Chapter Text
Andra’s body hurt from sitting properly for so long. Back straight, chin up, ankles crossed and tucked to the side- exactly as her Septa tried to teach her before coming to the conclusion that none of her efforts would stick. Her eyes focused on each lord as they came to both pay tribute and swear fealty to the new queen.
Oberyn stood on a lower step as to not stand above the head of the queen, though he positioned himself so that he could see both the lords approaching as well his wife’s stern face. Jory stood next to Jon in the front row, ready to read names aloud as lords handed him small scrolls bearing the information.
As much as her body ached to slouch, Andra admitted that everything was going according to plan. True to her word, the very first order of business was giving Gendry the family name. In return, Gendry Baratheon bent the knee and gave up any claims his father’s name may grant him. Andra smiled softly when he stood and found his place in the front row next to Jon. It certainly wasn’t the family she always imagined
Then began the awfully long task of swearing fealty. They’d began by region, calling the lesser houses of Dorne first. Then Prince Doran approached the Throne, assisted by his loyal captain of the guard. Andra especially appreciated that gesture. She did not know her brother by law well, but she understood he suffered from painful gout and as a result he appointed Oberyn to oversee Sunspear. To see him honor her with his presence, despite unable to physically bow, only further indebted her to his family- a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by her.
Before the lords of the Reach could swear their loyalty to the new queen, Andra officially stripped Mace Tyrell of his titles, though at Willas’ anticipated plea, she granted him the mercy of his life. She named Willas not only the Lord of Highgarden, but Lord Paramount of the Mander, and Warden in the South.
The entire room broke into surprised whispers when the queen named Shireen Baratheon as the Lady of Storm’s End. Oberyn had advised her against the choice, arguing that Andra would want her own children to take over her home. Her moral compass, however often she went against it, guided her to this choice. As much as she clung to the name, she could not move past the truth that she did not have Baratheon blood in her veins.
The only reason she gave to any who asked was simply because Robert hadn’t kept the castle for his own children either.
With Shireen and Jon Arryn’s boy being so young in age, Andra decided to name Jon of House Stark both Lord of Dragonstone and Warden in the East as a token of gratitude for his willingness to abandon his father’s kingdom in the North and raise the hatchlings. Another part of their ploy: Remind everyone that Jon sacrificed his position in Ned’s line of succession, and forfeited his place in Cassandra’s, so that he could tame the beasts that would one day protect the realm.
They neglected to mention the very real possibility that between Cassandra and Jon’s descendants, there might not be another dragonrider. As far as they were aware, none of the hatchlings established the same bond as Cannibal had with his rider. They tolerated Jon much more than any other, even prickling at Cassandra if she leaned in too close. Now that they would have access to Dragonstone, they hoped to find some answers in their library.
In the meantime, Cassandra’s trail of lies continued.
The long process of swearing fealty slowly crawled along, each lord bending the knee. Those who desired to slip into Cassandra’s good graces brought tributes. Most brought the most profitable exports from their lands, though some came bearing dragons and stags. A few even made grander gestures, such as Lord Tyrion, who wanted to pay for his family’s transgressions against the crown. He agreed to clear over half of the debt Robert accrued during his reign. While the offer was certainly generous, she knew he only did so because Tyrion wanted his father to hear how much of the Lannister’s wealth was truly gone before he died.
For as small as he stood, the man harbored much spite towards his family.
Most of the gifts and offerings were to be expected. Wines, ale, fabrics, all standard items that Andra already made plans for. Every items she received would go towards uplifting her kingdom, not personal wealth. The individual to come in and take every single one of them by surprise was none other than a Greyjoy.
Following the Westerlands, Oberyn called forth the lords of the Iron Islands. One by one they trickled in. Cassandra rapidly memorized every face matched with their name as Jory presented each one. Of all her brother’s- no, her- six kingdoms, the Iron Islands was where her experience and knowledge lacked the most. She barely involved herself in the Greyjoy Rebellion, not having the strength to be so close to Ned again. She wanted to learn all she could, as quickly as she could.
Following the failed attack on Moat Cailin, which Lord Ramsay Bolton confessed is where his father made a pact with Yara Greyjoy to proposition King Joffrey for an alliance, the Iron Islands have been eerily quiet. Maester Pycelle turned over every scroll he had since she’d left and each one from the Iron Islands turned out to be a standard report.
They never even heard of Lord Balon’s arrival to the capital. The entire Ironborn envoy arrived, yes, but no one reported Balon’s presence. Andra tried to remain calm about his absence, but as more and more lords swore fealty, her anxiety about the matter grew. Her nails tapped along the blades under her arm as the time came near for the Lord of Pyke to show his face.
She didn’t want to think about what she may have to do if they wouldn’t bend the knee.
When an Ironborn stepped forward to hand Jory the next introduction, Andra’s skin prickled. The Lord Commander read Euron Greyjoy’s name aloud and her eyes immediately flicked towards Oberyn. His downturned lips were more than enough to confirm that she was justified in her unease. Something was amiss; sending a second son without prior notice could easily be regarded as a slight to her.
The terrifying man himself stepped out from his place near the back of the crowd. He hadn’t changed much in the years since she last saw him. Same hairstyle, same malicious glint in his eye as he walked down the aisle. The leather eyepatch looked different; a deep yellow with thick black stitching. His legs carried him forward with slow strides at a leisurely pace. He made his way towards the Iron Throne with a chest in his hands.
He gave Cassandra with a dashing smile, one that once made her blush. Euron, if she had to name a positive trait, was a charmer. Dressed head to toe in the Ironborn’s best, he carried himself with a confidence to rival Oberyn’s. Now as she watched him, she chastised herself for ever considering him suitable for marriage.
Andra’s gaze found Ned’s over the man’s shoulder. He also wore a frown, cold eyes trained on the back of the Ironborn’s head. He looked as anxious as she felt. She only hoped that her face didn’t betray her nerves as his did because the King in the North showed ever ounce of his disdain.
When Euron finally made it to the front, he immediately bent the knee. The chest he carried hit the stone floor with a loud thud. He remained silent, bright blue eye boring into Cassandra’s. That teasing smile still on his lips as he quirked an eyebrow. He knew better than to speak before her. He looked at Cass with a patience she knew he did not possess.
So she made him wait just a few beats longer than every other lord to acknowledge him.
“Euron,” she began in a firm tone, though her stomach churned at not knowing why the second son would be here. “I will admit, I expected to see your brother here rather than you.”
“My brother was a traitor to the North,” Euron countered, a wide smile growing on his face. “And as such, a traitor to the queen they rallied behind.”
He gestured to her with a subtle jut of his chin. Andra’s eyebrow arched. She met Euron only a few times prior in between his travels across the Narrow Sea. He called upon her twice, the only suitor besides Oberyn to be granted a second audience. He’d been charming, yes, but it was the underlying ruthlessness that drew her in. She’d wanted to know where it came from as well as how he earned his reputation as a terrifyingly cruel figure.
The eyepatch was simply an added bonus.
Looking at Euron now, for the first time after their last rocky farewell, the haze of his charm washed away. All she saw as she looked down at him was a man who planned to take everything he felt he earned in life. An all too familiar sense of dread began trickling down her spine.
“Ser Jory,” she prompted.
Jory already knew his role, stepping to Euron and taking the trunk from him. He climbed the steps to Andra, standing directly in front of her. His wary eyes fell to hers and she set her hands on the lid. She knew what she’d find inside; she didn’t need to see it. The smell of death permeated through its wooden cage, filling Andra’s nostrils. Rotting flesh held a uniquely nauseating odor that one grows accustomed to in times of war.
Euron watched her expectantly- all the Ironborn did. This was a test, to see if she truly lived up to her reputation. Could the new queen really amout to more than a fickle woman who faints as the sight of blood?
Her gaze once again found Oberyn. Part of her wanted him next to her for this, a sinking feeling already settling in her gut. Not because she couldn’t handle the sight, or the smell, but rather the implication of what Euron might be seeking from bring her his brother’s head.
Her pride kept her from calling out to her husband. She wouldn’t let the realm believe she needed his support so early on in her reign, even if she craved it. It’s why he finally agreed to be her Hand for the time being- she begged him to take the title. Perhaps begging was an exaggeration, but Cassandra certainly sacrificed her jaw’s comfort in the hopes that he would stop denying her request.
Now he stood there, badge over his breast, and a frown on his lips. He didn’t like this any more than she did, but his hardened gaze told her to do what was demanded and play Euron’s game. Underneath that he held the tender sentiment that he was right there. That he planned to be always right there for her.
She lifted the lid and kept her face neutral as she stared down at the head of Balon Greyjoy resting on his crown. The stench threatened to bring out a gag, but she was the same woman that covered herself in pig’s blood just to throw the hounds off her scent. She forced her bodily reaction back down, meeting Euron’s glinting eyes with her cold ones.
She gestured for Jory to set the trunk with the rest of the gifts she’d received.
“Thank you, Euron, for bringing a traitor of the crown to justice. Will Yara be coming to seek mercy before taking her father’s place as Lord of Pyke?”
Euron’s grin grew.
“I’m afraid my traitorous niece was lost at sea during a storm, Your Grace. All we found were the ruins of her ship as it sunk.”
Andra’s eyes narrowed.
“With Balon’s remaining son at the Wall, it seems fortune has smiled upon you this day.”
“So it seems, Your Grace,” Euron agreed, his eyes trailing lower down her form.
She ignored the look, pointedly refusing to entertain his behavior in any capacity. She knew he simply wanted to unnerve her and she would not allow it to work. She couldn’t, not with so many eyes on her.
“Then, Lord Euron, will you be seeking mercy for your family’s sins against our Northern allies? While this certainly satisfies my own fury at your brother for declaring himself King, Yara Greyjoy was the one to broker the alliance between Roose Bolton and Walder Frey.”
“I do find it humorous how many dissatisfied lords began to panic once they realized Eddard Stark still lived. I understand why your brother’s forces cowered back to Pyke the very second Ned stepped foot back onto Northern soil. I even understand your niece, Bolton, and Frey’s desperate attempt to find favor with Joffrey, the pretender to the throne. What I am failing to understand, Lord Euron, is how you believed one head to be enough.”
Euron’s smile dropped, but Cassandra wasn’t quite done.
“I have invited The King in The North to be present for today’s event, as well as his loyal lords. They fought to free my people from the tyranny of Lannister bastards and now I must satisfy them if their king is to sign an accord for peace. Please explain, Lord Greyjoy, how you plan to remedy this discrepancy so that my kingdoms do not pay the price for your land’s folly.”
The entire room fell silent, someone’s cough echoing in the chamber. Euron’s stare hardened and his lips turned downwards as he refrained from sneering at the queen. For the first time since he approached, Andra felt comfortable. This was the Euron Greyjoy she remembered parting ways with. She sat as poised as ever, chin jutting out as she held her head high.
Her eyes flicked towards Ned who never resembled his sigil more than in that moment. Darkened eyes trained on the back of the Greyjoy. His predatory stance had nothing to do with his distaste for the Ironborn and everything to do with this particular Ironborn’s proximity to her. Jon Arryn tried to raise an honorable man, but Eddard Stark never did manage to bury the possessive beast that lived within him- not when it came to Cassandra. The way his lip lifted as he grit his teeth was reminder enough that he would tear through anyone causing her unease or distress.
Her lip quirked upwards as she set her attention back on the Ironborn.
“You only need name your price,” Euron managed only after shoving his clear annoyance to the side. “Your Grace.”
Andra smiled widely, shattering the tension in the room in an instant. Even Euron, whose eyes glinted with a smoldering anger, relaxed some. Keep the queen happy, that’s all anyone in this room needed to concern themselves with today.
“The North and I have come to an agreement for trading resources. The Redwyne’s offered up half their fleet for use on the eastern coastal routes. Perhaps the Greyjoy’s could offer their ships for assistance on the west coast?”
The Ironborn’s unnerving smile returned, as if she stepped exactly where he wanted her to.
“It will be as you have commanded, Your Grace,” Euron agreed with a nod. “Half the Ironborn fleet is yours. I’ll begin dismantling the other half upon my return to Pyke. I hope to not only satisfy, but exceed expectations in my new role.”
“In that case, look forward to discussing more in greater detail,” she said, trying not to squint her eyes at him.
An Ironborn willingly giving up ships? Could the man scream not to trust him any louder?
He swore his vows of loyalty, giving a deep bow and subtle smirk as he rose and walked back to his place. Andra’s heart couldn’t help but race at his silent promise; he would find her during the feast. She couldn’t tell if she dreaded the thought or welcomed it.
As much as she didn’t want to encourage him, she also wanted to find out why he suddenly took an interest in Westeros again or why he showed up bearing the head of his older brother. She met Oberyn’s eyes and knew that he planned on finding time to speak to the lord himself.
She craved it from Ned, but this was the first time she’d gotten a glimpse of Oberyn’s possessiveness. Yes, he threatened Bolton at the Twins, but that come from a place of protection. Now, there was no denying the dark look in his eyes. He looked mere seconds away from pulling her against him and reminding every lord in the room exactly who her husband was.
She gave the tiniest lift of her lips to settle the proud man.
Most of the ceremony moved on without incident. Word that Sandor Clegane had been given the Twins spread throughout Westeros as soon as the seemingly unbelievable appointment happened. No one seemed surprised when he swore his fealty and she named him Warden in the North. Based on Edmure’s dejected look when he approached, Andra was sure she’d see him pop up during the feast as well to voice his displeasure.
Surprisingly, Lysa brought Lord Robert to swear his oath. No one knew for certain if the woman, who had a history of questionable decisions, would show up for the occasion. Whether or not her new husband, Petyr Baelish, had anything to do with the decision was unknown.
Honestly, Andra hadn’t expected Baelish to show at all. She knew him to be more clever than such a silly choice. When Nymeria warned her he’d arrived, she made sure that he was not allowed into the Red Keep. He still held ownership of his brothel’s throughout King’s Landing that the guards encouraged him to use. While Lysa had initially been offended beyond measure, she thankfully seemed to be in one of her better moods. Catelyn and Edmure both reasoned with her once she was inside the Keep.
The man did betray the King in the North, after all. Petyr wouldn’t be allowed to eat at the same table as Ned. They assumed that he wouldn’t show up. In fact, when he didn’t enter with the rest of the lower lords from the Vale, Andra internally celebrated. In true Baelish fashion, however, he tested the limits of Cassandra’s patience. At the very end, right when she believed they were finally done and she could stretch her legs, the man came slinking down the aisle.
Her eyes immediately found Ned. She expected him to look angry, but all she saw was a hint of sorrow. She followed his eyes, which were not on Baelish, all the way to where Catelyn’s fingers clutched the bannister she stood behind. She looked down at Petyr with rage, yes, but also an incredibly large amount of hurt and betrayal.
Andra’s heart squeezed as she saw another example of Ned putting others before himself. Petyr Baelish betrayed him, which resulted in Ned being thrown into the Black Cells. He had every right to be angry, demand Petyr’s head, and Andra would even understand if he made a scene here and now in front of everyone.
Yet there he stood, more concerned with how his lawful wife may be feeling about seeing someone she once considered family after their last interaction.
Petyr stopping and lowering himself to his knees pulled her attention away from her handsome wolf lurking in the shadows. Her eyes fell to the slender man swearing his vows, nearly convincingly too. Andra rose from to her feet which set off a chain of whispers throughout the crowd. She ignored all of what happened around her and stood on the last step, towering over Petyr’s kneeling form.
“Rise,” she commanded.
Baelish stood and looked up at her. The stupidly annoying smirk he always wore on his face only served to further irritate Cassandra. She sighed as she clasped her hands in front of her.
“I don’t know whether I think you’re a madman or a simpleton. Tell me why I shouldn’t call for your head this instant.”
Petyr leaned forward, quickly trapping her with a hushed voice.
“The Vale would revolt once you kill the current lord’s stepfather. Lysa will not care about any of my misdeeds. You must understand that my wife is quite enamored by me. Seeing as you just named the Hound as Warden over the Lord Paramount of the Trident, my brother by law, you’d have the Riverlands up in arms as well. You’re already down to six kingdoms, Your Grace. Do you already want two of them against you?”
“Brandon should have killed you,” she bit, glaring at him.
“And Ned should not have put his trust in me.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes.
“I’m used to your games, Petyr, but not all are as accustomed as I. If you value the air in your lungs, I recommend staying as far away from King Stark as you can. Now, get out of my sight.”
Petyr’s smirk deepened, bowing in a way that felt anything but respectful. Cassandra saw every ounce of mockery behind the gesture. As he walked to the right, disappearing from view, Cassandra didn’t wait for any more formalities.
Her favorite perk of being Queen? No one would stop her.
She began walking down the aisle, the exact way she came in. Oberyn and her Queensguard fell in line immediately, joining her for the last portion of this ceremony. Thank the old gods she only needed to suffer through such an outrageously formal affair once.
As she passed by Ned, he stepped aside without argument. All eyes were still on her and as much as they both knew he wanted to whisk her away and keep her all to himself, they couldn’t risk being seen as anything more than political allies. All she could do was promise herself that they would find time to spend together soon.
When they made it to the large doors to the Keep, Captain Djarin pulled them open. His men were waiting for the queen and king to arrive. Once they were ready, Djarin gave the command to begin moving. His hundred Baratheon men pushed forward.
Her hand found Oberyn’s on instinct as they prepared to briefly parade the city’s streets. It allowed lords and ladies to prepare for the feast without attempts to catch either the king or queen as they tried to do the same. After weeks of greeting lords as they arrived, setting private discussions, meeting each one, Andra wanted as much time to herself as possible in between festivities.
When she made the suggestion originally, her husband was quick to join her. Together they made the decision to forgo a carriage; both preferred to walk. As they began to pass soldiers acting as a barricade between them and the masses, they raised their unconnected hands to wave to their subjects. Her Queensguard followed as well as another hundred Dornishmen behind them.
Around the halfway point Andra leaned into Oberyn’s arm, a habit she barely thought twice about anymore. He placed a gentle kiss to the top of her head and in that very moment, they became the picture of a happy union in the eyes of their onlookers. The crowd’s cheering turned into sweet sentiments as they called out how beautiful the new king and queen were.
Andra smiled happily, eyes drifting to Oberyn’s as they continued on their way. His lips didn’t move, but the way his skin crinkled around his eyes was the only acknowledgment she needed. He enjoyed this. Not just being King, but being there in the city he claimed to despise so greatly. She hoped that he would find some happiness in King’s Landing, knowing how painful Elia’s memory was for him to bear. Those little crows feet were all she needed to see for her to undoubtedly know that they would find happiness.
She squeezed the hand still interlaced with his, a silent thank you for all that he did.
And all that she knew he would do for her.
As they went, they received many blessings for a long, happy union, for strong and beautiful children, and for a prosperous and peaceful reign. Andra’s face physically hurt from the way she beamed at the crowd, but people had a certain image in their mind when they thought of a queen, regardless if consort followed the title or not.
She hated every second, wanted all the pomp and circumstance to be finished with so the real work could begin, and desperately needed to relieve her bladder. Yet at the same time, she wouldn’t exchange the day for anything.
As she passed each citizen, she made a silent oath to do right by each and every one of them. Yes, she cared about the lords back in the Keep. Of course she cared about those who would ward her lands. The smallfolk though? The ones who couldn’t stand up for themselves against lords that may abuse their status and take advantage of those they were sworn to protect?
These were the people she would continue to fight for.
As they approach the gates to the Red Keep once more, Andra fought the urge to run past the remaining soldiers and find the nearest privy. While she forced herself to keep the same steady pace, Oberyn broke away from her entirely. She stopped in place, hand outstretched towards him as confusion took over.
Where did he think he was going?
Oberyn shouldered his way through the crowd. Once they realized that he meant to get through to the nearby wall, they began parting for their king. Andra watched with furrowed brows as he reached the wall of the Keep and crouched. He stayed like that for a few moments, shifting slightly every few seconds. All she could see was the expanse of his back covered by the luxurious robes he opted to wear for the occasion.
Did his shoulder blades have to make an appearance in everything he wore? How could that be fair?
When Oberyn stood and turned around, Andra saw what his attention suddenly diverted to. She refrained from groaning, but judging the largest smile she’d ever seen on her husband’s face, there would be no changing his mind.
She allowed herself one second to curse under her breath as Oberyn started back towards her. He nuzzled the decrepit creature to his face and to her utter disgust, the damned thing nuzzled right back. At Jory’s gentle nudge, she wiped the scowl off of her face.
“Darling! Look!”
Blast it all, she’d never heard him sound so joyful.
“You found a friend,” she offered as happily as she could manage.
By Jory’s grimace, she knew she hadn’t done well.
“Can you believe it? It’s Balerion the Black Dread,” he laughed, holding the damned cat towards her as he drew closer.
“You’ve already named him?”
“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”
He paused to scratch the feline’s head fondly.
“Rhaenys did, don’t you remember? I’m certain I’ve shared this story with you.”
“Oh,” she softly gasped as the memory came back to her. “Yes! Her kitten.”
Oberyn nodded eagerly, holding his niece’s cat against the center of his chest. Andra eyes the mangy beast. A few snaggleteeth, tufts of fur missing throughout his coat, an odor that put Cannibal’s breath to shame, a torn ear, and definitely blind in one eye. He lurked around the castle for as long as she could remember, trying to scratch everyone in sight.
“Are you sure?” she whispered, feeling an itch creeping into her nostrils.
No, no, no. She couldn’t sneeze. Not now! Not when her bladder yearned for relief.
“Of course! See here. He has a white patch to match hers.”
Oberyn shifted the cat around, the normally vicious beast happily letting the Dornishman do so. His fingers trailed to the cat’s arm and stretched it out, showcasing the ridiculously small tuft of white hair in a sea of black.
Andra sighed, eyes going back up to Oberyn’s as they stepped into the courtyard. There really wouldn’t be a way to convince him otherwise; the blasted cat was here to stay. They both turned, bidding their subjects a happy evening, before heading towards the entrance of the Red Keep.
Oberyn stopped inside the doors, pausing to show Cassandra the cat. She took a step back, keeping the same, forced happy smile on her face. She preferred to admire the aged creature from afar, but Oberyn was too happy to pick up on her discomfort. He stepped closer, holding Balerion towards her. She shook her head, rubbing her twitching nose with a curled knuckle.
“I don’t need to hold him, Oberyn.”
“He’s a sweet boy-”
The king was cut off by a sound that could only be described as a kitten’s mew. He blinked his obsidian eyes, staring blankly at his wife. She growled in frustration as she looked down at herself. Feeling a wet discomfort in her nostrils, she sniffled as she rubbed at her nose again.
“Cassandra Baratheon, did you just sneeze?”
She glared at him, then at Balerion. She pinched her nose lightly and Oberyn knew it was true. That adorable sound came from his hardened warrior of a wife! His disbelieving laughter filled the halls, pulling glances in their direction.
“Yes and pissed my fucking small clothes,” she grumbled angrily, turning her back towards him.
Her frustration could be seen in every step she took. Oberyn’s smile widened as he watched servants and guests alike step out of her way. He scratched behind Balerion’s torn ear before following after her.
“The mighty Woman Stag? Cassandra the Cruel? The same woman I watched hack apart a training dummy like Princess Nymeria born again sneezes like a kitten?”
She stopped, turning to scowl despite the pink tint to her cheeks. Oberyn took a step back when he realized she wasn’t angry, but embarrassed. He knew how to navigate his wife’s temper enough to walk away with his head, but this new emotion from her suddenly terrified him. He stood with wide eyes, unsure of how to proceed.
Unfortunately, he blurted the only thing he could think of.
“Can we keep him?”
Andra’s jaw clenched as she regarded him. She scoffed after a minute of silence and shook her head exasperatedly.
“You are so lucky I love you,” she groaned, returning to her path.
Oberyn watched with a smile as she tore down the hall with a renewed sense of frustration. In his eyes, she was the most beautiful and treacherous of tempests. He scratched Balerion’s head, holding the last living remnant of his sister’s family. He held the cat close, swearing on his niece’s memory that his last years would be some of his best.
“How does roasted goat for dinner sound, Black Dread? I’m sure Her Highness will not mind sharing our table with you, old friend. I feel closer to Elia and her chil-”
Oberyn’s steps faltered. His focus snapped to his wife, storming away in her beautiful gown.
“Swee- Sweetling!”
He coughed into his shoulder in an attempt to cover the crack in his voice.
“Darling, did you say love?”
Cassandra’s eye widened, but her posture never wavered. Jory snickered from behind her, which she heard Brienne chastise him for.
“Tolerate!” she snapped over her shoulder. “You’re lucky that I tolerate you!”
Oberyn’s feet were moving, tucking Balerion against his chest as he attempted to catch up to his wife.
“Slow down, Andra! You said love. Sweetling? Sweetling!”