Osric Stark, Heir to Winterfell -
--------------------------------
Riding atop Balerion, Osric couldn't keep the scowl off of his face at their pace, but at least his wolf's helm kept it hidden. They'd made good time, crossing through the intended path, bypassing King's landing as planned.
Some of the Blades had been dropped at the planned Castles, and they were now coming up to Riverrun. He'd walked the fields of the Stony Sept and High Heart. But finally, Riverrun was in sight. He'd come to Riverrun, less than two moons past. Now his grandfather is dead.
But it was too soon.
It should have been a couple of moons more going into the next year before his grandfather died. And Osric's paranoia was through the roof. Was it Ser Jaime reacting to the conversation? Doubtful, as skewed as Jaime's sense of honor was, Hoster Tully wasn't the right target. But the Queen Slut was a distinct possibility if Jaime went straight to his sister. But again, that was doubtful. The only people that really made sense were Littlefinger and the Crown Shit. Littlefinger was obvious enough, he likely still held resentment towards Hoster for sending him away after losing to Brandon Stark and it was a good opportunity to sow chaos. The Crown Cunt was harder to rationalize. Oh he was absolutely certain Joffrey wanted payback for the brawl, but to target his grandfather? That was a harder sell than Littlefinger. But as hard as it was, the Crown Shit was crazy enough and sane enough to realize that he couldn't risk targeting him directly. Nor could he risk targeting father, mother, Robb, Rickon, Arya, and - at least not yet - Sansa. Bran was still a possibility, but it was also very possible that Littlefinger provided the shit with the means to target Bran as a cover for Hoster's assassination.
What he'd give to be able to read minds right now…. The fuck?
I wish he wasn't so distant, it would make our eventual marriage easier if we could get to know each other…
That… that was Margaery's voice. But why did he hear it inside his head?
Testing a theory, he spared a glance at one of the Tyrell guards.
...completely unworthy of Lady Margaery. A northerner, disgraceful!
Okay, so he could read fucking minds now?
He wasn't going to poke the wishing bear again. Wasn't even going to question it.
--------------------------------
As they rode into Riverrun, they were greeted by Uncle Brynden who welcomed them and gave directions for House Tyrell and Osric's men to go to their assigned rooms. Uncle Brynden promptly lead him to the Lord's Solar, where father, King Robert, and Uncle Edmure were currently seated.
''Osric.'' Father got up to greet him.
''Your grace.''
''Knock that shit off.'' The King grunted before he could bow. ''We're at a funeral, not in public.''
''As you like.'' Osric agreed easily. ''I bring with me House Tyrell. They're dragging their feet with this wedding.'' He said.
''I get the feeling you tried to leave married.'' Father said.
''Winter is coming. Be nice if we had a reliable source of grain to call on when it does. I hope to leave Riverrun with a wife.'' Says Osric.
''We'll see it done boy.'' Robert grunts.
''It's good you're here Nephew, I'm glad to see another of Cat's boys here when she cannot '' He nodded at his Uncle.
''I brought with me gifts. Riversteel, River's Edge, and Swiftcurrent. River's Edge to be carried by the heir, Swiftcurrent to be carried by the Lord, and Riversteel for Uncle Brynden.'' Osric said, unsheathing the glittering red steel with Blue inscriptions of Swiftcurrent.
''Why is the hilt bent?'' Uncle Edmure asked.
''I had a vision of the future while carving hands didn't stop, eyes did. You're not going to like it.'' He said handing River's Edge and Swiftcurrent to Uncle Edmure.
''This ought to be good.'' Robert said pouring himself a goblet of wine or mead, he wasn't sure.
''If you want more coin, go for the Fat one. But you must marry Walder Frey's daughter.'' His uncle looked about ready to punch him.
--------------------------------
The funniest part once Uncle Edmure left?
Osric was lying through his teeth.
King Robert was laughing his fucking ass off. Father wasn't amused at all.
But after he explained his reasons, father was amenable, but he got the distinct impression that he would pay for it in some manner. He wasn't overly eager to find out how. On the bright side Sansa and the Crown Shit were not present. So that meant that the Queen and the rest of them were not present.
Lord Stannis was apparently delayed because of the fact that he was on Dragonstone and Lord Renly was apparently with the Squire's and Knights. More likely he was taking Loras up his arse.
Regardless, he was in his mother's old chambers, and he was trying to figure out how he could read minds.
He didn't think he could actually read minds, because he had tried focusing on his father and others and he couldn't review their life's story. Just surface thoughts.
Which meant that he probably wasn't telepathic, but could just pick up surface thoughts. Regardless this was a powerful tool to be used both in the battles to come and the negotiations to come.
His abilities were growing. He now had ideas on further improving his homelands economy more than just from Metallurgy and was aware of more materials and potential income sources.
But for now, Osric would have to settle for getting Uncle Brynden to help him convince Uncle Edmure to give in before Robert made him.
--------------------------------
Margaery Tyrell, Future Lady of Winterfell -
--------------------------------
(WARNING: LEMON)
--------------------------------
''These controls allow House Tully to flood the outskirts of the Castle.'' Her betrothed said.
''What's stopping an invading force from just bringing down the walls and drowning everyone?'' She asked.
''Well aside from the fact that there are dozens of interconnected sluice gates that prevent exactly that, there's also the fact that doing so would be more detrimental than useful. The Castle controls the rate of flow of two different major rivers. Without Riverrun controlling the flow, all the roads along the rivers and the towns will be flooded. It becomes a logistical nightmare.'' Her betrothed explained as he placed a hand on Margaery's hip, gently pulling her closer to him as he realized it was just them.
Margaery didn't resist, letting Osric pull her closer.
The Wheel Tower of Riverrun stood silent save for the gentle rush of water against stone, a sound Margaery Tyrell had grown to slowly become accustomed to during the hours of arrival for the mourning for Lord Hoster Tully. The funeral had't yet begun, but it would be a somber affair, full of whispered condolences and sidelong glances, but here, high above the Tumblestone, the world felt distant. The tower was round and tall, its ancient mechanism a marvel of engineering that controlled the floodgates below. Wood and iron groaned softly as the wheel sat idle, its massive spokes casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight.
Margaery had slipped away from the gathering lords and ladies in the Great Hall, seeking a moment of respite from the endless parade of lords and ladies offering their sympathies to a family she barely knew. Her own presence here was political, of course—a Tyrell showing solidarity with the Tullys and Starks, her betrothed's kin by marriage. She had asked him for a tour
Osric was not like the other lords she had met. Where they were polished and perfumed, he was raw and unvarnished, a Lord Paramount's son who could easily be mistaken for a blacksmith's son who had risen to lordship through fire and steel. His hands were calloused, his shoulders broad from years at the forge, and his presence filled the tower room with an intensity that made the air feel thick. He stepped closer, and Margaery found herself acutely aware of the silence between them, the way the torchlight played across his features, the set of his jaw, the slight quirk of his lips that was not quite a smile.
His hand on her hip, the touch light but deliberate, and Margaery felt the world shift beneath her feet. She could have pulled away. She should have, perhaps—they were not yet wed, and the proprieties demanded a certain distance. But she did not pull away. Instead, she let him draw her closer, her body moving of its own accord, as if some deeper instinct had taken hold. The warmth of his hand seeped through the fabric of her gown, and Margaery's breath caught in her throat.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Her entire body seemed to come alive at the touch, every nerve ending sparking to attention. Her breathing grew heavy, her chest rising and falling with an urgency that surprised her. Beneath the silk of her bodice, her nipples hardened, pressing against the fabric with an ache that was almost painful. Heat pooled low in her belly, a warmth that spread downward until she felt the unmistakable slickness between her thighs. Her cunt grew moist, the sensation unfamiliar but not unwelcome, and Margaery bit her lower lip to stifle a gasp.
Osric's hand squeezed lightly at her side, a gentle pressure that sent a bolt of pleasure straight through her core. The sensation was electric, sharp and sweet, and Margaery felt her arousal peak in a way that made her knees threaten to buckle. She clamped her legs together beneath the folds of her gown, her body going rigid as she fought to maintain her composure. She would not fall. She was a Tyrell, a rose of Highgarden, and she would not collapse like some swooning maiden from a song.
But her body betrayed her. Believing herself able to relax, Margaery took a half-step back, and her foot caught on the hem of her dress. She stumbled, her hands flying out to catch herself, and found purchase on the front of Osric's breeches. Her fingers closed around something that was very much alive beneath the fabric—something that strained against the confines of his trousers, hard and hot and twitching at her touch. Margaery's eyes went wide, her breath hitching as she realized what she was holding.
His manhood. She was clutching his manhood through his breeches, and it was responding to her touch with a life of its own. The size of it was staggering, even through the fabric. She could feel the heat of it, the pulse of blood beneath the skin, and her own arousal surged in response. Her breathing grew heavier still, her chest heaving as she struggled to process the sensations flooding through her.
Osric said nothing. He simply moved, his hands guiding her backward until her shoulders met the cool stone of the wall beside the water mechanism. The wall was damp with condensation, the moisture seeping through the back of her gown, but Margaery barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on Osric as he reached down and unlaced his breeches, letting them fall to his ankles with a casualness that spoke of complete confidence.
What emerged from the confines of his clothing stole the breath from her lungs. His manhood stood proud and erect, a monument of flesh that seemed almost too large to be real. The shaft was thick, easily as wide as her forearm, and long enough that she could not imagine how it would fit inside her. A large bush of thick black hair surrounded the base, a stark contrast to the pale skin of his muscled belly. The cock twitched before her eyes, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip, and Margaery felt her mouth go dry.
She paled slightly at the sight, a flicker of genuine fear passing through her. This was no ordinary member. This was a weapon, a tool of pleasure that seemed designed to split her in two. But even as the fear rose, it was drowned out by a surge of lust so powerful that it left her dizzy. She wanted this. She wanted him, all of him, and she would not be denied.
Her gown fell away with a whisper of silk, pooling at her feet in a puddle of green and gold. The cool air of the tower kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and thighs, but Margaery paid it no mind. She dropped to her knees before him, the stone floor cold against her flesh, and took his massive cock in her hands. The skin was hot and smooth, the veins pulsing beneath her fingers, and she marveled at the weight of it.
She leaned forward and took the head into her mouth. The taste of him was salty and masculine, a flavor that made her head spin with want. She tried to take more of him, opening her jaw as wide as she could, but she had not even gotten half of it into her mouth before the tip hit the back of her throat. Margaery gagged slightly, her eyes watering, but she did not pull away. Instead, she groaned around his flesh, the vibration drawing a sharp intake of breath from Osric above her.
His hands found her hair, his fingers tangling in the brown curls that cascaded down her back. He guided her head forward, slowly, gently, and Margaery felt her throat open to accommodate him. It was a strange sensation, the feeling of being filled so completely, but it was not unpleasant. She relaxed her throat as best she could, and inch by inch, more of him slid inside. Her nose brushed against the thick black hair at the base of his cock, and she groaned again, the sound muffled by the flesh filling her mouth.
Osric's grip on her hair tightened, and then he erupted. The first spurt of his seed hit the back of her throat with a force that made her choke, but she swallowed reflexively, the thick, salty liquid sliding down her gullet. He pulled back slightly, his cock still firing, and Margaery found her mouth filling with his seed. She swallowed eagerly, drinking him down as fast as he could give it to her. The taste was strong, almost overwhelming, but it was delicious in a primal way that made her crave more.
When at last he withdrew from her mouth, his cock was still harder than the steel he hammered at his forge. It glistened with her saliva and his seed, the head an angry purple, and Margaery stared at it with a mixture of awe and frustration. She was breathless, her chest heaving, her lips swollen and slick. She looked up at him, her brown eyes meeting his grey ones, and made her demand.
"Take my maidenhead," she ordered, her voice hoarse but firm. "I want you inside me. Now."
Osric hesitated. She saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, the brief pause that spoke of some internal conflict. But Margaery would not be denied. She rose to her feet, her body pressing against his, and wrapped her arms around his neck. The heat of his skin against her bare breasts made her shiver with pleasure.
"Stick that magnificent cock inside me," she demanded, her voice a breathy whisper against his ear. "I need to feel you."
He obliged her, but not in the way she expected. His hands found her hips, and he turned her around, pressing her against the great wooden wheel that controlled the floodgates. The mechanism groaned under their weight, the ancient wood creaking in protest, but it held firm. Margaery felt the head of his cock pressing against her, seeking entrance, and she spread her legs in anticipation.
But instead of finding her wet, willing cunt, he aimed higher. She felt the pressure against her other entrance, the tight ring of muscle that had never known a man's touch, and her eyes went wide with shock. Before she could protest, he rammed his cock into her ass.
The scream that tore from Margaery's throat was cut off by Osric's mouth crashing down on hers. His kiss was fierce and demanding, his tongue plunging into her mouth as his cock plunged into her rear. The pain was exquisite, a burning, stretching sensation that made her see stars. She felt impossibly full, stretched beyond what she thought possible, and for a moment, she could do nothing but cling to him and let the sensations wash over her.
But then she noticed something else. Osric was smirking into the kiss. She could feel the curve of his lips against hers, the smug satisfaction radiating from him, and it ignited a fire within her. Anger and arousal mixed in a heady mix that made her blood sing. She tore her mouth from his and began to claw at his tunic, her nails raking across the fabric until she found skin. She peeled the tunic from his shoulders, revealing the broad expanse of his back, and then she set to work.
Her nails dug into his flesh, leaving angry red furrows in their wake. She scratched him bloody as he bottomed out inside her ass, the entire length of his massive cock buried in her rear. The pain was beginning to fade now, replaced by something else entirely. A warmth was spreading through her, a pleasure that built with every slight movement of his hips. She felt full in a way she had never imagined, and the sensation was driving her mad with want.
Osric began to move, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again. The wheel behind her creaked and groaned with each movement, the mechanism shifting slightly as he fucked her against it. Margaery wrapped her legs around his waist, her ankles locking behind his back, and let herself be taken. The pain was gone now, replaced by a pleasure so intense that it bordered on agony. Every nerve in her body was on fire, every sense heightened to an almost unbearable degree.
He spun her around, their eyes never left each others as he violated her.
His hands found her breasts, his calloused palms cupping the perky mounds before squeezing roughly. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her core, and Margaery cried out, her head falling back against the wheel. He mauled her tits with a ferocity that should have been painful but instead felt divine, his fingers pinching and twisting her nipples until she thought she might scream. The dual sensations of his cock in her ass and his hands on her breasts were too much to bear.
Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. She felt her body convulse, her inner muscles clenching around his invading shaft, and then she was squirting. Her seed splattered across his chest, a clear, sweet-smelling liquid that marked him as hers. The release was so intense that she saw spots before her eyes, her vision going white at the edges as pleasure consumed her.
Osric's back was a mess of blood and scratches by the time he reached his own peak. She felt him swell inside her, felt the pulse of his release as he painted the inside of her ass white. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her entire body, and then he collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the wheel.
They stayed like that for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, their bodies slick with sweat and other fluids. When at last he pulled out of her, Margaery felt a strange emptiness, a sense of loss that surprised her. His seed leaked out of her ass, dripping down onto one of the handles of the great wheel, and she watched it with a detached fascination.
She fell back against the wheel, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her legs felt weak, her arms heavy, and she was not entirely certain she could stand. But even in her exhausted state, she found the strength to speak.
"We will be doing this again," she told him, her voice firm despite her breathlessness. "Often. But I do not think I will be able to satisfy you on my own."
She gave his still-raging cock a dirty look, her eyes narrowing at the sight of it. It was as hard as ever, standing proud and defiant, as if their coupling had been nothing more than a warm-up. Osric grinned wolfishly at her, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief, and reached out to give her breasts a playful squeeze.
The touch sent another jolt of pleasure through her, and to her shock, she squirted again. The release was smaller this time, but no less intense, and Margaery gasped at the sensation. She swatted his hands away, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation.
"Enough," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "I need a moment."
Osric said nothing, just watched her with that infuriating grin as she began to redress. Her movements were unsteady, her hands trembling as she pulled her gown back over her head. The silk clung to her sweat-dampened skin, and she struggled to lace up the back without assistance. She could feel his seed leaking out of her, a warm, sticky sensation that made her acutely aware of what they had just done.
When at last she was dressed, she turned to find Osric still standing there, his cock jutting out from his body like a banner on a pole. He grunted disappointedly as he realized the show was over, and then began to dress himself. It was a struggle. His arousal was still painfully evident, the massive shaft refusing to be contained, and he had to wrestle with his breeches for several minutes before he finally managed to retie them. The bulge was still visible, a testament to his unquenched desire, but at least he was decent.
Margaery watched him with a calculating eye. She was a Tyrell, raised in the viper's nest of Highgarden, and she knew how to assess a situation. Osric Stark was a man of immense appetites, appetites that she alone could not hope to satisfy. She would need help. The thought should have bothered her, but instead, it sparked something in her mind—a plan, perhaps, or the beginnings of one. She was not a woman to be outdone, and she would find a way to meet his needs, even if it meant recruiting others to her cause.
But that was a matter for another day. For now, she smoothed down her gown, fixed her hair as best she could, and gave Osric a look that was equal parts promise and warning. He said nothing, as he had said nothing throughout their entire encounter, but his grey eyes spoke volumes. There was hunger there, and satisfaction, and a fierce possessiveness that made her heart race.
She left the Wheel Tower on unsteady feet, her body still humming with the memory of his touch. The funeral feast would be in the Great Hall below tomorrow, with sounds of laughter and conversation that would be drifting up through the stone walls. But for now no one would notice her absence, or his. They would return to the growing gathering as if nothing had happened, two strangers bound by a betrothal that was more political than personal.
Or at least it had been.
Because Margaery knew the truth. Something had changed between them in that tower, something primal and undeniable. Osric Stark was not like other men, and she was not like other women anymore. Together, they would burn bright and hot, a fire that would consume everything in its path. And if she needed help to keep that fire fed, well, she was a Tyrell.
She would find a way.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, her hand resting on the cool stone wall. Her body was still tingling, her cunt still slick with arousal, her betrothed's seed going down her legs as she took her step and she could feel the phantom sensation of his cock in her ass with every step she took. It was a reminder, a brand, and she knew she would carry it with her for the rest of her days.
Above her, she heard the creak of the wheel fade as Osric finally left the tower. She did not turn around. She did not need to. She could feel his presence, even from a distance, an indescribable pull that drew her toward him. They would meet again, and soon. And when they did, she would be ready.
But she would not be alone. That much she knew for certain. Osric Stark's appetites were too great for one woman to handle, and Margaery was not foolish enough to try. She would find allies, women who could help her satisfy him, women who would not threaten her position as his wife. It was a delicate game, but one she was well-suited to play.
The thought brought a smile to her lips as she stepped back into the Great Hall. The noise of the preparations for the feast washed over her, a cacophony of voices and clattering plates, and she slipped seamlessly back into the small crowd. No one noticed her return. No one saw the slight flush on her cheeks or the way her legs trembled as she walked. She was Margaery Tyrell, a rose of Highgarden, and she was above suspicion.
But her mind was elsewhere, already planning, already scheming. Osric Stark was hers, and she would keep him satisfied, no matter what it took. The game was just beginning, and Margaery intended to win.
--------------------------------
Osric Stark, VERY Satisfied -
--------------------------------
He wasn't quite sure what came over him and Margaery. But he wasn't going to complain.
Margaery was his, now and forever. He felt himself twitch at the possibilities of who she might recruit to help her sate him. Her cousins? Lady Merryweather? Her aunts? He was very much looking forward to finding out.
''There you are!'' Osric forced his arousal down as Smalljon's booming voice appeared, followed shortly after by the gigantic man.
''What's the matter?'' He asks his friend.
''I'll tell you what's the matter.'' Jon says and Osric smiles, he should've expected this. ''You disappear, we can't find you. We were worried whatever took the Old Fish took you. If you go our lives get boring as fuck.'' A few servants sent Smalljon a disapproving look at his nickname of Osric's Grandfather.
''Better hope Uncle Brynden doesn't hear you call my grandfather that, he'll throw you into the stables on your ass.'' He warns lightly.
''Good! Nothing like a fight to get rid of the boredom.'' Smalljon says.
''Maybe if you're lucky, Harry'll introduce you to one of his sisters. I hear Barbara, Jayne, and Catelyn Bracken are quite the beauties.'' Says Osric as Smalljon grins.
''Maybe you should tell him that.'' Jon says.
''Maybe you should ask.'' He replied as Jon clapped him on the shoulder, a booming laugh escaping his friend as Jon led him to the rest of their group. No one knew that he had just had relations with Margaery or even just a woman. Before putting his shirt back on he'd made sure to dip his undershirt briefly under the water near the water wheel, the scent of Margaery's nectar washing off as a result.
Despite the occasion, he wouldn't trade these men for anyone else. Well, men and one woman. Dacey had quickly become part of their group. She was one of them. Even should she leave, she was part of their group.
The mood turned somber as King Robert, Lord Stannis, Lord Renly, and father accompanied by Uncle Edmure and Great Uncle Brynden entered the hall.
''Everyone has arrived. Let the funeral begin. Osric, get your bow.'' Osric drank his mug dry and left to fetch his bow immediately. Edmure had wanted him to light the funeral boat. Osric had prepared a special arrow exactly for this occasion. A Weirwood haft, taken from the Weirwood of Riverrun. Feathers taken from one of the raptors in his father's pens. He didn't need to light the arrowhead, but he'd do it. Now wasn't yet time to reveal even half the scope of what he could do.
--------------------------------
Grandfather's boat was put out to sea, and Osric lit his arrow, and waited. After the arrow was launched the runes on the haft would activate and guide the arrow to Grandfather's boat. He waited until it started to reach the bend and drew back his bow and loosed the arrow. As the arrow soared through the air it hit Grandfather's boat and engulfed it in fire. The boat went around the bend and grandfather got his river burial.
''Was it absolutely necessary to wait until the absolute last possible moment?'' Uncle Brynden asked quietly to his left.
''It's what you would have done.'' His great uncle grunted non-committally.
''Hoster Tully was a great man. He lived by his family's words. Family, Duty, Honor. Family first. Hoster knew that family was the one chain we could never unshackle ourselves from. Even in death, our family lives on through us. The realm has lost two great men who helped rid it of a mad dynasty in less than six moons. I'm just sorry he didn't live long enough to attend his eldest grandson's wedding. Lord Tyrell, the wedding will happen in the days after we have celebrated Lord Tully's life. No mean prancing around. I will not let you delay any longer. Lest myself and Ned join Hoster and Jon in the Seven Heavens before Hoster's grandson is married.'' Robert said, giving the eulogy before dropping bombs on Mace.
''Your doing?'' Brynden asked.
''Aye, I'll need your help with the other one. It's time we dealt with the Frey's. I know the old fucker has at least one good looking granddaughter or daughter, not sure which, war is coming uncle. And the Riverlands will be a major battleground as always. Best we marry uncle Edmure off to Walder Frey and secure a potentially treacherous banner before such thoughts take root. His grace has already endorsed it, as has father. We should also look to strengthen ties with House Mallister. Lord Jason has a daughter. I'm considering arranging something for Smalljon. Either Barbara Bracken or Alyssane Mallister. Not fully decided on which one yet.'' He spoke in a hushed tone.
''Hmm, Jason's daughter has no shortage of suitors. The offer will need to be a good one.'' Says Uncle Brynden as they watch Mace blubber and sputter his agreement to King Robert while Lady Olenna watches on with a grimace.
''Here's a fact. Three of the most important parts of my growing sword industry can only be found in Last Hearth. Additionally, I am looking for reliable partners with ports in which to ship both ores and finished products. If Lord Jason so wishes, I will personally forge both him and his son a full set of armor and a weapon free of charge. All I want is a promise of betrothal for Smalljon.'' Uncle Brynden spared him a glance.
''Edmure won't willingly marry a Frey. Can't say I blame him.'' Brynden said.
''Someone sent an Assassin after Bran. My mother nearly lost her hand.'' Osric whispered.
''What?''
Brynden turned to him in shock.
''Valyrian Steel Dagger with a Dragon Bone hilt. There is exactly one Dagger like it in the world. I thought it was a myth until I got Robb's letter. That knife belonged to Aegon the Conqueror. Passed down from father-to-son for generations and eventually king-to-king. It was lost in the Dance of the Dragons. A Targaryen knife in the hands of an Assassin sent to kill the son of one of the men who led the rebellion that removed the Targaryen Dynasty from the Iron Throne? Could be Viserys Targaryen making a statement. But then it could also be someone trying to stir shit up. Either way you and I both know that if you'd lost at the Trident Lord Walder would have attacked and tried to become Lord-Paramount of the Trident. We need to deal with Walder Frey at some point. Best we do so from a position of strength. Come with me on my return to the North, we'll stop at the Twin's. You can see for yourself how pretty Roslin Frey is said to be. Maybe then Uncle Edmure would be more willing.'' He glanced at Uncle Brynden before walking off.
He went to stand beside his father. He slipped a letter into his father's tunic.
''Don't react. Robb sent word, someone tried to kill Bran. Sent a catspaw with a Valyrian Steel Dagger and Dragonbone hilt. I have only ever read of one such blade like that with that sort of hilt, father. And it belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, passed down from father-to-son and eventually king-to-king. A Targaryen knife, used against the son of one of the men who led the rebellion that removed the Targaryen Dynasty from power? I don't think this is Viserys Targaryen, it could be one of his few allies trying to stir shit up. But we can't discount the possibility. The letter has been decoded. It's in your back pocket. Give it to the King.'' He slipped away, even as he hoped father didn't make a terrible mistake. He would be very mad if he returned to Winterfell to discover Mother and Ser Rodrik gone.
But he had little choice in the matter in the end. Whatever happened several leagues away he could not directly affect. He just had to hope mother didn't do anything crazy. He didn't want father to die, but he needed it.
And Osric hated himself for that.
But Ned Stark would find a way to get himself killed one way or another. He's just too damn rigid to survive the coming wars. He'd be consistently outsmarted, outplayed, or just outmanoeuvred because he will utterly refuse to play the Game of Thrones.
And in so doing….
He will seal his fate.
Cold comfort and justification, but it was still a decision that would haunt him.
--------------------------------
Margaery Tyrell, Agitated -
--------------------------------
Margaery Tyrell was feeling very agitated. Throughout the feast, sat next to her betrothed, he gave her all these little touches.
Every touch affected her, and he knew it too. If not for the fact they'd have been seen, she'd have reached into his trousers underneath the table.
But she couldn't do anything.
She'd repay him eventually.
''What do you think about the King's command?'' She asked him. ''That we will marry in a few days?'' She clarified.
''Asked him to do it.'' Osric admits. ''Don't look at me like that, I expected a week to prepare for it, maybe longer. We'll need to do things properly at some point, but for now let's just make the most of it. Utherydes Wayn has already sent for some of the finest Tailors in the Riverlands. I expect we'll have at least some tailors from the West, Stormlands, and Crownlands come though. Maybe the Reach if you're lucky.'' Osric said behind his cup as he took a sip.
''What are you up to, Osric? What aren't you telling me?'' She asked.
''Not here, not now. I'll tell you at Winterfell. Well, show you at least.'' He said coyly.
''Hmm.'' Osric grinned at the dirty look she sent him, and gave her another little touch.
She groaned slightly, but that just encouraged him further.
--------------------------------
Osric Stark, Heir to Winterfell -
--------------------------------
Following the feast he was called upon by his father.
It was just them.
''I'm not going to like this am I?'' Osric asked.
''Perhaps, perhaps not. Your aunt has claimed that the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn and are conspiring against the king.'' Osric does not visibly react.
''Why aren't you surprised?''
''His name is Aegon Targaryen. Promise me Ned, promise me.'' His father froze, went ramrod straight.
''How?'' Compared to thirty seconds ago, the difference in voice - for want of a better word - was stark.
''I know things. My gifts don't just include metallurgy. The Queen hates the King. The King will die soon. You face a choice, father, die with your honor intact, or die a broken man. There's only so much I can say, but with your death, the North will be stronger than it ever was before. I'd hoped to save Bran from that damned Tower. The melee clouded my judgment and I forgot about it entirely. But know that Uncle Benjen is alive, and your death is not in vain, and the future we were supposed to get will not occur.'' Says Osric.
''I think you and I need to have a very long and Frank discussion.'' Father said and Osric knew, this would be a heavy conversation…
--------------------------------
(Author's Note:)
--------------------------------
So, here's the thing. Haven't worked on this since early March. And I can't find half my fucking notes which is really pissing me off because I don't remember half the plan because of my damned concussion. I remember the crucial stuff like Basilica and stuff, but I can't find my god damned notes for the next arc. Which is where that shit with Ned at the end of the chapter because I can't find my god damn notes. That's what I get for stopping work on March 15th-16th and picking this up like July 9th. Ah well, if I manage to find my notes I'll rewrite the chapter otherwise we're stuck with this.
--------------------------------
Join my Discord via this invite link but be aware for whatever reason it seems Webnovel is hiding it so go look elsewhere:
https://discord.gg/4TTZkVMMnq
--------------------------------
Very special thanks to Mitchell Howard, David Martinez, ROGUE505 Saver, Mathew T Linderman, Luck George, Kyle Diano, Julien, Morgan Sinn, Tom A, Nicholas Berenguer, Arimar26, Robin Kristiansen, Dragon emperor87, Daniel Setchell, James Fleming, Zero 12995, Rowdy_Rich, Beastmode2003, Birhaledin, Blood For The Blood God, Dymarkus Tillman, Lorra Thorsdottir, Parker Kessinger, Ryan, Jacob Hixson, Kazim Zaidi, Luci Alarra, Robert Hernandez, and Luis for their enduring support on P-atreon.
And also a big thank you to Cody, TJ Cruz, Kunta, Availon90, Gavin Barclay, Dragonslayer29, Jacarya Robinson, Nathan Just, Francisco J Guzman, Axlii, Reece Hutton, Ken Harris, Zeldris Wrath, Duy, lonelynib _, Austin, D3EATH707, Cutler1812, Aleksander_402, Lewis Wilson, Profound Magician, Arzard, HxC 740 VxD, Attila Kovács, Ruby Uzumaki, Mudit Chadha, Maciek, Joao Goncalves, Dwhateverprof, Jibreel Kamal, Luis, Zeca, Bent, Jason, Solus 1994, Evil King, Manuel, Benoit Valtin, Craig Butler, Joseph Brann, Cristobal Ahumada, Nathaniel Lessord, GGbeejee, Trey-Way, FisherKing711, Calvin Ellis, adrian szydlowski, James Lloyd, Ryan, Meet Parikh, Kyle Santora, Toros Silver, Vlone_Icy, reikon aijin, weird song, Cameron Krueger, Nattapat Attachat, Natalie McCowen, and Spencer Davidson for their past support on Patreon.
The next Chapter is currently available on my relaunched and rebuilt P-atreon, to access simply search the following link, but without the dash between the P and A, Two tiers with the same benefits but different contexts. The chapters on P-atreon will be published when the chapters following them are done and dusted and ready to publish over here on this site.
p-atreon.com/TheRagFromTheCragCorner25