The Prince that Was Promised (Xiumin/Chen, Sehun) 3/?
the prince that was promised [dance of the dragons] | xiuchen, sehun | strong r almost nc-17 if you squint | 5645 words | game of thrones au | tightly based on a song of ice and fire series, minseok of house stark assumes lord of winterfell; sehun, the master of whisperers, sends word on the death of the hand of the king
tw: mentions of rape, incest, gore, violence, homosexual tension, heavy asoiaf spoilers
exo belongs to sm and asoiaf belongs to george r r martin
chapter one | chapter two
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Winterfell
Most young men around Minseok’s age would ache to leave the wintry expanse of the North. They would talk about leaving for the southern lands, or find work in the capital, or take ship to the Free Cities. Most of Minseok’s friends, sons of sworn bannermen to his house, were pledging to become knights in the far corners of Westeros, to either bring honor to their houses or just seek adventure. They asked the son of their liege lord if he had any aspirations of leaving Winterfell like his lord father did back during Robert’s Rebellion. “I have no reason to,” he would say. “The peace has been kept for over fifteen years. My place is in Winterfell.” There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, a line his father, Eddard, the Warden of the North would say to his children, and Minseok took that to heart. Lord Eddard Stark was the most honorable and humble man Minseok had ever known. He taught his sons to be honest and godly boys, and taught them how to swing a sword. He also taught them, as ascendant Lords of Winterfell, to judge and rule the region without any bias; to honor the Old Way, but distribute fairness throughout the North. Eddard was a beloved man by many, his honor and good faith to the common folk was well known from the Barrowlands to The Last Hearth. He taught his sons, Minseok most of all, that a lord mustn’t think of defending his glory, or treasures, but defending the cooks in the hold’s kitchens, or the millers and farmers, or the village children. “Defend the people,” he said. “Defend the weak and the good, the loyal and the god-fearing, for they are more important than short-lived glory and all the gold in the realm.”
“The people are my treasure, father.” Minseok answered. Eddard smiled softly, a rare thing, and patted his eldest son on the shoulder. Minseok would like to believe he made his lord father and lady mother proud.
A young man several months into his nineteenth nameday, Minseok was favored and idolized by the young. He was adept with a sword and rode a horse well. He was strong and agile, and despite his duties as a nobleman he never thought about status when he played with sons of butchers, millers, and smiths. He was well learned in history, arithmetics, and military strategy. “You are becoming more like Ned each day.” Maester Luwin said once, and Minseok was overcome with joy.
The last of the Winter ice was melting, but remnants of frost and snow stayed, determined to endure the Summer. Minseok was in the private courtyard with his brothers, Bran, who was nine, Rickon, a four year old, and his half-brother Jon Snow, a boy of five-and-ten. Minseok’s best friend and ward Jongdae Greyjoy stood beside Rickon, grinning as always. Eddard and his lady wife Catelyn of House Tully watched their eldest son teach Bran how to aim a bow. Jongdae was more proficient with a bow, Minseok would admit, but Eddard insisted the Ascendant Lord of Winterfell would teach his brothers.
“Relax your bow arm,” he reminded Bran, adjusting the small boy’s right elbow. “Keep it high, but don’t tense up.”
“Don’t think too much, Bran.” Jon added. Bran drew in a deep breath, and notched an arrow. He pulled the bow string back, keeping it level to his eye. Minseok felt Bran had tensed the bow long enough, and had ample time for aiming at the target. “You can loose,” he murmured.
At the last second Bran tensed. He loosed the arrow, releasing it with a twang, but it fell short and lodged itself into the ground. Jongdae’s grin split his face as he erupted into laughter, Rickon laughing along with him. Minseok chuckled. “You tensed again!” He commented, and Jon gave a tight-lipped smile.
“And which one of you was a marksman at Bran’s age?” Eddard called from the tower. Minseok looked up and saw his father and mother laughing down at them. If Minseok looked closely, maybe he saw mirth in his father’s deep brown eyes.
“Keep practicing.” He called out, and crossed his arms. Bran notched another arrow to his bow, Jon leaning forward again to guide Bran on his marksmanship.
Jongdae headed towards Minseok, his grin softening but his eyes twinkled with merriment. “Remember when you first picked up the bow, and you shot the stable boy's arse?” He said and Minseok squinted in pain at the memory. Despite his skill with a blade, his marksmanship left something to be desired. Minseok never had the accuracy with a bow that Jongdae had.
Minseok remembered after the Greyjoy Rebellion, his lord father returned to Winterfell with a small boy, wide eyed and trembling from the cold, and introduced his young son to Jongdae. Jongdae was a wiry thing, half-starved with empty cold eyes. Eddard hid the boy’s cloak of black and sable under his spare furs. Eddard explained that Jongdae was the third son of Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. Maester Luwin insisted what Minseok’s lord father intended to do with the Greyjoy whelp was unthinkable; the Greyjoys were not to be trusted, but Eddard assured the maester that with Jongdae as a hostage, it would quell the Iron Fleet from storming the mainland, and stopping further bloodshed. Minseok was glad to have a friend his age, and someone from noble birth. His lady mother insisted he play with someone of his social ranking from time to time. “You are heir to Winterfell,” she said. “You must remember to play with those who are equal to you.” But the closest to Winterfell was House Cerwyn, and Lord Medger Cerwyn only had a daughter that was far too old for him, and Cley Cerwyn, his only son, was still at his mother’s breast; far too young to play knights and bandits with. Besides, even if he is a lord, he’s still a human, like the butcher’s son and the guard’s cousins; they were all the same to him. It took months for Jongdae to warm up to Minseok, and years for the inhabitants of Winterfell to warm up to a Greyjoy heir being raised in their keep, but Minseok kept Jongdae close to him, even after Bran and Rickon were born. Minseok and Jongdae grew to trust one another, sometimes people would think they could reach each other’s thoughts.
Jongdae grew up to be a comely lad, not hard to look upon. He was charming, jovial, and always upbeat. It was hard to be serious around him; Lady Catelyn would frequently send pointed looks to her son whenever the two joke while Eddard held high court. Jongdae was a bit of a lech, and would frequently mention his birthright to rule the Iron Islands to the girls, and would visit the brothels. Jongdae claimed he had every whore in his bed at least once. “The spot between a girl’s legs is the best place,” he mentioned once. “You should have Ros warm your bed tonight, she’ll set you up right. I’ll even set up the coin for you, though I know you can afford it.” Minseok never had any interest in the whores; he was a man of honor. The first woman to share his bed would be the one he would be promised to wed. If Jongdae ever felt any respect for Minseok’s wishes, he barely showed it.
With Jon taking lead in teaching Bran and Rickon how to shoot, Minseok felt free to roam to the godswood. Jongdae followed suit, mentioning how he was going to see if he could sneak the miller’s daughter into his bedchamber later tonight.
“The miller’s daughter? Which one?”
“You know the girl with the curly dark hair and great big teats? She flashed us when we returned from hunting with Bran and you didn’t think Bran saw it, but he did.” Minseok remembered. He was pretty sure it was the milkmaid who flashed them, but Minseok averted his eyes from the sight as quick as he could, and tried to erase the impure moment from his mind.
“You need to quit thinking with that prick between your legs.” Is all he said.
“It’s the only sword that always swings true.” Minseok could practically hear the grin stretching Jongdae’s face, even though he wasn’t facing him.
The keep was bustling with servants doing their duties and guards on patrol. Each person that passed them would not forget to bow, and Minseok would bow in return. It was a ten minute stroll to the godswood, and when they entered, the sounds of the keep seemed far away, muted. The godswood was a sacred grove that had been untouched for over ten thousand years. Lord Eddard explained that when the First Men took up the Old Faith, they created godswoods, out of the heart tree. It was a serene place that Minseok grew to enjoy. The quiet helped him think about his future. He knelt at the shore of the black pond, the snow wetting his breeches, but he ignored it. Jongdae stood behind Minseok. Even though he adopted the Old Faith, Jongdae was unsure if he was worthy of praying to the old gods. “I was born under the blessings of salt and rock by the Drowned God,” he explained. “It would be a jape if I prayed to something I wasn’t born into.”
“My lady mother was born under the Faith of the Seven,” Minseok explained. “But when she married my lord father she adopted the old gods. She prays to both.”
“I still feel like an outsider.”
“Don’t be.” Minseok continued to pray. The quiet was heavy around them, and he could focus on the sound of Jongdae shifting in his boots. He got up after praying for the health of the servant boy who came down with the fever last week, and turned to Jongdae, who bowed his head in prayer. Minseok caught himself staring at the way the Greyjoy’s dark hair fell over his face. It was dark as night, and closely framed his face. Minseok took in every detail of Jongdae, enjoying one of the few moments where Jongdae was serious.
When they were alone, truly alone, Minseok would run his fingers through the softness. Jongdae would grunt at the feel of fingers at his scalp, pressing hard kisses into Minseok’s neck. Their friendship brought them to new levels of closeness. When Jongdae was too lonely and he ran out of girls to warm his bed, he’d sneak into Minseok’s quarters and slip under the furs, pressing his mouth at the base of Minseok’s throat. Minseok resisted at first, but before he knew it the Greyjoy’s hand would be fisting the Stark’s cock, far too rough for Minseok’s taste, but who was he to tell his best friend to stop? Jongdae liked to bite the areas of Minseok’s body where he knew it would be hidden by his furs, and Minseok liked to kiss down Jongdae’s chest, scratching his buttocks in his lust. “Your skin tastes of salt,” he half moaned into Jongdae’s ear.
Jongdae had groaned when Minseok pressed a finger inside him, a fingernail scratching him. “That’s because I was blessed by the ancient god of salt and rock,” he answered. “I have the sea in me.” Minseok had never seen the sea, and momentarily pictured a large body of water birthing an army of Greyjoys that look like Jongdae.
When Minseok awoke Jongdae already left his quarters. Disoriented and his seed dried on his stomach, Minseok wasn’t sure if last night was a dream. He learned that it wasn’t when he snuck into Jongdae’s room and took the sleeping Greyjoy’s manhood into his mouth, and Jongdae moaned the Stark’s name, and they did all the things Jongdae only did with whores. They didn’t share each other’s bed as often as Minseok would like; Jongdae would eventually find another girl and have his way with her. Minseok secretly hated Jongdae’s passion for bedding women, when Minseok was already in front of him willing to reciprocate all of Jongdae’s kisses and touches. But it had to be a secret; he’s to be Warden of the North. He and Jongdae were friends.
Jongdae finished his prayer and noticed Minseok staring at him. “What is it, my lord?” He asked softly, his grin threatening to surface. His eyes were green flecked with spots of brown and blue. Your eyes are the color of the sea, I bet. Minseok closed the space between them and his fingers carded the soft dark hair. Jongdae pressed his lips to Minseok, tongue snaking into his mouth. He grabbed at the Stark’s furs, pressing their chests together.
“Even I wouldn’t be balls deep in the purest nubile pleasure girl in this place,” Jongdae breathed when they parted.
“Nonsense, I know you would have that milkmaid on all fours in the godswood as you pounded into her,” Minseok licked down the Greyjoy’s salty neck, reaching into Jongdae’s fur cloak and unlacing the front of his breeches. It was all Minseok could do not to push Jongdae to his and fuck him on all fours. It wasn’t the time or the place; maybe after they supped Minseok would pay a visit to Jongdae’s room. Jongdae was in the middle of biting Minseok’s collarbone when the two heard the distant call of Catelyn Stark calling for her son. They pulled apart, Jongdae scrambling to tie his breeches and Minseok to straighten his doublet.
Catelyn appeared at the entrance of the godswood, walking tall and proud. Jongdae commented once that Minseok’s lady mother was made of ice; haughty and unforgiving, and Minseok refrained from beating Jongdae into the dirt. Lady Catelyn had eyes that looked as if they peered into the souls of people, and could tell if a person was false. If Eddard taught his children how to be honorable, then Catelyn taught them to be open, generous, yet strong and relentless in upholding their duty. Family, Duty, Honor; Minseok kept to House Tully’s words as he did to House Stark.
If Catelyn noticed the sudden rumpled appearance of her son, she chose to ignore it. “Your father is looking for you two.” Her solemn expression tightened. “They caught a deserter from the Wall.”
Minseok sighed. “Do we really have to go through this again? What if the man has a family?”
“We must keep The Old Way,” Jongdae reminded. “The man is a deserter. There’s no excuse.”
Catelyn guarded her emotions, something Minseok saw his mother do every time this issue was raised. “I think Bran is too young to see this,” she said after a moment. “He’ll have nightmares-“
“I was seven when they caught a deserter from the Wall, deep in the snows. I watched it happen then.” Minseok told her. It didn’t scare him, Minseok would admit, but the traditions of The Old Way seemed too barbaric; he remembered his innocence shattering into shards of glass. “Bran needs to grow up and learn more of The Old Way.” Simple as that. But he wondered if Bran wished for an alternative to the deserter’s fate just as he did.
・
Snow drifted lightly from the sky; flakes of cold falling and sticking to Minseok’s face. The grounds outside the walls of Winterfell were hardened from permafrost, and it crunched under their boots as they walked to the banners surrounding the deserter. Jon had his hand on Bran’s back, guiding him behind their father. Jongdae had the honor of carrying Ice, House Stark’s ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword. He seemed to have gotten used to carrying it around; the first time he did he nearly fell over from the weight, and he dragged it across the ground because his arms were not strong enough.
The deserter was not much to look at. He had to be a steward; too weak to be a Ranger of the Night’s Watch. Or maybe it was because he was running for so long without food or rest, Minseok thought. A man of at least fifty, he had lost two fingers and most of his teeth. Frostbite was beginning to appear on the rest of his fingers, his nose red and snot crusting on his face. He was heavily pock marked in the cheeks, lost both of his ears, and seemed to have lost his Night’s Watch cloak. He was shivering, but no one made a move to cover him in a cloak. He was kneeling on the frozen ground, trembling as Eddard approached him.
“M’lord,” he shakily started. “I know I broken a sacred vow. Night gathers, and so my watch begins. I know I deserted the Night’s Watch. But I was afraid, I was. They killed the party, all of them, they were dead.” The man rambled on for a moment, but Eddard patiently listened to him. Minseok looked at the man but didn’t see him.
“White Walkers,” the deserter finally returned to coherency. “I saw them. They’ve returned.” He looked hard into Eddard’s eyes, and Minseok almost believed him. “I know that my leaving the Night’s Watch must not go unpunished m’lord. I just ask one thing, if it please you m’lord. My family, they live on a farm by Greywater Watch. Tell them that I saw what I saw. I know I did, I know…” the deserter’s voice fell into a hushed whisper, mumbling to himself. Minseok wondered if he was praying to the old gods.
Eddard reached over to Jongdae and slowly drew Ice from its great sheath. Ice demanded the strongest arms to wield it. It was taller than Minseok, and he struggled with wielding it, despite all his training. The bannermen laid the man’s head on the weathered chopping block, and to Minseok’s surprise the man didn’t resist like the others. Eddard grasped Ice by its sheath and knelt, his words hushed, but Minseok heard as he strained to listen. “In the name of Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name…”
“Don’t look away,” Minseok heard Jon whisper to Bran. “Father will know if you do.”
“Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.” Eddard got up, his jaw clenching, and swiftly swung Ice down on the deserter’s neck, cleanly severing the head from its body. Minseok didn’t blink. Eddard handed Ice to Jongdae who dutifully wiped the shimmering steel with a cloth before sheathing it. The bannermen began to take the deserter’s body away, and Eddard stalked off into the woods back to Winterfell.
“You did well,” Jon murmured to Bran. Minseok caught a glimpse of his brother’s face. There was no emotion, just like Minseok’s face when he saw his first kill. He’ll have dreams though, gods preserve him. He wondered if his father would send the man’s corpse back to Greywater March. I wonder what his name was. Snowflakes caught on his eyelashes and lips, and he tasted them, the faint linger of salt on his tongue. His eyes swiped to Jongdae, who has a small grin on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“White walkers, eh?” Jongdae said softly
“Mad men see only madness,” Minseok shrugged. He heard a man heave the deserter’s corpse into a cart say the ranger was named Gared.
“Do you think he lied?”
“White Walkers haven’t been around for thousands of years. The last time they were spotted a ranger killed an Other eight thousand years ago.” It was simply madness that overcame Gared, gods be good.
Eddard had his hand on Bran’s shoulder for a moment as they headed back into the wood. They walked for several moments when the steward Donnis paused and stopped walking. Eddard noticed his steward not following him, and halted the party. “What is it, Donnis?” He asked.
“M’lord, forgive me, but do you smell that?” Donnis sniffed the air, and Minseok inhaled deeply, cloying stench of blood still in his nostrils. He assumed it was the smell of Gared that followed him, but it only seemed to get stronger. This smells wilder, He thought. The party agreed; the smell of blood was thick in the wood.
“Look!” Bran said and Jon leapt down the bank, snow crunching under his boots. Minseok and Jongdae followed after him, and Donnis and Eddard peered down.
The carcass of a direwolf was spread on the ground, blood pooling from a wound in its stomach. Its head appeared to be crusted in its own blood. The corpse of a stag, its great antlers piercing the flesh of the direwolf, was next to it, a large gash on its neck oozing dark blood. Minseok blinked to get used to the putrid odor, bile threatening to rise. Men don’t vomit, especially not at a little animal blood.
“A direwolf,” Eddard approached the dead animals, and knelt to the antlers. “No one has seen one in hundreds of years.” Our house sigil, Minseok thought. Even in death, it still looked far fearsome than any beast he was told in stories.
“What does it mean?” He asked his father. Eddard stared at the bodies, oblivious to his eldest son’s question. “Father?” He tried again.
“It’s a sign,” Eddard answered softly. What it was, he never explained. Eddard turned on his heel and made way to walk back up to Donnis when the first whine of a pup came from the underside of the direwolf. Everyone looked and saw five little wet noses peeking from the sodden fur.
Minseok bent down and cradled a little direwolf pup, scrawny with twigs and dirt in its fur, but the grime failed to hide the healthy silver coat. The pup whined again and buried its nose into Minseok’s furs. “Direwolf pups,” he breathed.
“Leave them.” Eddard moved again.
“No father!” Bran protested. A protest caught in Minseok’s throat. Please don’t let us leave them.
“They are wild animals and do not belong in-“
“Lord Stark,” Jon Snow interrupted his father. “There are five pups, one for each of your sons and daughters.” Bran picked up two and Jongdae picked up another two. “Your children were meant to have them.” And what of you, you’re the son of my father as well.
“And what about you?” Eddard’s grey eyes peered hard into Jon.
Jon didn’t flinch. “I’m just a bastard,” he answered. “I’m not a true Stark.” The blood of the First Men flows in you, you’re a Stark no matter what my lady mother says. Minseok wanted to interject.
Eddard stared at his sons, Minseok silently pleading, please let us keep them. The direwolves made a noise, and Minseok’s heart broke. Please let us keep them.
“You will raise them yourselves, and you will feed them yourselves,” Eddard sighed. “And when they die, you will bury them yourselves.” He stalked off with Donnis at his heels, not bothering to wait for his children. Jongdae handed Minseok the two other pups, one a fair brown and white and the other with black and white stripes on its back. They wiggled in Minseok’s grasp, but he held them carefully, holding them close to his chest for warmth. One for Sansa, and one for Arya, he was sure his two sisters would love a pet.
Jon had found another pup, this one cast out from the litter. The irony, Minseok thought. The pup was smaller than the rest, and a coat as pure as untouched snow. “Looks like you got one yourself, Snow.” Jongdae grinned, this one reaching his eyes, but Minseok could see that his best friend looked a little envious. Sorry you can’t find little krakens in the sea. The sea births people who look like Jongdae.
Later, when Minseok was alone in his room and nursing his silver pup with milk, Jongdae appeared at Minseok’s doorway, solemn for once. He wondered if Jongdae was going to kiss him and made a move to put his wolf pup down, when Jongdae stopped him and told him his uncle Hyunjin Arryn, Hand of the King and Lord Protector of the Vale was dead.
・
King’s Landing
Sehun wasn’t sure which city was filled with the most shit- Myr, or King’s Landing. King’s Landing’s shit is flecked with gold and blood, Sehun crinkled his nose as he padded silently down the halls of the Great Sept of Baelor, the Silent Sisters working on preparing the body of Hyunjin Arryn. The elderly Hand’s body was laid out on an embroidered cloth on top of a stone slab, as if the bit of cloth would appease the corpse’s stiff back. He’s not going to notice the difference, The Master of Whisperers blinked at the corpse. Poor Hyunjin Arryn, well-loved and respected by His Grace and the realm, died suddenly after battling a swift madness and fever that overtook his healthy body. Being on the Small Council with Arryn Sehun could notice the influence the Hand had on King Robert, but whether the King had any sense in his thick skull to listen to his Hand Sehun wouldn’t know. He had married thrice, and had two young and dashing sons. I wonder how his son is handling with our Prince. He watched as the Silent Sisters fitted Hyunjin into a royal doublet of sky blue celeste, with House Arryn’s sigil of the white falcon over the full moon. An ancestral amulet, which Sehun believed was passed down to each Lord of Vale by the Artys Arryn after the Coming of the Andals was draped over the corpse’s hands. Or was it from The Last King of Mountain and Vale? Sehun wasn’t as versed with Westerosi history as the other lords; mainly because he wasn’t from the realm. He never tried to remember the early years before he was sold as a slave in Lys, and the years after that. He did remember to keep the memories of his early days with Illyrio in Pentos. Those were the only good times, after the warlock took my manhood and left me to die. The gaping wound between Sehun’s legs never healed properly; it crusted and scabbed occasionally, and Sehun had a difficult time adjusting to the feeling of the scabs scratching between his legs and oozing. He supposed that his castration was another reason why Aerys wanted him in the Small Council. A man without a cock between his legs would prove easy to bind and control to the King’s whim, but it was Sehun who liked to think he controlled Aerys; whispering half-truths into the Mad King’s ear about lords scheming against the Targaryens. He got accustomed to the little passageways and tunnels of the Red Keep that few (or if any) of its inhabitants knew. He and his little birds used these tunnels to secretly carry secrets and other valuable bits of information to the outside world. He never bragged, but he thought himself as the most important (and the most dangerous) man in King’s Landing, so dangerous that King Robert spared him after the Sack of King’s Landing and kept him on the Small Council. There were many things Sehun knew and little he didn’t, but what sort of sorcery overcame the Hand that he was healthy one day, feverish the next and dead on the morrow? Hyunjin was someone Sehun grew to trust; someone he trusted so much he allowed the man to send his eldest and most promising son to the Free Cities to bring back the last Targaryen. A shame, I liked him. Sehun frowned and crossed his arms over his fuchsia robes, watching the Silent Sisters align Hyunjin’s legs and place painted stones over the corpse’s eyes.
He heard hushed voices fill the heavy silence of the sept. On instinct, Sehun hid himself in the shadows, virtually unseen by the two visitors. One wore fine steel boots that clanked against the stone floors regardless how soft he walked, and the other wore the finest silks that swept quietly behind her feet. A sweep of golden hair and Sehun knew it was Queen Cersei and her twin brother Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, though Sehun observed, Jaime guarded the Queen more than he did the King. A mere observation, nothing more. Sehun strained to listen as the Queen and her brother conversed in the corner of the sept.
“A shame, really, Robert really admired him,” Cersei sounded anything but shameful.
“That’s rich, Robert admiring someone,” Jaime scoffed, his perfect golden hair falling into place as he shook his head. “Maybe the old Hand had a cunt between his knobby legs that Robert would have a go with when no one was looking, that would give him something to admire.”
“Mind your tongue, this is the sept,” Cersei warned, but there was a sly smile on her face, her green eyes glittering with mirth. “You remember the Sack, with my lord father and my husband, Ned Stark, and Jon Arryn sieging the city. Arryn practically raised Robert and Stark, and helped the Baratheons raise banners against the Mad King.” She looked down at Hyunjin’s corpse. “Was he a good fighter?”
“Fast for his age,” Jaime said. “Almost as quick with a sword as Ser Yixing, but better with a bow. He was never apt to using it.”
“Did you see Lady Lysa? What did she have to say about her lord husband’s death?” Where did Lady Lysa run off to? Sehun wondered. With her lord husband lying dead in the sept, one would think she’d stand by his side, covered in black, weeping dramatically.
“She is embarking back to the Eyrie, her son Chinho is ruling the Vale. She did mention through her insufferable wailing, that Lord Arryn was hale and healthy as Robert.”
“That’s a horrible comparison,” Jaime griped. “Jon Arryn was at least healthier than our fat king.” That Sehun would have to agree. “It does puzzle me how he died; he could’ve outlived Robert, with the way the King’s been living.”
Cersei shrugged. “Grand Maester Pycelle seems to think he was murdered, but he wasn’t entirely sure.” She suggested, and Sehun’s eyebrows rose. Murdered?
“Murdered? By whom? And why? Jon Arryn was liked by many in the capital.”
“Who murdered the Hand I can’t say, but why,” Cersei trailed off, staring into the torchlight.
“I heard from Pycelle, that Lord Arryn was searching through the Baratheon lineage,” Jaime put in. “Wondering if your children are Robert’s trueborn heirs.” He snorted. “Miserable bag of shit, that old man.”
Cersei looked at her brother and shared a knowing look. Sehun may or may not have slipped to Lord Arryn that he’d seen the Queen open her legs to her brother and fuck each other until they were too spent to put themselves together. Sehun was positive that all three of Cersei’s children were Jaime’s, and not Robert’s. Well who would want to have Robert’s seed in their bellies? Sehun couldn’t blame them.
“We kept that a secret, you and me,” she said. “No one knows.” But I know. I know everything, Sehun thought. “But a little investigating myself and I found out Robert’s loyal and good friend Lord Arryn may have been conspiring against the Throne.” We kept that a secret, who found out? Who told?
“The honorable Lord Arryn, sneaking behind his beloved King’s back?” Jaime japed. “Who would’ve thought? The Seven preserve our souls, may we never see that day.”
“Turns out a soiled knight kept a Targaryen babe from the slaughter, and Arryn knew, but didn’t stop him.” Jaime’s eyes widened and took his royal sister by the arm.
“Is what you are saying true?” His voice turned into a hoarse whisper. “A Targaryen alive?”
“Little birds come and go; some of it fascinating tales woven out of air, others real. If it’s real, then someone did my lord husband a favor,” Cersei said dryly, prying out of Jaime’s grasp, but Sehun noticed reluctance in her parting. “I’ll have Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Sehun inform Robert about a Targaryen prince still being alive. That would excite him, no doubt.” Who told who told who told? It seemed as if Sehun wasn’t being suspected, but it was a well-kept secret he had for sixteen years, and the only one who knew was the man dead on the stone slab. The Queen and Jaime left to another corner, and Sehun skittered away, unseen, and out of the sept.
A little bird has been chirping to unwanted ears, he thought. And I’ll have to pluck some wings away. He headed back to the Red Keep, preparing how to send word to Hyunjin’s son in Pentos that his father was dead.
-I'm sitting here wishing I could go back and add other idols as the other characters because this is making me uncomfortable
-then I reassure myself that thousands of other fanfic writers do the exact same thing and then I just continue
-I realize since you never see the POV of other characters such as Varys, Robb, Stannis, I'm writing from their point of view.
-Minseok is a Stark in my eyes don't you argue you with me
-if I didn't have Kyungsoo as a Baratheon I'd have Sehun as a Baratheon, or as Joffrey or Tommen. But Varys is one of my favorite characters so yeah
-I don't even ship XiuChen what am I doing adding fuel to the fire but naw Chen is a Greyjoy son sHUT UP
-originally, this fic was supposed to be just Krisyeol focus but then someone asked hey will there be other members and then I just wanted Xiumin as a Stark and WELP THIS STORY IS GONNA BE LONGER
-I'm already burned out just thinking about it
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tw: mentions of rape, incest, gore, violence, homosexual tension, heavy asoiaf spoilers
exo belongs to sm and asoiaf belongs to george r r martin
chapter one | chapter two
✿
Winterfell
Most young men around Minseok’s age would ache to leave the wintry expanse of the North. They would talk about leaving for the southern lands, or find work in the capital, or take ship to the Free Cities. Most of Minseok’s friends, sons of sworn bannermen to his house, were pledging to become knights in the far corners of Westeros, to either bring honor to their houses or just seek adventure. They asked the son of their liege lord if he had any aspirations of leaving Winterfell like his lord father did back during Robert’s Rebellion. “I have no reason to,” he would say. “The peace has been kept for over fifteen years. My place is in Winterfell.” There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, a line his father, Eddard, the Warden of the North would say to his children, and Minseok took that to heart. Lord Eddard Stark was the most honorable and humble man Minseok had ever known. He taught his sons to be honest and godly boys, and taught them how to swing a sword. He also taught them, as ascendant Lords of Winterfell, to judge and rule the region without any bias; to honor the Old Way, but distribute fairness throughout the North. Eddard was a beloved man by many, his honor and good faith to the common folk was well known from the Barrowlands to The Last Hearth. He taught his sons, Minseok most of all, that a lord mustn’t think of defending his glory, or treasures, but defending the cooks in the hold’s kitchens, or the millers and farmers, or the village children. “Defend the people,” he said. “Defend the weak and the good, the loyal and the god-fearing, for they are more important than short-lived glory and all the gold in the realm.”
“The people are my treasure, father.” Minseok answered. Eddard smiled softly, a rare thing, and patted his eldest son on the shoulder. Minseok would like to believe he made his lord father and lady mother proud.
A young man several months into his nineteenth nameday, Minseok was favored and idolized by the young. He was adept with a sword and rode a horse well. He was strong and agile, and despite his duties as a nobleman he never thought about status when he played with sons of butchers, millers, and smiths. He was well learned in history, arithmetics, and military strategy. “You are becoming more like Ned each day.” Maester Luwin said once, and Minseok was overcome with joy.
The last of the Winter ice was melting, but remnants of frost and snow stayed, determined to endure the Summer. Minseok was in the private courtyard with his brothers, Bran, who was nine, Rickon, a four year old, and his half-brother Jon Snow, a boy of five-and-ten. Minseok’s best friend and ward Jongdae Greyjoy stood beside Rickon, grinning as always. Eddard and his lady wife Catelyn of House Tully watched their eldest son teach Bran how to aim a bow. Jongdae was more proficient with a bow, Minseok would admit, but Eddard insisted the Ascendant Lord of Winterfell would teach his brothers.
“Relax your bow arm,” he reminded Bran, adjusting the small boy’s right elbow. “Keep it high, but don’t tense up.”
“Don’t think too much, Bran.” Jon added. Bran drew in a deep breath, and notched an arrow. He pulled the bow string back, keeping it level to his eye. Minseok felt Bran had tensed the bow long enough, and had ample time for aiming at the target. “You can loose,” he murmured.
At the last second Bran tensed. He loosed the arrow, releasing it with a twang, but it fell short and lodged itself into the ground. Jongdae’s grin split his face as he erupted into laughter, Rickon laughing along with him. Minseok chuckled. “You tensed again!” He commented, and Jon gave a tight-lipped smile.
“And which one of you was a marksman at Bran’s age?” Eddard called from the tower. Minseok looked up and saw his father and mother laughing down at them. If Minseok looked closely, maybe he saw mirth in his father’s deep brown eyes.
“Keep practicing.” He called out, and crossed his arms. Bran notched another arrow to his bow, Jon leaning forward again to guide Bran on his marksmanship.
Jongdae headed towards Minseok, his grin softening but his eyes twinkled with merriment. “Remember when you first picked up the bow, and you shot the stable boy's arse?” He said and Minseok squinted in pain at the memory. Despite his skill with a blade, his marksmanship left something to be desired. Minseok never had the accuracy with a bow that Jongdae had.
Minseok remembered after the Greyjoy Rebellion, his lord father returned to Winterfell with a small boy, wide eyed and trembling from the cold, and introduced his young son to Jongdae. Jongdae was a wiry thing, half-starved with empty cold eyes. Eddard hid the boy’s cloak of black and sable under his spare furs. Eddard explained that Jongdae was the third son of Balon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. Maester Luwin insisted what Minseok’s lord father intended to do with the Greyjoy whelp was unthinkable; the Greyjoys were not to be trusted, but Eddard assured the maester that with Jongdae as a hostage, it would quell the Iron Fleet from storming the mainland, and stopping further bloodshed. Minseok was glad to have a friend his age, and someone from noble birth. His lady mother insisted he play with someone of his social ranking from time to time. “You are heir to Winterfell,” she said. “You must remember to play with those who are equal to you.” But the closest to Winterfell was House Cerwyn, and Lord Medger Cerwyn only had a daughter that was far too old for him, and Cley Cerwyn, his only son, was still at his mother’s breast; far too young to play knights and bandits with. Besides, even if he is a lord, he’s still a human, like the butcher’s son and the guard’s cousins; they were all the same to him. It took months for Jongdae to warm up to Minseok, and years for the inhabitants of Winterfell to warm up to a Greyjoy heir being raised in their keep, but Minseok kept Jongdae close to him, even after Bran and Rickon were born. Minseok and Jongdae grew to trust one another, sometimes people would think they could reach each other’s thoughts.
Jongdae grew up to be a comely lad, not hard to look upon. He was charming, jovial, and always upbeat. It was hard to be serious around him; Lady Catelyn would frequently send pointed looks to her son whenever the two joke while Eddard held high court. Jongdae was a bit of a lech, and would frequently mention his birthright to rule the Iron Islands to the girls, and would visit the brothels. Jongdae claimed he had every whore in his bed at least once. “The spot between a girl’s legs is the best place,” he mentioned once. “You should have Ros warm your bed tonight, she’ll set you up right. I’ll even set up the coin for you, though I know you can afford it.” Minseok never had any interest in the whores; he was a man of honor. The first woman to share his bed would be the one he would be promised to wed. If Jongdae ever felt any respect for Minseok’s wishes, he barely showed it.
With Jon taking lead in teaching Bran and Rickon how to shoot, Minseok felt free to roam to the godswood. Jongdae followed suit, mentioning how he was going to see if he could sneak the miller’s daughter into his bedchamber later tonight.
“The miller’s daughter? Which one?”
“You know the girl with the curly dark hair and great big teats? She flashed us when we returned from hunting with Bran and you didn’t think Bran saw it, but he did.” Minseok remembered. He was pretty sure it was the milkmaid who flashed them, but Minseok averted his eyes from the sight as quick as he could, and tried to erase the impure moment from his mind.
“You need to quit thinking with that prick between your legs.” Is all he said.
“It’s the only sword that always swings true.” Minseok could practically hear the grin stretching Jongdae’s face, even though he wasn’t facing him.
The keep was bustling with servants doing their duties and guards on patrol. Each person that passed them would not forget to bow, and Minseok would bow in return. It was a ten minute stroll to the godswood, and when they entered, the sounds of the keep seemed far away, muted. The godswood was a sacred grove that had been untouched for over ten thousand years. Lord Eddard explained that when the First Men took up the Old Faith, they created godswoods, out of the heart tree. It was a serene place that Minseok grew to enjoy. The quiet helped him think about his future. He knelt at the shore of the black pond, the snow wetting his breeches, but he ignored it. Jongdae stood behind Minseok. Even though he adopted the Old Faith, Jongdae was unsure if he was worthy of praying to the old gods. “I was born under the blessings of salt and rock by the Drowned God,” he explained. “It would be a jape if I prayed to something I wasn’t born into.”
“My lady mother was born under the Faith of the Seven,” Minseok explained. “But when she married my lord father she adopted the old gods. She prays to both.”
“I still feel like an outsider.”
“Don’t be.” Minseok continued to pray. The quiet was heavy around them, and he could focus on the sound of Jongdae shifting in his boots. He got up after praying for the health of the servant boy who came down with the fever last week, and turned to Jongdae, who bowed his head in prayer. Minseok caught himself staring at the way the Greyjoy’s dark hair fell over his face. It was dark as night, and closely framed his face. Minseok took in every detail of Jongdae, enjoying one of the few moments where Jongdae was serious.
When they were alone, truly alone, Minseok would run his fingers through the softness. Jongdae would grunt at the feel of fingers at his scalp, pressing hard kisses into Minseok’s neck. Their friendship brought them to new levels of closeness. When Jongdae was too lonely and he ran out of girls to warm his bed, he’d sneak into Minseok’s quarters and slip under the furs, pressing his mouth at the base of Minseok’s throat. Minseok resisted at first, but before he knew it the Greyjoy’s hand would be fisting the Stark’s cock, far too rough for Minseok’s taste, but who was he to tell his best friend to stop? Jongdae liked to bite the areas of Minseok’s body where he knew it would be hidden by his furs, and Minseok liked to kiss down Jongdae’s chest, scratching his buttocks in his lust. “Your skin tastes of salt,” he half moaned into Jongdae’s ear.
Jongdae had groaned when Minseok pressed a finger inside him, a fingernail scratching him. “That’s because I was blessed by the ancient god of salt and rock,” he answered. “I have the sea in me.” Minseok had never seen the sea, and momentarily pictured a large body of water birthing an army of Greyjoys that look like Jongdae.
When Minseok awoke Jongdae already left his quarters. Disoriented and his seed dried on his stomach, Minseok wasn’t sure if last night was a dream. He learned that it wasn’t when he snuck into Jongdae’s room and took the sleeping Greyjoy’s manhood into his mouth, and Jongdae moaned the Stark’s name, and they did all the things Jongdae only did with whores. They didn’t share each other’s bed as often as Minseok would like; Jongdae would eventually find another girl and have his way with her. Minseok secretly hated Jongdae’s passion for bedding women, when Minseok was already in front of him willing to reciprocate all of Jongdae’s kisses and touches. But it had to be a secret; he’s to be Warden of the North. He and Jongdae were friends.
Jongdae finished his prayer and noticed Minseok staring at him. “What is it, my lord?” He asked softly, his grin threatening to surface. His eyes were green flecked with spots of brown and blue. Your eyes are the color of the sea, I bet. Minseok closed the space between them and his fingers carded the soft dark hair. Jongdae pressed his lips to Minseok, tongue snaking into his mouth. He grabbed at the Stark’s furs, pressing their chests together.
“Even I wouldn’t be balls deep in the purest nubile pleasure girl in this place,” Jongdae breathed when they parted.
“Nonsense, I know you would have that milkmaid on all fours in the godswood as you pounded into her,” Minseok licked down the Greyjoy’s salty neck, reaching into Jongdae’s fur cloak and unlacing the front of his breeches. It was all Minseok could do not to push Jongdae to his and fuck him on all fours. It wasn’t the time or the place; maybe after they supped Minseok would pay a visit to Jongdae’s room. Jongdae was in the middle of biting Minseok’s collarbone when the two heard the distant call of Catelyn Stark calling for her son. They pulled apart, Jongdae scrambling to tie his breeches and Minseok to straighten his doublet.
Catelyn appeared at the entrance of the godswood, walking tall and proud. Jongdae commented once that Minseok’s lady mother was made of ice; haughty and unforgiving, and Minseok refrained from beating Jongdae into the dirt. Lady Catelyn had eyes that looked as if they peered into the souls of people, and could tell if a person was false. If Eddard taught his children how to be honorable, then Catelyn taught them to be open, generous, yet strong and relentless in upholding their duty. Family, Duty, Honor; Minseok kept to House Tully’s words as he did to House Stark.
If Catelyn noticed the sudden rumpled appearance of her son, she chose to ignore it. “Your father is looking for you two.” Her solemn expression tightened. “They caught a deserter from the Wall.”
Minseok sighed. “Do we really have to go through this again? What if the man has a family?”
“We must keep The Old Way,” Jongdae reminded. “The man is a deserter. There’s no excuse.”
Catelyn guarded her emotions, something Minseok saw his mother do every time this issue was raised. “I think Bran is too young to see this,” she said after a moment. “He’ll have nightmares-“
“I was seven when they caught a deserter from the Wall, deep in the snows. I watched it happen then.” Minseok told her. It didn’t scare him, Minseok would admit, but the traditions of The Old Way seemed too barbaric; he remembered his innocence shattering into shards of glass. “Bran needs to grow up and learn more of The Old Way.” Simple as that. But he wondered if Bran wished for an alternative to the deserter’s fate just as he did.
・
Snow drifted lightly from the sky; flakes of cold falling and sticking to Minseok’s face. The grounds outside the walls of Winterfell were hardened from permafrost, and it crunched under their boots as they walked to the banners surrounding the deserter. Jon had his hand on Bran’s back, guiding him behind their father. Jongdae had the honor of carrying Ice, House Stark’s ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword. He seemed to have gotten used to carrying it around; the first time he did he nearly fell over from the weight, and he dragged it across the ground because his arms were not strong enough.
The deserter was not much to look at. He had to be a steward; too weak to be a Ranger of the Night’s Watch. Or maybe it was because he was running for so long without food or rest, Minseok thought. A man of at least fifty, he had lost two fingers and most of his teeth. Frostbite was beginning to appear on the rest of his fingers, his nose red and snot crusting on his face. He was heavily pock marked in the cheeks, lost both of his ears, and seemed to have lost his Night’s Watch cloak. He was shivering, but no one made a move to cover him in a cloak. He was kneeling on the frozen ground, trembling as Eddard approached him.
“M’lord,” he shakily started. “I know I broken a sacred vow. Night gathers, and so my watch begins. I know I deserted the Night’s Watch. But I was afraid, I was. They killed the party, all of them, they were dead.” The man rambled on for a moment, but Eddard patiently listened to him. Minseok looked at the man but didn’t see him.
“White Walkers,” the deserter finally returned to coherency. “I saw them. They’ve returned.” He looked hard into Eddard’s eyes, and Minseok almost believed him. “I know that my leaving the Night’s Watch must not go unpunished m’lord. I just ask one thing, if it please you m’lord. My family, they live on a farm by Greywater Watch. Tell them that I saw what I saw. I know I did, I know…” the deserter’s voice fell into a hushed whisper, mumbling to himself. Minseok wondered if he was praying to the old gods.
Eddard reached over to Jongdae and slowly drew Ice from its great sheath. Ice demanded the strongest arms to wield it. It was taller than Minseok, and he struggled with wielding it, despite all his training. The bannermen laid the man’s head on the weathered chopping block, and to Minseok’s surprise the man didn’t resist like the others. Eddard grasped Ice by its sheath and knelt, his words hushed, but Minseok heard as he strained to listen. “In the name of Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name…”
“Don’t look away,” Minseok heard Jon whisper to Bran. “Father will know if you do.”
“Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.” Eddard got up, his jaw clenching, and swiftly swung Ice down on the deserter’s neck, cleanly severing the head from its body. Minseok didn’t blink. Eddard handed Ice to Jongdae who dutifully wiped the shimmering steel with a cloth before sheathing it. The bannermen began to take the deserter’s body away, and Eddard stalked off into the woods back to Winterfell.
“You did well,” Jon murmured to Bran. Minseok caught a glimpse of his brother’s face. There was no emotion, just like Minseok’s face when he saw his first kill. He’ll have dreams though, gods preserve him. He wondered if his father would send the man’s corpse back to Greywater March. I wonder what his name was. Snowflakes caught on his eyelashes and lips, and he tasted them, the faint linger of salt on his tongue. His eyes swiped to Jongdae, who has a small grin on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“White walkers, eh?” Jongdae said softly
“Mad men see only madness,” Minseok shrugged. He heard a man heave the deserter’s corpse into a cart say the ranger was named Gared.
“Do you think he lied?”
“White Walkers haven’t been around for thousands of years. The last time they were spotted a ranger killed an Other eight thousand years ago.” It was simply madness that overcame Gared, gods be good.
Eddard had his hand on Bran’s shoulder for a moment as they headed back into the wood. They walked for several moments when the steward Donnis paused and stopped walking. Eddard noticed his steward not following him, and halted the party. “What is it, Donnis?” He asked.
“M’lord, forgive me, but do you smell that?” Donnis sniffed the air, and Minseok inhaled deeply, cloying stench of blood still in his nostrils. He assumed it was the smell of Gared that followed him, but it only seemed to get stronger. This smells wilder, He thought. The party agreed; the smell of blood was thick in the wood.
“Look!” Bran said and Jon leapt down the bank, snow crunching under his boots. Minseok and Jongdae followed after him, and Donnis and Eddard peered down.
The carcass of a direwolf was spread on the ground, blood pooling from a wound in its stomach. Its head appeared to be crusted in its own blood. The corpse of a stag, its great antlers piercing the flesh of the direwolf, was next to it, a large gash on its neck oozing dark blood. Minseok blinked to get used to the putrid odor, bile threatening to rise. Men don’t vomit, especially not at a little animal blood.
“A direwolf,” Eddard approached the dead animals, and knelt to the antlers. “No one has seen one in hundreds of years.” Our house sigil, Minseok thought. Even in death, it still looked far fearsome than any beast he was told in stories.
“What does it mean?” He asked his father. Eddard stared at the bodies, oblivious to his eldest son’s question. “Father?” He tried again.
“It’s a sign,” Eddard answered softly. What it was, he never explained. Eddard turned on his heel and made way to walk back up to Donnis when the first whine of a pup came from the underside of the direwolf. Everyone looked and saw five little wet noses peeking from the sodden fur.
Minseok bent down and cradled a little direwolf pup, scrawny with twigs and dirt in its fur, but the grime failed to hide the healthy silver coat. The pup whined again and buried its nose into Minseok’s furs. “Direwolf pups,” he breathed.
“Leave them.” Eddard moved again.
“No father!” Bran protested. A protest caught in Minseok’s throat. Please don’t let us leave them.
“They are wild animals and do not belong in-“
“Lord Stark,” Jon Snow interrupted his father. “There are five pups, one for each of your sons and daughters.” Bran picked up two and Jongdae picked up another two. “Your children were meant to have them.” And what of you, you’re the son of my father as well.
“And what about you?” Eddard’s grey eyes peered hard into Jon.
Jon didn’t flinch. “I’m just a bastard,” he answered. “I’m not a true Stark.” The blood of the First Men flows in you, you’re a Stark no matter what my lady mother says. Minseok wanted to interject.
Eddard stared at his sons, Minseok silently pleading, please let us keep them. The direwolves made a noise, and Minseok’s heart broke. Please let us keep them.
“You will raise them yourselves, and you will feed them yourselves,” Eddard sighed. “And when they die, you will bury them yourselves.” He stalked off with Donnis at his heels, not bothering to wait for his children. Jongdae handed Minseok the two other pups, one a fair brown and white and the other with black and white stripes on its back. They wiggled in Minseok’s grasp, but he held them carefully, holding them close to his chest for warmth. One for Sansa, and one for Arya, he was sure his two sisters would love a pet.
Jon had found another pup, this one cast out from the litter. The irony, Minseok thought. The pup was smaller than the rest, and a coat as pure as untouched snow. “Looks like you got one yourself, Snow.” Jongdae grinned, this one reaching his eyes, but Minseok could see that his best friend looked a little envious. Sorry you can’t find little krakens in the sea. The sea births people who look like Jongdae.
Later, when Minseok was alone in his room and nursing his silver pup with milk, Jongdae appeared at Minseok’s doorway, solemn for once. He wondered if Jongdae was going to kiss him and made a move to put his wolf pup down, when Jongdae stopped him and told him his uncle Hyunjin Arryn, Hand of the King and Lord Protector of the Vale was dead.
・
King’s Landing
Sehun wasn’t sure which city was filled with the most shit- Myr, or King’s Landing. King’s Landing’s shit is flecked with gold and blood, Sehun crinkled his nose as he padded silently down the halls of the Great Sept of Baelor, the Silent Sisters working on preparing the body of Hyunjin Arryn. The elderly Hand’s body was laid out on an embroidered cloth on top of a stone slab, as if the bit of cloth would appease the corpse’s stiff back. He’s not going to notice the difference, The Master of Whisperers blinked at the corpse. Poor Hyunjin Arryn, well-loved and respected by His Grace and the realm, died suddenly after battling a swift madness and fever that overtook his healthy body. Being on the Small Council with Arryn Sehun could notice the influence the Hand had on King Robert, but whether the King had any sense in his thick skull to listen to his Hand Sehun wouldn’t know. He had married thrice, and had two young and dashing sons. I wonder how his son is handling with our Prince. He watched as the Silent Sisters fitted Hyunjin into a royal doublet of sky blue celeste, with House Arryn’s sigil of the white falcon over the full moon. An ancestral amulet, which Sehun believed was passed down to each Lord of Vale by the Artys Arryn after the Coming of the Andals was draped over the corpse’s hands. Or was it from The Last King of Mountain and Vale? Sehun wasn’t as versed with Westerosi history as the other lords; mainly because he wasn’t from the realm. He never tried to remember the early years before he was sold as a slave in Lys, and the years after that. He did remember to keep the memories of his early days with Illyrio in Pentos. Those were the only good times, after the warlock took my manhood and left me to die. The gaping wound between Sehun’s legs never healed properly; it crusted and scabbed occasionally, and Sehun had a difficult time adjusting to the feeling of the scabs scratching between his legs and oozing. He supposed that his castration was another reason why Aerys wanted him in the Small Council. A man without a cock between his legs would prove easy to bind and control to the King’s whim, but it was Sehun who liked to think he controlled Aerys; whispering half-truths into the Mad King’s ear about lords scheming against the Targaryens. He got accustomed to the little passageways and tunnels of the Red Keep that few (or if any) of its inhabitants knew. He and his little birds used these tunnels to secretly carry secrets and other valuable bits of information to the outside world. He never bragged, but he thought himself as the most important (and the most dangerous) man in King’s Landing, so dangerous that King Robert spared him after the Sack of King’s Landing and kept him on the Small Council. There were many things Sehun knew and little he didn’t, but what sort of sorcery overcame the Hand that he was healthy one day, feverish the next and dead on the morrow? Hyunjin was someone Sehun grew to trust; someone he trusted so much he allowed the man to send his eldest and most promising son to the Free Cities to bring back the last Targaryen. A shame, I liked him. Sehun frowned and crossed his arms over his fuchsia robes, watching the Silent Sisters align Hyunjin’s legs and place painted stones over the corpse’s eyes.
He heard hushed voices fill the heavy silence of the sept. On instinct, Sehun hid himself in the shadows, virtually unseen by the two visitors. One wore fine steel boots that clanked against the stone floors regardless how soft he walked, and the other wore the finest silks that swept quietly behind her feet. A sweep of golden hair and Sehun knew it was Queen Cersei and her twin brother Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, though Sehun observed, Jaime guarded the Queen more than he did the King. A mere observation, nothing more. Sehun strained to listen as the Queen and her brother conversed in the corner of the sept.
“A shame, really, Robert really admired him,” Cersei sounded anything but shameful.
“That’s rich, Robert admiring someone,” Jaime scoffed, his perfect golden hair falling into place as he shook his head. “Maybe the old Hand had a cunt between his knobby legs that Robert would have a go with when no one was looking, that would give him something to admire.”
“Mind your tongue, this is the sept,” Cersei warned, but there was a sly smile on her face, her green eyes glittering with mirth. “You remember the Sack, with my lord father and my husband, Ned Stark, and Jon Arryn sieging the city. Arryn practically raised Robert and Stark, and helped the Baratheons raise banners against the Mad King.” She looked down at Hyunjin’s corpse. “Was he a good fighter?”
“Fast for his age,” Jaime said. “Almost as quick with a sword as Ser Yixing, but better with a bow. He was never apt to using it.”
“Did you see Lady Lysa? What did she have to say about her lord husband’s death?” Where did Lady Lysa run off to? Sehun wondered. With her lord husband lying dead in the sept, one would think she’d stand by his side, covered in black, weeping dramatically.
“She is embarking back to the Eyrie, her son Chinho is ruling the Vale. She did mention through her insufferable wailing, that Lord Arryn was hale and healthy as Robert.”
“That’s a horrible comparison,” Jaime griped. “Jon Arryn was at least healthier than our fat king.” That Sehun would have to agree. “It does puzzle me how he died; he could’ve outlived Robert, with the way the King’s been living.”
Cersei shrugged. “Grand Maester Pycelle seems to think he was murdered, but he wasn’t entirely sure.” She suggested, and Sehun’s eyebrows rose. Murdered?
“Murdered? By whom? And why? Jon Arryn was liked by many in the capital.”
“Who murdered the Hand I can’t say, but why,” Cersei trailed off, staring into the torchlight.
“I heard from Pycelle, that Lord Arryn was searching through the Baratheon lineage,” Jaime put in. “Wondering if your children are Robert’s trueborn heirs.” He snorted. “Miserable bag of shit, that old man.”
Cersei looked at her brother and shared a knowing look. Sehun may or may not have slipped to Lord Arryn that he’d seen the Queen open her legs to her brother and fuck each other until they were too spent to put themselves together. Sehun was positive that all three of Cersei’s children were Jaime’s, and not Robert’s. Well who would want to have Robert’s seed in their bellies? Sehun couldn’t blame them.
“We kept that a secret, you and me,” she said. “No one knows.” But I know. I know everything, Sehun thought. “But a little investigating myself and I found out Robert’s loyal and good friend Lord Arryn may have been conspiring against the Throne.” We kept that a secret, who found out? Who told?
“The honorable Lord Arryn, sneaking behind his beloved King’s back?” Jaime japed. “Who would’ve thought? The Seven preserve our souls, may we never see that day.”
“Turns out a soiled knight kept a Targaryen babe from the slaughter, and Arryn knew, but didn’t stop him.” Jaime’s eyes widened and took his royal sister by the arm.
“Is what you are saying true?” His voice turned into a hoarse whisper. “A Targaryen alive?”
“Little birds come and go; some of it fascinating tales woven out of air, others real. If it’s real, then someone did my lord husband a favor,” Cersei said dryly, prying out of Jaime’s grasp, but Sehun noticed reluctance in her parting. “I’ll have Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Sehun inform Robert about a Targaryen prince still being alive. That would excite him, no doubt.” Who told who told who told? It seemed as if Sehun wasn’t being suspected, but it was a well-kept secret he had for sixteen years, and the only one who knew was the man dead on the stone slab. The Queen and Jaime left to another corner, and Sehun skittered away, unseen, and out of the sept.
A little bird has been chirping to unwanted ears, he thought. And I’ll have to pluck some wings away. He headed back to the Red Keep, preparing how to send word to Hyunjin’s son in Pentos that his father was dead.
-I'm sitting here wishing I could go back and add other idols as the other characters because this is making me uncomfortable
-then I reassure myself that thousands of other fanfic writers do the exact same thing and then I just continue
-I realize since you never see the POV of other characters such as Varys, Robb, Stannis, I'm writing from their point of view.
-Minseok is a Stark in my eyes don't you argue you with me
-if I didn't have Kyungsoo as a Baratheon I'd have Sehun as a Baratheon, or as Joffrey or Tommen. But Varys is one of my favorite characters so yeah
-I don't even ship XiuChen what am I doing adding fuel to the fire but naw Chen is a Greyjoy son sHUT UP
-originally, this fic was supposed to be just Krisyeol focus but then someone asked hey will there be other members and then I just wanted Xiumin as a Stark and WELP THIS STORY IS GONNA BE LONGER
-I'm already burned out just thinking about it
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