Chapter 7 (Rewrite)

General POV

Tywin Lannister's study was the kind of place where tension didn't just sit in the air—it owned the air. The walls, lined with books that probably contained more strategy than most of Westeros had combined, seemed to close in on anyone who entered. The heavy oak desk at the center wasn't just a desk—it was a throne. And Tywin? Well, he was the king, sitting there with his fingers steepled, gaze as sharp as a sword. Everything about him screamed power, control, and "You'll regret it if you cross me."

Kevan Lannister, on the other hand, felt like a mouse stuck in a corner with a lion. Kevan wasn't stupid. He'd been in the game long enough to know that when Tywin looked at you like that, you didn't just speak. You tread carefully. You might even consider a polite retreat, if only it wasn't for the massive oak door locked behind him.

"Brother," Kevan started, his voice trying to stay steady. "There's news from the North."

Tywin didn't move a muscle—his eyebrows didn't even twitch—but there was something in the stillness that made Kevan's stomach flip. He couldn't explain it, but it was like Tywin was a volcano, and any second, it was about to erupt. He waited, and Tywin's gaze remained fixed. It was like staring into the depths of an abyss. If you stared too long, you might fall in.

"Go on," Tywin finally said, his voice as cold as the Iron Throne's seat, but with that one, almost imperceptible hint of something more. Curiosity? Interest? Kevan wasn't sure. But whatever it was, it sent a chill down his spine.

Kevan cleared his throat. "There's a new Lord of Winterfell. Cregan Stark. He's also betrothed to Rhaenys Targaryen."

If anyone else had dropped that bombshell, Tywin might've flinched, or at least blinked. But Tywin didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just… paused. And for a moment, Kevan was sure his heart was going to start beating out of his chest. This wasn't the kind of news that usually got a reaction from Tywin. But this? This was different.

"Cregan Stark," Tywin repeated, his voice slow, deliberate. "The trueborn son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne, I presume?"

Kevan nodded, his throat dry. "Yes. It was a secret marriage. Done in accordance with the old traditions, on the Isle of Faces. Princess Elia Martell witnessed it, which… complicates things."

Tywin's eyes narrowed, and for a second, Kevan thought they might shoot lasers at him. "A secret marriage," Tywin muttered. "On the Isle of Faces. Elia Martell as a witness? That's… interesting." His fingers tightened together, pressing harder as if he could crush the very thought beneath his hands. "And irritating."

Kevan could almost hear the gears turning in Tywin's head. This wasn't just news. This was a complication, a wrench thrown into a machine that Tywin had been working on for years. And when Tywin Lannister had a problem, well, other people had problems too.

"And the betrothal?" Tywin pressed, his voice still cold, but with an edge. "How did that come about?"

Kevan, suddenly feeling like he was giving a performance, forced himself to speak more casually than he felt. "Robert Baratheon's decision, apparently. He thought marrying Rhaenys to the Starks would neutralize her claim to the throne. Make Northern loyalty a little more… secure."

Tywin's lip twitched, just slightly. "Robert Baratheon. Always thinking in broad strokes." He said it like he'd just bitten into something unpleasant. "Luck, brute strength, and that loud mouth of his. And what of Aegon, the other claimant?"

Kevan shifted. "Robert plans to send him away after the wedding. Either to the Wall or the Citadel. Somewhere far away, out of sight, out of mind."

Tywin's eyes flashed dangerously, and for a second, Kevan considered offering Tywin a glass of wine—something to soothe the storm brewing in the man's head. Tywin didn't need wine, though. He was a storm, not a bottle of whine.

"Interesting," Tywin said slowly. "It seems Robert has no idea how to wield power with precision. If you want to eliminate someone as a threat, you don't send them off to an ice-cold wasteland or a library. You bury them where no one can find them. We'll see how that turns out."

Kevan wasn't stupid enough to argue. He just nodded, sensing the conversation shifting to a darker place. Tywin was playing his cards—just not showing his hand yet. Kevan knew better than to stick around when the game was about to get serious.

Tywin leaned forward, his voice dropping lower, the words cutting through the room like a knife. "This changes things, Kevan. We will proceed with caution."

Kevan nodded quickly, the weight of his brother's words settling around him. That was Tywin—calm, calculated, and terrifyingly precise. He wasn't just reacting to the news; he was already working on a plan. A backup plan. And a contingency for the backup plan.

Just as Kevan turned to leave, he felt it—the air was still heavy, but Tywin's voice cut through the quiet, like a predator letting its prey know it's still being watched.

"Kevan," Tywin said, and the way he said it made Kevan's heart skip a beat.

Kevan turned, blinking in surprise.

"Make sure this news reaches no one else," Tywin instructed, his gaze intense. "Let them make their plans. We'll see what ripples they cause."

Kevan had learned long ago to obey Tywin without question. He gave a curt nod and left, the door closing softly behind him. But the second it clicked shut, Kevan felt the weight of what he had just witnessed. Tywin was always thinking ahead. Always watching. And when the time came, he would make his move with the precision of a master strategist.

Out there, in the North, wolves and dragons were stirring. But Tywin Lannister wasn't just watching from the shadows. He was waiting for them to make a mistake. And when they did, he'd be there, like a lion pouncing on an unwitting deer.

Somewhere in the distance, Tywin's voice echoed in Kevan's mind, like a silent warning: Stay out of my way, or you'll be just another casualty in my game.

—

Lady Olenna Tyrell sat in her chambers, surrounded by the faint sound of rustling papers, the clinking of silverware being polished, and the soft footfalls of servants tiptoeing around her as if they were avoiding the snap of a cat's claw. There was a dangerous kind of silence in the room, the sort that made you feel like something was about to explode or, worse, someone was about to make a terrible, life-altering decision—most likely Mace.

She sighed, glancing at the same tapestry she'd been looking at for the last three hours. She could have sworn it was mocking her at this point, with all its bright colors and heroic depictions of House Tyrell's past glories. She'd seen this thing so often she could probably stitch it in her sleep—except, of course, she couldn't be bothered to do anything so tiresome. No, her energies were much better spent running the show, even if Mace still thought he was the one in charge. Bless him. He didn't even know how to tie his own boots without someone helping him.

The door slammed open, and in stomped Mace Tyrell, her son, looking more pleased with himself than a pig in mud. He had the kind of face that screamed, I'm about to share some important news, even though it was almost certainly going to be about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

"Mother!" he boomed, as if he'd just discovered the secret to life itself. "I've got news! News from the North!"

Olenna didn't even glance up from her tapestry. "How wonderful," she said dryly. "The North is precisely where I go for all my good news. Right after the Free Cities, of course."

Mace, who clearly hadn't received the memo that sarcasm was a language all its own, pressed on, unperturbed. "A raven just arrived! There's a new Lord Stark—Cregan Stark—and he's betrothed to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen!"

At that, Olenna finally tore her gaze away from the tapestry, her sharp eyes narrowing in a way that made Mace take a half-step back. If anyone could make someone feel like they were being sized up for a funeral, it was Olenna Tyrell. "Lord Stark?" she repeated, her voice cutting through the room like a dagger through butter. "Princess Rhaenys?" She paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Fascinating. And how exactly do you plan on using this morsel of information, Mace? Frame it for the wall? Put it in the family scrapbook? Or are we going to throw a party in the North to celebrate?"

Mace blinked, his round face more confused than a chicken in a fox's den. "Well, I thought maybe—"

"Oh, don't overexert yourself," Olenna interrupted, flicking her hand dismissively. "I can practically hear your brain creaking under the pressure of thinking. Let me guess: you think we should send a little congratulatory letter? Maybe invite them for a weekend of tedious small talk and feasts? I'm sure the Targaryens and the Starks will be just thrilled."

Mace, ever the optimist (and by that, I mean completely out of touch with reality), beamed. "Well, yes, actually—"

Olenna sighed so deeply it could have been classified as a natural disaster. "Mace, I should've drowned you in the Mander when you were born. It would've been kinder. Now, leave this to me before you embarrass us further."

Mace, wisely, decided not to argue. He took a slow, lumbering step backward, glancing nervously over his shoulder as though trying to escape the very air around him, which was thick with sarcasm and looming disaster. He knew enough to know when to retreat, and apparently, it was now.

Once he was safely out of the room, Olenna gave the tapestry one last look—this time, her eyes sharp, calculating. A Stark and a Targaryen. Wolves and dragons, marrying. Now that was a recipe for chaos. And Olenna loved chaos. It was her bread and butter, her favorite pastime, and a skill she wielded better than anyone in Westeros.

"Rhaenys Targaryen and Cregan Stark," she muttered to herself, pacing now, her hands clasped behind her back. "A dragon and a wolf. How poetic. How nauseating." She stopped mid-step, an idea flashing in her eyes like the first spark of a wildfire. "And how incredibly useful."

If there was one thing Olenna Tyrell understood, it was the art of taking advantage of chaos. This could be her family's ticket back into the game. A well-timed alliance, a little whisper here and there, and suddenly House Tyrell would be a power once more. She wasn't one for sitting in the background while others made moves—no, Olenna made moves. Quietly. Subtly. Until it was too late for anyone to stop her.

"Time to show them all that roses have thorns," she said, a sly smile curling on her lips as she began plotting her next move.

Because, let's face it, Olenna Tyrell wasn't about to let a dragon and a wolf steal the spotlight. Not when she was still around to turn it all into her victory.

—

Queen Rhaella Targaryen stood on the cliffs of Dragonstone, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy, her gown fluttering like the sails of a ship caught in a storm. And really, considering the state of her life, she felt like she was constantly at the mercy of a metaphorical tempest.

The loss of Rhaegar—her firstborn, her pride and joy—felt like a wound that would never stop bleeding. His absence was a weight she carried like an anchor around her neck, dragging her down even when she longed to rise above it. Every time she closed her eyes, his face haunted her, and every time she opened them, reality hit her like a slap from a wet fish.

And then there were her other children, Rhaenys and Aegon. They were like stars she could no longer reach, their fates uncertain, their safety an impossible dream. She had heard whispers of their survival, but whispers were hardly the same as assurances. The world beyond Dragonstone was no place for those with Targaryen blood—she knew that well enough. If someone didn't come knocking soon enough, she'd be left clutching her belly like a drowning woman holding onto a lifeline.

Her hand instinctively went to her stomach, cradling the life growing within her, the only thing that offered her a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. She wasn't sure whether it was the fear of what the future might bring or the hope that this new child could somehow erase her grief, but either way, it was a distraction. A welcome distraction.

"Please," she muttered to the winds, her voice barely audible over the crashing waves below, "let this child bring some light back to this cursed place."

Just as the wind began to howl louder, as though it had decided to mock her very sentiment, Ser Willem Darry approached from behind. He had that steady, calming presence about him, like a rock in a storm (except he was really more of a very old rock with a lot of experience in trying not to look like a nervous wreck).

"Your Grace," he said in his usual grave tone, "there is more news from the mainland."

"Oh good," she muttered, "just what I need. Another letter from some fool who thinks they know what I need to hear."

Willem cleared his throat, clearly used to her sarcasm by now. "It's about your grandchildren."

Rhaella stiffened, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn't heard anything for so long, not since the fires of King's Landing had turned everything to ash. "Tell me," she said, her voice sharp despite herself.

Willem's gaze softened. "The new Lord of Winterfell is Cregan Stark. And it seems there has been a bit of a—well, let's call it a family reunion of sorts. Lord Stark and Lady Ashara Dayne were secretly married."

Rhaella blinked. Ashara Dayne, the woman she had been so close to, the one who had vanished mysteriously from court and whose absence had never been explained. A marriage? Secret?

"Why does that sound like the plot of a tragic romance?" she muttered, shaking her head.

Willem, ever the professional, ignored her comment. "There's more. Your granddaughter Rhaenys—she is alive, Your Grace. She's been betrothed to Lord Cregan Stark in an alliance meant to secure peace. The Usurper sanctioned it."

Rhaella's heart stopped for a moment. Rhaenys... alive? The thought had been a distant hope, a whisper she'd been afraid to believe. But now it was reality. She wanted to laugh, cry, and scream all at once. "I knew it," she whispered to herself, feeling a surge of something—relief, maybe—mixed with the sadness that had never quite left her. She was alive, and somehow, so was the bloodline of House Targaryen. The next generation might still rise from the ashes.

Willem, sensing the delicate balance of emotions stirring within her, continued gently, "It's not all easy, Your Grace. The North is harsh, and these are dangerous times. But Rhaenys has the strength of her mother, and the Stark name carries weight."

"Weight," Rhaella echoed bitterly, "that seems to be all anyone cares about these days. I pray that it's enough for her. And that she's strong enough to face whatever the world has in store."

She walked to the edge of the cliff, her thoughts heavy but her determination steady. For the first time in years, she felt like she might have a chance. A reason to hope, even if just a little. Her children—her grandchildren—might have a future. And perhaps that future would be brighter than the shadows that had clouded their past.

But then, in typical Targaryen fashion, her thoughts turned to something a little less hopeful.

"Willem," she began, her voice suddenly cold, "do you think King Robert will honor this betrothal? Or will it be another pawn in his little game?"

Willem paused, then gave a dry chuckle. "If I know Robert Baratheon, he'll probably forget the betrothal as soon as he gets drunk. But Rhaenys and Cregan have the advantage of being tied to two powerful houses. That's something even Robert can't ignore for long."

Rhaella smiled darkly. "That's something," she agreed, "but I'll still keep an eye on them. And on the Usurper."

With a sigh, Rhaella turned back toward the heart of Dragonstone, her mind already planning the next steps. A Stark-Targaryen alliance? It could be the key to everything. But only if she could make sure it didn't end up burning her family again.

"Well," she said to Willem, her voice now taking on that cool, commanding tone she had perfected, "we'll just have to see how well they can weather the storm, won't we?"

—

In the sun-scorched halls of Sunspear, where the heat wrapped around them like a thick blanket, Doran Martell sat with all the grace of a man who had spent decades mastering the art of waiting. His hands, smooth and deliberate, rested on the wooden table, as if the world could be held in place with just a gentle touch. Across from him, his younger brother Oberyn lounged like a cat who had just eaten the canary—leisurely, confidently, with that wicked, amused grin he wore like a permanent accessory.

"Did you hear the latest from the North?" Doran asked, his voice as cool and unruffled as the shaded stone walls surrounding them. His eyes, sharp as ever, flickered briefly over the pile of letters on the table, but it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere, navigating the webs of politics that stretched all the way from the icy wastes of Winterfell to the burning sands of Dorne.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a grin that was all mischief. "If you're talking about the little Stark boy suddenly inheriting Winterfell—what is he now, two? Three?—I've heard the rumors. Though I'm still not sure whether the North is in the hands of children or wolves these days."

Doran didn't smile, but there was something in his eyes—mild amusement, perhaps a touch of weariness. "Cregan Stark. The new Lord of Winterfell. He's betrothed to our niece, Rhaenys. And yes, they are both practically children—yet still, the Starks think this will solidify their power."

"Ah, yes," Oberyn said, letting out a laugh that was half scoff, half disbelief. "A Stark lord and a Targaryen princess, both barely able to walk or talk. How romantic. Betrothal of the century." He gave an exaggerated sigh, clasping his hands over his heart. "A match made in the nursery, I'm sure."

Doran let the moment hang for a beat before speaking, his voice softer now, more deliberate. "It's a marriage of convenience, brother. One of many. Robert Baratheon is trying to secure his claim to the throne, but he's also trying to negate the Targaryen claim. He's playing a dangerous game. Cregan Stark's betrothal to Rhaenys is an attempt to remove her from the board. But beneath it all, it's a political maneuver."

Oberyn shrugged, his lips curling again into that dangerous grin. "So it's not love, then? Damn, what a shame." He leaned back in his chair, eyeing his brother. "The North must be absolutely thrilled to have a toddler in charge. I'm sure they'll be thrilled to add a princess to the mix, especially when she's only four."

Doran's eyes, still calm, flickered with something akin to sadness. "You're missing the point, Oberyn. Rhaenys has been dealt a difficult hand. She has no choice in this betrothal, but it must be made for the good of the realm. For now, all we can do is make sure she grows strong."

"Strong, huh?" Oberyn snorted. "Do you really think this little Stark, with all his cold northern manners, will know how to handle a Targaryen?" His tone was dark now, more venom than jest. "What's next? We're going to send Aegon to the Citadel and have him learn how to burn books?"

"I trust the Starks will honor their word," Doran said, the words heavy with experience. "Ashara Dayne is Cregan's mother. You know how important she is to Elia. Rhaenys will not be mistreated. Not by them. Not by anyone." His gaze hardened slightly as he continued, voice low. "But we must be cautious. Robert Baratheon... he needs peace. But his version of peace doesn't always look like ours."

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I see. Robert wants peace? That's rich. The man who drinks like a fish and swings a warhammer like it's his only personality trait?"

Doran's lips curled just slightly in a rueful smile. "He may be many things, Oberyn. But you underestimate him at your peril. He's a king, and kings need unity—no matter how much he hates it. The Starks and the Targaryens will have to play nice, even if they're both as stubborn as a mule and as cold as Winterfell in the dead of winter."

"And Rhaenys?" Oberyn pressed, his voice suddenly quieter, the playfulness gone. "She's going to just sit there and smile as she's handed to a Stark who can barely speak?"

Doran's fingers tapped the table gently. "Rhaenys is stronger than you think. She has her mother's fire, and Elia's blood. We can only hope she won't inherit too much of our fire, though." He paused, giving his brother a knowing glance. "One Martell temper is enough for the world, don't you think?"

Oberyn let out a laugh, though it had no mirth in it. "If she does inherit it, we might just have to keep Winterfell warm for a little while longer."

Doran sighed, his expression turning serious once more. "We must be careful. Cregan Stark may be a child, but his house is not. Their alliances are strong, and Robert Baratheon... well, Robert is always a wild card. We can't afford to let our guard down."

Oberyn's grin returned, but this time, it was sharp, almost dangerous. "Careful? When have we ever been careful?" He stretched lazily, a predator ready to pounce. "But fine, I'll play it your way. For now. Let's see if the little Stark can hold his own against a Targaryen. And if he can't... well, we'll be ready."

Doran's fingers drummed on the table, his gaze distant for a moment. "Yes. We will wait. But not for long. When the time comes, Rhaenys must be ready to face what the North throws at her. And we will make sure she knows who she truly is."

"Ah, yes," Oberyn said, a wicked gleam in his eye. "A Targaryen is never just a pawn. They don't take orders; they give them."

"Exactly." Doran allowed himself a small, weary smile. "But if Cregan Stark thinks he can control her... he's in for a surprise."

Oberyn chuckled darkly. "A very unpleasant one."

The two brothers sat in the quiet aftermath of their conversation, the weight of the world pressing down on them like the endless Dorne sun outside. Yet, despite it all, there was something in the way they held themselves—something unyielding, like the stone of Sunspear itself. They would wait. They would watch. And when the time came, they would strike.

—

The night in Oberyn Martell's chambers was thick with the heat of the desert and the scent of burning incense. The flickering light from a golden lantern danced across the room like a playful ghost, throwing shadows on the walls as if the darkness itself was trying to keep up with Oberyn's restless mind. Oberyn, leaning casually against a stone pillar with his arms crossed, looked far too serious for someone who was supposed to be enjoying the evening. His usual smirk, the one that made everyone a little nervous (and a little intrigued), had taken a backseat for the moment. His thoughts, sharp and calculating as always, were consumed with something a bit more serious than his usual flirty banter.

Across the room, Ellaria Sand sat sprawled on the large bed, her long, dark hair spilling around her like an untamed river. She looked at Oberyn with that dangerous mix of affection and amusement that only she could muster. She knew him too well, probably better than he knew himself. After all, who else could tolerate a man like Oberyn Martell and not end up throwing him out the window (which, honestly, would be a deserved fate, but still).

"You're thinking about Winterfell again, aren't you?" she asked, her voice a low, teasing hum. There was a hint of challenge in her tone, like she was daring him to admit it. It was a game they played—she baited, he toyed with the idea of a response, and it all danced around like some seductive, wicked waltz.

Oberyn's lips curled into that lazy, dangerous smile of his, but his eyes stayed distant. "Of course I am. My sister and her children are in the icy clutches of the North, and, Cregan Stark is there too. The Lord of Winterfell. And he's betrothed to Rhaenys." He raised a brow, half-amused. "A match made in the snow. Quite the romantic one, isn't it?"

Ellaria leaned forward, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. "Do you think we should go?"

Oberyn's eyes twinkled with that mischievous glint that always made him seem like he was a breath away from setting something on fire—or maybe just blowing something up for the fun of it. "Oh, we're going. But not for the reasons you think." He stepped closer, his voice turning softer, more dangerous, like a storm that was gathering just out of sight. "A Stark is a Stark, and we both know how they play their games. But my niece, Rhaenys…" His voice softened, like he was speaking of something too precious to treat lightly. "She has the blood of dragons in her veins. And I won't have some northern lord thinking he can use her like a pawn in some little game."

Ellaria raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Ah, so it's about Rhaenys, then?" She gave him a look that was almost too knowing for comfort. "Not about your sister? Not about Elia?"

Oberyn's face flickered, just for a second, a shadow of grief crossing his features before the mask slid back into place. "Of course I miss Elia." His voice softened just a little, but it was a rarity for Oberyn to let any real vulnerability show. "But she's safe now. And I'll never waste time brooding over things that can't be undone." He straightened, his fiery eyes returning to Ellaria, that familiar swagger coming back with a vengeance. "No, I'm more interested in seeing whether this Stark boy is worth his salt. If he's not, I'll make sure he knows the price of underestimating a Martell."

Ellaria snorted, clearly entertained by the image of Oberyn taking on the North's mightiest house with nothing more than his razor-sharp wit and, of course, his ever-present knives. "And if he proves himself worthy? What then, my dear prince?"

Oberyn's lips curled upward, a smile that was both wicked and impossibly charming. "Then we leave Winterfell, knowing we've kept an eye on our own. Simple as that." He took a step toward her, and the air between them seemed to spark. "But, truth be told…" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I wouldn't mind seeing the snow myself. There's something about it that calls to me."

Ellaria smirked, her eyes dancing with that mix of affection and something deeper, darker. She leaned forward, her lips brushing against his with the same fire she'd always matched him with. "A good reason to cross the entire Seven Kingdoms," she murmured, before pulling back just enough to look at him more seriously, though the fire still flickered in her gaze. "But what if it all goes wrong, Oberyn? What if you get tangled in the politics of it all and end up in another war?"

Oberyn shrugged like the weight of kingdoms was nothing more than a passing breeze. "Then we burn it all down and start anew." He spoke with that same confidence that had made him a legend across the Seven Kingdoms. There was no hesitation, no fear—just a promise in his voice that no one could ignore.

Ellaria looked at him, her lips twitching into a smile of admiration. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Oberyn's grin widened, and this time, it was all confidence, all power. "I know. And that's why you'll never leave me."

Her smile deepened, and her voice dropped to a seductive whisper. "Then show me, Oberyn Martell, that I'm right."

And that was all the invitation Oberyn needed. The world outside their chambers might as well have stopped spinning, for all the care they gave it. The tension between them snapped like a cord pulled too tight, the playful banter turning into something far more primal, more desperate. Their lips collided, fierce and hungry, every kiss laced with that dangerous, addictive energy that had always defined them.

Their bodies moved together, a dance of fire and heat, as if they couldn't get close enough, couldn't burn together fast enough. Oberyn's hands were everywhere—on her skin, in her hair, pulling her closer until the world outside ceased to exist. Every touch, every kiss was a promise, a challenge, a game neither of them had any intention of losing.

And as they tumbled onto the bed, the fire between them burned hotter than ever. In that moment, nothing else mattered. There was no political intrigue, no Stark boys or Targaryen bloodlines—just the two of them, lost in each other's arms, burning through the night like the storm they were. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

But knowing them, tomorrow would bring a new adventure—and probably a new fire to put out. But that was the thing about Oberyn Martell. He was always burning, always moving forward, and Ellaria Sand? Well, she was just the one to keep up with him.

---

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