Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners. I'm just playing with them.
Betad by
The Unbound
Chapter 18: The Kraken's End
— Victarion Greyjoy —
There were no words in any known language that properly explained how much he both hated and mistrusted Euron Greyjoy.
Some think it started with Euron bedding Victarion's salt-wife. Euron claimed she was willing, the whore claimed she wasn't, either way it didn't make a difference. Victarion beat her to death all the same, to retain his honour. Euron got the last laugh, making sure everyone knew that he bedded her before he was exiled. The cuckolding jokes had never stopped, and Victarion had not laid with a woman since.
But in truth, his hatred for Euron was much older. Before either of them had hair on their chest. Euron was, and always had been, a monster at heart.
When Euron strutted into the Great Keep of Pyke, as if he wasn't a disgraced exile, Victarion had been ready to throw aside his care for kinslaying and end the bastard right there. Balon and Aeron were all but ready to agree…
Until Euron had bent the knee to his brother, offering a Valyrian Steel crown and axe from his plundering as his 'apology'. Balon, for all his wisdom, was wrapped around Euron's finger from that very moment.
But Euron wasn't done. He proclaimed himself a chosen of the Drowned God, and proved it. Victarion could still see the image of Euron stabbing himself in the heart with a blade with that crazed smile on his lips, utterly unharmed. He promised the Drowned Priests to teach them the secrets to controlling the very winds and oceans… and he'd done it.
The wind was always in their sails, the fog covered their tracks. It had put ideas in Balon's head, and when the Royal Fleet had arrived, they didn't back down like originally planned. No, Balon saw a chance to avenge his disgrace with the Drowned God on his side, and Euron swearing before all that he had no desire for the Salt Throne. He claimed to be a changed man, changed by his visions from the Drowned God.
Aeron didn't want to believe it. He hated Euron, perhaps more than even Victarion himself, but he was, at his core, a fanatic of the Drowned God. When the Drowned God itself seemed to bless Euron, Aeron had fallen in line.
Victarion did not believe it.
Even with their blessings, the Royal Fleet had begun to box them in. Their blockade was perfect, and no Ironborn ship had managed to leave their shores without being sunk. They just didn't have the numbers to fight both the Royal and Redwyne fleet when speed and secrecy did them no favours.
But Euron, blessed and wise, had all the answers. Despite the blockade, Euron seemed able to come and go as he pleased. He'd vanished once again as the blockade began, claiming to need to check up on something in the North, before he returned.
"My God has his ways, Victarion."
That was what set off the alarms in his mind. 'My' God. Not our God. Not the Drowned God. 'My' God.
He listened as Balon and Aeron gathered every single Drowned Priest on the islands in the Great Keep for the ritual that Euron swore would be the end of this war. He promised power that neither fleet could hope to match. Thralls were gathered as sacrifices, and Victarion knew that something was very, very wrong.
Balon was enamoured with the promise of a true return to the Old Ways. Aeron hated it, but couldn't refute Euron's claims. Victarion knew, in his heart, that to remain on Pyke would mean his death. So, he'd gone to find like-minded people who saw through Euron's tall tales and promises. He didn't overly like Rodrik the Reader, but they both liked Euron even less.
As the vortex erupted, red mists forming around the skies above Pyke, he knew he was right to sneak away.
The skies cracked, a horrific miasma filling the air as Victarion coughed and covered his mouth. In the mist, she could see the massive figure of what could generously be called a man, with mangled limbs and two strange horns coming from the side of its head, and the air was filled with the sound of mad laughter.
Euron's laughter.
— Stannis Baratheon —
Stannis would be lying if he said he wasn't frightened. The seas shifted from a dead calm to a raging storm in an instant, the skies turning red as thousands of bats harassed his men.
But Stannis had been given the duty of ending the Greyjoy Rebellion, and he did not intend to fail. Even on his War Galley, Fury, rumours of the chaos in the NOrth had reached him, of men who turned into wolves, of pale skinned immortals. The very wind had been aiding the Greyjoys and an unnatural heavy mist covering their movements, so no, Stannis was not surprised.
He was no Maester. He knew little of the unnatural things of the world. What he did know was that he needed to get to the centre of this foul ritual and put down the source of it all. He could see the red mists swirling from the Great Keep of Pyke, and he made his choice.
Even as he was giving the orders, the ship shifted and threw his men back and forth, but he used the railing to steady himself as he barked his orders, seeing them being relayed to the other ships over the storm.
The water was turning black, and he felt it before it ever emerged, the way the water shifted unnaturally causing him to bellow his orders, the galley shifting direction before the thick black tentacle rose from the water and swung for his ship.
He hadn't been idle. Lesser men may have hesitated as the kraken exposed itself, but his men were not so undeciplined and the beast roared as scorpion bolts pierced the tentacle and drove it away.
The bolts pierced the black, inky flesh but did not seem to do any lasting damage as he watched a second tentacle swing and go clean through the desk of another ship, cleaving it in two.
The baleful eyes of the creature seemed to lock with Stannis' own, but he just scowled. It had bled, only just, from the scorpion rounds. That meant they could kill it.
Bellowing his orders, he helped reload a scorpion as Davos took the helm. Another ship went down, and another still turned and fled. He made a note of the ship's name and to have the men punished once this was over.
He had no place for cowardice or disobedience in his ranks.
The seas would not settle, crashing waves doing as much damage as the kraken itself, but he would not let whatever ritual the cowards had resorted to out of desperation stop him from claiming the renown he rightfully deserved.
Giving the orders to his men, they blew the horn to relay his orders to the surrounding ships. The kraken seemed obsessed with the Fury, chasing him as he retreated. Was it intelligent or simply being controlled? He didn't know.
What he did know was that the Fury was fast enough to keep it at bay, aided by the scorpions firing at the beast. He didn't need to keep it distracted for long, only long enough for the other ships to get into position as he mounted the scorpion to the rear of the ship with a scowl on his lips.
The kraken rose again, throwing a rock at his ship which crashed into one of the sails. At the same time, Stannis fired his scorpion and watched the bolt fly. He didn't know how he knew that it would land true, but even his scowling face smiled slightly as the kraken roared, a single scorpion bolt piercing one of its baleful eyes.
It had two sets, so Stannis did not know how impaired it would be from that blow. A warmth filled him, a confidence in his skills that he oft kept under control as he reloaded the scorpion. The beast was well and truly enraged now, as Stannis lined up his shot again. His crew watched in awe as he paused, adjusting his aim just the slightest amount.
Enough that the bolt that would have met thick hide struck true, piercing a second left eye. Now it was impaired.
The seas seemed to rage in response to the kraken's fury, and their sail was too damaged to make haste as it caught up to them, slimy black tentacles wrapping around the fury as it creaked and strained.
The beast wasn't entirely mindless, moving beneath the waves and the Fury to protect itself as his men hacked at the tentacles with hatchets and swords.
Making his decision, he gave the order for his crew to abandon ship. The longboats could get them to another ship, even in this weather, and the Fury was breaking beneath their feet. He even ordered the Greyjoy girl taken, unwilling to let an unarmed prisoner under his protection die. He saw the girls shock at the sight of the kraken, hope in her eyes.
He did not join them, despite Davos' insistence. The kraken did not care for wood, it wanted him. He did not intend to die here, but if he left with a longboat, he'd find them chased down by the beast and easily sunk.
No, he knew what he needed to do. Climbing the rigging, he made his way to the crow's nest, hearing Davos shout in the distance. Davos thought this was a sacrifice. Clearly the man did not know Stannis as well as he thought. It was not a sacrifice, only a trap.
With him going higher, the beast did as he expected and revealed itself once more as the tentacles wrapped around the mast, the wood creaking as Stannis watched.
It truly was focused on him, its two right eyes almost glowing with malice as Stannis stared back. It was nothing but a beast, and beasts were made to be hunted.
So focused on him, it did not notice the ship barreling toward its left flank. The massive galleas had bright red sails, clear even in the storm. The Arbor Queen did not slow or change course, the bowsprit stabbing into the left of the creature as it roared once more, and the mast broke beneath him. It fell, dragged toward the kraken as Stannis felt the wind rushing past his head. The many scorpions of the Arbor Queen fired upon the beast as it reared back. Other ships did the same, the kraken immobilised for a moment between the Fury and the Arbor Queen.
He should be panicking. He should be doomed. He was not. Stannis did not believe himself overly superstitious, but as the damaged sail found itself tangled and in the mess of broken mast and tentacles, Stannis leapt from the falling crow's nest and landed on the soft sail, sliding down it.
With a confidence he should not feel, he leapt at the last moment, not toward the relative safety of the Fury's deck, but toward the kraken, his blade drawn.
Its eyes almost looked shocked as Stannis used the force of his fall to plunge his blade into the inky flesh between its two sets of eyes, and it was only as the kraken started to sink that Stannis froze, as he sunk beneath the waves.
What, in the name of the Seven, was he doing? Oddly, the image of Orys flashed through his mind and a warmth filled his body and warded of the cold and dark of the ocean.
When the kraken sank beneath the waves, Stannis sank with it but not for long as he let go of his sword and swam to the surface, a rope already thrown for him as the crew of Paxter Redwyne helped him aboard the ship.
"Lord Stannis, that was-" Paxter started, seemingly at a loss for words.
"Can the Arbor Queen still move?" Stannis asked, getting a nod. "Collect my crew from the longboats, and make for Pyke. Oh, and I'll need a sword."
Seven men offered him their blades before he'd finished the sentence.
— Later —
He imagined a difficult fight to the Great Keep. Instead, it was a short walk without a single Ironborn to stop them. The gates were open, but even before he pushed open the doors, he could smell it.
Blood.
As the large doors to the Keeps 'throne room' opened, some of his men retched, some stumbled back in horror. He just frowned, his eyes on Balon Greyjoy as he… sat on the blood soaked Salt Throne.
The walls were decorated with the pieces of what he presumed were priests of the Drowned God from what little clothing they were wearing. One in particular, a man he thought he recognised as Aeron Greyjoy, seemed to have gotten a far worse treatment, his body mangled and twisted. His back had been skinned, the flesh pulled back and his organs removed from behind, scattered around.
He recognised others as Ironborn captains, and some had their weapons drawn when they died. It hadn't helped, one armoured man wearing a breastplate that had been caved in with incredible force. It was something he'd seen from the poor folks Robert struck with his hammer when he was younger, but this seemed even stronger still.
The blood on the floor was arranged in letters he couldn't read, and countless dead thralls were laid across the floor to the point where Stannis could not avoid stepping on their corpses as he made his way to the 'throne'.
Balon, or what Stannis presumed was Balon at some point, remained upon it. More than that, he was pinned to it with a Valyrian Steel blade that had been stabbed into his chest and out of his anus, piercing him to the seat.
It, because Stannis could not call what was left a 'he', had no arms or legs. Stumps remaining where they had once been. It had no cock, no ears, no eyes and no tongue, its hair had been shaved off and a Valyrian Steel crown had been forced onto the skull, upside down so the sharp decorations were piercing into Balon's head.
It wasn't until Stannis approached that the… thing let out a cry, the entire room freezing as they realised that, despite the state of him, Balon was still alive.
Stannis paused, before he gripped the blade and pulled it out of the man, watching as Balon fell from the throne, whimpering and screeching ineligible words. Stannis looked down at the creature for just a moment, and then swung the blade, taking off the head.
Movement drew his attention to the doorway, where he raised an eyebrow seeing a small group of Ironborn staring in. It wasn't aggression on their faces, but sheer unadulterated horror as Victarion and the Reader stared at Stannis. A horn was blown by his men, the rest of their reinforcements gathering around the much smaller Ironborn force.
Victarion stared at him for a moment, and then to the… thing at his feet. Then, Victarion tossed down his blade and raised his hands.
"Is that-" Victarion started, and Stannis only nodded.
"I put him out of his misery. He was still alive, somehow," Stannis answered without hesitation.
"Euron. But- even for Euron this is-" Victarion started, sharing a look with the Reader.
"Speak. Now," Stannis ordered plainly. They did, blabbering of Euron Greyjoy and his madness, of the rituals that he promised would bring about a new age.
As Stannis had Pyke secured, and with Victarion officially surrendering on behalf of his dead brother, he only had one question. Where was Euron, and why were so many Ironborn missing?
— Euron Greyjoy —
He told his brother he didn't want the Salt Throne, and nobody could say that he was not a man of his word.
With the chaos of the storm, slipping away with a small few ships, hidden by his power, was not overly difficult. He had done what he had come here to do.
Now, the kraken had been a disappointment but a part of him saw it as a rebirth. The Greyjoy died when the Kraken did, he supposed. The last vestige of his belief in the Drowned God sunk to the depths. He'd grown beyond such a small, irrelevant place.
He cared little about what happened on the islands, and didn't have time to track down Victarion, the coward. He intended to sacrifice all his kin in Molag's name, not just Aeron and Balon, but Asha was missing and Victarion showed a hint of intellect for the first time and fled. A shame, he'd had such a fun game planned for Victarion but the fool would die either way.
His Bolton experiment had started well, but he feared it would end in failure. Not that it mattered, it would weaken the North as he planned either way. He merely wanted to see how hard it was to kill one of his 'children'.
If Roose and his bastard succeed, they'd prepare the North for what came next. If they failed, Euron would learn of what was truly able to hurt his kind. The sun, fire, Valyrian steel. That was what his own experiments had proven were able to threaten him.
Or had been, at least. Molag had been pleased with the sacrifice of nearly every priest of the Drowned God, along with two of Euron's own kin, of royal blood to their islands, and he felt like he could tear the Wall apart with his own bare hands.
But now wasn't the time, and Euron could play the long game for the prize he was promised. Winter was coming, as the Starks loved to remind people, and the nights would be long, dark and full of terrors.
He intended to make sure that the nights were all that remained. With his ships full of loot, slaves and eager recruits, he continued his journey to the true North. The Land of Always Winter called to him, and he still had… recruiting to do.
Humming to himself, Euron smiled as he left the Iron Islands behind.
— Daenerys Targaryen —
Despite how he had died, she expected to miss Viserys. She expected guilt, once the shock of murdering her own brother wore off. She expected to cry herself to sleep at night.
Now, weeks later, she realised she missed the younger Viserys. The Viserys who had been her protector before years of mockery and failure had turned him sour. Before Magister Illyrio had filled his head with dreams of returning to Westeros where countless Houses waited, and had been toasting his name.
She did not miss the monster she'd slain.
"You called for me, Khaleesi?" Jorah asked. His eyes flickered to the blade in her lap, glowing with golden flame before she calmly sheathed it and placed it down. She enjoyed looking into the fires.
Since that day, Drogo's Khalasar had treated her very differently. There was fear, yes, but awe as well. Some called her a witch and challenged Drogo over her presence. Drogo had killed every single one without a scratch.
"Do you wish for more stories of Westeros?" Jorah asked, and the blade hummed. She hid her amusement as the blade told her of his lust for her.
"Do you think I could ever become Queen?" Daenerys asked, cutting to the chase. "Do you think the Houses would rise in my name?"
Jorah hesitated, breaking eye contact.
"Well-"
"The truth. Do not flatter me with pretty lies. I am not my brother," Daenerys ordered, head held high and eyes burning with her inner fire.
"No," Jorah finally answered. "I do not think any of the Great Houses would rise to help you overthrow King Orys. Westeros has rarely accepted a female ruler, and you are seen as a kinslayer and a horselords wh- woman."
"Did I not just say not to lie? Continue, and don't correct yourself this time," Daenerys commanded, her hand on her blade. The bloodriders on either side of her glared at him, but she shook her head.
"A horselords whore, Khaleesi. You are no longer a maiden, and would be seen as lesser for it. Had Viserys been smarter, he would have saved you for a betrothal with a great house, but…"
"If he'd have been smarter, he'd have not died thinking with his cock," Daenerys replied coldly. She'd had it cut off, before the body was burnt. "So, I'd need to take the throne by force, and face constant rebellions."
"You would, Khaleesi," Jorah admitted.
"I saw as much in the flames. King Orys and his unified realm, standing against me. I saw the khalasar die to arrows and spears, unsullied warriors slaughtered to the last. Most of our ships would be sunk before we even made it across the narrow sea," Daenerys admitted.
"Unsullied? Ships? Khaleesi, we have neither," Jorah replied.
"We will," Daenerys corrected. "Did you do as I asked? Is the Usurper's Son seeking my death?"
"Quite the opposite, Khaleesi. My contact claims that King Orys rejected his council's suggestion of assassinating you," Jorah managed to get out. "He claimed he had no interest in hunting you for your father's crimes, and would not condone assassins unless it became clear that you sought to invade Westeros. There have been concerns that if you have a son, he may try to take the throne but King Orys does not wish to kill you for what 'may' be."
"Leave me," Daenerys finally ordered, both in the common tongue and then in dothraki as she sent away the spy and her guards. Jorah thought she did not know of his reports to the Spider, but she saw so much more now.
Westeros had been Viserys' obsession and it had consumed him. It was an alien land of alien people to her. She remembered little of it, and she knew she was not the only one chosen.
Orys the Blessed.
If she convinced Drogo to lead his men across the Narrow Sea, as he had promised her brother, she would die at the hands of Orys the Blessed. She'd seen it.
In her dreams, she had three dragons. In her dreams, a single arrow struck her in the heart even as she rode through the skies, sending her plummeting to her death.
And yet, was this what she wanted? The Dothraki were a brutal, savage people. Drogo was a kinder husband than she expected, especially after she gained his respect from the Viserys situation, but his people… slavers, rapists, barbarians.
She hated them.
Sitting in her tent, she opened her case and looked over her eggs once more. Smiling softly, she nodded to herself.
She was meant for more than this.
— Varys —
"Not enjoying the festivities, Magister?" Varys asked, amused at Illyrio jumping in fright. His look was not entertained, but Varys just giggled quietly.
"Lord Varys-"
"We have privacy here," Vary interrupted, seeing his faux smile drop. "I was almost surprised to hear that you had made the trip for the upcoming royal wedding."
"Have you found out who knew about Aegon? Illyrio asked, unwilling to engage in small talk.
"Not even a little. Believe me, I have searched and searched and found nothing," Varys admitted. "It's over, my old friend. We've been thoroughly outplayed. Daenerys will never sit upon the Iron Throne, and we've lost our other candidates."
Illyrio went silent, a flash of anger crossing his face. Varys understood, though he was not one for such emotional displays. This was a scheme years in the making, ended for reasons seemingly entirely out of their hands.
"Not yet, if Daenerys has a son-"
"He would be a dothraki. Do you think the Great Houses would sit by and let a dothraki rider be put on the Iron Throne?" Varys asked smoothly.
"What if we arrange a marriage between her and-"
"Who? Which House both has the power to put her on the throne and yet would accept a kinslayer who lost her maidenhood to a dothraki warlord?" Varys asked in amusement. "I understand your frustration, Illyrio, I truly do, but it is over. We lost this game, and kept our heads. By the time any child of Daenerys is old enough to raise a rebellion, we'll be facing a far more unified Seven Kingdoms. King Orys is no fool, and continuing down this path ends with both our heads on spikes. Viserys was never meant to be more than a distraction for Aegon, but with him gone-"
"What if we produce another 'Aegon'?" Illyrio asked.
"Illyrio, we have to accept this as a loss. One must know when to fold and drop out of the game," Varys warned.
"Perhaps," Illyrio said, ending their conversation as he brooded.
Varys knew he'd get nowhere with him now, but made a note to keep an eye on Illyrio. He had always prided himself on his adaptability. It had saved his neck from Robert after Aerys fell, after all.
Orys Baratheon, the Blessed King.
The world was truly becoming a terrifying place. His own reports from across the lands confirmed that magic was returning. This wasn't the Age of Dragons, but the Age of Gods… and it terrified him.
But for now, Orys seemed to be the best for the stability of the Seven Kingdoms. The best chance to end the terrors that were beginning to stalk the night. It was not what he wished, but wishes were rarely granted.
One simply had to work with what one had, and that meant he needed to ensure he survived the upcoming restructuring of the Small Council.
— Prince Doran Martell —
Sitting in his office, Doran read his reports with a deep frown. It was almost funny how badly plans could erupt in one's face.
He knew Arianne hated him for 'sabotaging her', but it had always been his goal to put her on the Iron Throne beside Viserys. He knew she couldn't be trusted with the knowledge of the secret pact that Doran had made with the exiled Prince, but he also knew that she was ambitious enough to go for it once the time came.
She'd understand his actions then, he had thought. Now, Viserys was dead by his own foolishness and Arianne was building enough allies to overthrow him.
He couldn't even count on Oberyn, who was at fault to begin with by letting Arianne slip away to King's Landing. Oberyn and Doran had always agreed on the need for vengeance, but Oberyn obsessed over those who dealt the physical blow while Doran's focus had been on those who ordered and allowed it, the Lannisters and Baratheons.
Now, Oberyn was cosying up to a King of both bloodlines. A King who was growing to be seen as a Hero to the Dornish people. Oberyn had sent the Mountain's body back to Dorne to be displayed, minus his cock, of which Doran could only shudder to think what Oberyn wanted it for.
Oberyn, Orys and Arianne. To hear it told by the bards and gossipers, they were the secret alliance that sought to remove a stain on the Seven Kingdoms. Orys, shamed by his houses sordid past, allying with the unlikely duo of the heiress of Sunspear and the Red Viper to clean the stain from his name and remove the corrupt and detestable monsters claiming to be knights.
He couldn't even tell the bards to stop singing the ballard without drawing negative attention from his own supporters.
Make no mistake, Doran was pleased that the Mountain and Lorch were dead. He could even be grateful to Orys, who was not yet born when the crimes happened, but this meant that his every plan was sunk to the bottom of the ocean.
If he tried to rebel, as they had planned for so long, it would be without a Targaryen to gather loyalists to their side, it would be with Arianne standing against him and sending Dorne into a civil war. It would be a rebellion they lost, likely almost immediately.
So, what was he to do?
Nothing. As it stood, he would do nothing but watch and wait. Arianne had her own scheme, and he intended to find out what before he made any decisions of his own.
Arianne had gained renown far too quickly amongst his vassals, her actions at court, her (potential) hand in avenging sweet Elia. He couldn't call her back without risking his allies siding with her against him.
Frowning, he looked out of his window and made a note to 'exile' Oberyn again when he got back. All this, because Oberyn decided to let Arianne tag along.
— Robb Stark —
"Hold her still," Robb growled, turning to the last of their attackers as the crazed woman hissed at them, revealing her fangs. "I'll rip off her head-"
"No!" his mother cried, getting him to pause in confusion.
"Cat, what the hell are you thinking? This… thing needs to be put down," Brynden barked, sword in hand.
"My lord Ramsey will slaughter you all. The men he'll drain fast, but the women? You'll suffer for weeks, just like all those you abandoned in Winterfell," the crazed woman snarled. Her eyes flickered to the dead dogs, far bigger and stronger than regular hounds. "No, no, I didn't fail! Master please, I can still-"
"Think, Uncle. If we go to the south with just our words, they won't truly believe us. I wouldn't believe us. Injure her, she can heal, but bind her. We'll be meeting with the men the King sent soon," his mother replied, and he shared a look with Dacey. She nodded, grabbing the monster's leg and ruthlessly snapping it until it was entirely folded in on itself, in the wrong direction. "We need to convince the King of just how serious this is. That it is not just exaggeration."
"Do you have a name, creature?" Brynden asked, panting slightly as the adrenaline of the battle wore off.
"Myranda," Myranda spat out, fangs on display. "Remember it well, because I'll be the one to-"
Robb's hand struck her jaw with a deafening crack, dislocating it entirely as she whimpered. His blood ran so hot, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to rip out her throat but he controlled his rage after a look from Dacey.
So be it, they'd take the… thing south with them.
Whistling, the direwolves ran to him, surrounding Myranda as they snarled. Each one was already about fifty percent bigger than when they'd set out from Winterfell, and no matter how confident in her 'master' she was, Myranda flinched back as Ghost snarled.
— Bonus Scene — The Moonshadow
As one of Braavos' top courtesans, she was by no means unused to being hired by Highborn. In fact, most of her clients were such because the Smallfolk couldn't hope to afford her.
As she entered the room of her latest client, she had to admit that this was a new one for her.
"Lady Margaery, it's a pleasure to meet you in the flesh," Moonshadow greeted, playing up her Yi Ti accent as she knew it added to her exotic nature. "I must say, your request for my services came as quite the surprise."
She'd lain with women before, of course, but that wasn't what this was about as Margaery gestured for her to sit, beginning her tale.
Moonshadow listened patiently, her lips twitching in amusement as Margaery admitted that it was an… education, not companionship that she was seeking, but as Margaery explained the problem she'd encountered, Moonshadow could only pause.
"I'm sorry, My Lady… but King Orys is how well endowed?" Moonshadow asked quietly, wondering if she'd misheard the girl try to explain the clumsy handjob she had given her future husband.
Margaery simply held out her hands, demonstrating for Moonshadow.
She stared at Margaery in disbelief for a long moment, before taking a breath and nodding.
"I can see the cause of your concern, my lady, but have no fear. I would be happy to teach you the sensual arts to ensure that your wedding night goes smoothly," Moonshadow agreed, feeling a deep desire to help this girl survive her apparently part-horse husband.
Well, the money she was getting from Olenna Tyrell was certainly helping matters.
….there was no way Margaery got the size correct, right?
Author's Note: "It's time for my special move, doing nothing." - Doran Martell.
Orys is blessed by Mara (Goddess of Fertility) and Mephala (Goddess of Sex). When Bella said his wife would be a lucky woman, she was not kidding. He's gonna be called a Demon for a very different reason to his father.
Actually, Bobby B is definitely packing some Bobby Beef so it's also genetic.
Written: 29/08/2025