Shows [Reverse Harem x Reader]

Fifty-Seven

The morning after the feast, you woke with a sense of unease coiling in your stomach like a serpent.

The memories of your version in this universe were clear about what would happen today, Bran Stark would climb the abandoned tower, and Jaime and Cersei would be there, together, in a way that siblings should never be.

And Bran would fall.

Or rather, he would be pushed.

You stared at the ceiling of your guest chamber, tracing the rough-hewn beams with your eyes as you wrestled with the decision that had been plaguing you since you arrived at Winterfell.

The pre-dawn light is filtered through the narrow window, painting everything in shades of grey and blue.

Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the castle waking, servants hauling water, guards changing shifts, the clang of the smithy already at work.

Let the plot unfold as written, or intervene?

Your fingers traced the device hidden beneath your pillow. You could feel its cold metal surface, the slight vibration that indicated it was functioning properly.

When the time comes, one press of a button and you could leave this universe entirely, return to Adam's lab, collect whatever meager payment he'd managed to transfer, and never look back.

It would be the smart thing to do.

The safe thing.

You'd already been shot, poisoned, nearly lobotomized, electrocuted, and had a crossbow bolt embedded in your shoulder.

What more did you owe these fictional characters? They weren't real, or at least, they hadn't been real before you arrived.

But then you remembered Lady Catelyn's defense of you at the feast. The genuine concern in her voice when she'd suggested you rest.

You thought of Ned Stark's solemn honor, the way he had bowed to you with respect despite knowing you were a Lannister, or supposedly a Baratheon, though the truth of your parentage was an open secret to anyone with eyes.

You thought of Robb'ssmile, the warmth in his grey eyes when he'd called you beautiful. Not as a political maneuver or empty flattery, but with the honest appreciation of a young man who didn't yet know how to hide his feelings behind courtly masks.

And you thought of Sansa, sweet Sansa with her romantic dreams and her perfect curtsies, who looked at you like you were everything she aspired to be. Who had no idea that the world she longed for, the southern court, the knights and ladies, the songs and stories, was a beautiful lie wrapped around a core of corruption and cruelty.

Even Jon Snow, the bastard who sat alone at feasts and tried so hard to pretend he didn't care about belonging, had looked at you in the godswood with something like understanding.

Like he recognized a kindred spirit, someone else who didn't quite fit in the role they had been assigned.

The sadistic part of you that had been shaped by weeks of multiverse travel and near death experiences, the very same part that had learned to find dark humor in impossible situations, whispered that you should let it happen.

The fall was the catalyst for everything: the war, the intrigue, the drama that made the story worth telling.

Without Bran's fall, there would be no investigation, no discovery of the twincest, no execution of Ned Stark, no War of the Five Kings.

The entire epic would collapse like a house of cards.

But as you lay there in the growing light, you realized something that made your chest tighten with an emotion you couldn't quite name.