the last ones who count — axel & annisa / got au

It was her birthright to become Lord of Casterly Rock after her father, or so, she believed. Anton had been straddling a blade's edge ever since his failure, and if Annisa had anything to say about it, his head would've been mounted on a wooden spike as to say, "We won't tolerate imperfection." It's her brother, her true brother, unlike that 'half-breed' Axel, but she's always had a bit of a cruel streak—just question the five handmaidens she's gone through in the past year.

But when Lord Allister, her father, falls ill, his heartbeat slowing and failing, he names someone other than herself as his successor. Axel. He was only half of Lannister blood, his sullied by the name Greyjoy. Annisa turns her nose up at the name, it tastes of salt and the sea, she rather prefers the land. The grass and the sun, the dew on the sharp rocks lining Casterly Rock. They were the antithesis to eachother in every sense of the word: he was the ocean, timid and free-flowing, and she was the sun, vehement and radiant.

Though, the most important of all, he was a bastard and she was a true-born.

But Lord Allister's wishes were final, and her grasp of the throne she's always believed to be one day hers, loosens. Lady Annisa can't live with that decree, she's never been one to sit by idly while the universe plots against her. No, she'll go down in a blaze of flames and burn the world down with her.

So, here she is, under the archway into Axel's room, her eyes burning into the back of his sea-breezed hair. Annisa's been known to be rash, an impulsive girl with a temper, her wild-like emotions taking control of herself. Sometimes all she can see is red.

"You may go," she nods to the physician, her words painting it as an option, but the growl to her voice says otherwise. A forced smile is stretched thin across her face, seemingly amicable, though the fury in her strained eyes would send shivers down even the Mountain's steel spine.

As she makes her way closer to her half-brother, her hands grab at the side of her dress, her finger nails tearing tiny holes into the delicate fabric. She rips through the sewn lining, her anger seething through every pore, every bone in her body.

"What game are you playing?" her words are sharp, slicing through the thick silence. She has no interest in dallying around at the moment, she needs an answer to justify the thoughts inside her head.