A Prince of House Targaryen Chapter 78 (An Innocent Boy) (Patreon)

Robb

Winterfell, he thought, it didn't feel right to be back home. It had taken two whole months to return home due to the snowstorms. On their journey to Harrenhal, the ground was covered by snow everywhere, but it was only a foot deep, which happened quite often in Winterfell, even during Summer.

But on their journey back, they started feeling the cold by the time they reached White Harbor, even lord Manderly was perplexed by the low temperatures, and the place had been engulfed in a layer of snow, one foot deep. Robb had known right away that the snow was much deeper in Winterfell; he didn't even want to imagine what it would be like at the Wall, where his father would spend the rest of his days.

His Lady Wife had been happy to spend two days in White Harbor with her family, but Robb couldn't share her happiness. To her, Lord Eddard Stark had been her Lord Paramount and a man she should respect, but to Robb and his family, he was their father.

They could do nothing but watch as the men from King's Landing departed from Winterfell to take him to The Wall, where he would spend the rest of his days amongst thieves and rapists, a man like him, someone who had ruled the North for so long. Bran had cried, as had everyone else; Arya had cried the most, trying to run after his father; Rickon was still young and didn't understand yet that his father wouldn't be home anymore. Being the oldest, Robb had prevented himself from shedding tears; he wanted to appear strong.

On their journey to Winterfell, his father tried to make it seem like the situation wasn't as bad as they all knew it was. He had tried to paint it as something that needed to be done, but Robb didn't buy it, and neither did many Houses of the North, including House Bolton, Karstark, Glover, and other powerful Houses of the North. Only a few Houses were willing to listen to his father, but not Robb.

Jon's reputation had already gone through the mud when he decided to punish Lord Stark, but now demanding from them that the Wildlings should be brought South of the North was something that many Northern Houses didn't like and didn't want to agree with.

"Who does he think he is? He has no right to force us to accept the Wildlings; how many Northern lives were lost because of them!" Lord Glover had shouted for everyone to hear. Robb had been sitting on the high table and watching the way they all were against Jon. It brought a smile to his face; his father tried, but his words fell on deaf ears of many Northerners.

"King Jaehaerys, for all his wisdom, took precious land that belonged to the North and gave it to the Night's Watch. Now, Prince Aemon wants us to allow The Wildlings south of the Wall, the same wildlings who have caused wars for centuries, and the same that attacked villages of the North whenever they manage to cross the Wall, they rape and slaughter." Domeric Bolton had said during the meeting, and his words had been followed by a round of 'Aye' from the majority of the Lords.

Eventually, his father tried to remind them of the Dragon, of the power Prince Aemon held in his hands, not counting the Dragons of Princess Daenerys and Princess Rhaenys.

Those words had somewhat silenced the Lords; fear was a good way to force someone to do what you wished. His father then spoke about their vows to House Targaryen; they all bowed to them; they were supposed to support the son of Lady Lyanna.

Robb had understood what his father was trying to do, playing on the memory of his sister and the fear of the dragons, but The North Remembered. They all knew how savage the Wildlings were; they knew they couldn't be trusted South of The Wall; what would stop them from attacking the North the moment they all were South of the Wall and had better weapons?

"Prince Aemon will be there, Lord Glover, I assure you that he will make sure the Wildlings won't try anything to the Northern Houses." His father had told Lord Umber, trying to reassure him that the Wildlings wouldn't attack his Castle.

Last Hearth was nearest to the Wall and belonged to House Umber. If Wildlings attacked, their territory would be the most vulnerable. Robb remembered his father getting letters from Lord Umber that wildlings had attacked yet another village, killing everyone and taking the women and girls. So, having all the Wildlings south of the Wall would be spitting on the many people who die from them yearly, especially in the last two decades.

"Ned, we know Prince Aemon and his dragon can't stay in the North forever; I leave it half a year at best; after that, he will be forced to return South; what then?" Lord Glover had asked with a growl of anger for someone who always supported Ned; at this moment, he sounded angry and furious.

"They are savages, Ned. You know as well as I do they are not the type to obey orders; they will try to live as they had been living for centuries beyond the Wall. They will try to raid every village, so I don't see the point of bringing them South of the Wall. Where will the food come from? The Houses? Who will ensure they will obey the law unless we place an army around them all the time? I'm sorry, Ned, but I cannot agree with this." Lord Umber said before sitting down.

"Prince Aemon will come to the North, he promised me the North will be safe from the Wildlings. I know you all don't know him as well as I do, but I believe in his words. I believe the Wildlings can become part of us." His father had said his words were heard, but many disagreed,

"What happens if we refuse? Will he burn us all with his Dragon? Will he burn us all with Wildfire like the Mad King used to burn people? Says it as it is Lord Eddard. Prince Aemon is ordering us to go along with his plan to put the people of the North at risk because of his wife. Those Wildlings might fear Prince Aemon, but mark my words as soon as he leaves for the South. They won't have to be afraid anymore. They will start attacking the nearby villages, returning back to their old way of living." Lord Karstark said with a snarl; a profound silence fell upon them all. Even his father was silent; Robb could hear the wind blowing outside like a Horn of Winter.

"I understand your feelings, but remember that this is Lyanna's son, and he's my nephew; if he promises that the North has nothing to fear from the Wildlings, then I will believe him. His name might be Targaryen now, but remember he was raised in the North, and he's an honorable young lad."

The Lords had not added anything after that, but Robb could see in their eyes that many disagreed.

Now, here he was, sitting on the solar of his father, on his seat; every time he walked inside, he almost expected to see his father sitting in his seat, but Robb knew he was gone. It was his duty now to rule the North.

I won't fail our family, and we will get revenge, Father, Robb thought, knowing his opportunity would come soon. He knew fighting the Dragons was suicide, but there were other ways to fight against Jon. All he needed to do was wait.

When ruling Winterfell, he thanked the old gods for Maester Luwin, his mother, the steward Vayon Poole, and the captain of the guards, Jory Cassel. Their help was needed and appreciated; despite all his father's teaching, Robb didn't feel ready yet to rule the whole North; his wife had started spending time with Sansa and Arya, well, more with Sansa.

Since their father left, Arya had broken in a way; she spent the day crying, she had begged more than the most for their father to spend one more day in Winterfell, and after his departure, Arya had run to her chamber crying.

Robb had wanted to see and talk with her, but he wasn't just her big brother now, not anymore. He knew he could have found some excuse to visit Arya, but he didn't want to spend the first day ignoring his job, so Robb had walked into his father's solar, and with Maester Luwin's help, he had started doing his job.

Only on the morrow of the following day was he able to visit Arya.

' The Chamber engulfed in an eerie silence broken only by the persistent knocking. Robb swung the door open, stepping inside. There, amidst the room's dimly lit interior, lay a figure on the bed, her back turned away from Nymeria. Arya, pale and troubled, her face almost glued to the wall. Her once vibrant eyes now glimmered with a burning red reminiscent of freshly spilled blood. Even with Nymeria at her side, the weight of Arya's heart did not ease. She clung tightly to a sword cradled within her delicate, little arms.

Robb remembered her using it in Harrenhal but always forgot to ask who gave her the blade; he had thought that perhaps their father, but Robb knew he would never agree to it so that left only one person.

Robb shook his head; he didn't want to think of the traitor; he walked up to her bed, and she remained still; he kneeled in front of her bed, his hand shaking her shoulder.

"Arya, please come outside, Bran misses you." Robb tried to convince her, his voice soft and full of concern, but Arya remained unmoving, like a statue.

"Arya."

"Bran has Rickon." Arya rasped, her voice cracking with sadness; the strength she usually had in her voice was gone; not even when she was sick did she talk with such a meek voice. Defeated, she sounded defeated.

"Rickon is only a baby, and Bran is climbing everything he can find; he is old enough to know what happened," Robb said right away. Unlike Arya, who was drowning in her sadness, Rickon, who was still too young to understand what was happening, Bran knew his father wouldn't return for a very long time, so to cope, he spent the whole day climbing, that was his way of forcing himself to not think about his father, but Robb had heard from his soldiers that they had heard Lord Bran crying alone on the old tower.

"Arya, please. Just come outside; Bran will be happy to play with you; maybe you can train archery together like you used to do." Robb suggested, remembering when Arya had once sneaked into the training yard and had managed to get better shots with her bow than Bran; Robb remembered how proud their father had been.

"Archery together," Arya murmured under her breath. "Father used to watch over us, he would smile at me. He once told me I was 'Lyanna' reborn in flesh." Arya continued, tears spilling out her eyes as she turned her body around, now facing Robb.

"Robb, did I do something wrong? Was I the reason Father refused to stay one more day?" Arya asked as more tears rolled down her face, hugging the thin sword even more, the tip ending just above her shoulder.

"You did no wrong, Arya. Jon betrayed us." Robb said with bitterness. Arya let out another sob, the sword slipping from her thin fingers and falling from her bed to the floor. '

Arya walked out of her chamber only when his lady wife invited her and Sansa. Robb was grateful; despite not knowing her well, Sansa had taken a liking to her, saying she would stitch the most beautiful dress for her.

Now, he was reading the reports about new attacks on the villages nearby, most likely from bandits; those villages were near Winterfell and paid for protection.

"Vayon, tell Jory Cassel to take twenty men. Whoever attacked them will have their heads on the execution block." Robb ordered sternly; the steward nodded without saying anything, and he grabbed the scroll before leaving the room. Robb was left alone, his back leaning against the back of the chair; the silence felt heavy, like a violent river.

The door opened again, and his mother and Maester Luwin walked inside; his mother wore a stern look as she always did since father left; she looked older than her years; she closed the door before turning to face him; the old maester walked across the solar, standing beside Robb.

"Mother?"

"Robb, I just received a letter from my brother?" Robb looked at her confused; he wasn't expecting to receive a scroll from his Uncle; the man wasn't known for his brightness, but Robb reached out to read the scroll she was holding between her fingers, but his mother opened the scroll instead.

"My brother believes that House Targaryen wants House Darry to be Lord Paramount of Riverlands. He says a suspicious man was found walking around the courtyard; when the soldiers caught him, he had a knife with a Targaryen sigil on it, including ten gold dragons." His mother said before throwing the letter on the flames; he watched it as it turned to ash.

"Did the letter say anything else?" Robb questioned, a little anxious; what his Uncle described sounded like a cutthroat.

"Lady Cersei was furious; she had wanted the Royal Family to take responsibility for why a Targaryen dagger was found with a cutthroat, but My uncle convinced them otherwise, saying the dagger didn't mean that he was sent by the Royal Family, and the man didn't have a tongue, so they couldn't get information from him." What he heard made Robb sweat as he turned to face the old Maester, who looked just as concerned as he was.

"Maester Luwin, I want the number of guards to double in the family's quarters," Robb ordered with a commanding voice, trying to sound similar to his father. He knew he was still just a child but wouldn't let his age make him look weaker. He knew it; he would use his father's voice. His words.

"Yes, my lord." Maester Luwin said without hesitation.

"Robb, we cannot allow House Tully to lose their seat. They are your family, too." Robb breathed heavily, on top of everything; now he needed to worry about cutthroats and his mother's family losing their seat in Riverlands. His siblings were still mourning; Jon betrayed them, and Alyanne would never be with him. Robb felt overwhelmed; he really wished all this was a long nightmare.

"Mother. Joffrey has been sent to the wall. I didn't talk with Tommen, but I heard he's a good kid. I see your concern." Robb said, standing up; he enveloped her in a hug. He hated seeing her like this; his whole family was suffering; Winterfell felt more like a graveyard than a home.

Robb remembered the old times when he used to chase after Sansa, and Jon used to chase after her, their laughter echoing in the Winterfell. Back when everything made sense.

"Mother, I will try to help your family right now. I need to worry about the family here, as you should. Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. They all need you." Robb reminded her that he couldn't replace their father; a big brother can never fill the void left; in moments like this, they needed their mother more than ever.

"What will we do about the Dragons? Robb, you can't allow that bastard to bring the Wildlings south of the Wall." His mother said sternly as she pulled away from him. Robb felt a headache; he wanted to scream. If only Father were here, he thought as he rubbed his forehead.

"Mother, right now, we worry about our own family. Rickon doesn't know what is happening, and keeps asking about father. What can I even tell him? Bran climbs to the tower so he can cry alone. Mother, I need help, not more problems." Robb said with a higher voice than he had wanted, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"I know, but we need to be careful. The royal family is our enemy, and the bastard has a dragon now. You need to be careful, my son." His mother pleaded before kissing his cheek; for a brief moment, Robb felt like a little kid, but he quickly cleared his throat.

"I know, mother."

.

It took seven more hours to finally finish what he needed to do in his father's solar; he made sure to send a raven to House Bolton, Karstark, Glover, and a few more houses. He knew their support was needed for their plan to succeed.

Robb left the solar; he felt drunk; he didn't even remember if he said 'Good Night' to Maester Luwin before leaving. His legs moved on their own, and he found himself at the training yard. One of the dummies, a worn-out, weathered figure, bore numerous visible scratches that marred its surface, evidence of relentless use. A flood of memories surged, recalling a person who had poured countless hours into training with this dummy. The bottom of the dummy is now partially obscured by a thick layer of pristine white snow.

His fingers traced the slash on the wood, snow fell on his hands, his breath visible as he remembered him. It felt like a lifetime ago.

'We are brothers, aren't we?'

'Yes, Always Brothers.'

Liar, Robb murmured under his breath before tightly clenching his fist and punching the dummy. The impact reverberated through his body, but it only fueled it further instead of easing his rage. He repeatedly struck the dummy, again, again, again, and again. The sensation of his knuckles repeatedly connecting with the solid object caused an intense piercing pain that gradually intensified, forming a burning sensation that spread through his entire hand. Yet, even as blood began to trickle down his injured knuckles, staining them crimson, he refused to relent. His relentless assault continued. The red stains on the dummy's surface grew denser as Robb's adrenaline-fueled persistence persisted, only subsiding when his fists could no longer endure the agony. Robb took deep breaths, reminding himself that his Lady Wife awaited him.

.

"Arya, feels better today, Robb. I had her and Sansa play snowball." His Lady Wife said warmly; she laid naked on their bed, her breasts beautiful to his eyes, and he joined her in bed, getting rid of his clothes.

His lips found hers as he slowly entered her, heat, soft and wet. His name escaped her lips as he kissed her neck; her nails dug into his back, painful but sweet.

Robb felt good, but as he closed his eyes. Wynafryd disappeared from his sight; beautiful purple eyes looked back at him, her long dark hair, and her unmatched beauty. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't stop himself, and he didn't want to; he wanted her, and he knew she wanted him to.

Alyanna, her name was on his mind as he exploded inside his Lady Wife.

Two Weeks Later

Again, in his father's solar, when Jory Cassel informed him that a rider from House Bolton had arrived, upon hearing, Robb ordered him to bring the rider to his solar.

The door opened, revealing an ugly young man. He was big-boned and slope-shouldered. Ramsay's skin is pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his hair long and dark and dry. Although his mouth is small, his lips are wide and meaty, wormy looking, and he smiles a wet-lipped smile. His distinctive eyes resemble Roose's - small, close-set, and oddly pale, like two chips of dirty ice.

He wore calfskin boots, a velvet doublet, a silver-chased swordbelt, and a sable cloak. He also sometimes wears a black leather jerkin over a pink velvet doublet slashed with dark red satin, along with black boots, a belt, and a scabbard.

"Lord Stark, it's an honor to meet you. Here's my father's message." The boy said, with an ugly smile, as he handed the letter to Robb.

He read and reread the letter several times. He wasn't sure of the plan, but he needed House Bolton's help. Robb turned to face the boy, who seemed to be his age.

"What is your name?"

"No one that important, Lord Stark. My life is not important to my father, but you can call me Reek."

"Reek, you look more like Lord Bolton than Lord Domeric." Robb said; his words made Reek smile, and his smile made Robb shudder.

"I appreciate your kind words, Lord Stark. But Reek is my name and my purpose is to serve House Stark."

Tommen

Name Day. Celebrating his own Name Day was always his favorite day in the year; even his mother would spend time with him more, something she did only with Joffrey, but today was special, so he knew his mother would be happy to spend time with him. He had woken up like usual; Maester Vyman had given him the tea he had drank for two years now to help with his throat.

But he knew that might not be the case this year; his brother was sentenced to the Wall, and his Uncle told him that Joffrey had insulted the new Prince, the one with the dragon. Tommen had never felt more afraid than when the dragon had landed near Harrenhal; the thing was bigger than his Uncle, so Tommen knew his Uncle couldn't protect him from the big bad dragon.

Thank the Seven, the Dragon hadn't melted Harrenhal, and soon enough, they all departed from the Cursed Castle. His mother had cried the whole journey back; all nine days of travel, she refused to see either him or Myrcella; his Uncle was the only one who wanted his presence.

Myrcella had cried when Joffrey departed, but Tommen had not; he knew he was supposed to shed tears, yet he had found himself not shedding a single tear. All he could think of when his brother left was how often he mistreated them; he made Myrcella cry, and he had killed his cat. His mother always spent more time with him, so he hoped she would start playing with them like she used to with Joffrey.

Right now, his Uncle moved his arms a little higher. "Keep your sword up, Tommen, and your shield; you shouldn't consider it a burden." His Uncle said. Tommen tried; the shield handle felt tight against his arm and uncomfortable, but Tommen ignored the pain; he knew his father would be proud if he became a great warrior one day, as would his Uncle.

Under the scorching heat of the blazing sun, its rays relentlessly assaulting his weary body, beads of sweat dripped incessantly down Tommen's flushed face, leaving trails of glistening sweat in their wake. The atmosphere, saturated with a sweltering heaviness, clung to their skin. However, despite the discomfort and exhaustion, Tommen remained resolute, steadfast in his determination to persevere. Undeterred, he continued his training, the rhythmic swing of his sword cutting through the air like a metronome. With each swing, his hands grew increasingly burdened, as if weighed down by invisible shackles, while a persistent itch teased his skin, offering a bothersome distraction. Nevertheless, Tommen pressed onward, disregarding the discomfort.

Two hours later, as the scorching sun continued its relentless assault on the training field, his Uncle finally decided they had pushed Tommen's limits for the day. A bead of sweat trickled down Tommen's dirt-streaked face, his skin glowing with a rosy hue from hours of intense training. Desperate to quench his thirst, he reached for the skin bottle hanging from his belt and took a long, refreshing sip of water. But just as the soothing liquid touched his parched throat, a sudden wave of discomfort gripped him. Tommen's eyes widened in alarm as his throat constricted, leaving him gasping for breath and triggering a fit of deep, rasping coughs.

"Tommen!" he continued to cough incessantly, desperately struggling to inhale even an ounce of air. With each violent cough, his Uncle forcefully struck his back in a bid to dislodge the trapped water within. Tommen finally succumbed to the relief he had yearned for and violently regurgitated the water from his lungs, enabling him to greedily fill his oxygen-deprived lungs with precious, life-sustaining air once again.

"Tommen, drink and eat slower, I told you that before. One of these days you will choke yourself to death." He knew his Uncle was trying to scare him, but this didn't happen often.

"I'm fine, uncle," Tommen said dismissively. His Uncle didn't seem pleased, but he let it slip this time.

"You are not having any problems, right, Tommen?" He whirled around; Garth approached them; he wore silver silk, high black boots, and a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the sigil of House Darry was embroidered in bronze threads; his hair was brushed and shining under the sunlight, and his sister had her arm around his arm.

"Not everyone can be as perfect as you are," Tommen said humorously.

"The only one perfect here is Myrcella." Garth said with a charming smile before planting a kiss on her cheek. Tommen chuckled, seeing his sister smile like that. They were to be betrothed once his sister reached fourteen name days.

"Garth, I bet you say to every servant," Myrcella said with a blush on her cheeks. Garth was fifteen name days old and was considered handsome by almost everyone. Tommen remembered Joffrey insulting him, saying only a peasant would fall for him until Myrcella told him that Joffrey was just jealous that he wasn't as handsome as Garth.

"Not to every servant, but does my mother count? She's the only other person that I would consider perfect." His words were sweet, like honey to Myrcella, and he had the looks for it.

"But today isn't about me nor you; it's about our dear Tommen," Garth said with a stunning smile, Myrcella smiling with him.

Tommen loved to see his sister so happy; after Joffrey, he thought all the smiles would die in their family, but his sister was smiling again, and he would happily live like this forever. Always young, and his sister in love. But Tommen knew that wouldn't happen. Eventually, he would grow old enough and become the Lord of Riverlands, with his sister marrying into the second strongest House of Riverlands, ensuring that House Darry wouldn't try to start a rebellion.

Tommen didn't think being a lord and ruling was fun; he would rather spend the whole day with his friends and play; if one had asked him, he would happily give the seat to Myrcella, but he knew his mother wouldn't be happy if he did.

Their ride back was short but sweet; Garth talked the whole journey back, talking about his first real battle, saying he almost lost his hand because he froze in fear; he even showed a nasty scar on his wrist. Unlike most of the other warriors Tommen had talked to, his Uncle and Garth found no shame in their scars, and sometimes they would show them, telling everyone that being a knight is no game and one could easily lose their life.

His mother was still talking with his father once he entered their solar. "Tommen, why are you here?" His mother asked strictly as she quickly stood up and marched up to him.

Before a word could come out of his mouth, his mother gripped him by the tunic. "Your face is dirty, Tommen. Did you really walk through the Castle looking like that?" His mother's words hurt more than any slap; his eyes burned, but Tommen knew his mother wouldn't be happy to see him cry.

"I-I will take a bath." Tommen stuttered out; he remembered falling many times during training, which must have made his face dirty. His mother always said how he was a Lion, a Lannister, and he needed to act like one and always look perfect in front of everyone.

.

The bath was warm and pleasant; he always loved baths; once he dried himself, the servant, Antanja Flowers, brought him fresh clothes, and she walked inside with his mother, who looked down at him like a hawk.

"Thank you, Antanja." Tommen said sweetly to the servant, and she smiled back at him before leaving the chamber.

"Why did you say that?" His mother asked the moment the door was closed; Tommen stiffened, knowing he must have said something wrong.

"I always do that with every servant," Tommen answered, but his words made his mother snarl; her face twitched; she was furious with him, and he instinctively walked away, afraid she might slap him.

"The servants are not worthy of that; they are your 'servants.' They do what you order them. You are not at their level; I never thought you brought shame to House Lannister every day. Joffrey would have never shamed himself like that; he knew his worth. He is a True Lion." His mother said with a shake of her head, looking down at him with disappointment.

"Is that why he's at the Wall." The words slipped from his tongue before he could stop them. Tommen was ready to apologize when his head hit the floor; his cheek burned like flames, and he could taste blood in his mouth.

"You talk about your brother like that again. I will have your precious Antanja stripped naked and thrown from the gates of Riverrun." His mother said, her words dripping with rage, her nose wrinkled, shaking her head.

The tears rolled down his face, but he knew his mother awaited an answer. "Never, I will never speak of Joffrey like that again," Tommen said meekly; his mother turned her back and left the chamber without saying another word.

He lay there, his cheek still burning from the slap, but he knew he couldn't stay there forever. As he gripped the top of his bed, he helped himself to stand on his feet; he looked around, trying to find something to cover his cheek; it was still red and burned like a stinging nettle.

"Lord Tommen?" He turned to see Garth on the doorstep holding a bottle; he quickly walked inside, his eyes looking at the red cheek and the cut on his lower lip.

"Who did this?" He quickly asked, with suppressed anger, his hand holding his chin to get a closer look, but Tommen quickly walked back, hiding his cheek any way he could.

"Why are you here?" Tommen asked instead, trying to change the subject; he heard Garth let out a sigh before placing a bottle full of wine on the table.

"Since now you are ten name days, I think it is the best time to have your first taste of wine." Garth offered; Tommen cocked an eyebrow; he had never tasted wine before, but Myrcella used to say that the first time tasted bitter, but he wanted to know how it would taste; his Uncle Tyrion would often speak of wine as if it was the gift of the seven.

Tommen nodded with a small grin; his friend filled a small glass for him, and he asked why he wasn't drinking. Garth said that the wine was his to drink. His lip and cheek still hurt, but Tommen knew alcohol could help to numb the pain.

Bringing the cup to his lips, he toyed with the idea of taking a small sip, but he decided to be brave. In a swift motion, he brought the cup of wine to his lips, the tantalizing aroma enveloping his senses. As the liquid trickled down his throat, he noticed an unmistakable pang of bitterness quickly spreading across his taste buds. The initial surge of warmth was quickly overtaken by an intense burning sensation that clawed at his throat. Overwhelmed by the unpleasant combination of flavors and the sensation of impending nausea, he felt a wave of dizziness washing over him. His fingers betrayed him, causing the cup to slip from his grasp and crash onto the plush carpet below, spilling its contents. Meanwhile, Garth erupted into peals of laughter, further adding to his embarrassment and discomfort.

"It's not funny." Tommen quickly said as he kept coughing and trying to drink water to get rid of the bad taste.

.

.

His Name Day party started as usual; Tommen was overjoyed when Uncle Tyrion appeared; it seemed his grandfather Tywin had sent him to Riverrun to discuss something important.

While the party continued, Tommen couldn't help but smile at the sight of his sister smiling with Garth; his uncle had gifted him a book about the Age of Heroes. Tommen had hugged his favorite Uncle, much to his mother's dismay, but at that moment, Tommen didn't really care.

"The Cake." His father suddenly shouted while clapping his hands; Tommen turned his head around to see the servants bringing a big cake. Tommen licked his lips; he always enjoyed sweets.

The cake was carefully placed on a beautifully decorated platter and brought before Tommen. The dedicated and diligent servants swiftly appeared to fulfill his close family's heartfelt wishes. They skillfully cut a tantalizingly delectable piece of the cake.

Tommen delicately grasped his fork and carefully deftly carved out a small, perfect portion. The aroma wafting from the freshly cut piece filled the air. Bringing the petite slice to his lips, he savored every morsel, appreciating the harmonious blend of flavors dancing on his palate.

The first bite was sheer bliss as the cake melted in his mouth. Unable to sate his appetite for the delectable dessert, he eagerly prepared himself for the sheer joy of indulging in another heavenly piece of the cake, he started eating more and more, almost the entire piece, when he felt it.

An invisible hand gripped his throat, and he realized he was choking on the cake. He tried to speak and breathe as he stood up, the chair falling behind him as he tried to breathe, the hand gripped even more, falling on the ground as people called his name; despite how hard he tried to vomit, the piece of cake wasn't coming out.

"Tommen!"

"Son, breath. Maester Vyman. HELP!!"

"Brother?!"

Tommen saw Myrcella crying and calling out his name, tears rolling down her face. Why are you crying? Please don't cry...

Every Like and Review is appreciated. I hope you all enjoyed this Chapter.

Was it choking or poison? Robb is making a plan to deal with Jon that doesn't involve fighting his Dragon.

REEK Is Here.

Where is Theon? Euron and Daemon are making their moves against Westeros. Aemon will soon face the Faith and every enemy of Westeros.