The sea was boiling with fury, the waves leaping up to slap the moon like the fists of furious giants. Upon the deck of the Golden Lion, Tywin Lannister's hand clamped down harder upon the rail. Bucking and rolling beneath him, his knuckles whitening, his jaw set in a grim line. But his eyes did not flinch, seemingly locked on the storm itself, an affront, personal. The salt spray lashed his face, the sting bitter, but that was less than nothing against the tangle of weight upon his shoulders, matters of the crown.
"We are taking on water, my lord!" Captain Lorent bellowed above the howling of the wind.
"We are not sinking, are we?" Tywin's voice was steady, the tumult around him notwithstanding.
A weathered man, his beard as thick as the wraths of the sea, Marbrand spat windward. "Not yet, my lord. Yet if this tempest keeps up."
"We will see about that," Tywin concluded. "Give the word to the fleet, hold formation, and prepare for the worst."
The storm was fiercer yet, the winds howling as if a pack of starving wolves. The Golden Lion groaned with the tussle, each wave that crashed over her bow grating out in ominous creaks. Her crew was tireless-bailing water, securing lines-but it was their fearful glances toward the quarterdeck that spoke louder than words. The ships around her were but shadows within the tumult, their mastheads dancing to and fro as if in some sort of crazed dance.
"Take in the sails!" Tywin bellowed above the roar, his voice as good as any whip. "We'll ride it out, or drown with honor." There was a mutter and a nod or two; the men knew their task, yet the threat of the Lord's ire proved an even more sharpened spur than the awe of the green-grey sea.
The sails of the Golden Lion were bound tight, its timbers screaming in protest as it struggled to keep the wind to its back. Sailors clung to ropes, their eyes white with fear, as the sea spat foam up to lick their feet. Brine and the taste of death were heavy on the air, yet Tywin did not falter.
He was used to riding storms, literal and figurative, and well knew that survival depended upon decisions made within the eye of the tempest.
"Steady, men!" he roared. The wind ripped the words from his mouth. "A squall, no more. We have ridden out the storms that have broken against the Iron Throne!
The storm gave no quarter: its lightning lashed across the nocturnal heavens, like whips from some vengeful god, in a flash illuminating the faces of sailors in all their terror. The fleet of Tywin was scattered, its ships toyed with like so many playthings within the mouth of some whimsical child.
"Hold fast!" Tywin's voice boomed, steady as an anvil in the howling wind. "This storm shall not break us!"
Scarce were the words out of his mouth when eyes glowing like embers in the dark began to turn up, shining with fear and determination. Tywin had heard the story of the storm that heralded the birth of the last Targaryen dragons, and it would appear that history was repeating itself-an ill omen of what awaited them across the seas of Dorne. The Golden Lion whimpered and groaned, her timbers splintering and cracking, but she held under Tywin's implacable gaze.
Then, as if it came from nowhere, the instant the storm sprang itself upon them, a shadow reared out of the tempest. A ship, larger than any in Tywin's fleet, loomed out of the darkness, her sails a stark void against the rage of the sea. No banners fluttered from her masthead, nor colors to declare her allegiance. The captain's voice was lost in the wind as he pointed to the silent specter which had drawn alongside them.
"Raise the Lannister banners!" Tywin thundered. "Order the fleet to stand off and wait for them to attack!"
The order was given and in the storm, the Lannister crimson and gold burst, quite a contrast to the blackness of the unknown ship. The lanterns shone, so it was possible to see men on its deck clad in clothes without the badge of any House he knew. The captain stepped forth, peering at Tywin.
"Identify yourself or prepare to be boarded!" Tywin bellowed, his voice carrying over the tumult.
The captain of the dark ship yelled back; pockmarked, his accent keen as an axe and unmistakably Dorne: "We mean no hurt to House Lannister! We're the 'Silent Sister', a ship of no alliance, here to seek shelter from this storm!"
"Silent Sister, eh?" Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Your timing is… propitious. What is your cargo?""
The pockmarked captain raised a hand to shield his eyes from the stinging rain. "Merchandise for the Free Cities, my lord. Nothing that concerns House Lannister."
"Everything concerns House Lannister," Tywin replied, his voice as keen as a Valyrian steel dagger. "What brings a ship of 'no allegiance' to the coasts of Dorne in such weather?
The captain's reply was torn away by the storm. "Mere fortune, my lord! We were blown off course and sought to weather the storm!
Tywin watched the rain pelt the torchlit stones, his gaze unwinking behind the 'Silent Sister' of the shrewd glint of his eye. "Chance, you say? I doubt that, on waters such as these." His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, lest the first betrayal of treachery should slide free. The man across the way upon the other ship-the pockmarked captain-just stood, his face masked innocently.
But then Tywin realized he could not afford the time. He had to get to Dorne. "Very well," he called out, "you may sail with us. But let a man be warned: treachery will be met with swift retribution."
The pockmarked captain nodded, lines of relief deeply etched into his face. "Thank you, my lord. We are in your debt."
They arrived in Dorne within a fortnight, but it would appear the gods were willing to play their twisted games even when men had wars of their own to fight. The storm had ravaged the fleet, ships lost and men dead, but the Golden Lion had arrived with the core of Tywin's might.
On the beaches, the Lannisters found banners whipping in the wind, from Dorne; yet there was a chill in the air that would not be denied.
As Tywin stepped onto the sandy beach, a rider came up to him in the garb of a Dornish noble, and his gaze flicked to the 'Silent Sister' with an unasked question. The pock-faced captain still kept company with them, a linkage of uneasy allies out of the linkage of storm and strife, and Tywin allowed this, his interest raised by the secretive man's claim of 'no allegiance'. The messenger went down to one knee before him, his voice carrying in it the scent of fear and urgency.
"Lord Tywin, I am from Sunspear," the Dornishman gasped out, "Lady Seraphine Martell… the banners are called, the lords of Dorne are gathering. to settle grievances against the Iron Throne."
Being a soul from the 21st Century too, Tywin had always wondered who Princess Martell was, or in other words, Doran's mother. It said that he had a mother, but it was never expanded upon until he became Tywin Lannister. Well, it would appear Seraphine was the Princess Martell, and quite the reputation she held.
Tywin drew a ring around himself of his most trustworthy people in the tent hastily flung up to serve as a council tent. The canvas whipped at every continuing gust of wind, salty sea and the hot aridity of Dorne.
"Seraphine Martell," Tywin returned, the name rolling off his tongue with all the precision of a man who'd studied his enemies for years. "What do we really know of her?
Finally, one of his men broke the silence, his eyes rife with caution. "Word is she is a sly one, my lord, full of guile, quick-witted and full of the small action of politics." Tywin nodded, the strokes through his beard thoughtful. "We have to go delicately. The Dornish will not bend easily to pressure and force alone." Then his gaze fell upon the captain of the 'Silent Sister', which had moved closer to the tents, his curiosity unmistakable. "Captain-with no house to claim, at least-you move these waters with an ease that raises eyebrows. And what would you say concerning Lady Seraphine and her intents?"
The pockmarked man shrugged. His face offered nothing, but in his eyes a hint of glint. "My lord, I have dealt with Dorne. The Dornishman has fear of a Lannister puppet king."
"They think me guilty of steering Aerys?" Tywin's voice was cold; his eyes, glacial, rested on the captain. "They would do well to remember that I serve the realm, not the whims of a madman."
The captain stood unmoved, unblinking. "Truly, my lord. Yet it is the strand of fear and suspicion runs strong in the dunes of Dorne."
Tywin nodded curtly and sent the man on his way, turning back to his advisors. "Fetch me word of Lady Seraphine," he said, the timbre in his voice assuring that his wish would be granted. "We would need to speak, and soon. I will not have Dorne question my loyalty."
A sea of bowed heads took flight, as the various advisers scampered to do his bidding, leaving him in silence to his thoughts. He knew the Dornish, knew them proud and proponents of intrigue. And if indeed Lady Seraphine had come to think that he sought to maneuver the Mad King, then indeed all may be ruined. He paced his tent, his footsteps rustling the canvas; his thoughts moved swifter than the outside storm had. He feigned that it was now that he came to know the Dornish were trying to rebel due to his keeping the King in his pocket. That made all others feel that he was this poor man who wanted to serve the realm. Little did they know, he was trying to keep the king in his pocket, and that Dornish misapprehensions were fairly known some time back.
It was well into afternoon by the time the sun began to set in a blaze of bloody glory, its shadows cast long across the camp. Tywin received the message he'd been waiting for-that Lady Seraphine would see him, under the auspices of diplomacy, in hopes of avoiding the bloodbath. Smoothing his armor, the lion head upon his chest gleaming in the last light of day, he strode from the tent.
The Captain of the 'Silent Sister', too, pressed after, eagerly his interest unflagged.
"Not you," Tywin said, turning to the Captain.
The man raised a thick brow. "My Lord?"
"You have served your purpose," Tywin told him cold as steel in the eyes, saying, "Your presence is no more required."
The captain of the 'Silent Sister' took one step backward; his face betrayed nothing. "Aye, my lord, as you wish."
He was gone, and Tywin led out, his horse moving smooth, the pick of his household knights riding with him, every one a blooded and tested fighter. Then the bannermen, a river of steel in the morning sun, their banners flapping in the wind. The lion of Casterly Rock led the van, jaws open in a mighty roar as the red sands swirled round his paws.
They thundered out of the camp, the rumble of hooves a testament to the urgency of their mission.
The meeting Lady Seraphine had contrived for him-a place of beauty masking the dangerous currents of Dornish politics-the old water gardens of Sunspear. The statues were made of sandstone; one was more lifelike than the other, even to the point that the shadows themselves seemed to talk secrets. The fountains danced in the light of a hundred torches and cast an unearthly glow over the foliage that struggled to survive the desert heat.
Before them, a phalanx of Dornish spearmen barred their way, eyes as keen as the point of a blade, as Tywin and his retinue approached. Thick was the silence, heavy with portent; the soft whisper of steel on leather, a clear warning, as the Lannister party dismounted. Under the shade of a giant date palm, her silhouette was outlined by the dancing flames-the Lady of Dorne stood. Indeed, Lady Seraphine Martell was something to see-silver hair proclaiming loud her years-but time had not touched her face. Her eyes as keen as the spears of her guard sliced through the crowd as Tywin neared.
"Lord Tywin," she said, her voice placid as the waters that had given her her name. "Never again in Dorne I thought to see you. The seas are treacherous and the storms of the sand no kinder, it is said."
"Lady Seraphine," Tywin said with a slight inclination of his head. "The plights of the realm shift upon the wind, and I come in peace to speak to whatever doubts you may have concerning the Iron Throne.
Her eyes scanned his, a knowing glint to them that clenched at Tywin's stomach. "Concerns, you say?" she mused, her voice smooth as the flow of water which was the root of her name. "Or perchance accusations of treachery?"
"Treachery?" Tywin exclaimed, his tone as mild as the eye of the hurricane was. "I can confidently say that House Lannister stands solidly behind the Iron Throne."
Her ladyship's smile could cut, more beautiful, deadlier than a dagger.
"Words are as short as the wind, Lord Tywin. Action is the sword that brings home the tart." A gesture of her hand and Tywin took it between his arm, an odd courtesy belied by the tautness in the air, leading her over the water gardens. Were Tywin not in armor he might have felt the coolness of her skin to be deeply at odds with the heat the day's warmth held in the air.
"Dorne has always prized its independence, my lady," Tywin said, his tones as light as the gurgle of the water. "Yet the realm is stronger when its great houses are united.
Lady Seraphine did not break her stare with his. "United under a king who burns his own subjects?"-her words no different from the wind of the desert, in whose sigh one thousand wordless accusations lay.
Tywin's elbow grip on her hand tightened. "The king is young and… misguided. I seek to guide him, to bring order and peace to the realm."
Dark eyes bored into his own. Impassive. "Instruct him? The whispers of a Lannister puppet king grow louder by the day.
"Only in Dorne." Tywin returned, though he was not certain how much of these whispers had spread. He had to play this right, or else Dorne could be lost to them. "The whispers of a puppet king are but the chatter of those who fear change, Lady Seraphine. House Lannister seeks to support the Iron Throne."
Her eyes searched his; a flicker of something-unreadable-crossed her face. "And what of your own ambitions, Lord Tywin?"
"My ambition," Tywin said in deep, flat tones, "is to see the realm prosper. If that means guiding a young king, then so be it.
Lady Seraphine did not smile. "And what then, should that young king fall?
"Then let his Hand do the catching," Tywin said, unmoving as the stone. They walked down into the darkness below the quiet water gardens, footsteps echoing in stillness.
* * *
A grand feast there had been in Sunspear's high hall, the air thick with foreign spices and the smell of roasting meat. Banners hung from the rafters for tapestries, and every banner told a tale in threads of gold, silver, and silk, every thread a silent witness to the valor of the Martells. Lannisters and Martells sat upon a dais beneath them, their bannermen ranged along the tables below, their eyes watchful as the swords at their sides.
Intermittent bursts of laughter and whispered words, with unspoken threats spoken between, only punctuated the quiet clinking of the silverware against the fine china.
"Your lands are as fair as the tales, Lady Seraphine," said Tywin, raising his goblet in toast.
"Flattery, Lord Tywin?" she returned, an edge of amusement sharpening her voice. "Actions have always spoken so much louder than words for me."
The conversation danced around the table, as did the cast of shadows on the walls cast by the torches dancing themselves in their cast-iron holders. Tywin watched Lady Seraphine, every move a study in graciousness and power. Not on him, at least, was her beauty lost, not more than the shrewdness behind her smile.
He can't just believe that she would never rebel against The Iron Throne because of him; he needed something more concrete than her word.
Something that would tie her to him, and him, through her, to the Iron Throne. So at dinner, he went all sweet talk-a poisoned dart as potent as any in his arsenal-of the beauties of Dorne, the wealth of Casterly Rock, and the power an alliance between their two Houses would hold. Honeyed words, so honeyed that the sweets which sat between them were ignored.
"The Lady Seraphine, unto the deserts of Dorne, wherein her fierceness is matched only by the gold in those dunes," Tywin said with honey in his voice. "And valor to House Martell shines as a beacon in the realm. Think what we might accomplish together."
She did not blink. "What, pray, are you proposing, Lord Tywin?"
He leaned in closer to her, his eyes never leaving hers. "An, understanding." Then his hand reached out, taking hers, his thumb softly stroking across the back of her hand. "One which would make certain Dorne prospers and House Lannister remains grateful."
Her eyes narrowed; emeralds in her necklace seemed to flare, sending sparks of fire through the torchlights. "What would such an understanding entail?"
Tywin settled back in his chair, never once breaking his gaze from hers. "A vow of fealty, of course. And then, something more… personal."
His fingers closed over hers, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. Tension vibrated between them, all around them, as if the air itself had turned to molten gold. "Explain," she whispered, parting lips full and pink.
His eyes caught upon her full breasts, swelling above the gown's neck, taut against their ample curves, almost as if in a lover's grasp. "I believe the surest alliance is forged in the flesh," he said, purring confidence into every word. "Let me prove my intentions."
Her eyes searched his, fire to the curiosity that raged in her. "How so, Lord Tywin?" The words flowed like silk across the table.
"Let us adjourn to more… private quarters," Tywin invited with a look at her full, inviting breasts, taut skin smooth as the marble of the statues lining the hills of Sunspear, eyes pools of dark that could drown a man.
Seraphine was impassive but did not withdraw her hand. "As you wish, Lord Tywin," she said, elegantly rising from her seat.
Privately, quarters were a study of contrasts: stone walls cold against the heat building between them. Tywin drank in the sight of her as they strolled, the nice body swaying with every step, soft fabric of her gown whispering against her skin with every step she took.
Her full and firm bottom was a sign of fertility, almost a prize he couldn't help but covet; the large, rounded size of her bosom suggested she would nourish many heirs.
No sooner were they behind closed doors than Tywin got down to business. He stepped closer, his hand cupping her cheek, he leaned to claim her lips. His tongue slipped into the heat of her mouth, exploring with a hunger that had built for days. She met him with an equal passion, her hands gripping his armor as if she would tear it from his body.
"I want you to know," he whispered into her lips, "that I am a man of my word." He started roaming his hands with some bold strokes tracing the curves of her body. Her skin was soft as silk. Her nipples hardened into peaks under his touch.
She closed her eyes and he pinched her breasts, his thumbs roamed over the sensitive skin. "Prove it," she said in a low, husky growl.
He lowered down into the room with a scorched look to unknot his breeches. He freed his erection long and thick, its head trembling precariously in drips of precum. She took him in her hand, stroking firmly; it sent a groan rumbling in his throat.
"Thy loyalty to House Lannister," Tywin wheezed, "will be as unwavering as thy grasp upon my cock." He had watched her hand slide along the length of him, smearing the precum across the tip with her thumb.
"And your loyalty to Dorne?" she asked, but her eyes did not leave his, her hand continued working on him.
"As unshakeable as is your resolve," he replied, his hand slipping lower yet to cup her arse, the heat of her sex burning through the fabric of her gown. "But we will seal our alliance in a way that leaves no room for doubt."
With that, he threw her over a nearby table, her skirts hiked up for him to show the round, tight shape of her ass. The pink bud of her anus lay within his view, soft, tight, untouched. The mere thought of claiming it as his, taking her in that-the very, most intimate of senses-made him throb between the thighs.
"This is how you prove your intentions?" she breathed as his hand slipped between her thighs.
"This is how I take what is mine," Tywin said; his voice thick with longing. His fingers found her wetness, teased round the entrance to her pussy before sliding inside. Her walls clenched hot, tight, and wet on his digits as if begging to be taken some more.
"And Dorne?" was all she could say, safely, strain shredding her voice.
"Dorne will know that House Martell stands with House Lannister," he said, his thumb brushing her clit so that she moaned aloud. "And I will know that you stand with me, in every way."
He positioned himself behind her, his cock pressed against the slick of her pussy, then entered with a firm thrust that filled her out completely. Tight around him entering her, stretched to take his length, the walls of her pussy clamping down as her body accommodated his size.
"You feel like a conqueror," she panted, her body arching backward into him.
"And you," Tywin groaned, his hips moving in a slow rhythmic dance. "Feel like a victory."
He watched his cock disappear into her while her ass cheeks jiggled with each thrust, sending waves of his own pleasure through him. She was tight around him, her pussy clenching onto him with every stroke, and he knew she was teetering on the brink of an orgasm.
"Take me," she pleaded, her voice a whisper. "Claim Dorne."
And he moved, hips jerking in feral ferocity, matched to the storm that brought him and her here. He felt her tighten around him; he writhed within her, and reached climax with her pussy spasming waves of pleasure crashing on over her. Tywin could feel his orgasm building up and knew his cock would be claiming her fully soon.
"This is your proof," he growled, hands hard on her hips, deep inside her. "You are mine, and Dorne will follow."
She shut her eyes very tightly with her teeth sunk deep inside her lower lip, champing hard on it to still her cries as the entire body was a canvas of sensations, each stroke painting new lines of pleasure onto her skin. Her breasts swayed with each impact, their nipples erect.
"Fuck me" she panted. "Fuck me like you own me."
The words were a spell, and Tywin proved more than willing to play his part. He pulled out of her-the sound of their wetness echoing in the room-and stepped aside, watching her glistening pussy with their combined desire. Then he reached for her again, his cock now aiming for her tight, untouched asshole.
"Is this what you want?" he said in a deep, hoarse voice.
"Yes," she groaned, "take me as you will."
Tywin jeered, pressing the head of his cock against her asshole. He spat on her ass to wet himself, watching how the spittle ran down her crack, collected at her tight entrance. Firmly clenching his hands onto her hips, he pushed forward and breached the tight ring of muscle by the head of his cock. Seraphine gasped, eyes flying open wide as he invaded her in a way no man ever had.
"You are… so tight," Tywin groaned, his cock stretching her ass open inch by torturous inch. She felt her body in protest, resisting the invasion, but he would take no quarter. Then, his hand grasped her clit, stroking it softly and coaxing her body into submission. "Relax, my lady," he whispered. "Let me in."
Seraphine took a deep breath as her nails dug into the wood of the table, concentrating on how his thumb rubbed over her clit and pushing back to try and will herself to take his length. Her ass was wetting up so much easier as she pushed back against him with that last push to finally get Tywin seated within her fully.
"Fuck," she whined, the ache receding into a new, far more exquisite feeling. She had never felt so full, so… claimed.
"Now we are one," Tywin growled, his voice low and husky. He moved, his hips rolling into a slow, ponderous rhythm. She felt all of him inside her; his cock filled her utterly, his balls slapping her clitoris with every stroke. The pain was gone now, replaced by something else: something savage, overwhelming.
"Yes," she groaned. "Yours."
Their bodies moved together, the sound of skin slapping against skin, of his cock plunging into her ass filling the air. Tywin's hand had left her clit and gone to immediately squeeze and pinch her nipples. Her body responded, her hips bucking back against him, urging him deeper.
"This is what you wanted," Tywin said, his voice hard, "taken by a Lannister, filled with the seed of the man who will rule the realm."
Seraphine's eyes hazed with lust as he fucked her, his cock claiming her in the most primeval possible way. Her cunt was slick with desire, her body quivering at every thrust.
"I need more," she huffed. "Harder."
And he did so, the strokes now more forceful, his cock squelching in and out of her with each wet stroke. He could feel the clenched ass muscles around him; her body was begging for a release.
"Not yet," Tywin said, his own voice taut with his need. "First you must swear your fealty."
"I swear," she moaned, desperation lacing her voice, "I swear it."
"Say it," he bellowed as his hips pistoned into her. "Say it loud enough for the gods to hear."
"I, Seraphine Martell, swear my fealty to House Lannister," she screamed out, the words bounding back off of the stone walls. "I am yours!"
With a growl, Tywin took her completely, his cock pumping his seed deep into her ass. He felt her body clench around him, her pussy spasm as she humped, her juices soaking the table beneath her.
"And now, Dorne is mine," Tywin said, his voice full of triumph as he pulled out of her, his cock shining with their mixed passion.
Seraphine straightened, and her legs quivered. She turned to him, her face flushed bright, her eyes smoldering with raw desire. "Prove it," she whispered, reaching for his cock, hardening anew.
"With pleasure," Tywin said, gleaming his eyes with lustful intentions.
The second time was desperate, frantic. Tywin tossed her on and her legs wrapped around his torso as he rocked in, his cock still slick from her ass. He fucked her against the wall as her breasts bobbled, nipples ticking against his chest.
"Say it again," he growled low, muscles in his jaws flexing with the effort of restraint. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "All of Dorne is yours."
The words sent him over the edge, and he came inside her with a roar, his cum filling her, marking her as his. She clung to him, her own orgasm rippling through her, her pussy milking his cock for every drop.
Still gasping, still panting, Tywin dragged her into a deep kiss, the salt of her lips trickling into his mouth. "Now, let us seal this alliance properly," he whispered against her lips.
He lifted her onto the bed, where he gently laid her down. She observed him, eyes still foggy from passion, as he removed his armor and disclosed his muscular body, leaving the scars of long, hard-fought battles on his flesh. His already rising cock, though softened a bit now, told a whole other tale, and the smoldering in his eyes was clear.
Tywin was not done.