Work Text:
General POV
The idea had begun, as most of Rose’s more questionable decisions did, in a moment of sheer, bone deep boredom.
The road to the Red Keep had stretched endlessly before them, a ribbon of dust and stone that offered little in the way of distraction beyond the shifting scenery and the occasional argument among princes, and after hours of riding, even that had dulled into something predictable. Conversation had waned, tempers had settled into a restless quiet and Rose—unused to such stillness—had found herself staring ahead and thinking, quite seriously, that she might lose her mind if she did not invent something to occupy them all.
So she had.
By the time they stopped near a modest village to make camp, the idea had already taken root, growing rapidly into something far more elaborate than it had any right to be. She had slipped away with purpose, bartering for parchment, scraps of cloth, ink, pigments, anything that could be shaped into form, her mind moving faster than her hands could follow and by the time night settled, she had begun building.
Not simply a game.
A system.
A world.
By the next evening, it was finished.
And now...now came the dangerous part.
Rose stood in the center of their gathered camp like a woman about to unveil a masterpiece, her hands clasped behind her back, chin lifted just enough to suggest importance, though the slight spark in her eyes betrayed something far less noble.
Around her, her chosen victims assembled with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Prince Baelor took his place with quiet curiosity, folding himself neatly to sit upon a low cushion, his attention already drawn to the cloth-covered surface before her. There was patience in him, as always, and something like amusement tucked just beneath it, as though he already suspected this would not be simple.
Prince Maekar stood rather than sat at first, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression one of immediate distrust, as though Rose had personally summoned him for the sole purpose of irritating him.
“This had better not be a waste of time,” he muttered.
Prince Daeron lingered nearby, not quite seated, not quite standing apart, his gaze drifting lazily over the setup with a faint, unreadable look that suggested he had already decided how this would end or perhaps that he was not entirely present for it at all.
Ser Duncan hovered at the edge of the gathering, large and uncertain, shifting his weight as though afraid he might accidentally break something simply by existing too close to it.
Egg, by contrast, was practically vibrating with anticipation, eyes bright as he leaned forward, clearly delighted by the promise of something new.
Valarr settled beside Baelor, quieter but no less attentive, his focus sharp, already assessing.
And Aerion...Aerion stood a short distance away, arms folded, expression carved from disdain.
“I will not participate,” he announced before Rose could even begin, as though preemptively defending himself against whatever nonsense she was about to present.
Rose didn’t even look at him.
“That’s fine,” she said cheerfully. “You can watch and regret your choices.”
He scoffed.
He did not leave.
Satisfied that she had gathered exactly the audience she needed, Rose turned with a flourish and swept the cloth away.
“My lords,” she announced grandly, “I present to you… the greatest invention this world has yet to witness.”
There was a pause.
A long one.
The board lay revealed between them, a carefully crafted square of parchment reinforced with cloth backing, its edges inked in clean, deliberate lines. Each space had been drawn with care, filled with names they all recognized—regions, lands, strongholds—arranged in a looping path that circled inward upon itself.
The colors stood out even in the dimming light.
Pale white marked the North, stark and simple. Light blue followed with the Vale, neat and contained. Dark blue bled into the Riverlands, then deepened into the purple of the Crownlands, where the Red Keep itself held the starting place. Beyond that, the colors shifted again—yellow for the Stormlands, red for the Westerlands, green for the Reach and finally the rich orange of Dorne, sitting at the far end like something both distant and dangerous.
Along the edges were other markings—Maidenpool, Planky Town, Seagard, Gulltown—ports they all knew, placed with deliberate intent. Smaller squares labeled Dragonfire Tax, Wells, The Wall, Tourney Grounds.
It was not crude.
It was not careless.
It looked… intentional.
Ser Duncan leaned forward, squinting slightly.
“…what is it?”
“A game,” Rose said, as though that explained everything.
Maekar frowned. “It looks like land division.”
“It is land division.”
“That is not a game.”
“It is now.”
She knelt beside the board, already reaching for the next piece of her creation.
“These,” she said, lifting a small stack of parchment slips, “are Dragons.”
Egg leaned closer immediately. “Gold Dragons?”
“Yes,” Rose said. “Well...no. Not real ones. These are… representations.”
Dunk took one when she offered it, turning it carefully in his large hands, brow furrowed as he examined the inked number.
“It says five,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
“So… it’s worth five?”
“In the game, yes.”
He nodded, as though that made perfect sense.
It did not.
She passed them out next, giving each player a starting amount, watching with poorly hidden amusement as they began instinctively sorting them.
Baelor arranged his neatly.
Valarr counted his twice.
Egg beamed.
Maekar looked at his like they had personally offended him.
“And these,” Rose continued, producing a small collection of painted stones, “are your markers.”
The stones were simple, each one colored differently, just enough to distinguish them from one another.
“You will use them to move around the board.”
Dunk picked his up carefully, as though it might break.
“This is mine?”
“Yes.”
“…I must not lose it.”
“You really don’t.”
She gestured next to two small piles of stones off to the side.
“Green stones are peasant homes,” she explained. “Red stones are castles.”
Maekar snorted softly. “You expect us to build kingdoms with rocks?”
“Yes.”
“…very well.”
Finally, she reached for the bowl beside her.
“And since I cannot conjure perfectly shaped dice out of thin air,” she said, lifting it slightly, “we improvise.”
Inside were small folded pieces of parchment.
“You will draw two at random,” she explained. “Each marked with a number. That is your roll.”
Daeron tilted his head slightly, something flickering across his expression.
“Chance, then,” he murmured.
“Exactly.”
Rose sat back on her heels, looking between them all, her expression sharpening just slightly as she shifted from demonstration to explanation.
“The goal,” she said, “is very simple.”
They waited.
“To ruin each other.”
Maekar smiled.
“Financially,” she added quickly.
He frowned.
“You will move around the board,” she continued, gesturing as she spoke, “and when you land on a place, you may buy it—if it is unowned. If it is owned…”
She paused.
“You pay rent.”
Silence.
Maekar blinked at her.
“You expect me to pay someone for standing on land?”
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.”
“That is the game.”
“If you own all lands of one region,” she went on smoothly, ignoring him, “you may build.”
She tapped the green stones.
“Homes.”
Then the red.
“Castles.”
Egg’s eyes widened. “Castles?”
“Yes.”
He looked delighted.
“And these,” she said, lifting two small stacks of parchment, “are Fate… and King’s Decree.”
Valarr leaned forward slightly.
“They will help you,” Rose said.
“Or destroy you.”
She sat back then, letting the weight of it all settle, watching as they looked over the board again, this time with far more attention than before.
Recognition flickered.
Understanding followed.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
Baelor was the first to speak.
“…and how does one win?”
Rose smiled.
The kind of smile that should have warned them.
“You win,” she said, “when everyone else has nothing left.”
Dunk frowned slightly. “Nothing?”
“No coin. No land. Nothing.”
Egg looked between them all, suddenly unsure.
Maekar leaned forward.
“Good.”
Rose rose slowly to her feet, brushing her hands together as though concluding a performance, her gaze sweeping across the group—her players, her victims, her willing participants in what she had just unleashed.
She clasped her hands behind her back once more, chin lifting just slightly.
“Well then,” she said, voice light with something that could only be described as anticipation.
She gestured toward the board.
“Take your places.”
They did.
Some reluctantly.
Some eagerly.
Some with far too much interest.
Rose reached for the bowl, holding it out between them like an offering.
And then, with all the dramatic weight she could muster, she smiled.
“Let the gods have mercy on your souls.”
The first turn began with a strange sort of hesitation, as though none of them wished to be the one to set the thing in motion now that it sat between them, no longer simply Rose’s creation but something that had already begun to take on weight in their minds, something that resembled less a game and more a quiet test none of them had agreed to but all of them were now part of.
Rose, naturally, had no such reservations.
“Well,” she said, holding the bowl out with bright insistence, “someone must begin and since none of you seem inclined to volunteer, I will choose for you.”
Her gaze landed on Dunk.
He blinked, already wary. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she said, pushing the bowl closer. “Two slips. Draw them.”
He looked into the bowl like a man being asked to reach into something deeply suspicious, then slowly, carefully, did as instructed, pulling out two folded pieces of parchment and opening them with a seriousness that would have better suited a battlefield command than a game.
Maekar snorted under his breath.
“This is ridiculous.”
“You’re next,” Rose said immediately, pushing the bowl toward him before he could say anything further.
Maekar did not hesitate, drawing his slips with quick, efficient movements, glancing at them once. “Five.”
He moved his piece with sharp precision, counting under his breath only once before placing it down firmly on one of the marked ports along the board’s edge. His eyes flicked to the name, recognition immediate.
“A port,” he said, tone shifting ever so slightly, interest sharpening. “And unowned.”
“Yes,” Rose replied, already watching him closely. “Ports work differently. If you own them, they bring in coin whenever someone lands on them.”
That was all the explanation he needed.
“I will take it,” he said at once, reaching for his Dragons without hesitation and setting them down with deliberate finality, less a purchase and more a claim laid upon something that already felt like it should belong to him.
“It is mine.”
Rose huffed softly. “Yes, that is typically how buying things works.”
He did not so much as glance at her, his attention already returning to the board, to the layout, to the pieces, to the beginnings of something forming behind his eyes that had very little to do with casual play and far more to do with possession.
Baelor’s turn followed with far more care, his fingers selecting two slips from the bowl with quiet precision, unfolding them and taking a moment to consider before speaking. “Six.”
He moved his piece along the board, his gaze following each square until he came to rest on a Vale property, and there he paused, studying it for a brief moment that suggested he was not simply playing but already thinking beyond the immediate move.
“You may purchase it,” Rose prompted.
He inclined his head slightly. “Yes. I think I will.”
He placed his Dragons neatly, arranging the remaining ones with unconscious order, and sat back as though satisfied not just with the move, but with the structure it began to form.
Egg’s turn came with none of that restraint. He reached eagerly into the bowl, nearly dropping one of the slips in his haste, and unfolded both with wide eyes. “Eight!”
“You add them together,” Rose reminded him.
“I did,” he said proudly.
He moved his piece quickly, nearly knocking into Maekar’s stone in the process, counting a little too fast at first before correcting himself halfway through, determined to do it properly.
“One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight.”
His stone came to rest on a pale blue square, one of the Vale properties, and he leaned forward immediately, studying it with bright curiosity before looking up at Rose.
“Can I buy this?”
Rose glanced at the board, then at Baelor briefly. “You can. It’s part of the Vale and free.”
Baelor said nothing, though there was the faintest shift in his attention.
Egg placed his Dragons down with great care, as though the act itself carried significance beyond the game. “What is it called?”
Rose glanced down. “Runestone.”
Egg nodded, entirely serious. “Then I will take very good care of it as well.”
Maekar let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though there was no warmth in it, only the faint edge of something sharper, something that had already begun to take notice of what others were collecting.
Daeron drew next, his movements slower, almost absent-minded, though his eyes sharpened slightly as he unfolded the slips. “Four.”
He moved accordingly, counting with quiet precision until his piece came to rest not on land, but on one of the marked spaces set apart from the others.
He paused, gaze lowering as he took it in.
“Income tax,” he read, softer than before.
There was a small shift in the room, subtle but noticeable.
Rose leaned forward slightly. “That means you pay the Crown.”
Daeron glanced up at her. “How much?”
“Two hundred.”
There was no hesitation in his expression, no frustration, no protest, only a brief, thoughtful stillness as he looked at the number written on the board, as though weighing it for something beyond its surface meaning.
“Of course,” he said.
He reached for his Dragons and counted them out without urgency, placing them back into the central pile with the same calm care he had shown in drawing his slips, as though the loss meant very little—or perhaps as though he had already accounted for it.
Rose watched him for a moment, narrowing her eyes slightly.
“You’re taking that suspiciously well.”
Daeron’s mouth curved faintly, something distant in it. “It was expected.”
Maekar let out a sharp breath. “Expected? You lost two hundred without protest.”
Daeron did not look at him. “Loss is part of any system.”
“That is a terrible philosophy.”
“And yet,” Daeron said lightly, his gaze returning to the board, “it is often the correct one.”
The game moved on, but something about it had shifted, however slightly, as though the first true cost had just been paid.
Valarr followed with quiet focus, drawing his slips and moving his piece with efficiency, his expression unreadable as he landed and purchased his first property without comment, though his gaze lingered on the board afterward, tracing lines only he seemed to see.
All the while, Dunk remained at the Wall, his large frame still and composed, though there was a certain heaviness to the way he sat, as though he had truly been removed from the game in a way that mattered more than it should have.
“This is a harsh system,” he said after a moment.
“It’s only the beginning,” Rose replied.
He nodded slowly. “That is… not reassuring.”
By the time the first round came to a close, the board had begun to change in subtle ways, small claims marking the beginning of something larger, something that had not yet fully revealed itself but had already begun to settle into the space between them.
It still felt light. Still manageable. Still, in some distant way, friendly.
But the way Maekar leaned forward slightly now, the way Baelor’s gaze had sharpened just enough, the way Daeron’s attention no longer drifted quite so far, all suggested the same thing, something quiet and inevitable.
They were beginning to understand.
And once they did, there would be no going back.
By the time the game reached its middle, it had shed every last trace of politeness it had begun with.
What had once been curiosity had sharpened into intent, and what had once been indulgence had turned, slowly but unmistakably, into competition. The board no longer sat between them as a novelty. It had become something claimed, something contested, something that drew every eye and held it there with quiet, relentless force.
Dragons, no longer passed hands lightly. They were counted, guarded, surrendered with visible reluctance. Properties were no longer simply purchased; they were held, watched, defended in a way that suggested none of them had quite expected to care this much and yet now cared far too much to pretend otherwise.
Rose, for her part, had long since stopped trying to pretend this was anything less than exactly what she had intended.
Chaos.
Dunk had been released from the Wall several turns ago, though one would not have known it by the way he still approached each move with careful seriousness, as though he feared another unjust exile might be waiting just beyond the next draw. He counted his slips with the same steady focus, moved his piece with deliberate care, and, for a brief stretch, had even managed to hold onto a modest amount of Dragons.
It did not last.
He drew from the bowl again, unfolded his numbers, and moved forward, counting quietly as he always did, his large hand hovering just above the board as though unwilling to disturb it more than necessary.
“One… two… three… four… five…”
His piece came to rest.
There was a pause.
A longer one this time.
Dunk looked down, then up, then down again, as though hoping the square might change if he gave it enough time.
Egg leaned forward slightly, already recognizing it.
“That’s mine,” he said, not unkindly, but with a certain brightness that had sharpened over the course of the game into something more confident, more certain.
Dunk looked at him.
Then at the board.
Then at his own remaining Dragons.
“…I see,” he said.
Rose did not interrupt.
No one did.
There was something almost ceremonial in the way Dunk reached for his remaining slips, counting them out one by one, slower than before, as though each one mattered more now that there were fewer of them to give.
Egg watched, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face, though he did not speak.
“…this is all of it,” Dunk said at last, placing the final of his Dragons down.
There was a brief, quiet stillness.
Egg hesitated.
Then, carefully, he reached forward and took them, holding them for a moment as though unsure what to do with them now that they were his.
“I did not mean to take everything,” he said, glancing up.
Dunk gave a small shake of his head, already leaning back. “You played the game as it is meant to be played, lad.”
“That does not make it feel better.”
Dunk considered that.
“No,” he agreed. “It does not.”
And just like that, he was out.
He settled back beside the edge of the table once more, folding his hands over his knees, watching now with the same steady presence, though there was a faint hint of something resigned in his expression, as though he had accepted that whatever happened next would be beyond his reach.
“Finally,” Maekar muttered, though there was no real satisfaction in it.
If anything, his mood had worsened.
He sat forward now, no longer leaning back with careless confidence but instead hovering over the board like a man trying to force order onto something that refused to obey him. His Dragons had dwindled—not gone, not yet, but enough that each payment now came with visible irritation, each loss met with a tightening of his jaw.
“This is not strategy,” he snapped at one point, shoving a small stack of Dragons across the board toward Valarr. “This is theft.”
“You landed on my land,” Valarr replied evenly, though there was a faint strain in his voice, the kind that came from someone trying very hard to hold their ground in the presence of someone far more forceful.
“I was forced there.”
“That is the game.”
“It is a flawed game.”
“You said that earlier,” Rose added lightly from where she sat, already counting what little she had left. “It has not improved for you since.”
Maekar shot her a look that could have started a war.
She only smiled.
Baelor remained composed.
Of course he did.
He sat with the same quiet control he had begun with, his movements measured, his decisions deliberate, though there was something different now, something sharper beneath the calm. His holdings were strong, his positions well chosen and yet, every so often, his gaze would shift, not to the board, but to Egg.
Who, against all logic, was doing far too well.
Egg had begun the game with innocent enthusiasm, buying what he could simply because he could, placing his Dragons down with delight, naming places in his head, claiming them with the seriousness only a child could bring to something entirely imagined.
Somewhere along the way, that had become… effective.
He owned more than he should.
Not strategically.
Not intentionally.
But through a series of fortunate landings, well timed purchases and the kind of luck that made no sense and yet refused to falter, he had built something that now stood as a genuine threat.
Baelor noticed.
And though he said nothing, there was the faintest edge of irritation beneath his calm, subtle enough that only someone watching closely would catch it.
Rose did.
She bit back a smile.
Daeron, meanwhile, remained exactly as he had been from the start—present, but not entirely anchored, his attention drifting just enough that it was impossible to tell how much of the game he was truly engaging with and how much he was simply… observing.
He played when it was his turn, paid when he must, collected when it came to him, all with the same quiet ease, as though the outcome mattered less than the pattern forming beneath it.
At one point, he rested his chin lightly against his hand, watching as Maekar argued with Valarr over a payment, his gaze distant.
“This ends poorly,” he murmured.
“No one asked you,” Maekar snapped.
Daeron did not look at him.
Valarr was trying.
That, perhaps, was the most notable thing.
He played with focus, with clear intent, making decisions that mirrored Baelor’s more than Maekar’s, careful, deliberate, always thinking one step ahead, yet every time he seemed to gain ground, something shifted, some turn of chance or miscalculation pulling him back just enough to keep him from truly rising.
Half the time, he found himself paying his father.
The other half, his uncle.
And neither seemed inclined to go easy on him.
Rose, for her part, was dangerously close to losing.
Her Dragons had thinned to a small, uneven stack, her properties scattered and unimpressive, her position precarious at best and yet she could not find it in herself to care.
Not when Maekar looked as though he might combust at any moment.
Not when Baelor was quietly plotting.
Not when Egg was unintentionally building an empire.
Not when Dunk, now entirely out, sat beside her and occasionally shook his head at the unfolding chaos with a sort of solemn disbelief.
“I did warn you,” she said to no one in particular, though her eyes remained fixed on the board, on the movement, on the steady unraveling of composure around it.
No one listened.
They were far past listening now.
The game had taken hold.
And it was not letting go.