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 39: Bastard's Folly
– Ramsay Snow –
Resisting the urge to kill the messenger, Ramsay seethed as the man wisely left his tent. This wasn't meant to go this way. They should have had the North under control before the southerners even had a chance to rally their forces. Their forces should have been harried on the road, arriving exhausted and half dead.
Ramsay was meant to have two eyes, but the wound dealt by the weirwood arrow at Hornwood had never healed despite his new powers.
His ambush had been foiled, but that wasn't what had him truly annoyed. He had already planned to go south to deal with the bogmen himself after receiving word of House Reed's interference. No, that wasn't what had him annoyed at all.
They should have moved to reclaim Hornwood, moving north from White Harbour. It was the obvious move. It would have taken the pressure of the south-eastern side of the North, and given them a better way to march on Dreadfort. His siege of the Karstarks was proving far too costly, with House Umber also hiding inside that damn castle. They'd made far too many weirwood arrows and he couldn't afford another Hornwood, but the men his father gave him were… insufficient for taking Karhold the old fashioned way. He'd harassed them with bats and wolves, picked off wanderers, but Karhold itself was a fortress with far too many places for archers to fire down at him. He'd had to starve them out, but that could be achieved with a smaller force.
So, he'd pulled most of his men back to Hornwood to defend it against the royal forces. It was a chance for him to face the so-called Blessed King in person, and prove the power that Lord Molag Bal had granted House Bolton.
His men had seen a force leaving from White Harbour and heading north with siege weapons. If he could break their teeth on Hornwood, they'd be in no position to attack the larger Dreadfort or Winterfell itself. It should have been his moment of glory.
Looking down at the message again, he let out a shout of rage and threw the entire table aside, shattering it against the wall of the late Lord Hornwood's solar.
The Dreadfort had fallen, and the siege of Karhold had been broken.
How? It just didn't make sense. He'd sent his Violet out to confirm that a force was moving toward Hornwood, and she'd been able to get close enough to see them herself. Only, they'd turned back and gone right back into White Harbour. What was going on?!
Finding the map amongst the broken table, he stared at it with a scowl. This… could he hold Hornwood if he was attacked from both sides? How had they gotten around him to begin with?
For all his new strength, answers eluded him.
– King Orys Baratheon –
"Word from Prince Oberyn says they've broken the siege of Karhold, your Grace," Eddard reports as I sit in the 'certainly not a throne, promise' seat of Lord Roose Bolton. What a miserable place The Dreadfort is, but as the name suggests, it is a fortress that should have been hard to take.
Should.
Eddard was right to assume that Ramsay was leading the war on this side of the North, while Roose sits within Winterfell and focuses on the Mountain Clans. He was also right to assume Ramsay Snow doesn't know a damn thing about leading an actual war.
A raven caws at me, and I stroke its feathers gently as I nod to Lord Stark. Nocturnal's eyes are everywhere, and while Ramsay himself is fast, his armies are not. Their eyes give me his movements, and from there, maneuvering around him is not difficult.
Lord Manderly had his men make a false march to Hornwood, dragging fake siege weapons that merely looked the part slowly and Ramsay came running without question. So eager he was for battle that he missed the ships sailing past Widow's Watch. Oberyn led a force to Karhold and broke the siege there, as Ramsay left enough to prevent the Karstark's from easily leaving but certainly not enough to deal with a two pronged attack.
As for me, Father, Lord Stark and I sailed up the Weeping Water river in fishing boats right up to the Dreadfort. The battle, if it can even be called that, was one sided and over in less than an hour from us disembarking. Our small, but elite, force easily overwhelmed the Bolton men left behind and opened the way for the rest of the forces.
"Send word for him to continue as planned, and aid the Karstarks and Umbers in reclaiming the Last Hearth. Ramsay has overreached and I intend to remove his arm for the crime," I order, studying the map carefully.
Ramsay is powerful, true. They say he can tear men from plate armour with his claws and catch arrows out of the air. Not consistently, given his missing eye, clearly, but still it's an impressive trick. What he is above all else, however, is simple.
He's a coward. He's a sadistic bully who was having a lot of fun with his new power until Lord Hornwood reminded him that he was, in fact, still mortal, and since then he's cowered behind his army. An army we've now hit in three places, leaving him with only what he took to Hornwood with him. So, what is such a bully going to do when faced with a foe that can fight back?
He's going to run away. He won't try to hold Hornwood, which is already damaged by his own raid. He'll take his forces and flee to the safest place in the North.
Winterfell.
He still has the Skagosi barbarians, and a large number of Bolton bannermen ready to fight for him but he knows we outnumber him now and he has to be wondering how the Dreadfort fell so quickly. We left no survivors, but rumours of my powers, my father's strength and the werebeasts had to have reached him. He fled from Lady Dacey at Winterfell, allowing the Starks to slip through his fingers. He knows there are other powers he needs to be wary of. He won't risk his life to hold a castle as small and damaged as Hornwood.
No, he'll head west and cross the White Knife. There are only so many places he could have his forces cross, and if he's too eager for glory to return to his father alone, having lost all the men assigned to his command. His actions at Moat Cailin and Hornwood show that. He has to go to his father, who is likely as mad with power as Ramsay himself, and say 'I failed to take Karhold, lost half of my men and The Dreadfort'. If he shows up with no men at all, he might just be killed.
He'll want to show off his one victory, the Skagosi traitors he turned to his side.
Which he can't do if he leaves them behind to get slaughtered. 'Don't worry, father, I lost the entire eastern side of the North including our ancestral home but I recruited some now-dead wildlings to our cause'. Doesn't quite work, does it? No, he needs to take them to Winterfell to show that he's not a failure. Bastards with something to prove are fairly predictable.
He won't move during the day, as being caught on the road when he can't even stand outside would be fatal. The nights are getting longer, so it is in his favour, but it does mean we'll know when he's on the move. He can't risk going too south, because the Crannogmen are still lurking that way. I didn't have House Reed join us, because they are powerful because of their terrain advantage. If we take them on the march, they lose what was making them so dangerous.
"Send word to Lord Manderly to have his forces move on Hornwood, we'll do the same and pincer him from the north and south," I order, getting a nod from Eddard as he studies the map.
"He'll run," Lord Stark points out, having come to the same conclusion.
"Almost certainly, unless his pride demands he fight after so many black eyes. If he fights, we'll surround him. If he flees to Winterfell, Lord Manderly will continue his march and take the empty Hornwood and place it back in its rightful hand, and we will pursue. I intend to split our forces in two. My father will lead the chase, but you will lead the Northmen here and lie in wait. With him only being able to move at night and being pursued, he won't be able to reach any other crossings," I explain. "Either he'll be forced to leave his men behind and flee alone, or he'll fight and we'll ambush and wipe them out at the crossing. The Crone's ravens will keep our forces up-to-date so neither side gets caught off guard by sudden movements, but with House Mormont leading the fight in the west, Roose's attention can't afford to be split. That's assuming Ramsay has even informed him of his failures."
Depending on how egotistical Ramsay Snow is, he might just have failed to inform his father of anything, convinced he'd get it all under control at Hornwood. Roose may be entirely unaware of the failed ambush, the broken siege and the fall of the Dreadfort.
"And send word to Prince Oberyn and the Umbers. Once they've retaken the Last Hearth, return the ships and subjugate the Skagosi. We can't leave them behind us if they've sworn fealty to the Boltons," I continue, getting a nod and a frown from Eddard.
"This will leave The Dreadfort empty," Eddard points out.
"I know, Manderly and Hornwood men will have to hold both Hornwood and the Dreadfort but I'd rather we deal with Ramsay before he can get behind the walls of Winterfell and reinforce his father. If I had time, I'd have the place torn down, brick by brick," I sigh. The shit we've found in this place would give me nightmares, if the Eyrie hadn't already done worse.
We found a room that was nothing but flayed skin, tanned into leather. Some of it was downright ancient, and Lord Stark believes it belonged to long-dead Kings in the North.
"On that note, I, King Orys Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm of Westeros, declare that House Bolton is hereby attainted, its lands and titles declared forfeit to the Warden of the North, Lord Stark, to redistribute to the loyal men of the North," I say, causing some whispers through the halls of Roose Bolton's grand hall. I was going to wait to do this until they were dead, but doing it here, in The Dreadfort itself, seems equally fitting.
"Thank you, your Grace. I will see it handled," Eddard agrees firmly. I know the Northmen enough to know they don't want southern meddling, and Lord Stark is loyal to the throne. He'll ensure the land falls into loyal and capable hands. "And I'll send word to Lord Manderly and Prince Oberyn."
Oberyn is a key part in my plans for the North. Having a Dornish prince be the one to save the most northern houses will aid in bringing the two most isolated regions together. The Northern men are too proud to not be grateful that a Dornishman is the one ending their siege and reclaiming their land, and Oberyn is too charming to not make friends even in such a cold place. If I can bring them together, the other provinces between them will become the bridge.
If the most isolated of the Northern Houses can accept a Dornishman, they can certainly accept a Stormlander and a Reachwoman. Technically, I'm a Crownlander I suppose but Baratheon blood runs deep.
Now, Oberyn is doing his part and it is time I do the same. I'll be with Father and the Baratheon men, because I need to be seen. I'm keeping Dacey with us for the same reason, we need Ramsay to run scared and charge straight into the waiting maw of the wolf.
– Ramsay Snow –
This meant nothing.
Barking at his men to move faster, he scowled deeply as he glanced toward the east. The sun would not rise for a good few hours but the slowness of his Skagosi men was infuriating. They were strong, but lacked any discipline and they were slowing down the entire march to Winterfell.
Let the Blessed King have his minor victory. When they faced him and his father, in their new seat of power, it would all prove worthless. His scouts hadn't returned, and the Royal army was gaining on him, led by the Demon and the Blessed. They'd already skirmished once and Ramsay knew that a good blow from the Demon of the Trident's hammer would shatter his bones as easily as it did the bones of the dumb barbarians who had charged him. He'd sent some back to delay, but the royal forces had rolled over them easily, and those swords gave him a bad feeling. Werebeasts hounded his scouts, that damned bear bitch biting the head clean off of any she caught. House Mormont's suffering would be legendary, and he intended to wear her fur as a cloak.
No, facing them here was a mistake. He had failed by leaving Dreadfort, he could admit that, but the dogged pursuit would be the end of this campaign once he met up with his father and the rest of the Bolton men. In Winterfell, the nights were the longest as Molag Bal's power over the region grew. They wouldn't have to fear the sun with his father's ability to summon thick clouds of fog to blot it out.
All he had to do was reach the White Knife crossing.
His freedom was in sight, clear as day, as he pushed the men to move faster. It was a fairly narrow bridge, and they couldn't get caught up here. The dogs would have to show some discipline to get across it with any kind of haste and his snarled orders made it clear that those who delayed this tactical retreat would not live to face the royal forces.
And yet, as the bridge came into sight, he paused in bafflement at a single figure standing in the centre of it. Silver armour glimmering in the moonlight, the helmet shaped in the style of a wolf… a Valyrian steel greatsword in hand.
A red bolt of fire was launched into the sky, and Ramsay realised two things. That bolt had been created by one of the Red Priestesses, and it was a signal.
He realised too late that the surroundings were too quiet, and the smell of the unwashed Skagosi had assaulted his senses and delayed his detection of the forces on either side of the road as Stark men charged from the left and right, more joining their lord on the bridge. Only one direction didn't have Starks, but in that moment he realised why the royal army never seemed to fully catch up despite the delays.
They'd wanted him to get this far.
As the chaos started, the two sides clashing, Ramsay found himself freezing in indecision even as he barked out an order to charge. If his voice quivered, none would dare call him out on it.
– Lord Robert Baratheon –
As the crazy bitch once again dashed forward and scratched at his armour, Robert let out a roar of annoyance. Why there was a half-naked blonde girl on the battlefield, he didn't fucking know, but she was more annoying than any of the Bolton cowards he'd crushed because she just didn't stay fucking still.
Even if he swung at her, the bitch would be ten paces away before his hammer could land and those claws were more dangerous than the crossbow bolts that pinged off his armour, or the blades that failed to find purchase. She wasn't truly damaging his armour, it was too damn good, but by the Gods this woman was getting on his last nerve. Never thought he'd be unhappy to see a topless blonde, but it was a strange time.
Pausing, he watched her dashing around as she rushed in again. He didn't swing, and her claws went for his neck this time. The neckguard did its job, but she was targeting lesser-armoured places, even trying to rip his helmet off a few times. Robert took a deep breath and rested his hammer on his shoulder with one hand as he closed his eyes and listened.
Another hit, aimed at his armpit. Another rush, claws scratching at his back.
Now.
Lashing out, he spun and lunged forward with his open hand, hearing a strangled scream of surprise as he gripped the throat of the crazy bitch and slammed her down to the ground, planting one foot on her bare chest.
"Violet!" someone shouted, but Robert was already swinging his hammer down toward the blonde's skull with a roar, the ground quaking as metal met bone and came out on top.
"NO!"
Shame. She had a nice pair, as Robert pulled back his gore covered hammer and swung it at a Bolton backstabber who thought he was distracted.
– Lord Eddard Stark –
This was a slaughter.
The Skagosi were a brutal people, but unprepared for true combat and what it entailed. They weren't soldiers, and lacked discipline and training. They had strength, but when it came to organised battlelines, they were as much a hindrance as a help to the Boltons.
The Boltons were exhausted from the march, unprepared for a real battle and followed the incompetent orders of a Bastard who only had a vague understanding of actual military tactics. This was by no means painless, but for each of their men who fell, five Boltons or Skagosi lost their lives.
But as callous as it may sound, it wasn't the sight of his dead men that was causing him this particular pain as he moved forward toward the 'Battering Ram'. Ramsay Snow was a cruel bastard, and Ned could only do his best to end the suffering of the undead Hodor, his skin grey and rotting. The massive wooden maul swung at him, and Ned ducked under it as he swung Ice with purpose, cleaving flesh and bone as the arm holding the weapon was removed in a single swift movement.
He knew some of the staff of Winterfell had escaped, having heard from Maester Luwin who had escaped during the chaos and fled to the Karstarks. He also knew that for every one that survived, a dozen would have died when Winterfell was taken.
Hodor roared in pain, a meaty hand swinging toward him and despite his newfound vigor, he couldn't move away in time to stop it from landing directly in his chest, sending Ned rolling along the ground with a grunt of pain, but he was soon back up again. If Hodor was in there, he showed no recognition and Ned charged again, ignoring the pain in his chest.
The creature, and that was what it had become, was barely intelligent. It could hardly tell friend from foe and just as many Boltons were crushed in its charge as his own man. When he charged, it charged back, seeing him as the cause of its pain and wanting to crush him for it. Ned was ready, moving with a vigor he hadn't had since the Tower of Joy.
When your opponent only has one hand, it's easy to work out how it's going to attack. Another clumsy but devastating blow was sent his way, but Ned slipped to the side and swung, first low as his blade sliced through Hodor's leg just below the knee, causing the lumbering beast to fall to one knee as he swung a second time, an arc he was all too familiar with as he delivered the executioner's swing. Hodor barely had time to realise what was happening as Ice carved through the grey, dead flesh of his neck and the large malformed head fell to the floor.
Ned paused, staring at Hodor's lifeless eyes, before he mentally sent a prayer to the Old Gods and gathered himself. It was far from over as he looked toward the second battle of note.
Robb, in his wolvish glory, stood tall against his opponent but despite the feral power that Hircine had granted his son… Robb hesitated to attack the single figure standing against him.
Jon Snow stared back with baleful red eyes that looked toward him as he approached, a sneer on his lips revealing a fanged grimace.
Several dead Stark men laid around him, his fangs and claws coated red, and Ned cursed the Boltons even as he stared at Lyanna's son, who he'd sworn to protect. Ned could see the wounds Robb had already sustained, blood seeping from his clawed side.
"Jon," Ned said, packing far too much emotion into a single word.
"Father," Jon replied, a disturbed look on his face. So, he wasn't mindless? Ned didn't know if that was a curse or a blessing. "My lord has ordered me to kill you."
"Fight him," Robb demanded, words garbled by his elongated mouth. Jon hesitated, but before he could speak, he flinched and let out a pained sound, his eyes glowing a deeper blood red.
"He's angry, and he likes cracking the whip," Jon said, almost sardonically. "I'm sorry."
With his piece said, Jon sped forward at speeds that made Ned gape in disbelief, crossing the clearing in a single movement. He didn't know what had possessed Ramsay to turn Jon, what sick pleasure he got from this, but for a moment, Ned couldn't deny that he feared it would be his end before Robb collided with Jon midlunge, sending the pair rolling off the side as they clawed at each other.
Robb was holding back, unwilling to land a fatal blow on his brother, but Jon was not so hesitant as he sliced Robb's hide apart with his deadly claws, kicking Robb off him with enough force to send Robb flying back.
Jon charged again, almost blurring with the sheer speed but once more something interrupted him as an arrow flew through the night and struck Jon directly. He'd reacted, stopping before he got hit directly, but even still the golden arrow embedded itself in Jon's shoulder as Jon let out a pained hiss.
Ned couldn't even see Orys.
– King Orys Baratheon –
Ramsay's idiocy let us get this far, but…
Watching Barristan the Bold get thrown back, armour dented, I have to admit that this is by no means an easy fight. My arrow flies true, striking like lightning but Ramsay bursts into mist again, the arrow flying through him. He caught the first one, but it burnt his hand for his troubles and unfortunately, he can learn from mistakes.
I can't have Lord Stark die here, not when we're about to besiege Winterfell. The morale loss in the Northern men would be devastating, but I can hardly pay attention to both fights as Ramsay charges me. Reforming, he lunges forward with a wild snarl but Dacey stayed close for that exact reason as she meets his charge, claws shredding Ramsay's leathers but if being disembowelled is a problem, Ramsay doesn't show it as he throws the giant she-bear away and continue charging, dodging another arrow as he closes the distance. In an all too familiar movement that Barristan made me train until I could do it with my eyes closed, I drop my bow and draw my blade in a single fluid move, grabbing my shield and raising it to block the blow.
It sends me reeling back, his fists hitting like father's hammer.
Still, it seems he can't learn that quickly as he lets out a pained hiss and I smirk as I brace with my shield and bash him with the blessed metal. Hurts, doesn't it? I'm glad he was too stupid to consider that my shield is made of the same material.
But once more, Ramsay has rushed in when he should have been more cautious, and with a prayer under my breath, I swipe my shield to the side and hold my blade aloft, pulsing with golden light as he screeches as it hits. Sorry Ramsay, I brought my own sun.
He doesn't just stand there, backing away like the cornered rat he is as I swing for him. He made enough distance that I merely clip him rather than carve him open, but my sword continues to glow as my eyes do the same. Cornered animals are when they are at their most dangerous, and Ramsay hisses at me. I wonder if he realises how… animalistic he has become? The Kingsguard surround him as close in, giving him little room to run with the light weakening him, but once more, he shows his true colours and turns to mist as he flies into the sky.
He's done that trick too much, the fool. Like him, I learn too and Harrold has my bow back in my hands before I can finish the order. As much of a prat Hardyng can be sometimes, I have to give credit where it is due, because he's followed me into hell rather than stay behind at the Eyrie.
"Arrow," I order, one being placed in my hand in an instant as I draw back my bow and stare into the distance.
Hircine, guide my shot.
– Ramsay Snow –
This- this meant nothing. They could be replaced, they were just mortals. The sounds of his men being slaughtered reached him as he landed far from the bridge, on the other side of the river, panting to himself. Using the mist form was exhausting, but without the forces slowing him down he could be back in Winterfell before sunrise.
His father would understand, they couldn't have a true vampire being slain and making the smallfolk think they could be opposed. No, this was still manageable. It was still recoverable.
No. He was lying. He was running with his tail between his legs. He'd left his men to die. Violet had been crushed like an insect. He had to go back to his father and admit he'd failed at every task he was given. It'd be more merciful to stand here and wait for sunrise, but Ramsay felt a shard of ice in his unbeating heart.
He'd thought his new powers made him immortal, but… he wasn't the only one with powers, and he'd overestimated himself, but he wasn't going to die here. He refused to.
Running without looking back, his only warning was a glow coming from behind as he spun around with a snarl, ready to defend himself. In the night sky, the bolt of light was so clear as it flew toward him with unerring accuracy. Ramsay knew better than to catch or bat it aside, and simply dodge to the side.
Despite everything, he still couldn't help but gape as the arrow changed course to hit him anyway, piercing his chest as the golden light engulfed him and from his heart, he watched his chest turn to ash.
As it reached his head, all Ramsay could think was that this was unfair, but before long nothing but dust remained.
– Jon Snow –
He felt the moment Ramsay died, the voice in the back of his head demanding blood going blissfully silent. It wasn't a moment too soon, as his attack on the man who'd treated him like a trueborn son ended before he could rip out Lord Stark's throat.
Ramsay had enjoyed 'chatting' with him about their shared bastardhood, rubbing it in Jon's nose that he'd had a life any bastard prayed for, and hadn't truly appreciated it until Ramsay had taken it away.
Standing over the bloodied Lord Stark, Jon stared down at his beaten and bruised father with regret and shame as he looked over his blood stained hands. How many had he killed now? Ramsay liked having his 'Dog' attack Stark men.
He could feel his power waning. Not vanishing entirely, but certainly being stripped away as he closed his eyes and waited for death. It was the fitting end for him, and he made no attempt to tell the others that he was no longer under Ramsay's control.
Somehow, he was unsurprised when instead of a blade or claw, he was clubbed over the head instead as he was sent sprawling, head swimming as he looked toward his attacker, seeing Robb wielding Hodor's wooden maul.
"Sorry about this," Robb growled, as a furred foot came down on his face and sent him out of the realm of consciousness.
— Bonus Scene — Joffrey Baratheon
Sometimes, the world itself provided him with the answer to his problems.
After all his musing on how to deal with Margaery, how to remove the threat of the spawn growing inside her womb, and like magic, or a blessing from the gods finally going his way, the answer revealed itself.
Jars of wildfire? A passage that goes straight to the royal bedchambers? There was talk of filling it in but it hadn't been bricked up yet. Everyone was so busy showering their beloved King with praise for his campaign, not focusing on the real work that needed to be done. So he'd taken the smallest of the great castles in Westeros, who cared? He'd also taken all the best soldiers in the Seven Kingdoms to do all the actual work for him. He'd also selfishly taken the entire Kingsguard, leaving his wife undefended.
Creeping through the tunnels, he felt his heart beat rapidly. There had been a pair of Tyrell guards at the entrance but it was late and he'd found their shifts. Slipping past took time, patience and cunning but he had all three. Under his heavy cloak, the jar felt so heavy in his hands as he took the long path toward the Red Keep.
He'd heard his mother speaking with Grandfather, about how just about every house with a daughter would see the pregnancy as a threat. He'd left no traces, no witnesses, nothing to lead back to him. The bitch would die screaming in green flames, and he'd be gone. Then he just needed Orys to die in the North and he'd be free to claim his rightful throne. It was a shame Margaery kept guards outside, as he'd have to throw the jar and leave immediately. He'd have preferred a few hours with her first.
The walk was exhausting, the tunnel seemingly endless, but he knew he would reach his destination. He'd heard them talking, this tunnel only went one place with no detours or branches. It was perfect for him.
Creeping closer, he turned what had to be the final corner from all the climbing and froze in place as four Tyrell guards stared back at him. His face was covered, but fear gripped him and he turned and ran back down the tunnel before he got an idea.
They couldn't chase him if they were burning, and he still had the jar!
Stopping, he spun around and tossed it with all his might, a superior smirk on his lips.
It went less than a quarter of the way to the guards, exploding as it hit the ground and Joffrey could only stare in horror as a green flash and a wave of heat struck him.
– Lady Cersei Baratheon –
…as she listened to the Maesters' report, she had to ask herself. Had she dropped Joffrey on his head as a baby? Several times? Down flights of stairs?
Joffrey had survived, but only barely. The flames had scarred his face, looking similar to the Hound he'd used to mock, only with none of his strength or skill. He was bedridden, arms and legs burnt to a crisp. He was a cripple… and it was perfect.
He'd removed himself from the board, before she'd had to do it first. Her plan to have Sansa become the true power in the Stormlands as Lady Baratheon looked more possible than ever. Joffrey certainly wouldn't be able to… perform, but people didn't need to know that. Orys could heal the worst of his wounds, but leave just enough damage from the cursed fire to leave Joffrey incapable and manageable.
The Tyrell Guards were singed, but mostly unharmed as they'd had shields and had wisely hid behind them, and at distance. The single jar was dangerous, but Joffrey had failed to throw it far enough and they'd been fine.
"We can't let people know what he was planning," Margaery said first, before Cersei could even speak up. This was attempted regicide, and kinslaying with his niece and nephew in Margaery's stomach. "It would do more damage to Orys' reputation than it would to his, and I'd say that fate itself saw him punished for his crimes well enough."
She looked at her gooddaughter before she gave her a single approving nod.
"Agreed. We can pass this off as stupidity rather than malice. An underestimation of the wildfire he was playing with," Cersei agreed. "You know my plans for Sansa, I take it?"
"I do. I'll speak with my grandmother about helping train her to keep Joffrey toothless," Margaery offered, and Cersei paused before nodding once again. Few could tear down a man as efficiently as the Queen of Thorns. She wasn't surprised Margaery knew, as she suspected there was little Orys knew that he hadn't shared.
Looking down at Margaery's stomach, she paused. She was to be a grandmother. The term should make her feel… old, past her prime. Instead, the idea that Joffrey had almost ended her grandchildren's lives out of petty jealousy and flawed ambition left her worried… and furious.
She would never permit another to get the chance.