This is happening people. Go with it.

TITLE: For Those About To Rock, We Salute You (1/?)
FANDOM: A Song of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones
RATING: Mature
DISCLAIMER: Dearest GRRM, I am not you. I'm sorry I'm borrowing your babies to make them wear leather pants and have tattoos and sing bad hair rock, but I promise I won't hurt them. They're yours, not mine, but thank you for creating them and letting me put them in bands. No profit is being gained, either. Love, Pieces xoxox

NOTES: You know when an idea hits you and NEVER LEAVES? And every fandom needs a rockband AU, right? It's hard to place this squarely in either in the bookverse or TVverse, because it's a little of both - Spoiler warnings apply for both! The fic is mostly Gen, but pairings will eventually appear.

The fic title and all chapter titles are courtesy of AC/DC. A wanky reference post with discographies and band lineups is here.

With thanks to my tremendous betas, [personal profile] lizbee and [personal profile] theonlytwin; who along with [profile] suburbannoir helped me nut this idea out. Thank you <3 Let's do it!

Read it at AO3.


The skies alight with a guitar bite
Heads will roll and rock tonight


Night of the Long Knives


The television was noise in the background. Dirty cups, half-emptied of Dorset Red; a pile of used drum tape and strewn copies of Westerosi Music Paper all that was left of his bandmates from hours before. Eddard Stark - Ned - liked to be alone after a gig, left with a buzzing TV and the souls of those they'd performed in front of still ringing in his ears and fingertips. The music came easier when he was alone. And, in all honesty, the music was what he knew best.

"And with breaking news, I'm Shae and this is WMTV. Shock and disbelief around the Seven Kingdoms tonight as news comes to us that Robert Baratheon, lead singer of legendary rock group Golden Stag, has been found dead in a Kings' Landing hotel room. Cause of death is yet to be confirmed, however, but rumours of Baratheon's extravagant lifestyle have hounded Golden Stag for years. Just to repeat, Robert Baratheon - the King of rock and roll - is dead. In what is sure to be the biggest story in music this year, stay tuned to us here at Westeros Music Television for updates as they happen."

The pain finally melted through the shock, and he looked down at his hand. The shards of his broken wine glass were shattered in front of him, slowly being covered in oozing blood, and he tried to prise apart the tight fist he hadn't known he was making. There was nothing but white noise screaming in his ears - through it, the sound of his phone buzzing pulled through; and somehow, some way, flicking blood onto the filthy dressing room floor, Ned managed to make out his wife's name flashing at him.


Catelyn's voice was heavy with concern down the phone. "Ned - Ned, it's Robert. He's -"

"I know."

The television, mindless noise that seemed able to deliver the deftest blows, suddenly caught his eye - Robert, young, strapping; leather pants and "all dick", as he liked to call it - marching across the screen mouthing the words to their biggest hit, 'Ours Is The Fury'. The song they'd written together in a dingy one bedroom flat in Kings' Landing, the song that made them all rock gods; the song that could still cause a hundred thousand people to cross their hearts and pledge allegiance to whatever Robert Baratheon had been selling.


His foot went through the TV's screen, and the silence was deafening.

How rock and roll, he thought. How very Baratheon of you.

Ned pushed his bloodied hands to his face and did the most un-rock and roll thing imaginable - he began to cry.


"Cersei knows?"

"Of course she does."

"The band?"

"Bronn was partying at Ros', Pod was in bed with a bunch of groupies in the opposite suite, Sandor - Gods know where he was - "

"Like always. And Ned?"

"In the dressing room at the music house. He was the last to speak to Robert. Drunken phone call. Apparently."

Tyrion Lannister marched down the plushly carpeted hallway of Casterly Rock Records, his cousin-slash-secretary Lancel trying to keep up with the small man's surprisingly broad strides. 4 o'clock in the morning - four-fucking-o'clock - and his and Shae's phones had woken them both from a peaceful haze into a full-blown nightmare. And his father, well -

"Your father knows, he was the one to suggest the replacement…" Lancel volunteered, knowing well and true that his cousin was completely and utterly aware of this fact. Instead of berating him, however, Tyrion looked up at the pale, gangly boy - his blonde hair so reminiscent of his sister and brother's - and smiled.

"Thank you Lancel. That will be all."

Tyrion had no headspace left for Lancel and his skittishness. Without a second thought, he turned to face the grand double doors that lead to Tywin Lannister's office and concentrated on focusing the one thing he had over his family - his Gods given wits. It wasn't much, not when your sister was an ex-supermodel-cum-rock goddess-cum-rock 'n' roll widow, and your brother one of the biggest stars in the Seven Kingdoms - but you got what you gave, and Tyrion always believed you gave what you're given.

Even when that meant cleaning up when your brother in law - the lead singer of the band you managed - was found dead face down in a bowl of boar stock stew, the milk of the poppy and several whores lining the king sized bed he was supposed to be sharing with Cersei. Tyrion knew they courted controversy at the best of times, but he'd be damned if this wasn't the worst of them all in one neat, dead Baratheon package.

Adjusting his tie, the headache that had been threatening to become a migraine settling squarely in his frontal lobe, and he pushed open the doors to the dulcet tones of Cersei Lannister.

"We can't lose the momentum of the comeback tour, Father." Even as she was apparently shadowed by her husband's untimely death, she was beautiful. Her blonde hair, braided in the fashionable King's Landing style, cascading down her shoulders and over the flimsy dress that looked so effortless, but Tyrion knew without a doubt it wasn't. Her feet were in gold lace sandals and propped up on the only other free chair in their father's office, her waving hand clutching a glass of something he could tell wasn't water.

"Dearest sister, may I request you move your glorious feet so I may join in this conversation?"

Her eyes spat venom, but a smile stretched across her face as if it pained her. She was always trying to be so smart in front of their father, who was watching them both with his sharp features almost hidden in the low light that cast across his desk from the only light source in the room.

"Of course, brother. We were discussing Robert's replacement."

"My condolences aren't necessary, then?"

Cersei laughed. "Surely, I don't need to hold up the pretence of my marriage here." She took a swig from her glass, and smirked again. "But I'll take your sympathy and use it when I face the press, brother."

"I expect you'll be nothing but gracious, child, when you speak to them tomorrow morning." Tywin Lannister, like always, chose his entry into a conversation with care, wedging a statement between the lines that could have easily applied to either of them. His face moved further into the light, and Tyrion couldn't help but admire the careful appearance of power and prestige their father was renowned for, even in the shadows of a scandal. A true war man, a true music man; and not for the first time Tyrion wished he could be more like the man his father wanted him to be.

He shook his head. What a joke.

"Lancel informs me you wish to replace Robert already?"

"Joffrey's perfect. Young, talented, all fire and antlers like his father." Her cheeks were red from the liquid in her glass, and Tyrion flicked his eyes over the empty bottle partially hidden by the television on their father's desk.

"A natural replacement. One might even believe you planned it to be so."

That smirk again. "It's him or Jaime, naturally."

"And you expect Jaime to come back to the band that threw him aside in the first place?" It was a cheap jab, and one he knew would raise her temper - but his anger at being kept out of their plans showed itself, just a little.

"Jaime doesn't need Golden Stag. Neither does Joffrey, but one could ever say I don't look out for this family." She leaned forward, the wine on her breath obvious even to their father, whose silence spoke louder than anything he could ever say with words. How easy it would be, to buy into her venom and charge through with a few choice secrets he'd learned being the manager for the Seven Kingdom's most famous band - but Tyrion remembered himself, and smiled at her like a shining beacon of brotherly love.

"You're so beautiful, Cersei."

"All widows are beautiful, darling brother," and as she leant back in her chair, she smiled, cat-like, into her glass.



King's Landing - The King of Rock and Roll, Robert Baratheon, was pronounced dead Saturday night in King's Landing after performing a sold-out encore date of their Return of the Stag tour. No cause of death has been determined at this time.

Baratheon, known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the electric leading force of legendary rock group Golden Stag, is survived by his wife Cersei Lannister and their three children Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. The family asks that the media respect their privacy through this trying time.

Golden Stag's remaining members, Ned Stark, Bronn Blackwater, Sandor Clegane and Podrick Payne thank their fans for their overwhelming support and love.

"Robert was our family, our mentor and our blood," said Golden Stag manager Tyrion Lannister. "His death strikes us hard, but we shall rise again - 'Ours is the Fury'!"

A tribute concert is scheduled for next week, with the likes of former Golden Stag member Jaime Lannister, Robert's brothers Renly and Stannis (formerly of folk rock duo Baratheon&Baratheon), The Westeros Boyz and more expected to pay tribute to the Seven Kingdom's King of rock and roll.

All questions are to be directed to Tyrion Lannister and the Casterly Rock Records PR department.


Sansa Stark stood in front of the small audience, and wondered what the odds were of the floor opening up beneath her.

Nil, and she breathed out. Stand straight. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"She's young." Cersei sighed, and waved her hand towards Sansa dismissively. "Too young."

"But beautiful." The bald man - Varys, Sansa knew, the leading columnist for the Westerosi Music Paper and his own online gossip site, (and the man that could, in her brother Jon's words, "make her or break her") - watched her with a critical eye that made her want to cover the little skin she wasn't showing. "Talented. Next big thing, all that."

"Hmm. Her pedigree speaks for her, I suppose."

"Ned Stark's daughter, naturally. Mother is Catelyn Stark, renowned painter. Brother Robb and half-brother Jon the founding members of The Westeros Boyz. Sister Arya, champion sword fighter. Youngest brothers Bran and Rickon - not much to say except Bran's a cripple and this little girl makes good use of the press that comes from looking after him."

Rolling her eyes, Cersei stood and walked towards Sansa, her eye critical. "Yes, yes, I know all that, the perfect Starks and their perfect lives. Now, little dove," and a smile spread across the face Sansa had seen in countless magazines, countless album covers. "You're not a singer?"

"N-no-no, m'lady."

Cersei liked that. "'M'lady'. Bless you, you're an innocent thing, aren't you?"

From behind Sansa, Varys leaned back in his chair, the creaking sound seeming to talk for her. Uuurggghhhhhhhkkkk. "I believe she's clean of scandal. Not even the business with her father's boy band bastard touched her. Good dresser, long legs, excellent actress, in demand by every rag in Westeros and beyond."

"You know my son?" Cersei asked.

"Yes." Who didn't? Golden haired Joffrey, his face in the pages of all her magazines and in the dreams of teenage girls from Winterfell to Dorne, all without doing a thing. A legend because of his birth, a couple of songs with his uncle Jaime to his name and countless appearances on bad television shows where he'd been nothing but charming. But now -

"Joffrey is to be the lead singer of the Seven Kingdom's most successful rock band. It is his birthright, now his father has passed. It is expected," and Cersei took her hand, "that the King of rock and roll has a woman beside him that is befitting to be his queen. And it's only natural that we bring the lion and the wolf together, especially when it's so advantageous for both families."

"Our first date was lovely," Sansa managed to answer though her throat seemed stuck, "and he's asked for me again - "

"You'll need better clothes." Cersei clicked her fingers, and a woman appeared with several others trailing after her. "Set up a fitting with Asha at the House of Greyjoy."

"House of Greyjoy?" Varys enquired.

"I need to bring a little grit to this fresh little daisy. A bit of salt and iron, and Asha's good at that." Her face must have belied her feelings towards the rough, deconstructed clothing from the House of Greyjoy, and Sansa almost jumped when Cersei touched her cheek, her face pulled into an almost too perfect smile. "You are to be the queen to Joffrey's king, little dove. All these preparations are to make sure you're the perfect partner for my son, and to ensure both of your stars continue to rise."

A shark, baring its teeth, flashed into her mind. Do you really need this? her mother had asked. You're doing so fine on your own. Sansa had protested - it's Joffrey Baratheon, Mother! And he wants to date me!

If fairy tales were true, she was sure they all began with a confidentiality agreement the size of the King's Landing phone book, and a grip of absolute terror around her heart. And by the time she was standing beside Joffrey Baratheon in front of the Westerosi press, her eyes hurting from the flashbulbs and her hands sweating, she was getting pretty good at pretending that cold fear crawling into her throat was just the nervousness and excitement of new love.


To be continued...

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