1,191An Emperor's Song
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that is seen as property by the Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire & Percy Jackson & the Olympians franchises.
Warning: This story showcases violent themes, inappropriate sexual acts, foul language, etc. that is not suitable for most audiences, especially young adults and children. Please read at your own discretion or not at all.
Chapter 28. A Lion's Bargain
300 AF (Age of Fire)
Filler Arc I: [Year of Blood]
oOo
In the king's council chamber, With Perseus…
Despite the many oddities of his life, or rather lives, never did Perseus believe he would be sitting across from a noble imp ready to discuss politics.
On the other half the gilded table sat Tyrion Lannister, the man's mismatched eyes flickering between him, Willas and occasionally the high-ceiling of the council chamber.
The imp had been accompanied by an aloof but dangerous looking knight, Ser Bronn, if Perseus remembered correctly, who lounged in the corner of the room with the slack confidence of a man who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. His sword belt was currently vacant , at the behest of Grey Worm, who despite knowing that he could easily defend himself, still strongly advised that a possibly hostile occupant shouldn't be allowed to carry a weapon near him. It was a sentiment that he couldn't help but agree with.
His officially appointed Hand of the King, Willas, stood beside him, exuding a sharp intelligence, his hawkish gaze flitting between the Lannister imp and his guard.
Tyrion leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "You are not easy to meet with, Your Grace," he said, his voice rich with cordiality. "But alas, I came to bargain with a golden egg that I believe a dragon cannot ignore."
Perseus gave the man an unimpressed look, his wild mane of silver catching the light of the filtered sunlight. "Speak plainly, Lord Tyrion. I don't have the time to humor riddles."
"Very well, Your Majesty." Tyrion said, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "House Lannister is prepared to offer you the wealth of the Rock and the support of the Westerlands. In return, not only I, but the bastard children of my sister—Tommen and Myrcella—must live, and House Lannister retains its autonomy in the Westerlands. A small price for peace, don't you think?"
Perseus's jaw twitched but before he could reply Willas shifted forward slightly. "You propose that which you cannot promise. What guarantee do we have that this offer will hold weight with your father?"
Tyrion smirked, the image of a confident man who knew that he was bringing forth a great deal. "My father may be a lion, but even he knows when a hunt is lost. I think It's safe to say that my father won't be around for much longer. Am I correct in that assessment, Your Grace?"
Unblinking and without a hint of hesitation, Perseus deftly replied. "Lord Tywin will be arrested and charged for his crimes sooner rather than later. I was only putting it off to give my uncle, Oberyn, time to arrive in the capital. He has someone with him that will be quite the witness to Tywin's crimes against my family."
Tyrion stippled his fingers. "And my sister?"
At that inquiry, Perseus paused for a brief moment. He didn't necessarily care about the woman's affair with her brother nor did he care about her bringing about the deaths of the late great lord's, Lord Arryn and Lord Stark. But he did care that she was among the outspoken many who supported his family's persecution in Essos.
"She'll also be arrested and put on trial for her crimes." Perseus decided firmly.
Tywin's trial would certainly be overseen by Oberyn, but maybe he should have Viserys oversee Cersei's trial? His uncle had personal issues with the Lannisters—well, Ser Jaime in particular, but the disgraced kingsguard member was already on his way to the Wall—so perhaps this would allow his favorite uncle some level of relief.
Tywin nodded as if he had already known the answer. "Then, as you know, with my father out of the picture, I am next in line for lordship."
"Are you?" Perseus questioned, not quite sure that the imp was speaking the truth. "Your uncle, Lord Kevan, could just as likely assume lordship over you. If he pushed hard for it. He is the son of the late lord, Tytos Lannister, and his reputation isn't nearly as steeped in shit as yours."
From the corner of the room, came a badly covered snort from Ser Bronn who gained a glare from the imp. "I mean no offense, but you speak of that which you only know a portion of, My King."
Perseus raised his brows at that statement, prompting the Lannister to explain further.
"My uncle is many things—loyal to a fault, competent in military matters, and a much kinder man than my father—but he has never been particularly good at governing. And above all else, he has always been content to stay in my father's shadow. Do you think a man like that would step forward to claim lordship?" Tyrion leaned back in his chair, waves of confidence oozing from his small frame. "No, my uncle will not stand in the way of my ascension. And if you truly understand the Westerlands, you'll know that along with strength the lords there respect the one with the deepest pockets—and our pockets run ever deep, Your Majesty."
Perseus tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral, though his stony gaze no doubt betrayed his thoughts which were quickly made known. "I don't doubt the amount of gold your house has, Lord Tyrion. But strength? You speak of it boldly. Because I'm finding it difficult to see what strength you have. Some wit and a sly tongue may win you favor in brothels, but it's far from effective in swaying armies of men to fight and die for you."
Tyrion chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "True, Your Grace. But what I lack in might, I make up for with my connections and resources. I know where to find the coin to refill the royal treasury, and I know the strings to pull to ensure that the crown receives full support from the lords of Westerlands. But without me, the lion's den becomes a boneyard of petty squabbles, each lord seeking to claim whatever scraps is left, fracturing what could be your strongest economic ally."
He began the official negotiations first, his voice low and measured. "You speak of pragmatism, Lord Tyrion, of letting the Westerlands flourish under my guidance. I see the appeal—for you. But I am no gardener to till your fields for nothing. If I am to spare your house and lend my strength to its regrowth, I'll need more than promises. I'll need contractual agreements that the Westerlands will invest its gold into the crown—directly funding the developments I and my council oversee at our own discretion. Roads, forts, fleets—my kingdom's future rests on the completion of such things. And I'll expect your sworn obligation to support my rule, not just in words, but in steel and gold when I call for it."
Tyrion took a slow sip of his wine, his mismatched eyes glinting with amusement, though beneath it lay a sharp calculation. He set the goblet down and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "A fair ask, my lord, though you'll forgive me if I point out the obvious: the Westerlands' gold doesn't flow from thin air. It's bled from mines and trade, both of which have suffered under recent… circumstances. If you want our coffers to fund your grand designs, I'll need assurances of my own. A pardon, for starters—inked and sealed—for myself, my niece Myrcella, and my nephew Tommen. Whatever crimes the crown might pin on us, real or imagined, wiped clean. And more than that, I want clear support of my lordship from you—publicly declared. The Lannister name has recently been dragged through the mud; I'd like it polished a bit with your royal stamp."
Perseus regarded Tyrion in silence, his violet eyes searching the imp's face for any sign of duplicity. He found none, though he also knew that Tyrion's reputation spoke of a man who thrived on half-truths and manipulation. Still, there was truth in his words—truth enough to build on. The Westerlands could be trampled, its lords broken and its wealth seized, but guiding it through a leader, even if only a puppet, like Tyrion, pragmatic and cunning, held more promise for the long term.
Perseus tapped his ring finger against the arm of his chair, considering.
"Your pardons…" He began, his tone deliberate, "I could grant them. A clean slate for you and the children—Myrcella and Tommen, was it? That's within my power. But public support? That's a heavier coin to spend. If I'm to prop up the Lannister name, it must come with ironclad loyalty. I won't have your gold today only to find your spears at my back tomorrow."
Tyrion smirked, though his eyes remained sharp. "You wound me, my king. I'm no fool to bite the hand that feeds—especially when it's a hand as strong as yours. Loyalty you'll have, in writing, in deeds, even in blood if you must. But let's be practical about this gold you want. I'll agree to fund any of your projects—say, a fixed sum each year, detailed in our contracts—but I'll need some leeway to rebuild our own strength first. Mines don't dig themselves, and our merchants are only beginning to sail to ports that were under siege just a few weeks ago. Give me a year's grace to get the Westerlands back on its feet, and then your coffers will sing."
Perseus leaned back, his gaze narrowing. "A year's grace is a year I wait while you grow fat and I build nothing. Six months. And in that time, you'll send a tithe—half the sum we agree upon—to prove your intent. As for your pardons, they'll be drafted, but they'll hold only so long as you keep your end. If the first shipment of gold arrives late, I'll have those papers burned before your eyes right before I start burning down Casterly Rock. As for my support, you'll have it—quietly at first. A royal decree naming you Warden of the West, perhaps. Public praise can come later, when I see the fruits of this deal and the competence of your governing."
Tyrion tilted his head, weighing the terms. "Six months and a tithe… steep, but not impossible. Warden of the West has a nice ring to it, though I'd prefer the pardons be unconditional—call it a gesture of good faith. I'll throw in a bonus: a thousand Lannister men-at-arms to bolster your ranks the moment the ink dries. A taste of that steel you mentioned."
Perseus's lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile. The people could say what they wanted about the supposedly depraved imp but he could definitely scrounge up a good bargain like no other. It was a rare talent that his future kingdom would need. "Unconditional pardons invite betrayal. They'll stand contingent on your compliance—take it or leave it. The men-at-arms sweeten the pot, though. Let's say two thousand men, and we have a deal."
Tyrion chuckled, raising his goblet. "You drive a hard bargain, King Perseus. Two thousand it is. Shall I have the scribes draw up the terms for us to sign later today?"
Perseus nodded, his violet eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "You shall. And Lord Tyrion—don't think I won't be watching."
"Oh, I'd be disappointed if you weren't," Tyrion replied, draining his wine before he stood, bowing his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Your Grace."
The negotiations ended on that light but tense note. As Tyrion and Bronn left, Willas turned to Perseus, a gleam of calculation in his eyes.
Now amidst the ensuing quiet of the council chamber, Willas poured himself a goblet of arbor gold, swirling the white wine as he spoke. "There's much to gain from this, Your Grace. With access to the resources of the Rock, our plans will unfold a lot quicker."
Perseus frowned, resting his chin on his hand. "More resources are nice, but I'm more concerned about leaving the Lannister's to grow their wealth unchecked. Eventually he will try to renegotiate our terms."
Willas gave a small, knowing smile. "He will surely try. But if he's as smart as he believes himself to be then he'll see that he has more to gain by siding with us."
Perseus exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I still don't like it. I wanted to wait for Oberyn to arrive but there's no more time. Have Ser Garlan arrest Tywin and Cersei. I want them put on trial for their crimes as soon as possible."
Willas nodded, sipping his wine. "It will be done, my king."
After a moment, the conversation shifted as they came to lean over a map of Westeros that laid on the desk.
"The Crownlands and Stormlands are yours, along with the support of the Reach, Dorne, the Isles, the North and now the Westerlands," Willas said, tapping the map with a finger. "But if we are to truly create a strong, unified nation, the Riverlands and the Eyrie must also be brought into the fold. Without their lands either being under your control or in full support of you, our dream will always be just that."
Perseus traced the Trident with a finger, his expression thoughtful. "The Riverlands have suffered under the Lannisters and Freys for a long while. It's made them hostile toward any move on their independence. It won't be easy to get them in line."
"Riverrun will be key to our plans of subjugating them," Willas said. "If the Tullys kneel, the rest of the lords will follow."
Perseus leaned back, frustration flickering in his eyes. "I need to think about them more carefully. A war in the Riverlands could cost us more than we stand to gain. Especially if the North decides to take their side. For now, let's focus on the Eyrie."
Willas nodded, shifting his gaze to the mountainous eastern edge of the map. "The Vale's isolation is both its strength and its weakness. Lysa Arryn's regency has kept them aloof, but her son's rule is untested. If we can sway the boy—or those who whisper in his ear—then the knights of the Vale could ride under your banner without a drop of blood spilled."
Perseus's fingers drummed lightly on the table, his violet eyes narrowing. "I heard Lord Robert Arryn is a frail little boy, and that Lysa's paranoia has turned the Eyrie into a fortress of eyes. But there are some who are discontent with the current situation—Ser Harrold Hardyng, for one. He's a knight of honor, with significant influence among the Vale lords and ladies as the next in line for the lordship of House Eyrie. But if we offer him a seat at the table, promises of trade through Gulltown, and a guarantee of the Vale's autonomy under my crown, he might betray his cousin and turn the tide."
"A carrot, then, rather than a stick," Willas mused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Hardyng could be the key. But we'd need an envoy to reach him—someone we both can trust to keep these talks a secret. Sending a Dornishman or an Ironborn would only stoke Hardyng's mistrust. Perhaps a Stark? The North's honor carries weight in the mountains."
Perseus considered this, his gaze drifting back to the time he met a particular auburn haired beauty. "Sansa Stark, maybe. She's kin to the Arryns through her mother, and her time in the capital has sharpened her mind. Her looks are also a factor. If she speaks for me, it could soften his defenses. Are the Northerners still in the capital?"
Willas nodded. "They are set to depart in the morrow."
"See if you can get a private meeting between me and her." Perseus's order was met with another nod.
The Tyrell heir inclined his head, scribbling a note on a scrap of parchment. "A gentle approach, then."
"Precisely," Perseus said, rising from his chair. He paced to the window, looking out over the sprawling city below. "A unified nation isn't built on conquest alone—it's forged in trust and fear in equal measure. The Eyrie will see the rewards of joining our coalition, and if they're still unwilling to get with the program, the Riverlands will feel what it is like to truly be in the shadow of a kingdom."
Willas gathered the map and stood, his voice steady. "And if the North objects to our neglecting the Riverlands?"
Perseus's head turned to the side, his expression hardening over his shoulder. "Then we remind them that winter won't be coming anytime soon. Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The room fell silent, save for the scratch of Willas's quill as he began to draft the future of a nation.
Meanwhile, Perseus's thoughts lingered on the heavy choices before him. The path toward peace was strewn with conflicts, compromises—and sacrifices. But for the sake of creating the perfect realm he sought to build for Daenerys and Viserys, he would endure through any hardship.
oOo
With Viserys…
The cobblestone square at the heart of King's Landing brimmed with restless energy, a crowd of young men, their fathers, and even the wary faces of mothers gathered under the watchful eyes of the city watch and a few dozen soldiers that he had personally picked out from the remnants of the Golden Company to join the royal garrison.
In the distance, the Red Keep loomed, its towers standing sentinel over the capital, a constant reminder of the authority that resided within.
Viserys stood atop a raised platform, flanked by red and black banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen as well as black and gold banners with the depiction of a roaring dragon with a serpent's tongue and a flaming sun behind it—the symbol of the new order under his nephew, King Perseus.
He adjusted his red cloak over his pitch black armor, the weight of his new duties as Warden of Defense heavy on his shoulders. Yet he wore it with pride, knowing the role was critical. Perseus's vision for Westeros demanded unity and strength, and Viserys was determined to deliver both.
He raised a gauntleted hand, signaling for silence. The murmur of the crowd faded, replaced by the crackle of distant fires and the faint hum of the city beyond.
"Men of King's Landing!" His voice carried across the square, firm and resolute. "Hear me now, for what I speak is not a call to arms, but a call to honor, to duty, and to the survival of all that you hold dear."
Viserys stepped forward, his violet eyes scanning the sea of faces before him. Some were skeptical, others frightened, but many bore the hardened expressions of men who had suffered too long under the weight of crime and chaos. His words would reach them all the same.
"For too long, our lands have been plagued by thieves, cutthroats, and men who prey upon the weak. For too long, honest folk have lived in fear, their livelihoods stolen, their daughters unsafe, their wives forced to bolt their doors against the night. This cannot stand."
He allowed the words to hang, letting the indignation stir in their hearts. He could see it—the clenched fists, the nods of agreement.
"You are fathers. Sons. Brothers. You know this pain. But today, I offer you a chance to fight back—not just for yourselves, but for your families, for your future, and for the realm that is your right to live peacefully in."
Viserys gestured to the soldiers behind him, their red and black polished armor gleaming in the torchlight. "Under the decree of King Perseus, a new royal garrison is to be formed. A brotherhood, forged in honor and tempered by loyalty. Each man who joins will be given the tools to defend what is his. Weapons, training, and a cause worthy of your strength."
He paused, then let a softer note enter his voice. "I know what you fear. That in answering this call, you might leave your loved ones vulnerable or that the risks associated aren't worth it. But hear me when I say this: the King provides for his own. Every man who joins will receive a monthly wage, more than enough to feed his family and keep them warm in winter. If you fall in service, your kin will not be abandoned. They will be provided for—your wives, your children, all of them will receive what is due of your contract. This, I swear."
The murmurs began again, this time more thoughtful, more hopeful. He saw the shift, the way shoulders squared and eyes brightened. He pressed on, driving the point home.
"This is more than a chance to serve. It is a chance to become true protectors. To learn discipline, to master the sword and shield, to earn not just coin but the respect of all your peers. When you wear the red and black of the King's garrison, you are no longer just a man of King's Landing—you are a guardian of the realm, a defender of peace, a builder of prosperity!"
The crowd stirred now, a ripple of energy moving through them. Viserys raised his voice, letting it swell with passion.
"Let no man say he stood idle like a mute while his home was threatened. Let no man say he turned away like a coward when his wife and child needed his strength. Join us, together we will make these lands safe. Together, we will make it strong. Together, we will build a future worthy of our lineage!"
A cheer rose from the crowd, tentative at first, but it grew louder, carried by the tide of resolve. Viserys stepped back, his heart pounding. He had planted the seed. Now it was up to the men before him to rise to the call.
As his men began taking the names of the flood of aspiring recruits, Viserys allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He had done his part. But this was only the beginning.
oOo
In King's Landing, with Willas…
The throne room was warm, lit by the soft glow of afternoon sunlight spilling through stained glass windows that once more depicted the sigil of House Targaryen—the three-headed dragon which symbolized tremendous power through unity.
Willas Tyrell, now the Hand of the King, sat beside the Iron Throne, in a smaller gilded chair with a desk in front of him, its surface cluttered with parchment, inkpots, and a silver goblet half-filled with arbor gold.
He pushed up his glasses as he scanned yet another name on the long list of candidates for Warden of Construction, a position newly created by Perseus.
From the moment he met him, Willas knew that the young king was ambitious, but he once again found himself impressed when his liege told him about his plan to create a series of military bases across Westeros to serve as a backbone for royal authority. A task that, once completed, would see them as the only ones with access to the undisputed power that was brute force.
Such a massive project required a master of unionizing and engineering, someone capable of both commanding men and shaping stone.
The candidates so far were uninspiring. Lords, knights, and some architects, all skilled in their own way but lacking the spark of brilliance Willas knew the task demanded. He had met with fifteen today alone, and each one had left him feeling the weight of disappointment.
A knock sounded at the throne room door.
"Enter," Willas called, his voice steady, though his patience was wearing thin.
The steward entered, bowing quickly. "My lord, the next candidate is here—Mistress Alarys Longstrider."
Willas raised an eyebrow in recognition. The last name carried considerable weight. "Send her in."
The woman who entered was unlike anyone Willas had seen that day. Alarys Longstrider was tall and lean, with weathered skin the color of sand and long brown hair tied into a loose ponytail. She wore simple but functional attire—a leather jerkin and breeches, both stained with dust and mortar. Her sharp eyes, the color of polished steel, seemed to take in the room with the precision of an artisan inspecting her tools.
"Lord Hand," she said with a bow, her voice calm yet brimming with confidence. "It is an honor to stand before you."
"Please, Mistress Longstrider, take a seat." Willas gestured to the chair at the bottom of the throne steps.
She sat without hesitation, her posture straight, her hands folded in her lap.
"Are you a descendant of Lomas Longstrider? The author of, Wonders Made by Man." Willas began, leaning forward in interest.
Lomas Longstrider was a legendary explorer from Westeros, though many claimed he came from foreign lands. He was widely celebrated for his travels across the known world. Amidst these travels he authored a famous book which detailed all of the remarkable structures and landmarks from every continent, from Westeros all the way to Yi-Ti.
"I am," she said, an unmistakable hint of pride in her tone. "But while my great-great-grandfather chronicled the wonders of the world. I intend to build them."
Willas smiled faintly. "A lofty ambition."
"Not ambition, my lord," Alarys corrected. "A calling. My great-great-grandfather wrote of the Titan of Braavos, the Five Forts of Yi Ti, the Wall in the North. Structures that endure, that withstands change of the world around them. When I heard of King Perseus's ambition to build a better Westeros, I knew I must be part of it."
She spoke plainly but with a passion that ignited something in Willas. He studied her closely, noting the determination in her gaze. "And what qualifies you to obtain such an ambitious position? This is not a task for dreamers alone."
"I've spent my life mastering the art of building," Alarys said without hesitation. "I apprenticed under the builders of Oldtown and worked alongside the stonewrights of Sunspear while I studied the water gardens of Dorne. I've led crews, planned fortifications, and rebuilt villages after wars. I understand the weight of stone and the power of design. Give me the chance, and I'll prove I am more than worthy."
Willas tapped his fingers against the table. He had heard boasts from many today, but her words carried substance. He could see the conviction in her eyes and, more importantly, the vision that aligned with their cause, the cause to bring about a prosperous age for Westeros.
"You understand that this role will place you above many lords and knights," he said carefully. "It is not a position traditionally held by someone outside the nobility."
Alarys tilted her head slightly. "Was it tradition that built the Wall, milord?"
Willas allowed himself a soft chuckle. She was bold, no doubt, but she was right. The realm was changing, and it needed leaders who could guide it into a new age, unbound by the constraints of old traditions.
When he finally spoke , he met her unflinching gaze. "Very well, Mistress Longstrider. I will recommend you to His Grace for the position."
Her composure broke for the first time, a flicker of surprise and pride crossing her face. She stood, bowing deeply. "You will not regret this, my lord. I will not fail."
"I may not live long enough to regret anything, if you do." Willas said, his tone half-jesting but laced with sincerity.
As Alarys left the chamber, he turned his gaze to the map of Westeros spread across the table. For the umpteenth time in days, he felt a flicker of optimism. The king and his shared dream of a unified realm, upheld not by fear but by unity, was another step closer to reality.
oOo
Nighttime, with Daenerys…
Daenerys glanced at her brother across the long table, the flickering candlelight playing across his face as he laughed softly at something Margaery had whispered. Perseus sat beside her, his presence grounding yet distant as it had been lately, his attention divided between his meal and whatever thoughts occupied his mind.
The meal had been pleasant, the company warm, but Daenerys sensed an undercurrent of anticipation in the air. Viserys and Margaery had been exchanging subtle glances all night, the kind that spoke of secrets waiting to be revealed.
Finally, as the plates were cleared and the servants brought out spiced wine and fruits, Margaery placed a gentle hand on Viserys's arm and smiled.
"We have news," she began, her voice as sweet as honey. Her eyes sparkled as they flitted to Daenerys and Perseus. "Viserys and I… we're expecting a child."
The words hung in the air for a moment before the warmth of their meaning settled over the table. Daenerys felt her breath catch, and then a smile spread across her face.
"A child?" she echoed, her tone filled with genuine joy. "That's wonderful news!"
Viserys leaned back, a rare and genuine smile softening his usually sharp features. "Indeed. The house of the dragon will grow stronger." His gaze swept to Perseus. "You'll have a cousin, nephew."
There was a flicker in Perseus's eyes but it was gone in an instant. He raised his goblet, a faint smile curving his lips. "The gods have given us a blessing. Congratulations to you both."
Margaery's laughter rang like bells. "I only pray the child will grow to have Daenerys's grace and not the mannerisms of its father."
Daenerys felt the faintest blush rise to her cheeks as the conversation shifted to names and hopes for the future. But even as she laughed and shared in the joy, a quiet ache lingered in her heart, one she would not voice here in respect of the newly discovered babe.
oOo
Sometime later…
Later, Daenerys sat on the edge of the bed, the firelight casting long shadows on the stone walls of the royal chambers. Perseus stood by the open window, his arms crossed as he pensively gazed out into the night.
"Perseus," she began, her voice soft yet steady. "When will we set a date for our wedding?"
He turned to her, his silver hair glinting in the dim light. There was no hesitation in his reply, only the soothing words she had come to expect from him. "We'll have a meeting with the High Septon in a few days to discuss it."
Daenerys perked up, though she kept her voice even. "…will he agree?"
"I don't know," Perseus admitted, moving closer. He rested a hand on her shoulder, his touch as warm as his tone. "But trust me, Daenerys. I'll make it happen. I just need a bit more time."
She nodded, though the weight of his words settled heavily in her chest. "I trust you."
His lips formed into a faint smile, but he said nothing more. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her lips before straightening. "Go to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow. I still have work to finish."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the quiet of their chambers once more.
Daenerys crawled beneath the sheets, staring at the canopy above. The bed felt cold and empty without Perseus's warmth, and though she understood the heavy demands of his duties, the ache of his absence began to gnaw at her.
The news of Viserys and Margaery's child had filled her with joy, but it also stirred something else—a longing for the next chapter of her life with Perseus. Their wedding had been postponed for reasons that seemed reasonable enough. But tonight, for the first time, she felt a flicker of impatience.
She pushed it aside as quickly as it came though, refusing to let it take root. Perseus was to be her life partner, her sole confidant, and she trusted him implicitly. Still, as she closed her eyes and tried to will herself to sleep, she couldn't help but wonder how much longer she would have to wait for the future they had promised to live in with each other.
In the quiet of the night, Daenerys whispered a silent prayer to the gods, whichever would listen and grant her wishes.
oOo
The next morning, with Arianne…
[Mature Scene]
Moans replaced the birds of the early morning. Inside of her personal chambers, Arianne awoke to the heavenly sensations of the king's mouth upon her lower lips.
"Hnn~!" A breathless moan slipped from her full lips as her lover continued devouring her most treasured possession with gusto.
She glanced down and watched, transfixed, as Perseus treated her cunt like a delicacy to be enjoyed in its fullest. The oral skill of her newest beau quickly brought her to a pitiful state of whining and moaning as she edged ever closer to the rapidly growing climax he had deemed her ready to experience once more.
She had no choice but to allow him to do as he wished, her hands laying defenseless at her sides while his firm grip made sure to keep her quaking thighs apart.
Arianne's hips bucked off the bed, her fingers digging into the silken sheets when Perseus's tongue delved even deeper into her wet folds. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body arching, seeking more of the exquisite pleasure he wrought. The sunlight on the walls seemed to shine and flare in time with their passion, a testament to the fiery aura that surrounded them.
Perseus's mouth moved with an expert rhythm, sucking and lapping at her clit, then plunging into her depths, drawing forth her juices as if they were the nectar of the gods. Arianne's moans grew louder, the sweet sounds echoing through the room. Her body tensed, the waves of pleasure building within her, threatening to break free and sweep her away.
His skilled fingers trailed along her inner thighs, sending shivers of anticipation up her spine. As he continued to feast on her core, the tip of one finger probed her slick entrance. Arianne's back arched, her eyes rolling back as she surrendered fully to the ecstasy he provided.
Perseus slid his finger inside her, hooking it to further stimulate her inner walls. The combination of his tongue and finger drove Arianne dangerously close to the edge, her breaths coming in short pants, the moans now guttural and raw.
"Gah! Ooh, Perseus! I'm-hnngh~" Her eyes fluttered shut, her body convulsing, and with a final cry, she plunged into orgasm.
As the waves of pleasure receded, Arianne lay panting, her body slick with sweat, her limbs trembling. Perseus lifted his head, his eyes still dark with lustful hunger, his mouth glistening with her essence. With a smile, he moved to claim her lips in a fierce, demanding kiss that spoke of his blazing desire for her.
As their pleasure reached its zenith and the embers of their acts of passion smoldered, Perseus and Arianne lay entwined in the afterglow, their sweat-slicked bodies pressing tightly against one another.
As their breathing steadied, and in the comfortable silence that followed, Arianne looked into her lover's eyes, feeling quite content.
[Mature Scene End]
Arianne smiled, her hand ghosting across his cheek before their faces met in another smoldering mess of lips and tongues. Their morning had been as passionate as the night before, a testament to the growing flame that now burned between them.
After their heated kiss, she was pulled in by her waist to lay on him, her hand sensually rubbing the king's solid pecs. They stayed in comfortable silence, basking in each other's warmth before Arianne asked. "Any important duties today?"
"I have to go through more candidates for my small council." Perseus responded, his hand idly gliding over her round curves.
A mischievous smile curved Arianne's lips. "Am I not enough for you?"
She let out a genuine laugh at the unimpressed look she received from him. "I just hope I can find the last few that'll end up being useful. Almost all of the candidates have been disappointing so far. You'd think that a lifetime of books and 'proper' etiquette would make a noble smarter than the average person."
"I'm not surprised. There are as many mouth breathing fools in Sunspear as there are snakes." Arianne groused before adding, "besides me, who else have you added to your council so far?"
Perseus replied promptly "I've already picked quite a few people. Though some of those don't yet know their role, like Oberyn."
That piqued the princesses interest. "What role have you chosen for him?"
"Warden of Justice. He'll be in charge of the law-making and making sure law breakers are punished for their crimes. I think it'll fit him." He says.
Arianne thought about it for a moment before nodding. "I think so too." Her uncle was a sex deviant but he was absolutely against any crime being committed and the criminal not being punished. What happened to Elia and Rhaenys only added further fuel to the venom he had.
Another long moment of comforting silence passed, somewhere between the moment the king's hand had drifted from her hips to her big arse, his strong hand, calloused from a hard life, splendidly gliding over the soft, unblemished flesh with the occasional squeeze. His touch held a commanding yet tender feel to it that was seldom portrayed by her last lovers who pawed at her like uncouth savages.
"What about you?" Perseus asks.
"I have to meet with my father today." Arianne groused, already bemoaning sitting through that particular conversation.
"About?" He questioned.
"The usual most likely, 'you must act like the heiress of Sunspear to not dishonor our house—blah blah blah'." Arianne languished with a sigh.
Perseus chuckled heartily. "Based on how Oberyn acts, I'd think your father was a bit more laid back."
"My father and Oberyn are like night and day." Arianne rolled her eyes before shaking her head. "Enough about him. I hate to think more about my father than I have to."
"Wanna start the day off right?" Perseus grinned like a lecher.
Arianne blew a sigh from her nose, though her lips curved into a vixen smile. "You're insatiable."
Her royal lover rolled on top of her, their chests pressing against one another. "And you're still wet." Perseus whispered hotly in her ear, grinding his member against her slick slit.
Whatever witty words Arianne was about to say were totally lost as she was suddenly filled to the brim with her kingly lover, causing a breath of utter satisfaction to leave her.
Before the fog of lust and pleasure could fully envelope the mind of the Princess of Dorne, she briefly wondered if she would ever be able to go back to the way things had been if all else failed and she couldn't retain the king's attention.
A deliberate nudge of her sweet spot that sparked stars in her eyes eliminated that particular thought. There was simply no way she'd be able to live the same without experiencing this feeling of satisfaction and completeness.
Perseus Targaryen had well and truly ruined Arianne Martell for any man but himself.
oOo
A bit later, with Arianne…
After nearly being put back to rest by the virile dragon king, Arianne finally managed to ready herself to go out and seek her father.
She found her father in the solar officially dedicated to the delegates of Dorne, seated by the open window where the breeze carried the musk of the booming capital.
Doran looked up as she entered, his placid face betraying neither joy nor displeasure.
"Father," she said, offering a peck to his cheek before seating herself across from him.
"You are radiant this morning," her father observed, his tone mild but knowing. Which wasn't at all surprising, he knew about all of her trysts and tendencies in Sunspear.
"I was with Perseus," Arianne said bluntly, cutting to the heart of the matter. "I've gained his trust. More than that, I've shared his bed." Quite a few times at that.
Doran's gaze lingered on her, inscrutable. "I thought I made myself clear that you were to stay away from the king?"
If his majesty hadn't spent the better portion of the morning fucking her brains out, Arianne would've surely been vexed but alas she returned a carefree smile. "That would be a hard task to do seeing as how I am now the king's chief advisor on all diplomatic matters."
The satisfaction she took from seeing her father's eyes widen in disbelief was delightful. "Why would the king have chosen you as his diplomatic adviser?"
Arianne shrugged off his skepticism with a flick of her elegantly styled curls. "There's obvious reasons but the why is irrelevant. I have the king's favor and that will only grow with time, so there is no reason for you to reveal our betrothal."
Doran's lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. "No reason to reveal it?" he echoed, his tone measured but probing. "The betrothal is the cornerstone of our alliance with Perseus. It cements Dorne's place at his side—not merely yours, Arianne. Do not mistake your personal 'victories' for guarantees of long-term success."
Arianne leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "And you think Perseus would respond well to the announcement of a prearranged marriage? To a scheme where his trusted advisor is revealed as a pawn in her father's game?"
"Everyone is a pawn in someone's game," Doran replied calmly. "You would hardly be unique in that regard. And I doubt he would care to find out that you knew about the contract."
"Perseus is not like the others," Arianne said, her voice firm. "He doesn't think like a southerner or even a northerner. He is fire and blood, Father. He values loyalty above all, preferably given. If we force his hand now, we risk alienating him. Let me continue to work on securing his support. The longer I stay in his confidence, the less the betrothal will feel like a trap and more like inevitability."
Doran studied her in silence, and if she weren't keen on her father's true nature, she could almost imagine a faintest hint of pride glinting in his otherwise calculating gaze. "You are clever, Arianne. Cunning, even. But cunning alone is not enough. Perseus is not a fool, and he will sense deceit if you push whatever you two have too far, too fast."
"And that's why I won't push," Arianne expertly countered, leaning forward. "The king has already granted me his favor, and soon, he will grant me his heart. When the time is right, he will see our union as his choice, not yours. That is how we secure Dorne's future—by playing to his pride, not challenging it."
Arianne wanted to coyly add that she learned that from experience, a rather pleasurable one, but she didn't think her father would appreciate knowing that bit of information.
Doran exhaled softly, his gaze drifting toward the open window. The faint noise of King's Landing's bustling streets underscored the tension between father and daughter. "And what if you fail?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if his favor fades, or he takes another as his queen? Perseus has no shortage of options."
Arianne's expression hardened. "I won't fail. You may not have wanted to, but you trained me to be a player in this game, Father. Trust that I know how to win it."
For a moment, Doran said nothing, his weathered features unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Very well. The betrothal contract will remain our secret… for now. But understand, Arianne: the stakes could not be higher. If you misstep, Dorne will bear the cost."
She rose from her seat, a confident smile gracing her rosy lips. "Then it's a good thing I'm an excellent dancer."
As she left the solar, Arianne felt a surge of satisfaction at finally getting one over her father. Perseus's heart was now hers alone to ensnare, and the true game of thrones had just begun.
oOo
Within the Red Keep…
The office of the Lord of Whisperers was quiet in the way only a place of secrets could be—shadows creeping in narrow halls, whispers carried through cold stone.
In the damp, dimly lit chamber, the Spider sat at his modest desk, his delicate hands tracing a scroll of intelligence from the Free Cities, in particular Pentos. His expression was as inscrutable as ever, but his sharp eyes flicked to the doorway as soft footsteps echoed through the corridor.
The visitors did not bother with subtlety. Lysono Maar entered with measured steps, his dark, silk robes swaying around him like a rippling pool of ink. Behind the Lyseni trailed a child, perhaps eight or nine years old, who stumbled forward under Lysono's firm grip.
His eyes narrowed as he recognized the boy whose lips were smeared with dried blood, and his wide eyes darted around the chamber, desperate but silent. His silence, Varys noted, didn't seem to be by choice.
"Lysono," Varys said, his voice a smooth ripple, "what an unexpected pleasure. I was not aware you were in King's Landing."
Lysono stopped a few paces away, his hand still gripping the boy's shoulder. The Lyseni's expression was cool, his cat-like eyes gleaming in the faint light. "Because I did not wish to make you aware of my presence, Lord Varys. I've come to deliver a message." His gaze shifted to the boy. "And a warning."
Varys's gaze lingered on the child. "A warning? How curious. Do go on."
Lysono released the boy, who stumbled but did not run. It was then that he fully noticed. The child's tongue was gone; Varys could see the jagged, bloody wound when the boy's mouth fell open. His stomach twisted slightly, but he kept his face serene. "I caught a little bird flying around in a place he had no business being," The assassin said, his tone light but edged with menace. "I believe this one belongs to you?"
"Many little birds sing for me," Varys replied smoothly, though his fingers stilled against the scroll. "And many of them find themselves in perilous places. It is the way of this world."
"I do not care about the world. I only care for my liege and the kingdom that he has chosen to create. A kingdom," Lysono said, stepping closer, "that has rules. You do not spy on the king without consequence."
Varys leaned back slightly, folding his hands in his lap. "A misunderstanding, I assure you. My little birds gather whispers wherever they may fly. If one alighted too near His Majesty, it was surely a coincidence."
Lysono's lip curled faintly, amusement or disdain—it was difficult to tell. "Spare me your games, Spider. This one sought knowledge that is none of your concern." He gestured to the child. "For your folly, he will not speak again, let his silence remind you of my words."
Varys studied the boy again, his expression unreadable. The child's eyes pleaded for pity, but none would come from either man in the room.
Finally, Varys inclined his head slightly. "I hear you, Lysono. I have no wish to provoke the wrath of the Marquis of Death."
Lysono smiled faintly, as if in remembrance, though there was no warmth in it. "Good. Because if I catch your spying once more, then I will do more than pluck your little birds from the air. I will expose and set fire to all of the webs you have so carefully spun."
The room grew colder, the air tense with unspoken threats. But Varys merely smiled, his expression serene. "I value my webs, as you value your shadows. Let us hope there will be no need for further misunderstandings."
Lysono's piercing gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, then he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. The child, forgotten, remained standing where he had been released, trembling and mute.
When Lysono had gone, Varys rose from his chair and approached the boy. He knelt before him, his eyes softening just a fraction. "A painful lesson," he murmured. "But pain can be a teacher." He reached into his robes and produced a small bag of coins, pressing it into the boy's trembling hand. "Go, little one. Find someone to care for you. Your song may be silent now, but there are still ways to sing."
The boy nodded tearfully before he fled without looking back, his silent sobs lost in the echoing halls.
Varys returned to his desk, his expression unreadable as he gazed at the scroll before him. Lysono's warning was clear, but it did not quell the questions burning in his mind. There was apparently a secret worth covering— and secrets were power, and power was something he could not resist for the good of the realm.
And so the Spider began weaving anew. Only now, he would be more cautious about the shadows.
A/N: This took a lot longer than anticipated. It's been a crazy few months. Personally and globally. I just hope at least one person's day got better from reading this.