Of Thunder and Iron (A Game of Thrones OC Fanfiction.)

[XIIIthewanderingpaladin]

The heat of the workshop scathes my skin. The metal pouring red-hot into the cast. Ever since I was young, I have preferred the company of machines. The click of gears, the hiss of the other half molding to the bottom operating via pulleys, cranks, and levers. A symphony of work to distract from the fact that I shouldn't be.

I've always been working, surviving, and striving on. I amble over to the other weapons and carve little details into the hot metal. A calm falls over me. The smell of the smoke and bellowing of the forge all remind me of why exactly I'm here.

I glance at my finely carved crutches. Brandon made them for me as a means of moving without him having to carry me like my personal packhorse. He's good at that, would've made a fine craftsman if he wasn't my brother.

Winterfell will be his once my father's gone. Then Ned's once he's gone, and finally mine once HE'S gone. However, I'm in no rush to take up the seat. Here, I'm free. Here, I can make anything I want out of metal. Out of flames and a pulling of a few levers and pulleys.

Hammering, getting my tongs, and letting the hammer do the work was all I needed to really do. The company of machines was better than that of man. They never stare, never speak, and never do anything outside of their function unless they break.

I take over the assembly of the weapons. The dragons are dead, wildfire is deemed far too unwieldy, and these are the beginning of something new. Something that could punch through plate armor, something that could topple walls without a need for taming animals.

A snarling wolf's head greets me at the mouth of the cylinder. The mouth of the muzzle as well. Both of them are carved and cooling, waiting for more assembly. All I need to do is the finer work.

I close my eyes and feel the plain metal with the heat, spitting sparks, and it takes shape. A Long Gun with a snarling wolf at the barrel, the small bits all assembled from the leftover bits. I pull a lever and begin to cut and hammer out the shape.

This is the closest I get to the divine. To equal them. To become part of the creation process. My hammer is my instrument, and the metal, wood, and small nails are my canvas. Almost like the finest marble.

This project will change it all.

With these, I can finally be useful. With these, I can finally leave Winterfell. I turn and hobble out against the railing. Shoving the door open with my crutches under my arms, the bitter cold wind cools down my body.

Tomorrow, I will mount the weapons onto the wheeled frame. And work the finer details. The workers all greet me with a chorus of 'Lord Stark!' 'Lord Ivar!' I nod and smile at them. I'm the second youngest thanks to my little brother Benjen being born. Since Lyanna and I were twins.

She's probably out riding. I shut the door to my workshop behind me. A use for the broken tower. The breath of the cold wind soothes my heated body. I carry my small bundle of plans that outline the weapons.

The outside world is full of noise. Talking and laughing, the bustle of people going to and from their work to keep Winterfell well kept, and it's so… chaotic. In the hustle and bustle of my building, I must have lapsed in my care for the plans in my room, and sometimes Father surveys the servants' work on it to make sure everything was well in hand.

I make for the training yard, seeing my best friend Askell throwing his hand axes. He's a broad-shouldered giant of a boy, looking like a western man, tall and golden haired. He glances at me and grins. Slashing his hand axe with a heavy THOK onto a stump.

"Ivar! You should really cover up! All the maidens and wenches can see how strong you are." he mocks before clapping me in a bearhug, grinning and plopping me back down. I land on my feet and look up at him.

"Like you're any better, you keep intentionally doing that and someone will be the death of you." I rib him and he chuckles, "Still trying to outdo my brother I see."

"Oh, this? Yes, I think so." he taps the small axe against his hand, "You did make them for me."

"I shaped them, not made them."

Askell sighs, "Our shaper and his odd metalwork religion…"

"Is what I believe to be true. My heart is where the fire of creation comes from, and that's where it will stay until I die. The old gods live in fire, metal, and work as well." I slide on a shirt and heavy cloak, "Better?"

Askell laughs, "Ha! Yes."

"Tch…" I click my tongue. Askell has been my friend since before I could remember. Mother had found him out in the Godswood, a small boy about my age. Old Weiland had taken him under his great wing too.

He's not very good at it even now. His talent lies in splitting skulls, which he throws his hand axe hard enough to split the dummy at the neck.

"Lord Rickard's been looking for you. Says he wants to speak to you about your 'work'. He's far more frigid than usual." He looks at me like he's already choosing the right flowers for my grave. My father never would strike any of us, but his verbal lashings would make us wish we had.

"Pray to the gods for me, Askell."

"It'd be a great loss for the broken, Lord Ivar."

---

His room is warm and a roaring hearth kills the chill viciously. Papers and books line a table which he sits at. His dark hair is long, brushing against the nape of his neck, graying with age and stress.

"Ivar." he greets, "Sit."

"Father, whatever this is-"

His eyes flick up from the book in a freezing blow to my gut. Everything seems so distant as I sit and stare down at the table.

I look at my book upon it with the pages of my big thunderers that would smash down castle walls and reduce men to nothing, then the guns and smaller ones open to the world, and finally at the stony face of my father. He's disappointed. No, not just disappointed. Upset. He's tall, muscular, and not a single emotion would cast itself upon his face other than warmth or chill.

His expression is as cold as the coldest winter nights. Enough to numb, redden, and then blacken skin to snap fingers and toes off. The same cold blue eyes that were a wildling or errant house's final sight before Ice came down upon them were freezing the flame inside my heart.

"How many of these did you make?" Father's voice is as harsh as the north wind.

"Five thunderers." My eyes cast down to my legs, my voice barely a whisper, "And… and five small arms." I'll never get to leave, will I? I'll be here until my dying day. Everything I worked for is turning to nothing in front of me.

"You were taught to shape far more than just weapons." he softens a little, "But I suppose that is one of the only ways one can make a name for himself. Either through war or great works. Victories as well."

Father kneels with a soft groan of age, "Ivar, you're a brilliant boy. However, you don't understand what this means and what it can do." His eyes are warm and blue, he draws me close.

"But… but I want to go outside of Winterfell." I admit.

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, you know as well as I." he reminds me almost like he's said this a thousand times. His smile is like the summer sun, "I know you're at the age where you must decide whether to do your duty or seek out your own."

"I cannot seek my duty if it's here, can I Father?" I ask.

He chuckles dryly, his eyes shining, "I suppose not." he grins and wraps his arms around me, "Don't let this world take your gift and corrupt it, son."

"Father?" I ask. Trying to think of some way to say what I wish to. Something that was holding me back relentlessly since I'd thought of it.

"Yes?"

I just bury my face into his stomach, "It's nothing." he kisses the top of my head.

"You shall get your chance in another way, Ivar."

But when? How? Will it be in days, weeks, or months? When I am still young, or old and grey? Father was always softer with me than he was with Brandon or Ned. Even Benjen. Maybe it is because Lyanna and I resemble our mother?

Speaking of Brandon, he falls into step with me outside of Father's chambers, "Ive! There you are! I must speak with you!" His joy is infectious as he hoists me into his arms before slinging me onto his back. My crutches drop with a clunk, but Askell's there to pick them up.

"Brandon, you could've done it without slinging me like a sack of produce…" I groan, cheeks flushing as he pats my arms. He helps me down the steps and sets me back down. I take my crutches and follow after him.

"There'll be a tournament at Harrenhal soon." He says, "So come, show me your archery skills. I need a marksman." he smirks and leans down, "Who better than my baby brother?"

"I'm crippled, Brandon." I gesture to myself, "I'd be laughed out of there." I almost miserably think of it. Imagining all the knights and vassals watching as I pull back too hard and fall into the muck. Everything and everyone would laugh. Take joy in a broken boy's tumble.

"So?" he reaches out and tips my face up to his, "You're my brother, and I know you cannot languish here. I'm giving you a chance." Brandon pats me on the back when I turn and take up my bow and arrows.

"There's a good man. Now, give it your best. All three targets." he smiles and stands back. Almost too far back, considering my training days. I nock an arrow to the string and pull it back, aiming down the way.

This is for my future.

I take a breath. Steady my mind.

And loose.

The arrow flies with a vengeance and scores right in the center with a satisfying thud. I imagined no other target. Just the target, I have no enemies yet. Just me, my weapon, and my target.

The second one, the wind was blowing harder. My hands slightly tremble, almost as if they're cold. (I know they're not, but…) I do the same with the last one and the arrow flies, hits a little too wide but still scores on the edge. I hear a sucked-in breath from behind me.

Brandon was thanking the Gods then.

I saunter to the final one, the cold day seeping into my very bones, but I know in my heart this last one will prove to my brother that I'm more than capable to join him. My eyes set daggers into the last target.

This time… my last shot is on target. We'll have to deal with the consequences. I'll be his marksman come the Tournament. I just hope I have enough time to practice.

 

[XIIIthewanderingpaladin]

I have three brothers and a sister. One younger, two older, and my sister arrived with me soon after. Mere minutes, even.

Brandon is wild and joyful. Able to brighten even the darkest rooms with a roguish smile and easy laugh. Highly skilled with weapons too, probably a good favorite to win the entire tournament if the best and brightest aren't there.

Yet one person who would soundly beat him into the dirt was the Young Lion, Jaime Lannister. His arrogance wasn't just because he had the Old Lion's backing as his son, but that his skill with a sword is unmatched by anyone of our age. Every last thought of mine also turned to this harebrained scheme of his. How my brother thinks that just an appearance of a crippled man at such a large event, no matter the skill, would be accepted to compete.

My sister Lyanna comes out to see me practicing for the tournament. She and I are twins, with the same silver eyes and dark hair. Some more superstitious people would oddly enough treat me like I'd infect them with some sort of sickness.

"You haven't done that in a while." she says, a cocky smile on her face, "What are you doing it for, Ive?"

"Well, Brandon wants me to be his archery champion for that great tournament at Harrenhal." I draw the string back, aiming down the way but not towards anything. Just to aim to test the tensile strength. She's wearing a nice blue dress similar to her favorite winter roses, although she'd much rather dress as I do.

"Have I mentioned that Brandon is probably craven?" Lyanna asks, "Maybe even assisting us in becoming mockery subjects for the rest of time?"

"Perhaps, but I see it as an opportunity." I take an arrow from the quiver and nock it to the string, Lyanna clearing the yard, "I won't hit you! I've been getting better!"

"Why should I take the chance? You're still quite the stumbler!" she laughs.

"Agh! I'm unappreciated in my time…" I grunt and fire, a heavy THOK sounding out a hit, "See? You saw it, didn't you? I hit! I got on the target!" Lyanna cackles and Brandon claps. Happily enough, I smile and lope over to the third one.

"I received word that the best of the best will be there. So we need to puzzle out a way for you to train your other skills, Ivar." Brandon is met with a glare from Lyanna.

"So he's to be our champion? He'll be torn apart!" she snaps back almost like Brandon is sending me off to the battlefield. Not that he was, but the fear is warranted. That was one shadow that cast a deep pall over my life.

The fear of being rejected, the fear of the Starks coming across to the rest of Westeros as weak for being sympathetic to a crippled child and not allowing him to die. As if my life is suffering or a punishment from the Old Gods, or in their case, the Seven.

"Father gave me leave to bring him with. He's good with a bow and arrow. There will be an archery contest as well as a joust. He'll merely partake in the archery competition." Brandon smiles and ruffles my hair like he always does.

That's when Benjen joins us, "Has he shot anyone yet?" he jests with a twinkle in his eyes. Lyanna starts to snicker. I pull back the string with the arrow nocked, and it fires. It slams right in the center with an authoritative THOK…

Right through to one of the base legs of the target. After that, Benjen backed off at my glare. Father looms from high on the walls almost like he's watching all of us like a proud wolf. His eyes are like the jewels I set into jewelry. There was yet one brother that wasn't with us. Eddard, or Ned. He was sent off to the Vale to be fostered by Jon Arryn. Everyone seemed happy to just carry on without him, and personally I know him as sullen and reserved, only thawing when it comes to anything having to do with his friend, Robert Baratheon.

Yet, he isn't here, and it tears my heart out.

"Oh please, Benjen! If he had, we'd already be rushing them to Maester Walys!" Brandon laughs, "Besides, Ive's out to make a name for himself, maybe he'll end up married come tournament's end!"

At that little jest, Benjen bursts out laughing despite my efforts. Father just shakes his head as said Maester shuffles out to speak to him. I can barely make it out. They look to me and I to them. My silver eyes burn into them like a challenge. They get back to talking as Brandon and Benjen get to sparring. Leaving Lyanna and I to our own devices. She doesn't smile, her silver eyes dulling their light and meeting mine like a mirror. We're twins, and we came into this world together.

"Ivar, Brandon's plan is foolhardy." she sighs, "It's nothing but a hope."

"I know…" I sigh, "But let him try. He's our brother and he believes in me. I won't be the only embarrassment there!" I lean closer, "At the very least, there's a good chance that I might just be able to distract him."

Lyanna's expression softens, "You'd do that?"

"Of course, Robert would find my being there a joke in and of itself, the likes of which would rival his fool, Patchface." I grin and wrap an arm around my sister's shoulders, "I know you dislike him because trying to tame a man like that is impossible, and you deserve better."

She smiles, "Yes I do. Robert may stumble after me like a lovesick dog, but I will not let him woo me. Prince Rhaegar though?" she chuckles.

"He's married." I state, before she laughs and kisses me on the cheek.

"You know nothing, dear brother. Higher nobles tend to have mistresses." she smirks, "But I am no mistress."

My eyes downcast, I don't get it, and Lyanna isn't helping me at all! I see Askell marching towards me. Oh thank the Gods for Askell! This is getting a little too awkward!

"Lord Ivar, a word?" he asks.

"Yes! Yes, I shall meet you in my workshop! I shall speak to you there, let's go, Askell!" I lead him along as Father watches me go. Almost as if he knows he cannot stop what I'm doing. Askell seems rather grim for whatever this is.

He and I meet there, and I'm already working on my next project. I listen to what the metal wants to be. Shaping it to its whims rather than what I want it to be. A blade, will it be my blade? A sword to overcome my troubles? But no, it's a set of small metal balls meant to be loaded into my Smallguns.

Askell paces, "So, your father found out about these."

"Yes."

"You're still making them? Even when Lord Brandon and your siblings are bringing you to Harrenhal?" I don't stop carving out the ammunition.

"I will not be cowed by my father's fear, Askell. The dragons are dead, Wildfire…" I take up a whetstone and my dagger, sharpening it because I need some sort of personal weapon. Swords make me far too clumsy, so daggers make do.

"Is unwieldy, so on and so forth…" he sighs, "I… I don't want this to be your end, Ivar. You get careless. When you get careless-" Rage shoots through me at that. Careless? Me? I have sat my ass on that seat longer than any other Stark here. I have been left here to govern for long enough!

"So I should just let my brothers get ahead of me? My sister to rise higher? No, my mother saw greatness in me despite what I am. I will be more than that." I take up my dagger and sheathe it, looking over my shoulder at my friend, "Do not shake my faith in you again, Askell. I'm off to the Godswood."

~OTaI.~​

I walk among the woods and leaves. Limping and crunching leaves underfoot. The night is cold, almost oppressive in its intensity. The fire burns within me, but all I can do against the cold is bear with it. Far ahead, I hear voices speaking in what Maester Walys would call 'Old Northern.' Something that sounds like a rougher version of the more refined 'Old Northern' we know today.

A language some of the Iron Islanders still speak, and Northern Men had forgotten. But, not the Shapers and Drowned God Priests. Their voices rise on the wind, echoing around me as I grip the hilt of my dagger.

Their voices rise through the air, the wind blows me forward. I don't see anyone familiar as I look around.

They're my ancestors, I'm certain of it. They're gathering around a Weirwood tree, the carved face crying out in agony. I slow and stop as the ring of shades parts, showing what they were gathered around. Clearly a dire wolf with three legs, bloody cuts along its snout, and bound in golden chains. Its silver eyes stare as the crackling of the Weirwood tree sounds out.

Wind whispers through the trees, crackling and shifting like it's alive. The wolf whimpers and I kneel to its level, more like lying down on my stomach. Its sad silver eyes stare right into mine with an appeal that spoke of pain and agony.

"Son of the Wolf… Son of Ice…" A voice rattles out of lungs in the earth, "Heed these words…"

"Chains of Gold shall bind and change thee. Three shall fill the crypts, and thy rage will swallow the sun and eat the moon. Thunder shall be your birth, and Iron shall be your grasp." the voice rumbles through my head and almost splits it with the rumbling sound.

A deep fear grips me in its talons as I turn and run. I forget my crutches and lurch along, branches and the wind lashing at my face. There's a light ahead, a bright ever-shining light. Something stands in it. Something familiar.

Mother's there, holding her arms out, "Ivar, you're almost there. Just a little further, dearest." I try to make it to her but the ground becomes as mud does, bogging me down as she still reaches for me. I reach up, trying to grab her hand almost desperate to.

"Moth-" the same golden chains snarl around my arms and legs to drag me down under the muddy froth of ground. That's when my eyes snap open, the wolf is gone and the ancestors are. The voice still rings in my head.

Before me is Lyanna, the cold night air seeping deep into my bones even through my thick clothes. I grab my crutch and ease up onto my feet. Loping towards her as she sweeps an extra cloak about my shoulders.

"Another vision, brother?" she asks.

"Yes. This time they spoke to me." I stare up at the sky through the branches, "Something about golden chains, three filling the crypts… and my rage eating the sun and the moon." I smile, "I saw Mother."

Lyanna and I ever since we were small had these odd dreams. Lyanna's expression is tight, shadowed by the shades of leaves, and her voice is unsure. A far cry from the teasing lilit and more of a whisper.

"Don't be so cavalier about it, Ivar. Do not take this idly." she practically begs me to take it seriously, "That's far more concerning than just a dream!"

"What do you think it is? That the Gods showed me my future? All I saw was a three legged bloodied dire wolf with golden chains binding it. The future is never truly set in stone, and I will see for myself what it holds."

Lyanna sighs and turns around as we walk side by side.

"I think, brother. That this is a warning, that if you DO go to Harrenhal you will find the very chains that will bind you." she says, "You have a lack of experience in how the world is, so I fear it will hurt you. It's not the honorable place Father tells of our ancestors."

My hand finds her's and squeezes it, "I will be careful, Lya."

"Swear it." she snips.

"I swear upon our mother, I swear upon our father, and I swear upon the very wolf's blood in my veins that I will guard myself closely." I take out my dagger and stab it into the earth, "Should I break this oath, you have full right to ask anything of me and I will do it."

That oath would be one I would curse.

 

[XIIIthewanderingpaladin]

Ever since I was little, I was fascinated by stories. Knights, Princesses, monsters, and brave rescues came and went from my wet nurses and friends. At least until they ran out. The days spent in the Rock were lonely, as I was my mother's greatest treasure. My twin Jaime and I used to be inseparable, but because of him being the only male heir, he got swept away from me by the tides of lordship. Only the faintest memories of he and I bleed through only what I can remember.

But, I wasn't alone. My little brother Tyrion took to me like a duckling would its mother following my mother's death. The little thing would toddle after me yelling, "Ce! Ce!" and be my little shadow. As much as Father loathes him and Jaime is a little less hateful… I'm the only person little Tyrion has. Well, not the only one. Uncle Gerion is another. As always, little Tyrion looks up at me. The tournament at Lannisport was going very well at this time and I was here to meet with Prince Rhaegar.

I had, and instead of being taken by his sad eyes, all I could focus on was that. What sort of life earned those eyes? What sort of struggle? His younger brother Prince Aerarys wore a veiled mask over his face… much like Tyrion it seemed as though affliction came naturally even to dragons.

"Ce?"

"Yes?" I look down and smile, "What is it?"

"You go?" he looks at Melara and I, "You go."

"Why yes, Tyrion, we're going to see a witch! Like the stories Uncle Gerion tells us. I'll be certain to tell you all about it." I sweep him into my arms and hug him tightly, "I want you to be good, and I shall be back soon."

My bed maids, Jeyne and Melara, watch the display between my brother and I almost like they were disgusted by it. Tyrion needs someone to keep him safe. He's smaller, weaker, but still my mother's child. Even with his nurse, he would still run to me. His lopsided eyes, his too-large head, and how small he is sends a strike of pity through all of us with any heart. He scurries away as my bedmaids watch after him.

"Lady Cersei, is there any reason as to why we're going to see her?" Jeyne asks, her tone is a little fearful and her plump hands shake. She always hung back, away from any danger or anything exciting.

"I'm bored." I sigh, "Bored of all of this." I can't help but laugh bitterly, "Everything about this is boring, trite, and nothing of what my Uncle told me."

Melara laughs, "It seems you are questing after the last bit of magic left in the world, Lady Cersei."

"What of it? If I wish to see if any of the wondrous things my uncle told me of the world, the chance is here and now without any delay." I snap a little harsher than I meant it, but it's true. I must know my future. I need to know that my life isn't just being there for the men to ogle and toss me away to some… other lord.

Grandfather Tytos had given Aunt Genna to the Freys, and I will not allow that to happen to me. I need better, because I am better than just someone to shut away off to some no-name lord who offered enough coin to choke a dragon with. My only chance for any power is if I have children. My father is far too busy worrying over whatever he feels like worrying over, whilst Jaime is playing war games. I spend my days doing what ladies do while my mind dreams of something far greater. Something which I know will be my destiny.

I will be more than just a Lioness.

I will be Queen.

Jaime trains in one of the courtyards, vicious and assured. More interested in dogs, swords, and… myself. Always seeking time to be with me despite my desire not to be with him. Tyrion just takes things as they come and scuttles off in his own little world. Knowing 'Ce' doesn't want to be around him. I watch him train, and Melara wistfully stares as if he's something to ogle. She's always been reckless and ambitious, she's a greedy little schemer. She can have my brother all she wants, I have no need for him.

He smiles upon seeing me, "Sister! How good of you to show yourself!" he sheathes his training sword and grins like the sun, "How was your meeting with our sullen prince?" his golden hair is short, and his eyes are the same as mine, but friendlier. It was almost like he knew I loved stories of knights and tried to style himself as one.

"He was boring. Sad-eyed. I want to know more about my future, so remember what Uncle Gerion told us of witches?"

His eyes narrow, "You can't be serious. You, Melara, and Jeyne are going alone?" he chuffs a little, "At least let me accompany you." he gently touches my arm, "It'll be as the old days."

"It will not be so, Jaime. Not like… that." I force my arm out of his reach, "I will be leaving soon. If you must, just look on from afar."

His smiles never reach his eyes. They're always warmer than them. Jaime decides if and when he desires to come with me or not. He acts as if he owns whatever he sees like some sort of king. Fitting, considering our father's designs for him.

He chuffs, "So be it." from the way he acts, there's an aversion to anything other than myself and Tyrion.

I just hope he won't try anything.

---

The night came down like a cloak as the three of us leave for the witch's tent. The city still bustles with people at night. Never really losing that energy. Aside from there being cutthroats and other ne'er-do-wells about. Melara, Jeyne, and I all walk together towards the outskirts of the city. The wood calling to us in voices we can't understand, the wind playing with us all in harmony with the woods.

Deeper we go, following a sort of path cut out from it. Lanterns guiding our way as the crickets chirp and night holds its chorus. Jeyne huddles behind me, Melara in front, and I in the center. Off a ways, I don't see Jaime holding up the rear. The tent waits in a clearing not far from a small river. There's no light in it, so the witch must be asleep. At least I think? Jeyne clings to me.

"S-So… what now?" she stutters.

"Don't be a child, Jeyne. We just wake up the witch and ask her to read our futures." I scoff, "It cannot be difficult, right?"

"I wager it wouldn't." Melara answers.

"Who is there?" a foreign voice snaps out of the tent flap, "Who disturbs my rest? Travelers? Brigands? Out with it, you shadows upon my door."

"We've come for our fortunes to be read." I say, "Would you allow us in?"

"It's late, Lady Lannister."

"How do you-"

"I know more than you know, and much more still." the witch pokes her head out and behind me I hear a rush and a cry. Jeyne scurries away. (The little coward!) The witch, or Maggy the Frog, stares out at Melara and I with yellowed eyes and crust flecking from them like yellowed tears.

Thinning, matted, and greasy gray hair clings to her scalp and her wizened face very much resembles a frog.

Melara takes a step back, and I take a step forward into the tent. Foreign smells such as garlic and other herbs waft through the air. Some say witches are how the smallfolk are healed. Not everyone can get access to a Maester. Sitting on the table between us is a knife, flowing and curved. Glinting in the firelight like a promise. Like some sort of path to the future I must know. I need to know. I cannot allow myself to feel as if I'm consigned to my fate. I want more than anything to be free of the loneliness.

"Brave little Lioness…" she croons, "Take up the knife, prick your finger, and I will give you three questions to ask. Three shall be your answers, and you will know your future."

"But will you be able to continue your path if you know it?" she asks, "Many lords and ladies, knights and kings, even smallfolk come to me to know their futures. Everyone wants to know it… until they do." she grins and looks upon me with a softer expression.

"Choose wisely, little Lioness. Knowledge is a curse few can bear."

"Will I marry a Prince?" I ask with sweetness in my voice. Aunt Genna never told a lie before and lied, so if the witch looking down upon her yellowed eyes and ancient features, a vision of what I dread, lies? I will have Father cut out her tongue.

"No. You will marry a Wolf." Maggy smiles, "Yes. Yes, you will marry a Wolf. You will see him five years from now among his pack at the cursed castle Dragons burned. He will give you all you desire, little Lioness. He will quest after your lions and rend them in twain with his jaws."

A wolf. Not a prince, nor a king? What in the seven hells is she even spouting off?

"Will he love me?" my voice lowers, almost frightened of the way she worded the last bit.

"His love for you shall be forevermore. Far more valuable than anything that silver haired Prince could ever give you or your Lion brother." her head tilts at an odd angle, "But. Is the Lioness deserving of it? Will she spell the doom of this young wolf?"

My heart begins to pound faster. How will I know? How will he show himself? Will he be kind? Thoughts swirl through the air like autumn leaves. I tease a lock of my hair through my fingers, a nervous thing as the truth sinks in.

"You have one more question, my lady, or do you know enough?"

"How many children will I have?" my hand ghosts to my stomach. Imagining it swollen, a child growing there, and a man with a wolf's head wrapping his arm around it. Panting softly in my ear. But, still I swallow down my fear. Maggy smiles, the toothless mouth a cavernous, rotten hole where the Stranger seems to hold sway. A deathly stench had come upon my nostrils as she suckled the blood from my finger before.

"Three. Three little Lions of the North. They will live happily, they will be your greatest joy, and your Wolf will cherish them all. Yet I have one last series of questions to ask of you, brave little Lioness."

"Ask it." I answer.

"Will you be loyal to your Wolf husband? Will your little Lions keep entertaining you? Will you tire of them as you have waiting for some adventure? You will be reckless, and wanting, yet you will be Queen."

She grins, "Then and only then, Lioness, will you know love truly?"

Melara gets her blood tasted, but all I can think about is the Wolf. What sort of man is a wolf? Is he from one of the Northern houses? Those sullen, icebound Lords are so mysterious and closed-off.

Melara asks her question, "Will I get to marry Jaime?"

Maggy, or whoever she is, looks sadly upon her as if she knows what's in store. Poor Melara. Poor, poor Melara. I rest my hand on her arm, squeezing lightly. Of course one of us gets the wrong thing. Or at least the unfair thing.

"Sadly, little Lady. You will die a maiden."

"What?! N-no! I…" she sputters, "It can't…"

"Your death is close, child. Close enough to smell it's breath upon yours." she sighs, "One more question, little lady."

"I… I need to know. Who will do it?"

"The man you dream of."

As we leave, Melara's weeping. I glare over my shoulder at the witch, and rub my friend's back. She looks up at me.

"Cersei… we must never speak of these. They won't come true if they aren't spoken of."

"You could run away." I say, "Far enough and my brother won't find you." I couldn't help but feel pity. If I could do anything. Anything at all for her, it's to at least comfort her with that. Something deep down tells me both will come true, as absurd as it is.

I still don't notice Jaime slinking in the shadows, he'd heard it all.

"You'd assist me, yes?" she asks.

"Of course, Melara. You're my friend." I smile, "I would do anything."

---

There was one day out in the gardens that I heard splashing and coughing coming from a well. No one else was around, at least I thought, and when I looked down… Melara was there. She's barely treading water, splashing in a complete panic.

"Cersei! Help me!" she screams, "Please, please! Someone-" her eyes widen in fear as she looks behind me, "L-Look-"

Suddenly, Jaime grabs hold of me and clasps his hand over my mouth, bringing me somewhere far away enough to hide. He shushes my voice against his palm. I struggle and fight against his hold even though it wouldn't matter much. Letting me go once I settled down.

"Jaime! How dare you, Melara is-"

"In our way, Cersei. There's one thing you must learn, I will kill anyone if it means your happiness. That wolf that witch told you of will never make you happy." he touches my cheek with his cold, wet hands.

"You killed her. You pushed her into that well."

"And you'll do nothing to help her." he counters, "She placed her hope in you, and what will you do? You'll ignore it. You're just as bloody as I am."

"No… No, I can tell Father!"

"If you do, no one will ever believe you. Especially not him." he softly kisses my cheek, "This is a man's world, sweet sister. There's nowhere to run, and nowhere to escape to. Melara will die, and so many more."

I want to run back to the well, run for Father, run for one of the knights. Anyone. But, Jaime still keeps a tight hold on me.

"Didn't you say to me once that we were the only things that matter?" he asks, "I'm doing this for you, just listen to how quiet it is now."

There's no splashing, no screaming, and no calls for help. Jaime smiles and traces my cheek with his fingers, "See? Just let me handle things and we'll be where we're meant to be."

At supper that night, Father joined us. His hard green eyes scanning the room as the nurses fed Tyrion, and Jaime sat across from me. Father's eyes flick over to me. Then back towards Jaime, and then settle on Tyrion.

"You three are the only children I'll ever have." he asserts, tone clipped and voice as hard as stone, "I should've never let my siblings fill your heads with fantasy." he cuts at his meat.

"Father, what of my betrothal to the Prince?" My question earns a soft chuckle and the barest smile.

"Aerys thinks me a servant, so it's off. From what I heard, you found him boring." he looks at me with a mite of pride, "You're my daughter, of course you'd have the will for a better match." his voice is heavy with frustration.

"But there IS no better match. Not even his scarred little brother has what we need." his eyes drive daggers into me, "You have no right to be as high-minded as you are."

Jaime looks at me, then back at our father, "Father, if I may…"

His eyes lock with his, "Yes?"

"There will be a tournament that Lord Whent is preparing at Harrenhal, in five years' time. It…it sounds as though everyone in the realm will be there."

"You would like to compete?" Father finishes for him, "As long as your training continues, you may."

"Thank you, Father."

Father turns to me, "See, Cersei? Your brother knows his place. He will represent our house at that tournament, and if he wins he will bring honor to our house."

I grit my teeth, almost ready to leap across the table and gouge my nails into my brother's face and rip it to bloody shreds. I resist it and think of that mysterious wolf that night. Thinking of what sort of man would be foolhardy enough to see anything good in me.

I let that comfort me despite my friend's death and my own anger.

 

[XIIIthewanderingpaladin]

Harrenhal is a massive castle, it covers three times the amount of ground than Winterfell, and could easily house all of us and almost the entirety of Westeros by the way of it being so large. Old Weiland would probably spit on the idea of such a large castle, but for me the ruined towers and thick curtain walls spoke to me of a great history. The ride here was filled with my brother's laughter and joy about the idea of myself competing. As much as Lyanna didn't enjoy the idea.

My oath to her still weighs upon me, but I am more so heavy from the responsibility of representing my House. Our caravan comes upon a good spot near the waters of the God's Eye. We pitch our pavilion and spy other houses doing the same.

"Nervous?" Brandon supplies as he assists me off my horse and onto the ground.

"Yes. Very." I touch my bowstring and think of the idea of winning it all.

Brandon laughs, mussing my hair. He seems so carefree about the fact that he might be unhorsed, injured, and maybe crippled like I am.

"Maybe you'll find the next Lady Stark? This is as good a place as any to start." at that, I blush.

"Brandon, at best I'll find some minor lady from some backwater house…" I sigh, looking down at myself, "A cripple does not make for a good husband."

Benjen grins, "Don't sell yourself too short, brother! You wouldn't worry your wife, you'd just be wherever she'd leave you!" he was trying to be positive, but it still brings me down.

Everyone who is anyone is here. From small lords to those of the great houses. The area around the castle is humming with the people and almost joyful energy of a common time for Smallfolk and nobility to be one people.

A wandering crow from the Night's Watch patrols around, not completely without cause, for the knights here must be more or less willing to join. The other houses set up their places and pavilions, the air seems to hum with excitement. Bards, Knights, Lords, and Smallfolk all come to see all of this.

Baratheons, Lannisters, Targaryens… all are here. But, one of our number comes surging forth. Eddard, dark haired and sullen, crosses our paths and embraces Brandon like he missed him. Of course he misses all of us, but Brandon laughs and squeezes him; almost trying to pick him up.

He gets a kiss on the cheek from Lyanna, and a clap on the shoulder from Benjen. He and I stand across from each other. Instead of being awkward, I almost rush right into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"Ned!"

"Haha, Father let you out? Is this our brother's idea or your own?"

Brandon makes a face and sighs, "It was my idea, brother…"

Eddard pats my shoulders, "Then fire straight and true, Ivar." Eddard, or Ned, is always oddly encouraging me. He smiles and looks up at Brandon, he thinks I don't notice the small expression of, 'You must be craven.'

That's when someone rather unexpected muscles through to us. Tall, built like a tower, and armored for battle is Lyanna's betrothed, Robert Baratheon. His blue eyes soften upon seeing her, and he makes a big show of greeting her.

"Lya." he croons almost sweetly if not for the roughness of his voice making it sound like more of a threat, brushing a bearded kiss upon her cheek. Lyanna makes a face and steals away towards me.

Robert looks at me as if I'm just a bug in his path. Completely outfoxing me in height and strength. He grins.

"You must be the sharpshooter Ned was flapping 'is gums about." Robert says, "Y'small, and a cripple. What in the seven hells is your brother thinking?" he laughs thunderously and all I can do is look at my feet, "What's the matter? Can't he look at me?" He looks to my brother, Ned.

"Is he simple, Ned?"

I stare up at him, glaring from down low as he's on high. Everything seems to fade out. His lips move but no voice comes forth from his fucking useless lips. I check to see if anyone else (other than my family) are around before I punch him hard in the cheek. My fist barely moves him and he blinks.

Blue on silver, fierce and determined to hollow surprise. Robert's eyes seem to shine in rage before softly, slowly boiling back to a more normal countenance. He laughs and claps me on the shoulder hard enough to make me almost fall. His hand is heavy, strong, and thick with muscle. Every inch of him is a maiden's fantasy hiding the strength of a beast. He's shouldering a massive war hammer after all. The sole Baratheon representative looms over me like he'd run me down and gore me with his hammer's sharper end. This clear disrespect would not go unnoticed or forgiven.

"I like him!" he looks down at me with that same overconfidence, "We'll be brothers soon, d'you know that ah… Ivar?" he looks to Lyanna, who reluctantly nods.

"We will? Oh. Joy." I snap back, "Poor Lyanna will be crushed just by holding your hand." (That wasn't true, but it's fun to watch people fumble and squirm.) Robert just laughs and Eddard sweeps close to move me away.

"It's not wise to push Robert, brother."

"He called me simple, Eddard. I won't brook insults." I hiss, "He should know that all us wolves have teeth." I tear my eyes away from my brother and Robert, staring across the field at all the tents and people milling about and making this all possible.

I'm among them.

Me.

Little Ivar, the Broken Wolf. I lope along, the crowds not really paying any mind to me. That's a good thing at the very least. The others all sort of form a protective ring around me. Just so they won't lose me in the crush.

The crowd's got me frightened deep down. They can see me. The other house's pavilions all go up without much incident. But first, I needed to sign up for the Archery contest. Brandon and I come to the main place, the looming ceilings of it all also sending a thrill of fear through me.

No, no. Be brave. You are no longer a boy hiding behind your mother's skirts. You're a man. Brandon makes sure I'm nearby as Lord Whent organizes the lists himself. He's a jolly, albeit frenzied man with all the things he must do. He's stocky, dark hair streaked with grey, and his beard also has streaks of dark in it. He grins when he sees us coming. Black bats on a field of yellow mark the softly billowing banners hanging over him. Walter Whent is a generous man, a good man, and the way his black eyes focus on us is like he's happy to see more men signing up.

I hear the mutterings of the other lords and knights.

"Look at him…"

"He can barely move without lurching…"

"A cripple? Here? This is the height of disrespect!"

"Ah! If it isn't Lord Brandon Stark!" he booms in the high halls of Harrenhal, his voice like the crack of thunder, "Come to compete, have you?" we bow and he waves his hand.

"None of that! Who's that with you?" Brandon brings me forward for the lord to assess, I'd expected a nod and a move along, but what I get is…

"Gwahahahaha! A cripple?! Is that what you've brought, Brandon?" he smiles, "This isn't a tournament for mummers, boy. Go." he waves me off and my fury lights in me. Taking off my bow and nocking an arrow, I pull back the string and aim it right at him.

Lord Whent leans back, "Now boy…"

"My name is Ivar Stark. I'd like to compete in the archery tournament, if it so pleases you." Brandon grabs my arm and lowers my bow.

"Please forgive my brother, milord. He's a little… quick to anger." he glares at me, "If he must prove himself, may he?"

Lord Whent chuckles, "Why yes. If he can shoot a bulls-eye into that far target…" he points to one at the full-on other end of the hall, "He can compete."

It's a fool's errand, but… my bow was made for things such as that. A longbow that I'd have to wear tilted upon my back to avoid falling. I unstring it and restring it, selecting an arrow and nocking it to the string.

I focus the best I can on the target. Brandon's watching, the other knights and lords are watching, and I will not fail. My longbow strains, and I take a deep breath. The arrow looses, whistling through the air by the grace of the Gods, and the impact THUDS out to them all.

"Is it dead center, boy?!" he calls to one of the servants. He bows hurriedly and checks.

"No sir, it's jus' off center!" the servant calls back. The men laugh and Lord Whent looks rather satisfied.

There's a storm of laughter, a guffaw of thunder, and a crackup of lightning. All of which are almost my undoing. I fight the boyish tears, the childlike groan, the accusing glare at my own weakness. For it is a constant thrum, a storm I am so familiar with as to know its sting even within my shelter… Yet, Lord Whent doesn't join in. He looks genuinely saddened as he'd seen my hopes get dashed to the ground and ripped apart by his fellow men. He has sons and a daughter, and I'm reminding him of one, surely.

"Apologies, little Lord." he sighs, "You cannot win them all." just as I'm about to be turned away, a boy around my age in red and gold armor cuts the line. He has long blonde hair and flashing green eyes. I don't know him, but by the way Lord Whent straightens, he must be far more powerful than even he.

"Hold a moment!" he snaps, "How many arrows do you have, Lord Stark?" I jolt to attention, fumbling for my quiver as the chuckles and guffaws still do not cease. But, I finally get them to be seen.

"About… ten?" I check (Remembering the arrow in the target.), "No, nine."

"That makes nine more chances, Lord Whent." he smiles, "Let Lord Stark shoot again." He called me lord. No 'Little' in front of it as if I'm still a boy. In a nod, I take my position again. Select an arrow, nock it, and draw the string back. I focus, and then….

THUD.

"Is that one on the mark?!" I yell to the servant, "If it isn't, then I have eight more!"

The servant checks again, "Y-Yes! It is! It's on the mark!" I smile and they bring the arrows back. The red armored boy? Well, he smiles. I slide the arrows back into my quiver and smile up at him.

"There, good luck. Lord Stark." he nods and walks away.

"W-Wait!" I yelp, "What is your name? I must know the name of my supporter." He pauses and there's that winning smile.

"I am Jaime Lannister." he pats my shoulder, "Good luck, Lord Stark." with that, Brandon and I both enter into our respective lists. On our walk back to our pavilion I can't help but think that Jaime's intervention was the Gods giving me a sign.

A sign of what, I'm unsure.

Our pavilion has a little workshop of its own so that I may do my works. Little did I know that so many had heard of the 'Lord Shaper' that the Starks had and there was already a line once I got the bellows working.

Lyanna gave me a secretive smile, "Good luck, little brother." My hammer strikes, the metal bends, and I work well into the day. Rather oddly, a young man a little older than I in the red and black finery of the Targaryens steps in a few hours in, his silver-gold hair and light lavender eyes striking, but the lower half of his face is covered in a veil.

"Your highness? What is it you need?" I ask. He looms over me before leaning down to me. He's taller than me, slender, and intimidating.

The man's lavender eyes break contact with my silver ones, "Just… a ring." he mutters, "A ring for a lady. To repair it, I mean." For a dragon, he sounds remarkably shy. He sets a ring, silver and broken. An amethyst as well, onto my workbench.

"Your grace, it shall be done. However, it shall take delicate work." I say, the Prince looks down at me and leans forward, his veiled face close to mine, his lavender eyes burning with an inner light. He sizes me up and chuffs. Impatient to the last.

"Hmph." he takes the ring back, "I'll find someone else."

As he walks away, I realize that it seemed out of nowhere, however, it might just be a little… visual problem. The sparks dance through the air, and I'm happy. Lords and knights, curious about why the Stark pavilion had a workshop attached, all came to see me. The fire and steel sing. My hammer beats the steel into whatever they need. I'm truly happy. I can compete, I can work, and I can be whatever I needed to be in some form or fashion. I'm truly, truly happy.

---

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths had less hearths than I imagined. They have a little under forty. (Based on my count.) I pay far more attention to the masonry and the craftsmanship of the seeming miles and miles of tables and chairs to seat us all.

"Come brother, let's sit you down." Ned grabs my arm and leads me off to one of the smaller hearths, with the loneliest looking table and chair of them all, he's trying to help but I want to be part of it.

After the Prince's rejection of my services, though, I'd much rather be left to my lonesome. Before I could sit, an opening trumpet blast announces the coming of the King and the Royal Family. We all rise in salute of them before they all sit.

King Aerys Targaryen (The Second of his name, King of the Andals and the Ryohnar blah blah blah.), looks far older than he really is. With a beard that falls to his stomach and wild violet eyes. His voice would rapidly change from a morose tone to a mirth-filled one. A mad cackle-weep sounded like the most dreaded clap of thunder ever known.

The King's nails are spindly, long, and sharp enough to stab into the food for him to maybe not have the need for utensils. His eyes keep darting from person to person, almost as if he's seeing ghosts.

His family flinch and look at him like he's about to send everything awry. I don't really hear the speech, but the clapping is more about the news of greater successes, like Prince Rhaegar's harp performance and the good spirits of all here.

I hear Benjen's laughter off in the distance after the Harp performance so a spilled cup of wine from my sister shuts him up. The musicians all assemble and take up their instruments as the feasting turns to dancing as well.

The music begins to play and Lyanna comes back with my plate piled high with food, "Brother, here you are. Do you need me to cut anything?" she smiles and I can see in her silver eyes that she's glad to see me.

"No, I'll cut it myself. Go visit with the other lords, Lya." I look down at my shaky hands.

"Ivar, I'd much rather sit with you." Her smile falls, "I know you must sit alone, but it's not fair. Also I'd rather not be around Benjen for the foreseeable future…" she sighs, "Fucking… grrrrgh!" she shakes her hands in a throttling motion.

I chuckle, "Sister, your ferocity would scare off the prospective Lady Starks, don't you remember?"

Lyanna snorts, "Of course, my little brother deserves the best!"

"Do I now?" I ask, "The best of what?"

"The best of women, of course." Lyanna says, "Someone who's kind, gentle, and knows your limits. Someone who'll take care of you-"

"So like you? Or Mother?" I sigh, "Don't confuse my inability to walk well with my inability to care for myself."

"I'm not." she shakes her head, "I just want to ensure that you're well taken care of."

All I know is that she wants the best for me, and I know that's a far off thing. (Or not so, who knows?) Lyanna nods reluctantly. I want to be an equal, and to the eyes of these men and these women who do NOT see me as so…

I will be wary of them.

"I am no fool, Lyanna. This world does not provide the same things to people such as I, Smallfolk or noble. We're meant to be fragile, infirm, and lucky to even be." I look into her eyes, "Go, enjoy the feast. Enjoy the dancing. I'm well."

Lyanna reluctantly gets to her feet, her eyes filled with emotions I can't name and she leaves. I'm left to my own devices. Loneliness is my shield, my constant friend, and my ever-suffering yoke that I have yet to cast away.

Yet… I'm not completely alone. I dared not notice earlier that someone had been following me.

The girl, no, young woman looks me right in the eyes (She's a year older than me.), "Your eyes are gorgeous." she smiles and her voice is warm just like where she's from, "Where are you from? I know every handsome little Lord from Casterly Rock to King's Landing." she leans forward, almost interested.

The green dress she wears compliments her eyes. Her long golden curls are barely held back by a elaborate emerald and gold tie. Her face is oddly feline-like. Fierce green eyes sharp and burning, good cheekbones, and a smile that's like a threat.

In short, I'm already allowing her far too close for comfort. She seems dreadfully familiar, although I cannot exactly place it.

"W-well... Lady, I'm from... Winterfell." I try to look away but she reaches out and touches my hand. My cheeks heat up and I jerk my hand away, "If you'll excuse me, I... I must head back to my family's place."

That was a clear lie, but I needed to put some distance. I wanted the Gods to mark me well. To hold me accountable to my vow. I know the score, I know why I must not be with them. It'd be a shame. Even this lady, this… odd lady, risks her repute to be sitting here. They don't want me there. I'm not worthy to eat and sit directly with them unless I'm at home. Brandon sat me down here and here I shall sit. Especially with the King and the Princes about. So I don't fall and send myself and my family to burn.

"Oh? A northern boy. A Stark no less!" she seems impressed, "What're you doing here?" How did she-? I look down at the wolf pendant. Oh, right.

"I'm here to compete in the Tournament." I answer, "I will... perhaps... see you...?"

She steps closer, "Cersei Lannister." Lannister… Lannister… No. It can't be. It is, isn't it? Jaime's sister, it's her! Who else?! Rumored to be a great beauty that rivals even Elia Martell and my own sister! I try not to stumble as I motion for the other chair nearby. Probably there so that Eddard, Lyanna, Benjen, or Brandon could duck in to check on me.

"Ah, yes… would you like to sit with me?" I sputter that out like a lame donkey, a rude braying from a young lord so unpracticed. Her smile is soft, eyes full of practiced calculation, as if she already knows the conclusion.

"I would like that very much." she says.

I amble up and around to pull it out for her, "Then sit."

The interrogation begins in earnest. My eyes cast out to the dancing, teeming crowd. Jealousy stabs at my chest, and I see the people all dancing. I always wanted to, but never could.

"Just look at them all, Lady Cersei. All here for glory and praise from the King himself. I'm not here for that, I'm here to let them all know who I am. I'll speak plainly: Are you here to hurt me?" I stab at the meat and tear off a chunk with my teeth, seeing Cersei's eyes widen slightly, "It's perfectly well to admit to it. I tire of honeyed words and overly polite speech."

"Lord Ivar, I know not what you-" More bullshit. She's pretty, but I know when someone wants something out of me. Brandon and Lyanna would be ripping her away from me if they saw her. She's not the first. Lysa Tully was one.

"I believe you do. Be honest, why would the Lioness of Lannister come here and sit with me? I believe you heard the stories? Seen how the other ladies fall over themselves to get out of my way? Children stare at my legs and fear me." I lean close, "There's no way a woman of your pedigree wants to sleep with a Wolf such as I."

Cersei doesn't lean back, sighing almost... gratefully? "I'm not here to hurt you, Lord Ivar." she answers, "Nor would I ever wish to. Do you always eat alone?"

I think back to times when I couldn't get down the steps to my room, or back up them enough for my family not to bother letting me join them, "As of late, yes. Mostly in my room, sometimes in my workshop."

"You smith?" she asks, almost wrinkling her nose at it. I bark out a soft laugh.

"I shape, Lady Cersei." I lean closer and reach for her hand, "Here. I'll take you through it."

"I know not the difference." she chuffs, "Although I would like to learn it."

Cersei smiles and I slip her lion ring off her finger, "See, we Shapers know exactly what the metal wants to be. The Gods of Fire and Metal deign it so. Through our very bodies, our souls, and our tools we bring said shape into being. We learn through the sound."

"So what would my ring want to be?" she asks. I take up my unused spoon and rap it against the ring, by the sound it makes...

"This little thing wanted to be a necklace." I say with a soft chuckle. I look at her and grin tapping it again, "Yes, yes… it wanted to be a necklace."

Cersei laughs, "A necklace? You can hear it?" Her laugh is gorgeous. Like a bell, or the soft crooning of a dove. Something so beautiful I- Well, she snorts, which is even more appealing. I like it when people are honest. Saves me the hassle of guessing.

"Yes, yes I can! It's a very, very important step. It's not bad." I slip it back on her finger, not even minding the closeness or how I was so... forward with her. But, I can tell she's enjoying it, "Then, we take the metal, listen as we work, and soon enough it'll be what it wants. We're close with our Gods as we do so, because they formed the very earth below our feet."

"Our tools are from the very earth. That is what makes it so holy." I study the ring between my fingers, "We guide it, we don't force it."

Inches from her, inches from her beauty. The fierce eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the way her voice is so beautiful that I wished I could listen to it all night long. My guard breaks down as quickly as it musters.

That's when Brandon comes marching in, "There you are, Ivar! You gave Lyanna and I quite the fright." he smiles down at me and then looks over at my acquaintance, "I hope my brother wasn't too much trouble."

I see Cersei's expression fall, her mask going back on as she sees Brandon arrive. I don't need a mask to tell Brandon to shove off, but… no, do it.

"He wasn't, Lord Stark. In fact, he was rather charming." Cersei chuckles and I want Brandon to go away. To leave me alone, and leave me be! I grab one of my crutches and jab at him.

"Go away, Brandon!" I hiss, "Lady Cersei and I were having a delightful conversation!" he laughs and dodges my jabbing.

"I'll leave you two to it then!" he waves us off and Cersei let's down her mask again. Her hand takes the ring, her bright green eyes flicker in the firelight like emeralds. Her hand gently brushes against mine.

"I wish I wasn't a woman sometimes." she says, "I wish I could enter the lists." she looks at my bow again with a sly smile, "Maybe I could give you my favor during the Archery contest?"

I blink back my shock, "You… you would do that? Why?" she smiles and winks at me. Everything seems to click as soon as she squeezes my hand.

"I have a feeling we're fated to be together, Lord Ivar." her knowing smile makes my cheeks flush, "So if you are a man to believe in destiny, just request it of me and I will give it." her touch is like the barely-whispered promise, the idea of destiny bringing us together seems to explain a lot.

Is it my destiny to win, or is it to lose? Is it to gain a victory so I can prove myself a man to all those here? Or is it a dark omen of things to come?

Cersei's voice sings through my ears again, "You're quite the dour one, Lord Stark." she stands and holds out her hand, "Come, dance with me." her golden hair drapes over one of her shoulders, and her smile is genuine.

"Lady Cersei, I don't know how…" I mumble.

"Well, it's no time like the present to learn, Lord Ivar!" she yells as the band strikes up a merry number.

She pulls me into the throng, spinning me into her arms and pulling me along with her like a ragdoll. I see Brandon laughing and dancing with some other noblewoman, Lyanna with Robert, and Ned with some woman with purple eyes.

Cersei pulls my attention from them with a happy laugh, "See?! You're a natural, Lord Stark!"

"Oh yes?! Haha!" I whoop, getting spun to the prince from earlier. He tosses me back, the fearsome scar on his face whipping out from behind his veil. Cersei has me again, her eyes flashing with a dangerously intoxicating fire.

I almost fall back if not for her deceptively strong grip upon me. It's a mad, dizzying sensation. Hazy and dreamlike, the music becomes a blasting maddening tune that has me spinning and hollering. Dresses swirl, Cersei's eyes burn into me, and I feel whole. At some point, Robert has me on his shoulders as Brandon's trying to get me down. Just like that in the haze, I'm back to the ground once more. The maiden with the laughing purple eyes has me now, I don't remember what I said or what I did, but she spins me away with a laugh.

My uneven steps have me tipping over, tumbling back into Cersei's arms as she kisses me crimson cheeked as something bittersweet and warming burns its way down my throat. Everything passes in more of a blur. I remember at least hooking my arms around her, deepening it despite my own cowardice. Now I'm panting, gasping, and leaning against my brothers.

"Did you see me?! Did you see who I was dancing with?!" I gasp, "Cersei…! Her name… she made me drink something… doesn't make me feeel good…" I sigh dreamily as Ned laughs.

"Seems like someone had a good night!" Brandon mumbles, "Neeed, get us baaaack…"

"That I will, brothers…" Ned says with a soft chuckle, "Wait… where's Benjen?" We hear him throwing up his guts in a bush. That's what has me also throwing up. What a night.

 

[XIIIthewanderingpaladin]

Harrenhal is massive. The ruined towers scratching through the sky with ugly jagged fingers. Father could barely stand being near the Targaryens, so it was just me and my brother, all too eager to compete. He even rode ahead to get signed up for the tilts, leaving me and a veritable army of servants to set up our place.

Not only that, but Jeyne is here too. They order my hair, they help me paint my face, and I know that one of them, one of the Wolves, will be mine. I already have a plan. I just need to get him alone. I used to dream of dragons, and as we gather in the great hall to listen to the King's speech about this and that, I see the Starks. Brandon, the oldest and most rakish. Roguish smile and all even as the king drones. He's not the one, surely. Then there's Ned. The sullen, silent, and thinking one. Morose and serious, surely not him either.

Jeyne watches me, "Milady, surely you don't believe that witch, do you?"

"Hush, Jeyne! Of course I do! It can't be Brandon or Ned, Gods forbid Benjen…" I roll my eyes as the youngest Stark boy is impatiently looking for that Crow. But who? Out of all the Stark boys, who?

That's when I notice the Wolf Maiden checking on someone in the back towards the tiniest, loneliest hearth. A casual conversation takes place and the Wolf Maiden moves away once the harping performance strikes up from Prince Rhaegar.

I see the last Stark boy there, staring with those beautiful silver eyes out at the crowd. Almost as though he doesn't want to be here. (Not that I'd ever blame him.) An ornately carved crutch rests between his bent legs, and his hair is long and dark, tied back in a ponytail. He rocks in place, fiddling with his utensils and trying to cut some meat. Blushing and fighting with his own muscles to make it.

He's settled far towards the back, a belt with a hammer hanging from it securing his breeches and doublet. Both silver and finely embroidered. But, a little large on him. Almost as if it was handed down to him from one of his older brothers. What is he doing sitting alone? Is he being mistreated? Or is he just nervous? I leave my table and make my way over to him, Jaime is too busy wanting to hear more war stories than I can stomach to care.

I care not for them.

"Your eyes are gorgeous." I smile, knowing that he's supposed to be mine from the prophecy of the witch, "Where are you from? I know every handsome little Lord from Casterly Rock to King's Landing." I lean forward, knowing he's never seen a girl such as I. He adorably fidgets, yes… see what I've worn. See my hair and my dress and my face. Commit it to memory.

Let it drive you mad, little Wolf. Let me be the subject of sweet dreams, so shall it be.

"W-well... Lady, I'm from... Winterfell." He tries to look away but I reach out to grasp his hand only for him to jerk it away, "If you'll excuse me, I... I must head back to my family's place." I notice a wolf sigil pendant around his neck gleaming in the firelight.

"Oh? A northern boy. A Stark no less!" I exclaim, "What're you doing here?" He jolts and looks at me almost as if I had magicked it out of thin air before looking down and chuffing at his pendant.

"I'm here to compete in the Tournament." he answers, "I will... perhaps... see you...?"

I step closer, "Cersei Lannister." I lean down a little to look him in the eyes better. His expression shifts to a thoughtful one, as earlier I know at the very least Jaime had been signing up. The little lord probably saw him there, for he looks like he's seen a ghost. He hurriedly looks away and motions to a chair next to him.

"Ah, yes… would you like to sit with me?" his smile is shy, his eyes refuse to look directly at me as if I'm the sun, and he still chops away at the meat. It's hard to eat for him? I notice a bow nearby him leaning against the wall.

It's taller than he is, carved with images of animals and Gods. The quiver rests next to him with sleek arrows that are far more like ballista bolts. It was a rather silly contrast, a bowed and small boy and his too-tall bow.

He's a competitor?

"Is that bow yours?"

He nods, "Yes, it's mine. I made it myself." he takes it off the wall, "I carved it from the tree it's from. I… I have a talent for it."

He slowly ambles up and tugs the chair out, "Sit. Sit." he invites as I do. He can't help but blush.

"Oh, I have lapsed in my introductions! I must know the name of my host." I lay it on rather thickly, and I see his smile. Shy and radiant all the same.

"Lord Ivar Stark of Winterfell, at your service." he nods, "I know you've heard nothing of me." He doesn't look like his brothers. He looks far more similar to his sister, soft features and a noble-ish face.

"Just look at them all, Lady Cersei. All here for glory and praise from the King himself. I'm not here for that, I'm here to let them all know who I am. I'll speak plainly: Are you here to hurt me?" He stabs at the meat and tears off a chunk of it with his teeth, I can't help but imagine the amount of heartbreak he's endured knowing his body isn't whole.

For his eyes, as sharp and clear as silver stags, pierce into me as exacting as a sword.

"It's perfectly well to admit to it. I tire of honeyed words and overly polite speech."

"Lord Ivar, I know not what you-" said Lord leans closer, a wry smile on his face as if he has me pegged for an insipid whore or blushing maiden.

"I believe you do. Be honest, why would the Lioness of Lannister come here and sit with me? I believe you heard the stories? Seen how the other ladies fall over themselves to get out of my way? Children stare and fear me." He leans close, his silver eyes flashing with accusations "There's no way a woman of your pedigree wants to sleep with the Broken Wolf."

I lean back, sighing almost gratefully, "I'm not here to hurt you, Lord Ivar." I answer, "Nor would I ever wish to. Do you always eat alone?"

His mouth works a bit, almost like he wants to chew on the question, "As of late, yes. Mostly in my room, sometimes in my workshop."

"You smith?" I ask, almost wrinkling my nose at it. He barks out a soft laugh, and at that my cheeks burn with embarrassment. (Or was it actually affection? Maybe? Stop, he's not going to sweep you off your feet so easily, Cersei! Mind yourself!) That last bit is barked at me in my father's voice.

"I shape, Lady Cersei." He leans closer and reaches for my hand, "Here. I'll take you through it." I give him my hand and his hand is small, rough from his work, but surprisingly strong. That small grip, that gentle strength sends my mind into sweet dreams of what could be.

"I know not the difference." I chuff, "Although I would like to learn it."

I smile and he slips my lion ring off my finger, "See, we Shapers know exactly what the metal wants to be. The Gods of Fire and Metal deign it so. Through our very bodies, our souls, and our tools we bring said shape into being. We learn through the sound." the snarling mouth glints in the firelight, the emerald eyes gleam as well.

"So what would my ring want to be?" I ask. He takes up my unused spoon and raps it against the ring, by the sound it makes...

"This little thing wanted to be a necklace." he says with a soft chuckle. he looks at me and grins tapping it again, "Yes, yes… it wanted to be a necklace."

I laugh, "A necklace? You can hear it?" My laughter quickly dissolves into snorts. The fact that he's even doing this to me is rather audacious.

"Yes, yes I can! It's a very, very important step. It's not bad." he slips it back on my finger, not even minding the closeness or how he was so... forward.

But, I can tell he's enjoying it, "Then, we take the metal, listen as we work, and soon enough it'll be what it wants. We're close with our Gods as we do so, because they formed the very earth below our feet."

"Our tools are from the very earth. That is what makes it so holy."

That's when Brandon comes marching in, "There you are, Ivar! You gave Lyanna and I quite the fright." he smiles down at me and then looks over at Ivar, "I hope my brother wasn't too much trouble."

"He wasn't, Lord Stark. In fact, he was rather charming." I chuckle, seeing Ivar fidget like he'd wanted to be left alone.

"Go away, Brandon!" he hisses, "Lady Cersei and I were having a delightful conversation!" Brandon answers by laughing. Almost as if he's not taking this seriously.

"I'll leave you two to it then!" he waves us off and I take the ring back. My hand brushing over his almost feeling the rough-handed work he'd found to be his calling.

"I wish I wasn't a woman sometimes." my eyes focusing on the bow, "I wish I could enter the lists." I smile, "Maybe I could give you my favor during the Archery contest?"

His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open, "You… you would do that? Why?" I reach over and grab his hand, feeling the trembling of his muscles.

"I have a feeling we're fated to be together, Lord Ivar." my knowing smile makes his cheeks flush, "So if you are a man to believe in destiny, just request it of me and I will give it." my touch is like a barely-whispered promise, the idea of destiny bringing us together seems to explain a lot. Maggy promised me a wolf, and if I don't get him I'll find her and cut out her liar's tongue. This has to work, I'm Cersei Lannister, and I will get what I want no matter what gets in my way.

Ivar looks disbelieving in it as if love never visited him, "You're quite the dour one, Lord Stark." I stand and holds out my hand, "Come, dance with me." My golden hair drapes over one of my shoulders, and my smile is my best attempt at being dazzling.

"Lady Cersei, I don't know how…" he mumbles.

"Well, it's no time like the present to learn, Lord Ivar!" I yell as the band strikes up a merry number.

I pull him into the throng, spinning him into my arms and pulling Ivar along with me like a ragdoll. I see Brandon laughing and dancing with some other noblewoman, Lyanna with Robert, and Ned with some woman with purple eyes. A jealous pang hits me when I notice his wandering eyes. What's more interesting than me?! Here I am giving him my best, giving myself to him, and his eyes dare to wander?!

I pull his attention from them with a happy laugh, "See?! You're a natural, Lord Stark!" His silver eyes gleam with that boyish innocence.

"Oh yes?! Haha!" Ivar whoops, getting spun to the prince from earlier. He tosses him back, the fearsome scar on his face whipping out from behind his veil. I have him again, his eyes flashing with a dangerously intoxicating fire.

He almost falls back if not for me. He can't dance without me. I bring him close, mind heavy with drink and I kiss him, filling his mouth with the libations myself. He squeaks, hands hesitant and grasping the back of my head.

Yes.

This feels right. It feels fated.

He's absolutely perfect. Nothing could ruin this. I let him go and he's all adorably dizzy.

Save for Jaime, and I already feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my skull from the other side of the great hall. Just seeing me with Lord Ivar was enough to tear him away from his other lordling friends.

---

"How long?" Jaime asks. I'm passing a brush through my blonde locks, they were mussed in that wonderful night we just had. Jaime hadn't even paid attention to what was happening, and now has the audacity to get all uppity?

"How long, what?" My gaze locks with his through the mirror, still brushing out the tangles, "If you're speaking of my relationship with Lord Ivar-"

"Oh, so now you're calling him 'Lord.' Shall I start calling him King too?" Jaime snarls, "He's brought shame to our house." Who was talking? Who cares except for him? What does it matter?

Ivar and I only spoke to each other once.

"As if Tyrion doesn't do that already just by the nature of his existence." I turn to look at him, "What other options are there?"

Jaime thinks for a moment, then three, then four. More than that, "Robert Baratheon." he decides, "He's strong, handsome, and whole."

"He's already betrothed to Lyanna, Ivar's sister. Rumor has it that he already has fathered a bastard. Ivar hasn't and doesn't strike me as the kind of man to just not take responsibility." I turn towards him and rise, "Besides, he's refreshingly straightforward."

"What would Father think?" Jaime asks, looking worried as I chuckle and pinch his cheek like I used to when we were children. He's always so terrified of Father, but if he were here he'd not care one bit.

"Father is far too busy attempting to keep his head, brother." That's all there is to it. Jaime looks at me as if he's already mourning me. At the very least, I hope for there not to be rivals at all.

Jaime's concern isn't to be discounted, but I do not want him to get involved. Knowing him, he'd bash his way into everything and treat it like something to destroy. He sighs and shakes his head.

"Sometimes I wish I knew what your game is, sweet sister." I chuckle at that and kiss his cheek. Of course he doesn't know. Maybe the entire future of Westeros lies in the hammer and hands of a little lord-shaper.

When that comes, House Lannister must survive. I must do whatever it takes.