Chapter Text
Cassandra took a deep breath, hands pressing against her torso as she did. She used to feel leather under the pads of her fingers when she prepared for battle, not bare skin. The breeze carried a chill, but she could not let the discomfort sway her.
In order for this to go as planned, she needed to be fast. To her knowledge, Clegane never witnessed her fight. She clung to that truth with a tightly wound fist. A small flame of hope flickered within. If he underestimated her, she could possibly take him by surprise. It might be just enough of an advantage to give her the victory.
During the rebellion, she never relied on tricks. Back then, after losing not only Lyanna, but Ned and her home in the North as well, Andra moved without fear of death. In fact, she once welcomed the thought. She was a woman that was driven by purpose and for too long, she’d been lost without knowing hers.
Now?
There were too many relying on her. If she lost, if Tywin was allowed to live, it wouldn’t take much for another usurpation. Stepping into this fight was not only about her wanting Tywin’s death. A trial driven by combat and a verdict delivered by the death of another were both interpreted to be divine justice.
If she lost today, Tywin need only open his mouth and say the statement everyone else would be too afraid to voice:
The Seven have turned their backs on two Baratheon rulers.
A king without a trueborn son and a queen that died the day after the crown was placed atop her head. Tywin held much influence in the realm and if Cassandra lost this trial, he could claim this verdict was divine intervention. In order for House Baratheon’s legacy to continue, Oberyn would have to stand with Shireen. Despite the love and trust present in their relationship, Cassandra doubted that he would. If Tywin did not die today, Oberyn’s vengeance would drive his next decisions without care of any risks. Shireen would not be a priority in his eyes, not as Cassandra was. He wouldn’t fight for her as Andra would want.
Ned couldn’t ensure Shireen’s place, not as an independent kingdom. He’d have to then worry about the events in the South as he prepared for Winter’s Army. He would have pressure from both sides and down six kingdoms supporting him in protecting the realm. It would be the North holding the weight of everything, Ned at the helm. It was too much for one person to bear alone.
No, Cassandra could not lose this fight. Too many risks were at stake if she did.
Her hand reached out and grabbed her spear. It was heavier than the broken spearhead and long dagger combination she once carried into every battle. She reached for the broken spearhead now and slipped it into the belt at her waist. The first man to ever pierce her skin carried the whole weapon this particular blade was severed from. She killed him and wielded the blade with her ever since. She never lost a fight, her blade always finding its mark.
She could only pray that it did the same today.
Her fingers loosened around the hilt as they settled onto the full-length spear in her hands. Knowing it once used to be carried by Princess Nymeria added to her fascination, but not her confidence. While a beautiful gift from her husband, and certainly practical as she would not need to get as close to her opponent, her strikes would be slower as she compensated for the weight of the weapon.
Which meant she needed to be faster.
She bounced from foot to foot, swinging the spear experimentally. She could do this, but she would need to stop thinking of her opponent as the Mountain. There was enough on her shoulders without the title. Just another man to bleed dry, another body in the way of her goal, another corpse to burn by the end of it. She could not give anymore power to his name.
Gregor Clegane could fall.
He would fall— preferably at her feet.
Cass locked her lips as the gate in front of her began to lift. Her doubts and nerves needed to be left at this threshold. If she carried it with her, the would only serve as distractions. As the sudden infiltration of sunlight washed out the world around her, she took one last deep breath.
And stepped into the open.
The noise filling the area above her were likely cheers, but she focused on the sound of her breathing instead. One misstep was all it would take to throw her rhythm off. If her pattern of breathing fell out of sync with her movements, the panic would set in. She knew herself too well to believe she’d swiftly recover in that case.
She covered her eyes to help them adjust faster, still focusing on her breathing. She kept taking steady steps forward, reaching behind her back and setting the spare blade on a table littered with others, the best from the fallout from storming King’s Landing. She moved forward again, her eyes moving upwards to find her opponent.
Gregor Clegane stood tall and unmovable. His figure cast a shadow that stretched even further than his arms as he entered from the other side of the arena-like pit. He glowered at Cassandra in a way that resembled Brandon’s anger just a tad too closely. The single-handed grip on her spear tightened.
As this was happening below them, the audience all sat anxious as they waited for her to emerge. The chittering began the second her body moved into the sunlight, most shocked at her appearance. Ned ignored the whispers as he sat rigid next to Catelyn. He could see her from his position, but not nearly as well as he would like.
His eyes weren’t what they used to be.
When a hand covered his own, he nearly ripped himself from the way entirely. Until he saw it belonged to Catelyn, the woman he married, the mother of his children, and the Queen in the North. Flinching away from her touch so openly would be an insult and her weighted gaze reminded him as much.
To his left sat Oberyn. Elia was behind her lover’s seat, holding a bowl of fruit. Despite Cassandra holding the title of Oberyn’s wife, the Dornish woman seemed just as concerned as the man she bore children for. Shae stood with her— conveniently next to Tyrion’s seat behind Ned— though her eyes were trained on where Tywin Lannister emerged, escorted by Captain Djarin and his men.
Oberyn’s eyes lazily looked towards Tywin before he turned to Ned.
“Were you offered a seat before your confession?”
Ned’s lips curled upwards as he could appreciate Oberyn’s use of him as a gauge. He did not wish to damage his wife’s already questionable reputation. Ned knew damn well that Oberyn desired to humiliate the man until nothing could mend the reputation, but he showed restraint as to not drag his wife down to his depths. Ned leaned slightly to meet Tywin’s piercing gaze.
Ned only ever met Tywin a handful of times, but each encounter left the Northman unsettled. Now, his smirk deepened. He never liked a man the likes of Tywin. Power of honor, greed over morals, name over family. Now he would get to watch the man’s confidence dwindle as Cassandra defeated his champion.
Because she would, he reminded himself. She would win. She would come out of this alive.
“After sitting in the black cells for days without food or water, I was forced to kneel, King Oberyn.”
With the knowledge that they had at least fed their prisoners, Oberyn risked upsetting Tywin’s remaining loyalists. He barely lifted a finger before Captain Djarin hit the back of the old lion’s knees, forcing him onto the ground. The darkest part of Ned’s being reveled at the sight for only a second before an easily recognizable voice.
“Cassandra is fighting that? He looks bigger than before!”
Everyone looked to Arya as she stood at the stone balcony that had been restored during Robert’s reign. He hadn’t rebuilt a dragon pit, but he did order to have enough restored for melee battles and trials fought by combat.
Ned squeezed Catelyn’s hand and set it back on her lap. He stood and joined his youngest daughter. Rickon soon squeezed his way in between them, Sansa coming up to circle Ned’s left arm. He pat her gently in silent reassurance.
“The idea is for her to kill that,” he told them, nodding to where Cassandra stood.
Someone passing behind them grunted.
“She’s got a chance,” Sandor Clegane declared with an unusual sense of optimistic determination. “His size won’t matter once she finds her footing.”
His scowl locked onto his brother to their left. Ned noticed the way Sansa’s arms loosened around his. He looked down, prepared to see her looking at the Hound like some lovesick puppy, but instead finds her starting straight up at him. Her eyes were so similar to Catelyn’s. Wide, hopeful, and a nurturing twinkle in those blue irises.
For a second, Ned told himself Sansa didn’t love the man. She simply wanted him to feel cared for the same way her and her siblings always were thanks to Cat. He tired to convince himself that her nurturing heart was big enough for a stray like the Hound. Even as he tried to convince himself, he caught the little gleam. The same one he always saw shining in Andra’s eyes.
He forced himself back from being sick. His eyes flicked to his wife’s. Catelyn looked at him as if she already knew where his mind was. Refreshing, compared to the way she watched him for years— as if he were a rotting limb she didn’t know how to save. Now, her eyes told him that he knew what course of action he should take.
Their main concern regarding their daughter was her safety and happiness. Ever since she returned to them, Sansa moved about her day aimlessly. Often distracted, often crying, often retreating somewhere dark and lonely in her mind. Her mannerisms reminded both parents of Ned’s own lifestyle before Robert rode to Winterfell, which, by all accounts and purposes, was rightfully concerning.
Ned’s eyes remained locked with Cat’s.
“Lord Clegane,” he said before he could either lose his nerve or find his sanity. “Would you honor my family by sitting with us?”
He ignored Arya’s irate expression and simply reached out to cup the back of her neck and gave a firm squeeze. She knew the signal well. A very clear command to stay quiet. He knew it took every once of her willpower to tame the wolf’s blood in her veins. His father used to describe the effect it had on some Starks. Lyanna only lashed out once or twice, Brandon much more often. Arya certainly carried the wolf’s blood for her entire slew of siblings. For now, she refrained from pouncing on the man she hated.
He cocked his head as he looked down at her. With the dead creeping towards them, how true could those silly myths about Starks sharing attributes, such as blood, with wolves? Trying to understand his place in the story the old gods penned continued to prove difficult. Every time he found solid ground, a new revelation quaked beneath his feet. Now was no different, because Ned couldn’t move on from the thought that Arya did present more Stark blood than her siblings. Perhaps that is why her direwolf never returned to them. Arya possessed enough of the beast’s blood that she did not need a companion as her siblings did.
She would be able to handle herself.
He blinked a few times, mulling the thought over. Beginning to see evidence of the gods he prayed to diligently opened a new, almost childlike curiosity within him. If these little things were proving true, what about the others? The wolf in Winterfell’s walls? Starks of old consistently being wargs? How much of it could be true? Someone cleared their throat with enough force to pull Ned from his own mind. His attention snapped back to Sandor as the gruff man began to speak.
“The honor would be mine, King Eddard, but I don’t think-”
“You would deny a king?” Sansa prodded, turning her face to press the opposite cheek against her father’s arm as she looked behind them now.
Sandor’s face flashed with exasperation before he bent his head in a small bow. Ned didn’t appreciate the familiarity nor the fondness in his eye as he looked in his daughter’s direction. He knew one slip up and Catelyn would have his throat. So he stayed quiet and let the Hound decide.
“Of course not, Princess.”
Sansa smiled widely and turned back to watch as Cassandra set her favored dagger onto the table below them.
Ned glanced down at his daughter.
“I do not approve of your current infatuation,” he muttered as he shooed her siblings back to their mother.
Sansa pressed into him tighter.
“I do not need you to, Father, not unless he intends to ask for my hand. I believe we both know he does not.”
“I am your father, Sansa. It is my duty to protect you.”
“And when you couldn’t, Lord Sandor did. From King’s Landing all the way to Winterfell, he kept vigilant watch over me and my safety. Forgive me if I feel the compulsion to ensure he has a place in my life after such a journey.”
“And is your safety the only part of you he watched?” Ned shot before he could stop himself.
Sansa pulled away immediately, causing his stomach to sink. He could practically feel Cat’s chastising gaze boring into the back of his head.
“You do not give him enough credit. While Joffrey made his men strip and beat me, and knights and lords alike leered, Lord Sandor—”
Ned had just about had it with this conversation.
“Did he stop the abuse, Sansa? Did the loyal Hound move against his king?”
She held her chin high, blue eyes as piercing as her mother’s. Ned’s face scrunched in disdain. Once again, he found himself longing for the ease of war rather than navigating the intricacies of raising daughters.
“Sandor did exactly as your infatuation asked of him,” she practically seethed with the same quiet lashing Ned’s defenses carried.
With the bustling of the crowd, he almost missed her throwing the blatant truth at him. He stepped back, more shocked by her words than he had ever been. Andra let the truth slip to Robb. Jon claimed to see it. Ned even suspected Arya might question a few moments from their travels to the Westerlands.
He never would have thought Sansa would be the one to match Jon and piece it together on her own. She often avoided Ned in King’s Landing. Cassandra spent little time in Winterfell with Sansa present. She hardly spent time with the two of them together.
How?
As if she could hear his internal confusion, she squared her jaw and tiled her chin upwards.
“I am not dim, Father. Once, my head may have been in the clouds, but I have since learned to use my eyes and ears. He has taught me how to use them. He has come to my aid time and time again, Father. Saving me from myself, from a group of men seconds away from raping me, from Joffrey and all his horrible orders, even from Walder Frey and his vulgar comments.”
She stepped closer, her arms crossed over her chest as if she were uncomfortable with recounting the truth. He saw for himself what Catelyn meant about her reluctance to share the truth of her experience as Joffrey’s betrothed. The words fell from her lips bluntly, hiding the emotions behind watery eyes and a downturned, quivering lip. His stomach twisted with disgust as the fact that he failed her more than he had all his other children hit him.
He continued to fail her. She should have never needed to find protection from another man so young in life, especially from such an older one at that. In his attempts to ensure his children never experienced events similar to those that he and his siblings endured, he didn’t even equip himself for the turmoils of the world, let alone adequately prepare his family. He always warned them Winter was coming, but never told them how to survive it.
If Cassandra had not convinced him to leave those blasted cells, he wouldn’t be around to guide them through the war to come. How many of his children might have died before Winter made it to the Wall? If she hadn’t been his voice of reason that day, how many in Westeros would have taken advantage of his children and the innocence he and Cat worked so hard to preserve?
More than that, how had he let Sansa carry this pain in silence for so long?
“Lord Sandor is a crude man, Father, but not a cruel one— not in matters concerning me. Perhaps instead of judgment, you should offer him some gratitude.”
Sansa told him all this in an even tone, confidence rolling off of her shoulders. She meant every word and Ned was left feeling absolutely gobsmacked. She never looked more like her mother, especially as she lowered herself into the seat right of Catelyn.
Ned sighed and looked back down towards Andra. As if she could feel the tug, she looked up towards where her loved ones gathered. He offered an encouraging smile before patting the banister and going back to his seat.
Andra’s eyes remained locked on Ned’s movement. He looked tense; he felt tense. The pull to go to him, to ease his frustrations, to listen to his complaints— the desire proved nearly too strong. Her grip tightened on her spear. This distraction through their bond would only make things more difficult.
Still, part of her knew that she wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Andra ignored the discomfort from not going to Ned and focused on what surrounded her. The light splattering of dirt over weathered stone, the heat of the sunlight boring down on her, the soft fluttering of fans in the crowd, and most importantly, her opponent’s large frame. Her eyes trailed his form and she found herself grateful for the distance that the Nymeria’s spear would allow her.
Her pulse thumping in her ear drowned out Oberyn’s voice. Cassandra sat waiting for a trumpet;nothing else would pull her attention. Not the dying breeze with barely enough strength to lift a few stray hairs in front of her nose, not her husband’s demanding voice, not even the smell of shit from the city would unbalance her. She kept her eyes on the Mountain, preparing her first series of strikes. She wanted to be quick, but she knew she needed to be patient with her attack.
She aimed to wound him, chipping away little by little until he gave her exactly what she wanted. She couldn’t go for the kill, not right away. She needed to play the long game; exhaust him so that she could not only get the clean strike, but force a confession from him. What she omitted from telling anyone prior to this encounter, what she doubted Oberyn remembered, was that she made a promise. She promised Oberyn that the realm would know Tywin sent Clegane after Dorne’s beloved princess. Even if they weren’t the official charges against Tywin, Gregor would confess, and it would need to suffice as Oberyn’s justice.
It would mean risking her very life. One wrong move and Gregor could easily overpower her. The longer she took to kill him, the more tired her body would become, the slower she would move, and the larger Clegane’s chance to drive his own blade through her.
Anyone else would see the goal as a fool’s errand. Oberyn certainly would not hold Cassandra to the promise she made under entirely different circumstances. Her life hadn’t been on the line when she swore the vow. Anyone else would see that Clegane’s physical build and experience in both battle and tournaments put him at an immense advantage over the much smaller woman. Trying the odds by tiring herself out wouldn’t end well for her. Anyone else would know that getting a confession from the Mountain was folly.
Still, Cassandra was just stubborn enough to try.
The horn blared loudly, muffled still by the pulse rushing in her ears. Andra immediately went for the offensive, running straight towards her opponent and now allowing much time to prepare. Gregor brought his sword up with more than enough time to parry her attack.
She anticipated the block. In fact, she hoped for it. Andra wanted to see how the man moved, especially under pressure. When the time came for the fatal strike, she wanted to know every opening available to her.
Gregor’s swing was faster than she anticipated, but she forced herself not to panic at the thought that perhaps speed would not be enough. She grunted and spun her body, bringing the spear in one large sweeping arc in an attempt to put more distance between her and the man.
Once Andra found her balance, she charged again.
And again.
And again.
Over and over, she drove forward, but never with the intent of making contact. She whittled away at Gregor’s defense little by little. At any point, he would grow tired and charge. Until then, Cassandra would not allow a moment of reprieve. She continued her rotations around the man’s body, striking from every different angle.
Tywin Lannister watched from his seat with a forced bored expression. While his face remained neutral, his eyes flickered with doubt. Oberyn’s eyes didn’t miss it, his lips curling upwards at the sight. When he imagined the moment his desire for vengeance was satiated, he always believed he would be the one to have achieved it. He thought his blade would kill the Mountain and Tywin Lannister both, but his queen wife down in the dragon pit would prove him wrong.
He’d known it the very moment he caught sight of her young face. Seven, he had never been more sure of anything. When he first saw Cassandra Baratheon, he knew she would sign her name in Westeros’ history books. Even as young as she was back then, her eyes held all the fiery passion in the world. He didn’t know who ignited her anger that morning all those years ago, but Oberyn knew the expression she wore.
She meant to prove herself above the individual that insulted her.
It adorned her face even now, her nerves slipping away as she found her rhythm with her weapon. His eyes soaked in her attempts to prod at the Mountain. He recognized her tactic; he’d seen her use it against him during their own sparring.
Andra’s muscles moved so beautifully as she dodged and parried Gregor’s swings. The crowd reacted in time to each narrow miss, gasps and cheers circulating as each of the combats found their footing. Oberyn leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as his hands clasped together.
When one of Gregor’s swings came a little too close for comfort, Oberyn rose to his feet and surged forward in his panic. He gripped the stone bannister with both hands, face contorting into a sneer. He grit his teeth as Cassandra scrambled to recover.
Don’t forget to breathe, sweet girl.
Cassandra scrunched her nose in frustration, rolling her arm. She couldn’t find an opening, no matter how hard she tried. At this rate, she would wear herself out before even making a dent in the Mountain.
She needed a new tactic.
“They told me you were slow,” she goaded. “I see now they didn’t mean physically.”
Gregor growled and raised his blade.
“Run your mouth, Your Grace. One way or another, I’m killing a queen before my execution.”
He charged with heavy steps, moving faster than one would expect. Cassandra raised the spear, blocking one way. Then another. Back and forth, left then right, over and over as Gregor continued his attack. She could hear the wood splitting, but she didn’t dare risk her life by attempting to break away. One slip, one too slow movement, and she couldn’t very cell lose a limb. His arms were much too long for her to get away safely.
Her nostril raised in determination as she began counting the seconds between his strikes. After the next hit, she twisted sharply and with more force than she had let him see thus far. Her blade didn’t get as high as she meant to. Instead of getting his throat, the tip sliced a deep cut through the leather pieces over his mail. She smirked as the excess fell to the ground, exposing the mail beneath. The metal of her spearhead was strong; it would pierce this layer with enough force.
Across from her, Gregor raised his blade. His grin showed off a set of uneven and yellowed teeth, only adding to Andra’s irritation for a reason she could not name. Although, when he brought his long sword down this time, his anger got the better of him. He moved a little too soon, letting her take advantage of his stumble.
She dug the spearhead straight into the right side of his chest. The mark was up near the shoulder, missing anything that would kill him. He howled in pain as Cassandra pushed in deeper. Long sword falling from his grip, Gregor stumbled backwards. Forced to follow as she tried to keep hold of her weapon, Cassandra’s smirk depended. She would be a liar if she said she didn’t revel at the squelch of metal slicing muscle. As she attempted to dislodge her spear, his arm came down hard. His fist hit the back of her head, sending her staggering.
The crowd gasped and nearly everyone crowded in for a better look. Ned was at Oberyn’s side in a second, both Ellaria and Catelyn following closely. Oberyn’s dark eyes watched as Cassandra hurried to get space between her and the Mountain. She stumbled backwards into a table of weapons.
When the air around him became thick and sluggish in his throat, he looked towards Ned. The man looked one ripped stitch away from bursting through the seams. His jaw clenched tightly as his grey eyes remained locked on their wife in the pit below. Ned often appeared stoic around Oberyn. He wasn’t a warm man, or a welcoming one. He walked, talked, and looked like a living message to heed. A warning. An omen.
But in this moment, Oberyn saw the man beneath the icy exterior. He saw just how terrified Ned was from the look in his eyes. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing. If Cassandra fell, he’d unravel. At the look in his bright, fearful irises, Oberyn doubted anyone would be able to stitch him back together should that come to pass.
His eyes found Andra again, lips frowning as he saw the Mountain rip the weapon away from his body and tossed it back behind him. Ignoring the blood pouring from the wound in a slow, but steady stream, Gregor advanced on Cassandra as she still blinked rapidly.
She was too busy trying to correct the blurry vision from his strike. She kept moving, hand blindly grasping for her favored broken blade. She heard the crack as the spear she left lodged in Gregor’s shoulder hit the ground hard. She scrambled, knowing she only had a few more seconds before he was on her. She blinked rapidly as she prayed for her vision to return to normal.
Brandon hit her. Brandon hit her hard. Brandon hit even harder if she asked for it, but nothing could have ever prepared Cassandra for taking a strike like that of the Mountain’s.
All she could do was persevere. Her fingers curled over the familiar worn leather wrapped around hilt of her blade right as Gregor’s hand found her shoulder. He turned her, fast, and his large hand wrapped around her throat in an instant. Cass gasped with the rough motion, entirely surprised by the strong grip around her windpipe. Instead of squeezing down and ending her life, Gregor sneered in victory. He stepped and rotated, showing her off like a prized trout caught by an amateur fisherman.
She clawed at his arms as he slowly tightened his grip. She didn’t quite know where to go from here and panic rose as she struggled to keep her thoughts on the right track. Her confidence dipped while he doubts rose, blending into an awful concoction that froze her in place. Her desperate eyes finding Howland’s in the crowd. His green irises shone brightly and the one look reminded her of the confidence she used to fight with.
She and Ned didn’t talk during the rebellion.
She and Howland did.
On the battlefield, her magic swamp man found her side nearly every time. Despite her brother and Ned always near, it was Howland who protected her in the same manner Ser Jory did now. She was used to finding him when she was in a bind, relying on his aid each and every time.
Old habits died hard.
However, Howland could not interfere this time. He could not pierce his blade into the Mountain’s neck for her, or distract him enough so she could wiggle free. He couldn’t even call upon the gods’ blessings as he did in Ned’s duel with Ser Arthur Dayne.
All he could do was offer an encouraging smile and hide the fear in his eyes.
And— by the sake of the old gods— that was enough for Cassandra.
She stuck the broken spear into the back of her belt and wrapped both hands around his wrist. She tried not to panic as he clamped down on her throat, cutting off her airway in the blink of an eye.
She swung her legs towards him, suddenly thankful for the way Oberyn folded her body when he claimed her. Her muscles tightened as she swung her legs upwards, left one hooking around his right shoulder easily. She pulled him closer with the new leverage and managed to wiggle her right leg over his arm.
Now with both legs over his shoulders, she pulled him with all the strength she could muster around the same time spots began appearing in her not as blurred vision. Gregor stiffened his arm to thwart her attempt at relieving the pressure on her throat. Little did he realize that Cassandra hoped he’d keep her in that exactly position.
She moved quicker than ever, reaching for her hidden blade and digging it into his armpit. The space was soft and held a vein, so she emphasized her intent with a twist of the spearhead. He let out a yelp and dropped his hand, but Cassandra didn’t let herself fall. As he worked on dislodging the blade, she continued to climb.
Her abdomen burned as she used the muscles to pull herself upwards, leather skirt haphazardly shifting so that her thighs could properly squeeze Gregor’s face as Cass ripped away his helmet. She closed her fist and with a mighty snap of her arm, she hit him square in the face. Gregor clawed at her back, but Andra recently gained a good amount of experience in holding on to Oberyn for dear life as his passionate thrusts sometimes threatened to tip her over the edge of their mattress.
Gregor wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Her thighs tightened and she kept swinging as his gloved slipped against the sweat covering her back. The breeze had all but dried up with the heat; Andra already missed the cold of winter. The skin covering her knuckles ripped with each new hit, the shattered bones of Gregor’s nose slicing through her flesh each time.
“Elia Martell,” she barked, twisting her torso sharply and jabbing her elbow into the side of his head. “Tell me what you did to her!”
Gregor stumbled backwards with each strike. Finally regaining enough focus through the haze of Cassandra’s onslaught, he oriented himself using the heat of the sun on his neck. Then he charged forward, dropping to his knees and slamming the queen’s back against the table of blades.
The hilt of a dagger dug into an old scar, one of the deeper ones where the pain never quite faded. She screamed, eyes watering in an instant. It was more than just pain pulling tears to her eyes. She was overwhelmed by the way her body remembered this feeling all too well, trapped under another’s unwelcome weight. Feeling it again as Gregor practically manhandled her upwards to simply toss her again to the ground.
Her bare skin, vulnerable in so many places, stung as dirt and gravel bit into her. She could feel Ned’s anger rising in time with his panic, but she could not divert her attention. She lifted herself onto her elbows and tried crawling forward, but the Mountain’s hand easily circled around her ankle. Grabbing her bicep, he threw her across the way again, sneering as he did so.
“Elia Martell.”
Cass scrambled, but her body wouldn’t move as quickly. Her muscles were too tired, her weight too heavy. She moved with a sluggish slowness, enough to hinder her attempt to get back on her feet. Gregor grabbed her in the same manner and again threw her like she was nothing more than a branch in his path.
“You killed her,” she spat, saliva and blood mixing on the ground.
His loud footsteps bounded in her direction. She groaned weakly, already feeling the bruises throb with pain. His hands were on her before she could register where she landed.
“Aye, I killed the Dornish wench,” he seethed, tossing her again.
This time, a loud crack rang out as her shoulder popped out of its socket. She yelped and clutched her forearm, eyes clenching shut in her pain. Groaning, she rolled onto her stomach. The ringing in her ears would not stop and she lost her focus with every flutter of her eyelashes.
“I killed her, then I raped her.”
Another toss, this one with Andra landing on her back. She grunted and rolled over, eyes finding where Overyn sat. He leaned forward, eyes dark as his knuckles turned white where his hands were clasped. His eyes held the promise of a sinister satisfaction she’d never seen before.
But she felt it.
When her blade buried itself into Walder Frey’s chest, when she dragged a body into a godswood, nine hells, even when Ned came to save her that night during the rebellion. This was a desire born from thirsting after justice for every slight that went unanswered, every underestimation, and every single person that was stolen too soon.
One that only bloodshed would satisfy.
She took a large breath, body begging for relief from the pain of being tossed around like a child’s toy. Her husband nodded firmly, corners of his mouth tugging downwards. His silent instruction ringing in her ears.
Finish it.
This lone confession was enough for him. Oberyn wanted her out of that pit as soon as possible, Tywin be damned. He stood, both hands finding the stone in front of him. He spread is arms wide as he leaned forward, viper eyes trained on his warrior. His jaw moved from side to side as he ground his teeth.
He craved vengeance, yes, more than anything, but he could not pay the price— not her.
Never her.
The blasted woman looked at him with all the stubborn determination inside of her.
She would not let her intention waver.
“You mutilated those children,” she barked after making her decision.
She surged forward, rolling across the ground and grabbing her beloved blade. Her misaligned arm screamed in pain, but she forced herself to keep moving. Her fingers clutched the handle, the worn leather molded to the shape of her after years of use. She knew her attempt to flee only gained her seconds, all spent securing her blade against her with a tight grip.
“Only after they watched me break their mother,” he growled unashamedly.
His hand caught her hair and all Andra could think was that she was thankful her poor arm received a break. This time, Gregor pulled her upwards, rancid breath singing the hair in her nostrils. She couldn’t help it; the brutish impulse to belittle and taunt her opponent was too great. She resembled Robert so much that she often did away with thoughts of decorum.
“You’re uglier than your brother,” she laughed, blood running down from her nose.
Gregor growled and shoved her into the ground with so much force that her shoulder popped right back into place. She still roared in pain, but the sweet sting of relief trickled in by the end. With the sting, came the burn of her fire within. She could feel it flowing in her veins, burning away the exhaustion.
And, gods, was she exhausted.
You get tired during a real fight, Cassie, and you’re as good as dead. She shook her head to clear it, rolling her arm as she pressed her palm against the floor underneath her feet to steady herself.
“Who sent you,” she pressed. “Who sent you to make sure Princess Elia could not be wed to the new king?”
Not that Robert would have, the prideful fool. Andra doubted even Jon Arryn would have been able to make her brother see the political benefits of trying to tame Dorne after the rebellion through a marriage match. Even if he had, her brother’s mind twisted too greatly following the rebellion. He would have made the Princess and his stepchildren absolutely miserable simply because of their father’s actions.
At first, the only response she received was a swift and powerful kick to the side. She immediately fell flat to her stomach, tears pricking at her eyes. She tried to push herself upwards, but Gregor’s boot came down to press down on the back of her head. She clamped her eyes shut in the hopes that she might lesson the amount of dirt trapped underneath.
It didn’t help much.
She thrashed underneath his weight until she managed to move enough so that the bottom of his boot pushed her cheek down. She blinked rapidly, needing her vision if she had any hope of finding a way out of this. Underneath her body, her fingers clutched the handle of her broken spearhead as if it was her saving grace.
He’ll lift his foot, she told herself. He’ll lift his foot and you’ll be okay.
She could feel Ned’s panic, his anger, his fear. The kind of fear that froze a person in their spot, icing over the very blood on their veins. She kept blinking, searching for him through the dust and black spots appearing from the pressure of her very cranium threatening to break. When she couldn’t find him, she forced herself to remember his eyes. Those indescribable grey eyes that she knew glinted with the same fear as they had the night after their first battle. The fear that drove him to crawl into her tent that night. The same one that forced his body to lie next to her, back to back. The same one that kept his mouth sewn shut that night and each after.
Ned would not be able to handle the weight of Westeros without her. He might have been able to, if he’d never met that stubborn girl in the snow that wandered too far from her brother. If Cassandra Baratheon had never opened her mouth, maybe Ned would have stood to face Winter with the same confidence Brandon carried, however arrogant.
But he couldn’t. Andra meant too much to him. If he lost her, he’d lose himself. He’d lose his family, his children. He’d throw himself so far into a pit of despair at the loss of his queen, not even Howland would be able to pull him out.
Westeros would not survive without the King of Winter. To kill the head of the House Stark, would be to doom Westeros to an eternal night. Andra loved Robb, she truly did. Andra loved Robb, yes, but he was not ready to take on the responsibility. The cost would be too great for him to bear.
Ned and Andra shared a life riddled with death, grief, and heartache. They knew how to keep pushing forward, even if all they wanted was an end. Ned ensured his children never experienced such a life. He and Cat gave them a wholesome childhood, even better than the ones they lived. They didn’t know true grief, but when the enemy came, no one would be safe.
Ned’s children didn’t know loss of that magnitude. Crippling, debilitating, the type that made all dreams seem crushed, and happiness unobtainable. None of them were ready to bear the burden, and Andra knew their father would never wish that fate on them. He would carry it all, and the only thing Cassandra could do was help him shoulder it.
They would stand at the wall and face death itself. They could lose everything— everyone. Just as she needed him to pull her from her melancholy, he would rely on her to hold him up before he drowned himself in grief. They could not lose one another without losing themselves.
Whether they found victory or defeat at the Wall, they would do so together.
Cassandra took a deep breath, wheezing as she did. Dust barely moved from the little force that carried her exhale. She wasn’t done yet; there was still a little more fight. Her only option was to keep going. She needed to; Ned couldn’t lose her.
Andra wouldn’t put him through the loss that would ruin him, not before he encountered the Night King.
“The same man that told me to make sure you suffer as I win him his freedom,” Gregor sneered, raising his foot with the intention of crushing her skull in the next slam.
He didn’t say Tywin’s name, but it was good enough for her. Knowing Oberyn was already satisfied only made her next move that much easier. The second his foot lifted from her face, Cassandra summoned every last bit of drive that remained in her.
In a movement that happened within the blink of an eye, Cassandra twisted her body and shoved her shoulder directly into the back of Gregor’s raised knee. His expression was confused until she rose to her feet, clutching her arm around his leg.
Gregor let out a shout as he fell backwards, Cassandra’s rushing movement resembling that of an ox. Like a wolf pouncing on prey, she quickly went for the throat. Her dagger caught the soft squishy underside of his jaw like a powerful maw. As she turned her body until one foot and a knee were framing Gregor’s head, her dagger twisted and she pulled upwards.
Her lips curled into a victorious smile as she finally let the exhaustion sink in. She fell forward onto her knees, holding herself with palms just above them. She took deep breaths, shut her eyes, and tried to keep herself upright as she began to sway.
She didn’t hear the crowd around her. Couldn’t see as Oberyn moved towards Tywin, Valyrian steel protruding from a familiar hilt that didn’t belong in his hand. She didn’t need to open her eyes. She could feel through her bonds with both Ned and her dragon. The threat now eliminated, the connections flooded with relief. More than that, Ned’s pride broke through. She could practically hear his contradicting chants of ‘there’s my girl’ and ‘I’m going to throttle her for being so reckless’. She began to laugh as she slipped towards the growing darkness. Cassandra had never felt the state of equilibrium as she did now. With the Mountain dead at her knees, everything felt so perfectly aligned. Still, the world around her faded away.
Oblivion beckoned and Andra fell forwards. She barely registered falling into a pair of slender arms, but she heard the voice. One she never thought she’d welcome, but found much comfort in as she drifted to sleep.
“I have you, Your Grace,” she promised.