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 Priapus, Beans, Mike God of Lore,
The Unbound
Chapter 37: The Eyrie
– Orys Baratheon –
With the Gate of the Moon under our control, we've effectively won. If we had more time, we could just wait for the cold to do the rest and force Lysa out of the Eyrie. They simply don't have the supplies to remain up there, and the cold will drive them down.
We don't have the time.
Myranda Royce, as helpful as she was in opening the gates, is a clear sign of the dangers here. Jygglag gave her a nudge back to sanity, but living this close to the Eyrie has clearly had an effect on its mind. I've promised Lord Royce to try and restore her mind, and she's being sent to the Red Keep for when our campaign is finished. At the very least, sending her away from the Eyrie and the weakened barriers between this realm and the Shivering Isles is going to help.
She'll visit the Grand Sept so the Order of the Mother's Mercy can work to restore her fractured mind, but we move on.
The climb to the top should have been very difficult, this close to winter. It became clear something was very off when we reached the first of three Waycastles, Stone, and nobody opposed us taking it. Not a single guard remained within the abandoned waycastle, and that was more unnerving than having to fight an army to take it.
Then, we reached Snow, the second. Once more, we found nothing but cold stone and empty halls. Sky, the third, did not change our findings. Yes, Lysa is apparently lost to madness but she had the sense to reinforce the Gate of the Moon, finding all three of her last lines of defence empty was downright worrying.
Reaching the Eyrie did not lessen our concerns.
Mostly because of the bodies hanging from the walls. We've heard tales of Lysa executing those who opposed her, but to see what Lord Royce informs me were good, loyal men hanging from the walls of the Arryn seat of power is a disturbing sight. I can only imagine how the Vale Lords feel, given the focus on honour in the Vale. Father recognised some of the heads that line the path, stuck on spears, as servants from the Eyrie that he knew from when he was fostering here. Lord Royce identified his own cousin, Nestor Royce, Myranda's father, as one of the decapitated heads.
Lysa's madness ends today, and Sheogorath's influence on the Vale ends with it.
The biggest issue with sieging the Eyrie is that you simply aren't getting any siege weapons this far up a mountain, and the Eyrie itself is a large, easily defendable castle. Breaking down the doors would, in any conventional attack, be a devastatingly costly effort. It is possible but nobody has ever tried, because the cost of such an attack would be prohibitively expensive.
Better to take the Gate of the Moon and wait them out, than to try and take the Eyrie by force, right?
"RAAAAAH!"
As Stendarr's Hammer strikes the large gates, it feels like the entire mountain shakes with father's rage, the shields held high to block the arrows peppering down at us. His armour can't be pierced by regular arrows, and if the Eyrie is an immovable object, my father is the unstoppable force that is throwing himself against it.
It becomes a simple matter. Will the impregnable castle outlast the Demon of the Trident's rage?
No. No, it will not.
As the hammer lands again, the giant doors burst open as we get our answer. Some poor fools were trying to reinforce the castle door from within, using their bodies to hold it closed. When Father's hammer breaks down the door, it breaks them along with it as I watch him bring it down with a triumphant cry, an armoured Vale knight barely getting out a shout as his chestplate is crushed inwards, a spurt of blood coating the hammer and my Father's armour. I don't think he even notices as he swings it again, the next defender unfortunate enough to be within arms reach of him sent flying into the wall as he charges in.
Is he a stag or a bull? Either way, he fully intends to skewer every fool in his way with his mighty horns and the rest of us pile in through the doorway, following his charge. Ours is the Fury, indeed, and my father has fury to spare. Black arrows fire at us as the Dark Seducers try to defend their 'Duchess of Dementia' but I'm faster and much more accurate, and my armour actually covers my vital parts, unlike theirs.
The Eyrie is the smallest of all the great castles, smaller than even Maegor's Holdfast within the Red Keep. My castle has a castle in it that is bigger than the entirety of the Eyrie. As such, once we're inside, it isn't a great war to occupy it, especially with Father, Lord Stark, and Lord Royce leading the way with their intimate knowledge and understanding of the castle. The defenders fight with the same lack of self preservation we saw at the Gate of the Moon, supported by the grey-skinned Dark Seducers. Fittingly, for their name, the entire castle seems to have been one large orgy before we arrived, and while many clearly tried to clad themselves in armour in a hurry, they weren't expecting us.
Truly, the madness has taken its hold, because an army marching up a mountain is far from a subtle thing. They should have known before we even took the first Waycastle. There are signs of darkness and depravity in every room we cross through; I switch back to my sword, tossing my bow to Hardyng and slicing through one of the Arryn guards. Not a knight, by the looks of it. Perhaps it is my bias speaking but it seems that the common house guards and foot soldiers turned far more than the knights. I suppose knights have more self-control, and more willpower to resist the madness of a Daedric Prince.
A mace strikes my shield, and despite being an all female combat force, the Dark Seducers strike hard as I feel the blow reverberate through my body. My stance absorbs the worst of the blow, as Barristan taught me, and Loras cuts off her head before I can retort. Instead, I focus on my bond to Lady Mara and Lord Talos as I begin to glow with light.
"Stand as one! The gods are with us," I declare, my blade glowing with golden light before it pulses from me, each of my allies glowing with the same golden light. They fight harder, move faster and their wounds slowly close as I lead the charge.
I can't let father have all the fun, now, can I? Nor can I allow the Red Priestesses to outshine me in my own campaign. They are limited in what they can do in such tight corridors, any fireballs are as dangerous to their allies as to our enemies, but they've made quite the impression. Time to do the same.
A Dark Seducer raises her shield as I bring down my blade in a vertical strike. She shouldn't have bothered, Blessed Steel carving through the black-metal shield and then the arm that was holding it as the glow from my sword increases in power.
The fight to the High Hall is as bloody as it is unstoppable. I have to give the defenders credit for being willing to throw themselves at us, but our frontline is made of legends. Oberyn strikes down Dark Seducers with a laugh, dodging between blows with all the grace of a ballroom dance. Father treats anything getting in front of him as a personal insult, hammer swinging at speeds that defy logic. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Sandor lift one of the guards with one hand, tossing him aside. He might not be a Mountain, but the Hound has an inhuman strength of his own. Lord Stark and Lord Royce are scowling demons, cutting down men with faces carved from stone as Robb and Dacey call on Hircine and run wild.
And then there's me, glowing with golden light and supported by my Kingsguard and the Knights of the Seven, all glowing with me as we move as one. I can only imagine the tales the bards will tell of this day, as we slaughter our way through the ranks, putting down the otherworldly invaders and dwindling corrupted men of Vale.
In the tales, entering the High Hall would always be where the biggest fight was. Perhaps I've listened to too many ballads, because as we burst down the door and storm in, I expected some great demon ready to face us, some grand champion whose name would go down in legend.
Instead, I get a single mad woman, who sent all her defenders to fight us and is now faced with a small elite force with a grand total of a single dagger.
Watching as Lysa glares at us, blood and other bodily fluids on her barely-covered body, clad in the same strange dark steel armour the Seducers were wearing, I wish I'd gotten the demon. Standing by the Moon Door, she glares at us as we all freeze. Not out of fear of the dagger she's wielding, but because of what is in her other hand.
Half hanging from the Moon Door, and a moment from falling to his death, Robert 'Sweetrobin' Arryn looks terrified as he clings to his mothers arm, her fist gripping his shirt as she prevents him from stepping back to safety.
"You!" Lysa snarls, spittle flying from her mouth as she locks eyes with me. "Bastard! Murderer! You took Petyr from me, and now you've come to take my Robin?! My land?!"
"The only thing threatening Robin is you, Lysa. He won't be harmed, if you just pull him back to safety," I say, stepping forward to the front of the group. I can't get far before she pushes him even further, his feet barely on the edge. The dagger isn't aimed at me, but at her own heart as she snaps her eyes around in madness. I can see the swirling insanity in her mind, corruption and chaos.
We can't get any closer without her pushing Robin, and even if his legitimacy is in question, nobody is eager to see a child pushed to certain death. Even Harrold, who has the most to gain from Robin taking a fly, looks horrified.
"Mommy-" Robin tries, clinging to her arm for his life. He's trying to pull himself up but she just pushes him further until he's practically diagonal, glancing down at the certain death below him with terror in his gaze.
"No! No!" Lysa says, quietly at first but then much louder. "I won't let you take him. You can have the Eyrie, but Robin is going with me. We'll be with Petyr again."
I am going to personally enter the Spiral Skein just to stab Baelish again. Will he never stop causing me trouble? Is there not a single issue in the Kingdom that hasn't had his Littlefinger in it, stirring up chaos?
"Have you lost your mind, Lysa?!" Brynden asks gruffly, stepping forward but staying further back than me to not… antagonise the woman currently threatening to throw her son to his death. If she wasn't holding him off the edge, I might just have the archers pincushion her, but anything happens to her and Robin is going off that edge.
"Silence, traitor! You should never have returned. If you had any honour, you'd cut out your traitorous heart!" Lysa screeches, as she's focused on him, I take another step closer, freezing when she turns back. This is a… precarious situation, to say the least. "You won't take us, you won't!"
She isn't going to see reason, but I focus. I'm close enough, I think. Gods, I hope as I reach out to a Goddess and call on her powers. I've had plans for Lady Kynareth since before I began this march, the face of the Old Gods, but right now I need her for something much simpler.
I need her winds.
The gale, far from a hurricane, blows in from the open Moon Door and pushes Robin back inside, directly into his mother, distracting her for a moment as I make my move. Glowing with golden light, I rush, my legs moving faster than they have before to close the distance as I grab her and pull her back, the light engulfing her as Lady Mara helps me drive back the madness of Sheogorath. He… doesn't really put up a fight. Even now, I can't help but think he doesn't really care and isn't really paying attention. His work here is done, he's gone to find something more interesting.
But not before the last wisp of madness takes hold and Lysa pushes hard, sending Robin stumbling back. Her actions catch her by surprise, a shout and a strangled scream leaving her as she watches Robin trip and fall. It doesn't catch me by surprise as I push her aside, barely noticing as Brynden rushes and disarms his niece, pinning her.
Instead, I dive forward, extending my arm as I grab onto Sweetrobin's ankle, grunting as his descent comes to a sudden stop, leaving him dangling upside down, understandably struggling and flailing in a panic. Gods, am I glad he's underdeveloped as I grit my teeth. Grabbing his leg with both hands, I shout for him to stop struggling and it seems he has more sense than his mother as he stills, closing his eyes so as to not be looking at the very long drop.
Strong hands help me rise, Father and Sandor aiding me in pulling up the child and the room lets out a sigh of relief as he's pulled to safety. Oh. He passed out.
Yeah, that makes sense. I probably would as well. It's a really long drop.
"The Eyrie is ours," I say, rising to my feet, with far more confidence than I felt in that moment. "Lord Royce, root out the last of the madmen, clear each tower."
"At once, your Grace," Lord Royce agrees with a half-bow, turning and shouting out orders to the Vale knights and the rest of our retinue.
"What about the mad bitch?" Father asks, very diplomatically. His armour is caked in gore, and as he takes his helmet off he has the perfect mix between wild grin and severe frown on his face.
"Her mind is addled by the Daedric influence, not unlike Lady Royce but on a far worse scale. She'll go to the Red Keep, to be imprisoned in the Maidenvaults. Gods be good, we might be able to restore some semblance of sanity and get to the bottom of this nightmare. As it stands, it's impossible to know what was her doing and what was Sheogorath puppeting her around," I explained with a deep sigh. "I'm going to task the Maesters with working out if Sweetrobin is Jon Arryn's heir or not, but I suspect the answer is not. Lady Mara, the Mother, senses no blood bond between Robin and Harrold, but with neither Littlefinger or Jon Arryn to confirm with, it is hard to say for sure."
"If he isn't, I'll take him in," Father says, surprising just about everyone. He grunts at our stare. "Jon thought of him as a trueborn son, and loved him like one. Jon wouldn't want him suffering for Lysa's fucking insanity. Won't raise him as a son, but he'll be better off in Storm's End than here, as long as I smack some sense into Joffrey. Sure you don't want to just throw the harpy from the Moon Door and say she tripped?"
"Tempted, perhaps," I admit. "But no. She'll go to the Red Keep, with Robin and Lady Royce."
As I speak, I look around the High Hall. As High As Honour, the Arryn words, but the chaos that happened here was about as far from honour as you can get. Blood and other distasteful substances stain the stone floors, profane symbols painted on the walls and the throne is the centre of it.
I can feel the weakening barriers here, the way Sheogorath was chiselling his way into the world through the mass sacrifices that occurred here. How many smallfolk were dragged up here to take part in Lysa's madness? How close did Sheogorath come to opening a true portal to the Shivering Isles?
I suspect he lost interest after we took the Gate of the Moon. He realised he didn't have enough time so he wandered off to find some new way to amuse himself. This can't be left as it is, the Eyrie would drive anyone who stayed here mad in time. Perhaps not as fast as the rapid descent of Lysa and those loyal to her, but mad all the same. Nor will I have one of the seats of the Great Houses abandoned because of one woman's madness.
"Gather the bodies. They need to be purified in holy flame, even now they radiate a sickening madness. And call the Septas of the Mother's Mercy, their cleansing will be needed to properly scourge away the maddening symbols," I order tiredly. The worst part is that this is the easy mission. After this, we have to retake the entire North and that's an entirely different scale of campaign. "And does the Eyrie have a smithy?"
"A small one," Lord Stark orders, looking as mentally spent as I feel. "No match for your own, I fear."
"It will have to do," I say simply. The Daedric Princes have enjoyed moving freely through my world far too long.
Wouldn't you agree, Lord Akatosh?
– Lady Brienne of Tarth –
The taking of the Eyrie was a short affair, in truth. Scouring the castle for survivors was the worst part. Each room revealed another atrocity, and the King had since explained that Sheogorath had encouraged paranoia, depravity and all of the darker sides of mankind's madness. It fit, and no amount of martial training had prepared her for finding a room that was simply full of decapitated heads, each turned to face the doorway.
The Mother's Septas had been hard at work ever since they'd taken this cursed place, glowing with golden light and burning holy incense as they directed Ser Bonifer's Holy Hundred to aid in the cleansing of this place. It was working, too. The heavy, unpleasant air of the Eyrie was lessening, slowly. Even the Vale Knights had no arguments against burning the bodies that had once been their kin, golden flames reducing the victims of this madness to ash. How could they, with all they had seen?
Already, some of the foot soldiers had begun to see shadows moving and grow paranoid, showing signs that 'Dementia' was taking its hold on them. The Septas did their holy work in guiding them, leading them away from madness, while Orys the Blessed was occupied.
He worked, day and night, within the small smithy of the Eyrie. It was a tiny thing, compared to the grand forge he had in the Red Keep, but inside that wall he worked on something that required his full attention. She'd heard the Kingsguard mention that he had not slept and had barely eaten since the beginning, only taking a short break to conscript the two Red Priestesses to use their flames to get him the heat he needed, or to send men out to get materials for him.
Until today.
Within the High Hall of the Eyrie, they watched as King Orys knelt with his new creation in hand. The room was almost entirely dark, all natural sources of light put out, except for a soft glow coming from the amulet in his hands.
It was a golden amulet, large and yet not gaudy, with a red gemstone in the centre that glowed with a soft light, and along the golden edge were several small gemstones to represent different gods. There were more than seven, oddly enough.
She, and likely everybody else, did not know what King Orys was doing, his eyes remained closed and the amulet was resting on a pillow in front of him, his face stern and serious. Regardless of his stillness, the light pulsed and grew, before he finally made his move and lifted the amulet, clasping it around his neck. The moment he did, the red light pulsed from him, filling the room for a moment as the oppressive feeling that had haunted the Eyrie simply… vanished and Orys finally rose with a tired but satisfied sigh.
"What in the blazes was that?" Lord Robert asked bluntly, getting a small laugh from his son.
"The formation of a pact, I suppose," Orys answered easily, his hand stroking the amulet for a moment. "I've made a pact between my line, the Seven, the Old Gods and Lady Meridia. An alliance to prevent a disaster like this from happening again. Sheogorath was trying to make an incursion into Westeros, weakening the barriers between his realm and ours. Nobody wants that to happen. And so, as long as a ruler of my blood sits upon the throne and bears the Amulet of Kings, the Gods will work together to prevent any further incursions in Westeros."
"Will this stop the mess up in Winterfell?" Robert asked, looking toward Lord Stark.
"Ha. If only it were so easy. It will prevent Molag Bal from opening a portal to Coldharbour, and make it harder for them to summon more creatures like the crocodile demon or the Dark Seducers, but what is already in our realm is our problem to handle," Orys sighed, running a hand through his hair. "...but for now, all I want is to fill my belly and have a goblet of wine. We'll begin the journey to White Harbour on the morn."
"If I may be so bold, Your Grace," Lord Royce spoke up, getting a nod from Orys to continue. "I have arranged for Gulltown to send several ships to Saltpans, to ferry us to White Harbour rather than us taking the Kingsroad to Moat Cailin. It should cut down on the trip considerably."
"Excellent work. Lord Redwyne has already sent the royal fleet toward the Three Sisters to put a stop to their piracy, so the seas are thoroughly under our control. I should have thought of that, but my mind was occupied with the metaphysical rather than the logistical," Orys sighed, looking mildly embarrassed at himself. "Lord Stark, you know the North best. I'm giving you command of the campaign once we reach White Harbour."
"You have my gratitude, Your Grace," Lord Stark replied simply, with a half bow. "I believe our best course would be to take Hornwood Castle back first, before moving on the Dreadfort to reduce the pressure on House Umber and Karstark. The Boltons have moved into Winterfell, from the reports, and Dreadfort is only held by a small force. Winterfell will be the hardest to siege, but we can isolate them within it."
A lesser lord might have rushed to retake his ancestral home first, but Lord Stark was nothing if not pragmatic.
"If I may," Dacey Mormont spoke up, getting the King's attention. "House Tallhart and Glover left their castles when the Bolton men began to march west, heading to Bear Island. The Boltons have had no success in taking it, with Lord Hircine's gift, and my mother has sent word that they're ready to rejoin the efforts. If we send word, all three Houses and their men will join the siege of Winterfell. The Boltons are trying to subjugate the Northern Mountain Clans, but they've had limited success. Rumor says that a great wolf stalks the mountains, hunting Boltons in the night."
"Storihbeg, the Aspect of Speed. Hircine has been busy," Orys replied with utter confidence. "And most of the Houses south of Torrhen's Square have retreated to White Harbour. With us coming from the south, the Karstark and Umber in the east and Bear Island in the west and the Northern Mountain Clans in the north, the Boltons will be surrounded once we take Dreadfort."
"Enough strategising. Someone get the King some wine, and whatever passes for food in this cursed castle," Robert demanded, throwing an arm around his son's shoulder. Orys just chuckled, noticeably not disagreeing. "We won a great victory, so lets fucking celebrate!"
A cheer rang out, because Robert Baratheon knew how to talk to his men, and all thoughts on the gruelling campaign in the North were put aside for the night. There would be enough trouble going forward, without it weighing down their morale after they had conquered the inconquerable Eyrie.
King Orys was far more serious than his father, and it showed on his face even as the celebrations began. Lord Robert certainly noticed, distracting Orys every time his face gained that deep frown he got when he was focused on the future rather than the celebrations. It couldn't be easy to have the weight of the Kingdom on his shoulders, especially with such chaos still happening.
Which is why the Queen's words stuck in her mind. Queen Margaery's words were, on their own, innocent enough as the Queen simply stated that she was glad Brienne was going on the campaign but the smile on her face when she instructed Brienne to 'take care of my husband while he's away' was anything but innocent. Despite her age, Brienne was a virgin as few had cared to pursue her in that way and those who did would have accepted a goat if it stood still long enough, and not the sort she would give her purity to…
But she was not opposed to giving herself to Orys entirely. She just had no idea how to go about it. What if she had misunderstood? She had faced humiliation over and over again, and wasn't eager to be rejected because she jumped to conclusions.
But the King was clearly stressed, and she'd sworn to aid him in whatever way she could. Could she lessen his mental burdens by giving him a… distraction for the night? She had no desire to marry or do as other highborn women did, she was a knight and she'd live and die a knight.
But she knew that her looks were far from hideous now. Her breasts and buttocks had both grown, with her hips gaining what she'd heard described as 'child-bearing' qualities. She'd heard jokes that it was fitting for the Knight of the Mother to have a body clearly made to be bred.
As the night continued, she limited her own wine consumption. She was still on duty, after all, and as the celebrations came to a close, Orys made his way to what had once been Jon Arryn's chambers in the Moon Tower. It was telling that even after taking over the Eyrie, Lysa seemed to avoid this place like it had the plague, instead she'd made a guest room in another tower into her own chambers. It meant that this room had mostly been spared the depravity and dark deeds, merely being trashed by a bitter woman, which was far easier to clean up.
"May I have a word, Your Grace," Brienne said, gathering her courage. Why was she more confident facing down demonic abominations than speaking to the man who had made her dream into reality?
"Of course," Orys said pleasantly. He was clearly still sober, despite his father's best efforts to get him well and truly inebriated. Nodding to the Kingsguard he entered the room before removing his crown and placing it carefully down, turning to her. "What is bothering you, Brienne?"
For a moment her words failed her, entirely unprepared for this kind of conversation before she willed her courage into place.
"Her Grace, the Queen, requested that I attend to your needs on the campaign," Brienne blurted out, face already burning as Orys' eyebrow raised. "If- if that is something you desire. I simply wish to ensure you know that I am at your command, for whatever you require, be it on the battlefield or in the bedchambers."
Even as the words left her mouth, regret filled her. Yes, she was better-looking now but it was absurd to think that a King who had Queen Margaery, Princess Arianne and one of the finest courtesans in the world would want her-
– Orys Baratheon – An Hour Later –
Margaery really is a sweetheart.
"P-please, don't stop! Use me, my King!" Brienne moans, her thick thighs pressed up beside her toned stomach as I pound into the tight, formerly-virgin cunt of the first Lady Knight of Westeros. Large breasts, already painted with my seed, bounce with each thrust and I silence her squeals with a rough, domineering kiss.
I wouldn't normally be so rough with a virgin, but her pride would break if I treated her like a fragile maiden, and she's too tough to need such a gentle hand. Lady Mara forgive me, because dominating such a physically strong woman is one amazing feeling.
This is the only type of battle I enjoy, and also happens to be the one I'm the best at as I thrust deep and strike Brienne just right. Between Dibella, Mephala and the tutoring Moonshadow gave me and Margaery, Brienne has entered a battlefield entirely underprepared for the opponent she's facing.
– Nymeria Martell –
She was an incredibly beautiful woman.
She knew this. She saw it in the eyes of the men who stared as she walked. Whether in fine dresses or bronze armour, she captivated the attention of almost every man. Orys himself made no effort to hide his appreciation for her, and she intended to let him admire every inch up close after he'd saved her life at the Gate of the Moon.
So, why exactly, was it so damn hard to find a chance to get a serving of royal sausage?!
Hearing the squeals of the Lady Knight, Nymeria pouted to herself as Obara tried to hide her chuckles with her goblet.
"Better luck next time," Obara added plainly, far too amused for Nymeria's sanity.
— Bonus Scene — Joffrey Baratheon
He didn't think it was possible for him to hate someone more than he hated Orys 'the Blessed'. Things had been perfect before he came back from Casterly Rock and suddenly the entire world, gods and highborn alike, revolved around him. Watching his older brother take everything that should have been his would have been bad enough if Orys didn't clearly have it out for him on top of that.
Why else would he side with Joffrey's northern 'bride' over his own kin? So he said some words about Winterfell, a castle so pathetic it fell the moment Lord Stark left it. Sansa had struck him, the crown prince, and Orys came to her defence when he rightfully struck back, locking him in the Maidenvault for a full tenday.
Well, it was their bitch mother who'd turned it from a short sentence to a full tenday. How quickly she'd discarded him for her precious firstborn now that he was back.
Was Sansa sleeping with Orys? Was that why he kept coming to her defence? It wouldn't surprise him. Everyone knew Orys was as lustful as their father and Northern highborn were hardly worthy of the title. Sansa was basically a wildling in all but name, so he wouldn't be surprised if she was spreading her legs for the oh-so-special King, the whore. Mother refused to even investigate, but the traitor would side with Orys even if he was fucking Sansa's ass right there on the Iron Throne.
But she wasn't his main problem.
No, he'd been so happy when he'd heard Orys was running off to the North to fight. He was a coward who only knew how to use a bow, and the dangers in the North would hopefully show the world that Orys was not blessed, putting the world right again. If Orys died, the crown should go to him… or it would have before the Queen started to bloat.
He highly doubted the twins growing inside Margaery's womb were Orys' children. They'd spent a single night together, it was more likely the whore had already been pregnant to begin with. Even still, the castle was enraptured with the idea of the new heir to the throne being on the way.
Whatever spawn came out from between Margaery's legs, it would become the new heir and he'd be pushed away from his rightful claim all over again. The idea filled him with genuine hatred for the 'Rose Queen', while everyone else fell for her charms and spoke of how beautiful and kind she was. She was probably bedding half the men who insisted she was made to be Queen.
She thought she was better than him. He saw it in her eyes every time she saw him. She never sneered, but while she spent time with Myrcella and Tommen, she avoided him, always with excuses and that look in her eyes. He'd do anything to wipe it off her face.
Margaery was always on the move, always surrounded by guards from both House Baratheon and House Tyrell. The opportunity to do anything about her was always slim, and she would never be alone with him. She knew he saw her for what she truly was. It was almost a shame, if she hadn't realised he saw through her lies she'd probably have tried to bed him to get his support like she was no doubt doing for all her hangers-on.
But even still… if Orys died in the North, fighting for barbarians, and Margaery did not survive to birth her spawn, he would be King. The world would go back to how it should be. He wasn't willing to wait and hope that fate would fix the injustice.
No, this was something he had to do for himself.
Like a true King.