

“Say you look familiar.”

“I’ve got one of those faces,” Beric offered tepidly, aware that with the whole missing eye thing he most certainly did not. “And Miss, I really don’t want to presume, but you DID play hooky without getting anyone to cover. TWICE. And not for a legitimate reason like spraining your ankle but to hook up with the son of your employer!”

His companion had the grace to look a little sheepish.

“You’re right. I suppose it wasn’t very...”

“Professional,” Beric prompted, recalling Cersei’s word.

“I’ll take my lumps. And... and I’ll text Tyrion that it was fun but I have a job to do,” she added.

Beric gave a smile of relief and bent his head to the work of getting the ice pack on her ankle. He didn’t know what the situation there was, but he thought the more distance that this girl put between herself and Cersei Lannister, the better.

“You’re even better in real life you know,” the girl said suddenly. 

“Real life?”

“You’re from that commercial right? With the little boy? But you’re even better in person,” she pressed. “Wait till I tell all my friends that I got rescued by the one eyed hottie from the commercial!”

“I um have to go,” Beric blurted to keep from screaming.

“So basically,” Thoros smirked when Beric found him—or rather when Thoros found him, after the fireworks were done and people were lining up for the valet. “Basically you saved the day. I told you you’re a hero.”

“I didn’t save anything,” Beric protested. Now missing his jacket in addition to wearing somebody else’s trousers, he felt exceptionally unheroic. “I just did what anybody would have done.”

“You convinced Jaime to talk to Cersei about the wedding. I ran into him later, you know. You tricked Tywin into forgiving Steffon. Jaime says he saw them in the library drinking scotch.”

“I just said that to Jaime, he didn’t listen,” Beric disagreed. “And nobody tricks Tywin Lannister. He already wanted to do it, he was just looking for a nudge.”

“Fine you NUDGED Tywin Lannister,” Thoros dipped his voice to make it sound dirty, and Beric glared at him. Thoros only grinned back.

“Then you sent the cavalry to save Ned and finished it up by foiling a Cersei Lannister plot. Has Cersei ever been foiled? I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Well I think she just wanted to break up Tyrion and...”

“Tysha,” Thoros supplied.

“How do you know her name?”

Thoros handed Beric back his cell phone. It was opened to one of the fan Ravengram accounts. There was a picture, of Beric looking down in concentration as he held an ice pack to a purpling ankle. 

The post was by one Tysha Crofter. My hero, said the caption.

“I’m not a hero,” Beric began stubbornly, but Thoros kissed him to cut off his argument. He tasted like rum and a little marijuana and no matter what Thoros thought, he looked good in a tux. 

“If the Internet says it, it must be true,” Thoros grinned when he broke the kiss. And Beric found that he had quite forgotten what he had been planning to say.