Self-indulgent conquered Westeros plot as part of a greater AU rewriting of ASOAIF of mine. I go by Kaithe and am partial to Discord for OC chatter and Google Documents for actual writing. I lean into 4-5 paragraphs per post and am an advanced-novella writer.
BRAZEN GLORY
The Seventh Day of the Fifth Moon, 300 AC
Joffrey had not taken well to the terms he’d been forced to agree to absentia. Forced and locked into his room, his ministers and Lords had signed away his kingdom, stripping him of his kingly income and titles and leaving him a very pampered brat whose livelihood rested on the generosity of the man who now sat in his throne. The man who was, by treaty, was hours away from humiliating him even more deeply. If the barbarian from across the sea had sought to drag her family’s legacy through the muck and he’d done a proper job of it- even going as far as to claim its matriarch as his own.
Lights and chattering from the city below kept the keep’s walls and windows bright with activity. Shadows crept up its walls, servants and soldiers lazily spilling into the windows to watch the festivities below, oftentimes side by side, gently holding one another, or even more adventurous things when they thought they could be quiet enough. This was the true black sheep amongst them, an occupation that invited dancing and magical lights brightening the sky, leading to yet more cheering and drunks crowding the streets and alleys as annoyed, foreign guards escorted the most rowdy safely home. Soldiers were everywhere. They grew in number each day, across the entire continent in fact, erecting watchtowers and refilling castles and hammering down new fences and repairing roads so that yet more soldiers could join them. Cersei was no general, and yet she and everyone else could tell that, no matter how jovial they were, no matter how much liquor and food their Emperor imported for them, they were a knelt people. Broken.
Happily, joyfully broken. All for peace.
Because they hadn’t paid the price for that peace.
Sylvan swore against any suggestion of Targaryen blood in his veins no matter what his violet eyes argued. He sits slack in her throne, the startling darkness nearly hiding him from her. Her boy could never go unseen in a room through the sheer weight of his presence, where his replacement looked as if he could disappear into any lowborn smithy. His easy, sweet farmer boy’s grin promises larceny, while his finely threaded, bright clothes rest easy upon his small and unassuming frame. Her husband's skin stands out even amongst his advisors and mercenaries; of them all, his skin is the darkest, making his eyes all the brighter.
How had such a small man been accepted by the brutes that brought them so low?
“Cersei,” he greets pleasantly, shifting in the swirling oily shadows. “I do apologize for holding your lad inside during the festival. He wouldn’t be safe.”
Sweet and sincere, and yet his smile only grows more amused with each moment that passes.
“I heard he didn’t take well to the news. Literally. I was down the hallway.”
BRAZEN GLORY
The Seventh Day of the Fifth Moon, 300 AC
Joffrey had not taken well to the terms he’d been forced to agree to absentia. Forced and locked into his room, his ministers and Lords had signed away his kingdom, stripping him of his kingly income and titles and leaving him a very pampered brat whose livelihood rested on the generosity of the man who now sat in his throne. The man who was, by treaty, was hours away from humiliating him even more deeply. If the barbarian from across the sea had sought to drag her family’s legacy through the muck and he’d done a proper job of it- even going as far as to claim its matriarch as his own.
Lights and chattering from the city below kept the keep’s walls and windows bright with activity. Shadows crept up its walls, servants and soldiers lazily spilling into the windows to watch the festivities below, oftentimes side by side, gently holding one another, or even more adventurous things when they thought they could be quiet enough. This was the true black sheep amongst them, an occupation that invited dancing and magical lights brightening the sky, leading to yet more cheering and drunks crowding the streets and alleys as annoyed, foreign guards escorted the most rowdy safely home. Soldiers were everywhere. They grew in number each day, across the entire continent in fact, erecting watchtowers and refilling castles and hammering down new fences and repairing roads so that yet more soldiers could join them. Cersei was no general, and yet she and everyone else could tell that, no matter how jovial they were, no matter how much liquor and food their Emperor imported for them, they were a knelt people. Broken.
Happily, joyfully broken. All for peace.
Because they hadn’t paid the price for that peace.
Sylvan swore against any suggestion of Targaryen blood in his veins no matter what his violet eyes argued. He sits slack in her throne, the startling darkness nearly hiding him from her. Her boy could never go unseen in a room through the sheer weight of his presence, where his replacement looked as if he could disappear into any lowborn smithy. His easy, sweet farmer boy’s grin promises larceny, while his finely threaded, bright clothes rest easy upon his small and unassuming frame. Her husband's skin stands out even amongst his advisors and mercenaries; of them all, his skin is the darkest, making his eyes all the brighter.
How had such a small man been accepted by the brutes that brought them so low?
“Cersei,” he greets pleasantly, shifting in the swirling oily shadows. “I do apologize for holding your lad inside during the festival. He wouldn’t be safe.”
Sweet and sincere, and yet his smile only grows more amused with each moment that passes.
“I heard he didn’t take well to the news. Literally. I was down the hallway.”