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[rainstormies]

chapter ten

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 1.5k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

The warm waters of the bath rippled gently as Serena leaned back against Sam's chest, the weight of the day melting away. Steam rose from the pool, curling around them like soft whispers, and the scent of fragrant oils filled the air, creating a serene, dreamlike atmosphere. 

Pentos had become their home—a place far removed from the dangers of Westeros, from the weight of the past, and from the shadows of revenge that once loomed so heavily over her. Here, she was Serena again. Not Gemma, not a servant or a fugitive, but a woman who had found something close to happiness. 

Sam chuckled softly, his chest vibrating against her back. "Remember the first time we came here?" he asked, his voice warm with nostalgia. "You didn’t trust the bathhouses. You thought they were too extravagant."

Serena grinned, tilting her head up to look at him. "I still think they are," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I suppose I’ve gotten used to a bit of luxury."

He laughed, a deep, carefree sound that made her smile even wider. "A bit?" He raised an eyebrow, teasing her gently as his hand skimmed the surface of the water. "You’ve become quite fond of the finer things, my lady."

"My lady," she echoed, with a playful roll of her eyes. "I’m no lady, Sam. Not anymore."

His hand stilled, and for a moment, the playful air between them shifted into something more intimate, more sincere. Sam’s arms tightened around her, pulling her closer against him. "You’ll always be a lady to me," he murmured softly, his lips brushing against her temple. 

Serena’s heart fluttered at his words, and she felt a familiar warmth spread through her—not from the water, but from the way he made her feel. Safe. Cherished. Loved. 

She turned in his arms, so that she was facing him now, her hands resting on his chest. "I never thought I’d have this," she admitted, her voice quiet. "With everything that happened... with everything I lost... I never thought I’d find something like this."

Sam’s eyes softened, his hand coming up to gently brush a stray lock of wet hair from her face. "Neither did I," he said, his voice low. "But we found each other, Serena. That’s what matters."

Her heart swelled at the sound of her true name on his lips. After everything they had been through—after running from her past, hiding from who she truly was—here, with Sam, she felt like herself again. She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was living. 

They had been in Pentos for over a year now, and in that time, they had built a life together. A quiet, peaceful life, far removed from the chaos and bloodshed that had defined so much of her past. Sam had found work as a sellsword, and Serena had taken up small tasks, keeping to herself and avoiding the attention of those who might know of her origins. 

The city was beautiful, with its grand Sunrise Gate and beautiful estates. But what made it feel like home wasn’t the towering temples or the bustling markets—it was Sam. It was the life they had created together, the quiet moments like this where it was just the two of them, with no past to haunt them and no future to fear. 

"I think we’ve done alright," she said softly, her fingers tracing small circles on his chest. "Considering where we started."

Sam smiled, a soft, lazy smile that made her heart skip a beat. "I’d say we’ve done more than alright," he replied, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her lips. 

Serena melted into the kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pulled him closer. The warmth of the water surrounded them, but it was nothing compared to the heat between them, the quiet passion that had only grown stronger with time. 

When they finally pulled apart, Serena rested her forehead against his, her breath coming in soft, shallow gasps. "I love you," she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. 

Sam’s eyes darkened with emotion, and he cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly against her cheeks. "I love you too, Serena. Always."

They stayed like that for a long moment, just holding each other in the warm water, their hearts beating in perfect sync. 

For the first time in years, she wasn’t running. She wasn’t hiding. She was just... living. 

And for now, that was enough. 

As the warm sun began its slow descent, Sam and Serena walked hand in hand down the winding streets, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of the bustling market. They had just come from visiting Elara, one of the dear friends they had made during their time in Myr. Elara had insisted on treating them to wine and sweet pastries in her lush, flower-filled courtyard, regaling them with tales of her latest romantic adventures in the city. Serena hadn’t stopped laughing the entire afternoon, feeling lighter than she had in years. 

“That story about her almost getting caught sneaking into the merchant’s villa was priceless,” Sam chuckled, squeezing Serena’s hand. “I don’t know how she gets away with half the things she does.”

“She has a way with people,” Serena said with a grin, her eyes sparkling. “That smile of hers could charm the dragons themselves.”

Sam smiled back, but then his expression softened into something more thoughtful. “You have that same way, you know. You always have.”

Serena blushed, nudging him playfully. “Oh, stop it.”

They strolled past the open doors of shops and taverns, their faces glowing in the golden light of early evening. The city was alive with music and conversation, the air thick with the scent of grilled fish and fresh bread. Sam paused, glancing out toward the beach that stretched just beyond the row of whitewashed buildings. 

“Do you want to watch the sunset by the water?” he asked suddenly, his voice gentle. 

Serena looked out toward the sea, its vast expanse of shimmering blue reflecting the warm hues of the sky. The idea filled her with a sense of calm, and she nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips. “That sounds perfect.”

They turned toward the beach, their footsteps light on the soft sand as they made their way toward the shoreline. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the water. Sam kept his arm around her waist as they walked, the cool evening breeze tousling their hair. 

It felt like they were the only two people in the world as they settled down onto the sand, the sound of the waves gently lapping at the shore. The warmth of Sam’s presence beside her filled Serena with a quiet joy she had never imagined she would have.

They sat close together, Serena resting her head on Sam’s shoulder. The sound of laughter drifted toward them, and they turned to see a group of children playing at the edge of the shore, splashing in the shallow water and calling out to one another with carefree joy. 

Sam smiled as he watched them, his arm lazily draped around Serena’s waist. “They look happy,” he mused, his voice soft and contemplative. 

Serena followed his gaze, her eyes lingering on the children for a moment before she glanced up at Sam. “Do you ever think about it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“Think about what?” Sam turned to look at her, his brow furrowed slightly in curiosity. 

“Having children,” Serena said quietly. “Maybe one day.”

Sam’s face softened, and he smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his eyes. He reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “I think about it,” he admitted. “But... I want to see more of the world first. There’s still so much out there, so much we haven’t done yet.”

Serena nodded thoughtfully, her fingers tracing the edge of the bath’s smooth stone rim. She understood that feeling, the same restless desire for adventure and discovery that had brought them here. She had never imagined living a quiet life, not after everything she had gone through. But still, the idea of a family with Sam, something warm and enduring, had crept into her thoughts more than once. 

“We could wait,” Serena said, a teasing glint in her eye. “But after we’ve seen a bit more. Maybe the Summer Isles?”

Sam’s grin widened, and he chuckled softly. “The Summer Isles, huh? I’ve heard it’s beautiful there. Warm beaches, endless sunshine. Sounds like a good place to go next.”

Serena laughed, leaning in closer to him, her lips brushing against his shoulder. “Then it’s decided,” she murmured, her voice full of quiet joy. “We’ll see the Summer Isles first.”

Sam’s hand found hers beneath the water, his fingers threading through hers. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and for a moment, they simply sat there in the warmth of the bath, the sound of distant waves lapping at the shore, the children’s laughter echoing in the background. 

Serena felt the peace settle over her, a deep contentment she hadn’t known she could have. She had found her place, not in the halls of power or among the noble houses of Westeros, but here, with Sam. The future stretched out before them, full of possibility, full of life.

[rainstormies]

chapter nine

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 3.1k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

As the boat glided into the misty harbour of Braavos, Serena stood at the bow, the salt air whipping through her hair, her heart racing with anticipation. The city unfolded before her in a breathtaking display of canals, towering statues, and domed temples. Braavos was nothing like she had imagined—vast and alive with the bustle of trade and the constant hum of water lapping against stone. It was a world she had only dreamed of. 

Beside her, Sam watched the horizon with quiet awe. His hand slipped into hers, his grip warm and steady. Serena glanced at him, and a sudden wave of emotion surged through her. Here they were, together, free from the chains of the past, stepping into a life they were about to build. 

"Look at it," she whispered, unable to contain the wonder in her voice.

Sam smiled, his gaze soft as it flickered to her. "I’ve never seen anything like it."

Neither had she. The city felt like the promise of a new beginning, far from the nightmares of her past, far from the shadow of Tywin Lannister and the ruins of House Reyne. It was a place where no one knew her name or her history. Here, she was no longer Gemma or the hidden daughter of Castamere—she was just Serena, a woman discovering the world alongside the man she loved. 

They disembarked from the boat, Serena’s heart light with a sense of freedom she had never felt before. They wandered through the winding streets of Braavos, marvelling at the architecture, the marketplaces filled with strange foods and silks, and the towering statues that seemed to watch over the city like silent guardians. 

Sam pointed to the Titan of Braavos, the massive statue looming over the entrance to the harbour. "Can you believe something like that was built?"

Serena shook her head, laughing softly. "It’s incredible." But her gaze kept drifting back to Sam, to the way his eyes lit up as he looked at their new surroundings, to the way his hand never let go of hers. She felt a warmth spread through her chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with the foreign sun. 

They crossed over a canal bridge, the water glistening beneath them as the sounds of laughter and foreign tongues filled the air. Serena took it all in, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the man at her side. There had been so many times she’d pushed him away, convinced she wasn’t meant for happiness, convinced that her path was one of revenge and darkness. 

But now, here in Braavos, everything felt different. Lighter. And as she looked at Sam, his face alight with the same wonder she felt, Serena realised something she had been too afraid to admit before. 

Sam was the man she had always wanted. 

He had stood by her when she thought she had nothing left. He had given her a reason to hope when she thought her only purpose was revenge. And now, he was offering her the kind of life she had never believed she deserved—one filled with love, with laughter, with the possibility of happiness. 

They stopped by a small fountain in the centre of a square, where children played and vendors shouted out in the Braavosi tongue. Serena watched as Sam crouched by the water’s edge, splashing his face with the cool water. He looked up at her, grinning like a boy, and her heart swelled with affection. 

"Come on," he said, standing and pulling her toward him. "We’ve got a whole city to see."

Serena laughed, letting him pull her close. She rested her head against his chest for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart. It was a sound she never wanted to live without. 

As they continued exploring, the day stretched out in front of them like a dream. They walked the streets of Braavos until their legs were sore, stopping by small taverns for food and watching as the city lit up with the soft glow of lanterns at night. Braavos was beautiful, but what made it all the more special was Sam—his presence beside her, his laughter, his endless curiosity about the world. 

That night, as they stood on a balcony overlooking the canals, Serena leaned into him, her hand resting on his chest. 

"This is where we belong," she said quietly, her voice filled with certainty. 

Sam looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "With each other?"

Serena smiled, her heart full. "Yes. With each other."

In that moment, everything felt right. For the first time in years, Serena didn’t feel haunted by the past or weighed down by her desire for revenge. All that mattered was the man beside her, the life they were creating together, and the future that stretched out in front of them, filled with endless possibilities. 

Serena looked out over the water, her hand still entwined with Sam’s, and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to believe in happiness. 

The air in Lys was different—warmer, heavier with the scent of salt and exotic spices carried by the breeze from the sea. Serena stood on the balcony of their rented villa, gazing out over the sun-drenched harbour. The crystal-clear waters shimmered under the midday sun, boats bobbing lazily in the distance, their sails coloured like vibrant tapestries. Beyond, the horizon seemed endless, a promise of far-off lands and new beginnings. 

She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. The beauty of Lys was undeniable. Its whitewashed buildings glowed in the light, framed by gardens overflowing with flowers of every hue. She could hear the soft hum of voices and the faint strains of music from the market below, mingling with the laughter of children running through the narrow streets. Yet despite the idyllic setting, a quiet ache still lingered in her heart. 

Serena missed her family. She missed the halls of Hightower, the smell of the sea in the morning, her mother’s voice, and her sister’s laughter. But she knew she could never go back—not after all that had happened. Her past was a closed door now, and no matter how much she longed for it, she knew the future lay with Sam, here in this foreign land. 

They could build something new. Together. 

With that thought, she decided to venture into the market alone, letting Sam sleep in a little longer. He had been training with the local mercenaries to stay sharp, and their long days of travelling had worn him out. She wrapped herself in a light shawl, the soft material draping over her shoulders, and made her way down the winding streets toward the market. 

The market in Lys was unlike any she had ever seen before. Stalls overflowed with goods from across the world—silks from Asshai, spiced wines from Yi Ti, and perfumes so rich they clung to the air like a dream. The vendors called out in lilting accents, enticing buyers with colourful fruits, exotic birds, and delicate jewellery. Serena wandered through it all, letting the sights and sounds wash over her, trying to lose herself in the vibrant energy of the city. 

But as she passed one stall, her eyes caught on something that made her stop in her tracks. 

A young boy—no older than eight—stood chained to a post, his arms bound tightly behind his back. His clothes were little more than rags, his face gaunt and dirty. He looked up at her, eyes wide with fear and desperation. The master beside him, a richly dressed man with cold, calculating eyes, barked orders to the crowd, offering the boy up like a piece of meat for sale. 

Serena’s stomach twisted in disgust. She had seen slaves before in the Free Cities, but this—this was different. The boy’s eyes met hers, pleading silently for help. 

Without thinking, Serena stepped forward. 

"How much for him?" she asked, her voice low but firm. 

The master turned to her, a smirk curling at his lips. "This one? A fine specimen, isn’t he? Strong for his age. He’ll serve well in any household. But for you, my lady... I could offer a discount."

Serena ignored the slimy tone in his voice. "How much?" she repeated. 

"Ten gold pieces."

Her heart raced. She didn’t have that much on her, but she couldn’t just leave the boy here. She reached for her coin purse, fumbling with the strings, but before she could take it out, the master’s face twisted with sudden suspicion. 

"What are you doing, girl?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Do you think you can just swoop in and buy one of my slaves like you’re handing out alms? Who do you think you are?"

Serena froze. The market seemed to quiet around them, people turning to watch the confrontation. The master stepped closer, his breath hot and foul as he leaned in. "You think you’re some highborn lady from Westeros, don’t you? Here to save the poor and helpless? Well, let me tell you something—this is Lys. This is my city, and you have no business meddling in it."

Serena felt a cold sweat trickle down her spine. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself, but her words caught in her throat. The master’s face was inches from hers now, his eyes glinting with malice. "Walk away," he hissed, "before I have you whipped alongside him."

Before Serena could react, a shadow loomed behind the man. 

"Get your hands off her."

Sam’s voice was low and dangerous. Serena turned to see him standing there, his broad frame tense with anger, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword. 

The master sneered but backed away slightly, sensing the threat in Sam’s presence. "And who might you be? Her knight in shining armour?"

Sam took a step forward, his eyes locked on the man. "If you don’t want to lose that hand, I suggest you let her be."

The master glanced between Serena and Sam, his arrogance faltering for a moment. Then, with a final sneer, he turned and yanked the boy’s chain, dragging him roughly back toward his stall. "Fine," he spat, "take your foolish Westerosi nobility somewhere else."

Serena stood there, her heart pounding, feeling both shaken and relieved. Sam gently touched her arm, guiding her away from the growing crowd. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice softer now. 

She nodded, but her thoughts were racing. The boy’s face haunted her—those pleading eyes, the hopelessness in his expression. She had wanted to help, but instead, she had only made things worse. She had forgotten where she was, forgotten that this was a place where power and money ruled everything. 

"Serena," Sam said quietly, pulling her into a side street, away from the bustle of the market. "What were you doing?"

"I... I don’t know," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I saw him, and I couldn’t just walk away."

Sam sighed, his hand running through his hair. "I understand, but this... this place is different. You can’t help everyone. And it’s dangerous to try."

Serena looked up at him, her eyes filled with frustration and sadness. "I thought I could do something good here. I thought I could make a difference."

"You do," Sam said, his voice firm. "You’ve made a difference to me."

The words hit her with surprising force, and for the first time since they’d arrived in Lys, Serena felt the weight of everything she had left behind—the family she would never see again, the life she could never return to. But here, with Sam, maybe she didn’t need to go back. Maybe she could start something new. Something better. 

"I don’t have a family anymore," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I miss them, but... I can’t go back."

Sam gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing away the tear that slid down her cheek. "Then we’ll start a new one," he said softly. "Together."

Serena’s heart swelled at his words. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a moment. This was her life now. Sam was her family. And together, they would face whatever came next. 

But as they walked back toward their villa, Serena couldn’t shake the feeling that Lys, for all its beauty, held dangers far deeper than she had anticipated. And she would need to be stronger than ever to survive them. 

The villa in Myr was more beautiful than Serena had ever imagined. It sat atop a hill, overlooking the shimmering sapphire waters of the Summer Sea. White stone columns lined the long pathway to the entrance, draped with lush greenery and delicate purple wisteria that filled the air with their sweet, intoxicating scent. The gardens surrounding the villa were teeming with life—flowers of every colour, vines that twisted and curled around marble statues, and birds that sang softly from their perches among the trees. 

The day was warm, with a soft breeze coming in from the sea, carrying the salty air and mixing it with the fragrance of fresh lemons from the orchard. The sunlight filtered through the villa's large open archways, casting a golden glow across the floors of smooth, pale stone. Inside, the halls were cool and inviting, the walls adorned with tapestries and murals depicting scenes of Myr’s history—rich, vibrant colours that told stories of its warriors, its artists, and its lovers. 

Serena stood at the entrance to the villa, taking it all in. It was everything she had dreamed of and more. This was where she and Sam would begin their new life together. Their wedding was not grand or filled with nobility, but it was perfect in its simplicity, surrounded by the friends they had made here, far from the blood and pain of Westeros. For the first time in a long while, Serena felt at peace. 

Her closest friend in Myr, a local girl named Elara, stood beside her, adjusting the thin veil Serena wore. Elara had been her constant companion since they’d arrived, a bright, spirited girl with dark, shining eyes and a mischievous smile. She had shown Serena the ins and outs of the city—the best markets, the quietest beaches, and the little secrets of Myr only the locals knew. Elara was one of the first people Serena had truly confided in about her past. Though she didn’t know every detail, she had understood Serena’s need for a fresh start, and for that, Serena was endlessly grateful. 

"You look like a goddess," Elara teased as she straightened Serena’s gown, a simple yet elegant white dress that flowed down to her ankles, made of the finest Myrish silk. "Sam won’t be able to take his eyes off you."

Serena laughed, her heart fluttering in excitement and nervousness. "Let’s hope not," she replied, though she knew Sam never had trouble keeping his eyes on her. He had loved her from the moment they had left Westeros, and every day since, he had proven that love in more ways than she could count. 

As Serena stepped out into the garden where the ceremony would be held, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, amber light over the scene. A small gathering of friends and acquaintances waited for her—people they had met over the past months. A Myrish merchant Sam had befriended, a couple from Braavos who had travelled to Myr for business but had grown close to Serena during their stay, and of course, Elara, who stood beside Serena like a sister. 

The air smelled of jasmine and fresh citrus, the breeze carrying the faintest scent of incense from the city below. It was idyllic, perfect—everything Serena had never imagined she would have. 

Sam stood at the altar, his eyes locked on her as she made her way down the aisle. His dark hair fell softly around his face, his eyes shining with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. He wore a simple tunic, the same Myrish silk as her dress, dyed a deep, ocean blue. His smile was warm, filled with a love that made Serena feel like the luckiest woman in the world. 

When she reached him, Sam took her hands, his grip gentle but firm. The officiant—a kindly old man from the city—spoke the words that would bind them together, but Serena barely heard them. All she could focus on was Sam, the warmth of his touch, the way his eyes softened as they exchanged their vows. 

"I will love you," he whispered, his voice low but clear. "For as long as we both shall live."

Serena’s heart swelled. "And I will love you," she replied, her voice trembling with emotion, "for as long as we both shall live."

As they kissed, sealing their union under the golden Myrish sun, the crowd cheered, and Elara laughed in delight beside her. Serena felt as if she were floating, the weight of her past finally lifting from her shoulders. This was the beginning of something new, something good. 

Later that evening, they celebrated in the courtyard of the villa. The sky had turned a deep indigo, and lanterns hung from the trees, casting a soft glow over the tables laden with food—platters of roasted lamb, spiced with Myrish herbs, olives and fresh bread, figs and honey, and of course, the local wines, rich and sweet. Laughter filled the air, and Serena could feel the warmth of it all in her chest, a happiness she had thought she might never find. 

As the evening wore on, Sam and Serena slipped away from the crowd, hand in hand, walking through the quiet garden. The stars were out, twinkling brightly above them, and the sound of the sea could be heard in the distance, gentle and calming. 

"This is our life now," Sam said quietly, his voice filled with wonder as they paused to look out over the sea. "You and me, together."

Serena smiled up at him, her heart full. "Yes," she whispered. "Together."

She leaned into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek. For the first time, she wasn’t thinking about her past or the weight of her family’s legacy. She wasn’t haunted by thoughts of revenge or loss. She was simply... happy. 

And as they stood there, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s arms, Serena realised that this was the life she had always wanted. She didn’t need to go back. She didn’t need to be the lady of a great house. She had Sam, and together, they would create something new, something beautiful. 

For the first time in years, Serena felt truly free.

[rainstormies]

chapter eight

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 2.2k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

Gemma stood silently in the corridor, staring at the heavy wooden door in front of her. The flickering torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, and she could hear the faint hum of voices from deeper in the castle. Sam’s room was just behind this door. She hadn’t intended to stop here, but her feet had carried her here anyway, as if drawn by something she couldn’t quite explain. 

She was supposed to be saying her goodbyes—to Kyra, to the queen. Not to him. And yet here she was, standing in front of his door, her hand half-raised as though to knock, but frozen in place. 

Just turn around, she told herself. Leave now. There’s no point in dragging this out. 

But her body refused to move. 

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and there he was—Sam, standing in the doorway, his expression startled at first, but quickly softening into something warmer. 

"Gemma?" he said, his voice low and rough from the late hour. "What are you doing here?"

Gemma’s heart pounded in her chest, her throat tight with the words she had been holding back. She glanced down the hallway, feeling the weight of everything she had to say pressing down on her. She couldn’t leave without telling him. Not after everything they had been through. 

“I... I’m leaving,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “For Essos. Tonight.”

Sam’s brows furrowed, and he stepped out into the hallway, his tall frame filling the narrow space between them. "Leaving?" he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief. "Why? What happened?"

Gemma looked away, her gaze falling to the floor. "There’s nothing left for me here. I’ve been holding onto revenge for so long, but now... I don’t know who I am anymore. I just... I need to get away."

Sam stared at her for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, he stepped closer, his voice quieter, more vulnerable. "You’re not the only one who feels like that."

Gemma looked up at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking more uncertain than she had ever seen him. 

“My mother died when I was young,” Sam began. “She was the only child of her family. My father was Lord Ronnel Cuy of Sunhouse. I was his heir, or at least, I thought I was.” He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow in the dimly lit hallway. “But then my father remarried. Had another son. Branston. And suddenly, I didn’t matter anymore. It was like my mother never existed.”

Gemma felt her chest tighten as she listened, understanding more than she wanted to admit. 

“I was no longer the rightful heir,” Sam continued, his voice thick with frustration. “My younger brother... he had more of a claim to Sunhouse than I ever would. My father made that clear. It’s as if my parents' marriage didn’t matter. Like I’m the one who should be grateful for anything. Like I’m just... the unwanted one.”

Gemma swallowed, unable to speak. She had never known this about Sam. She had always seen him as strong, confident, a knight who had the whole world ahead of him. But now, standing before her, he looked just as lost as she was. 

“Joining the Kingsguard was my only way out,” Sam said quietly. “The other option was the Wall. And what kind of life is that?”

He met her eyes, his voice cracking. “There’s nothing left for me here either, Gemma. Nothing. I want to leave. I want to go with you.”

Gemma felt her heart ache at his words, a part of her longing for him to come with her, to share the journey to a new life, away from all the pain and betrayal that had marked both their lives. But she knew better. She couldn’t let him sacrifice what little he had left, even if it felt like nothing to him. 

“Sam,” she began, her voice soft but firm, “you don’t understand. If you leave the Kingsguard, you’ll be branded a traitor. You’ll lose your honour, everything you’ve worked for.”

“I’ve already lost everything!” Sam’s voice rose, and he took a step closer, his eyes burning with frustration. “What honour do I have left? My own father didn’t want me. My family doesn’t care. What am I staying here for? To serve a king I don’t believe in?”

Gemma shook her head, feeling the weight of the decision crushing her. “You’re meant for more than this,” she whispered. “I’m... I’m no one. I’m just a girl who’s been hiding for years. I don’t even know who I am anymore. But you... you could be someone, Sam. A knight, a hero. You don’t need me holding you back.”

Sam stared at her, the anger draining from his face, replaced by a deep sadness. "You’re not nothing," he said quietly. "Not to me."

Gemma’s throat tightened, and for a moment, she almost believed him. Almost let herself hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find a life together. But reality came crashing down on her like a wave. She couldn’t live in a dream. 

“I can’t do this,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t drag you down with me. You deserve more than that. More than me.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, she thought he might argue, might try to convince her. But instead, he sighed and took a step back, his shoulders slumping in defeat. 

"Do you know why I came to the brothel in the first place?" Sam asked, his gaze dropping to the floor. "At first... it was because I had never been with a woman before. I thought if I moved to King's Landing, I could become a new man, leave my old life behind. Visiting that brothel felt like... part of the transformation."

He paused, rubbing his hands together as if trying to rid himself of some unseen guilt. 

"But then I saw you," he continued, his eyes lifting to meet hers, filled with something tender and painful all at once. "You were different. The moment I saw you, I didn't want anyone else. It’s always been you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever been with."

Gemma’s breath caught in her throat as he spoke. A flood of emotions she wasn’t prepared for surged inside her. 

Sam smiled weakly, but there was sadness behind it. "I wish I could say it was the same for you, that you had only been with me, but I know that’s not the life you’ve had. I understand what you had to do to survive. I hate it, but I understand."

His words hung in the air like a weight between them. Gemma felt the sting of shame and guilt settle deep in her chest, yet there was a sense of relief, too, that he had never expected anything different from her. He wasn’t looking for purity, or perfection — just her. 

But still, his admission cut deep. She knew she couldn’t be what he wanted, not truly. “Sam… there’s no going back from what I’ve done,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “I can’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

Sam shook his head, stepping closer. “I don’t care about the past. I care about you. That’s all that matters.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.” She wished she could let herself believe it. But even now, her heart was too full of secrets, too full of revenge and things she hadn’t let go. Sam could never be part of that darkness. 

“If that’s what you want,” he said softly. “I won’t stop you.”

Gemma nodded, tears stinging her eyes as she turned to leave. But before she could take a step, Sam’s voice stopped her. 

“Be safe, Gem.”

She paused, her heart aching, and for a moment, she wanted to turn back, to run to him, to beg him to come with her after all. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. 

Without another word, she walked away, leaving Sam behind in the dim corridor, knowing that this time, she was truly alone. 

Gemma stood at the docks, staring at the ship that would take her to Braavos. The wind tugged at her cloak, and the salty air clung to her skin, but she barely noticed it. The city behind her was a distant hum, fading into the background as she prepared herself for what lay ahead. 

As the ship slowly drifted away from the docks, carrying them toward Braavos, Serena closed her eyes and let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, this new life could be theirs to shape.

Her heart pounded as she took a deep breath and stepped toward the ship. 

But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him.

Sam was already there, standing near the gangplank, his armour gone, dressed simply in a dark cloak and tunic. His face was calm, resolute, as if this decision had been made long before she ever stepped foot on the docks. 

“Sam?” Her voice wavered, shock tightening her chest. “What are you doing here?”

He met her eyes with a steady gaze. “I told you, Gemma. There’s nothing left for me in King’s Landing. I made my choice.”

She shook her head, her heart racing. “You can’t just leave the Kingsguard. You’ll be hunted. They’ll strip you of everything.”

Sam took a step forward, his expression unwavering. “Let them try. I don’t care about the Kingsguard anymore. I care about you.”

Gemma’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t what she had wanted. She hadn’t wanted him to throw away his future, his honor, his entire life just for her. But the look in his eyes told her that there was no convincing him otherwise. His mind was made up. 

"Sam, you can't—"

"I already have," he interrupted softly, stepping closer. "I’m coming with you. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a white cloak, serving a king I don’t believe in. I want something real, something that’s mine."

She stared at him, her emotions a tangled mess inside her. The part of her that wanted him—wanted this—screamed for her to accept it. But the part of her that knew the danger, the cost of defying the crown, resisted. 

"Why?" she whispered, barely able to get the words out. 

"Because I love you," Sam said simply, his voice steady, his eyes locked on hers. "And I don’t want to waste any more time pretending that I don’t."

Gemma felt her heart stop at his words. She had never expected this, never thought anyone would love her again, not after everything that had happened. And yet, here he was, standing in front of her, offering her the very thing she had convinced herself she could never have. 

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. But finally, she found her voice. "This isn’t the life you deserve, Sam."

He reached out, gently taking her hand. “I don’t care about deserving anything anymore. I care about you. About us. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

Gemma felt her resolve crumble, the walls she had built around herself cracking under the weight of his words. She had tried so hard to push him away, to keep him from following her down this path. But now, standing there, with the ship waiting to take them to a new life, she realised she didn’t want to be alone. 

She didn’t want to push him away anymore. 

With a trembling breath, she nodded. “Alright,” she whispered. “We’ll go together.”

Sam smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he squeezed her hand. “Together.”

They boarded the ship in silence, the sound of the waves lapping against the hull as they moved toward the cabin. It was a small vessel, nothing grand, but it would take them across the sea—away from the life they had left behind. 

Inside the cabin, Gemma sat on the narrow cot, the reality of what they were doing sinking in. Sam sat beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. 

After a long moment, he turned to her, his voice soft. "Serena."

The name hit her like a bolt of lightning. She hadn’t heard it spoken in years. Not since Castamere, not since her entire world had been torn apart. She looked at him, her heart racing. 

"Sam…"

He smiled, just a small, sad smile. "I always knew you were more than just Gemma. You’re Serena. And I don’t care what anyone else says. You’ll always be Serena to me."

Tears welled in her eyes, and for the first time in years, she felt like herself again. Like the girl she had been before everything had gone so horribly wrong. She wasn’t just Gemma, the girl hiding in plain sight, serving in the queen’s household. She was Serena, the daughter of House Reyne. The girl who had lost everything—and yet, somehow, found love again. 

Leaning forward, she rested her head on Sam’s shoulder, her heart full of emotion she couldn’t quite name. 

For the first time in as long as she could remember, Serena felt free. They were together, and that was all that mattered. Whatever lay ahead—whatever challenges they would face—they would face them together. 

As the ship slowly drifted away from the docks, carrying them toward Braavos, Serena closed her eyes and let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, this new life could be theirs to shape. 

[rainstormies]

chapter seven

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 3k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

Gemma stood in the shadows of the courtyard, her heart pounding in her chest. The night was cool, the sky a deep indigo speckled with stars. The castle loomed around her, its stone walls cold and indifferent to the turmoil that churned within her. 

Gemma stood in the shadows of the courtyard, her heart pounding in her chest. The night was cool, the sky a deep indigo speckled with stars. The castle loomed around her, its stone walls cold and indifferent to the turmoil that churned within her. 

What was she doing?

Queen Rhaella’s words echoed in her mind: Tell him before it is too late. 

Taking a deep breath, she knocked softly on the door. 

For a moment, there was no response, and Gemma’s heart sank. Maybe he wasn’t there. Maybe it was a sign that she shouldn’t go through with this. But just as she turned to leave, the door creaked open. 

Sam stood there, dressed in the simple tunic he wore beneath his armour. His face, usually so composed and confident, softened in surprise at the sight of her. "Gemma?" he said, his voice low and laced with concern. "What are you doing here?"

Gemma swallowed hard, her heart racing. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind a thousand times, but now that it was here, the words seemed to elude her. 

"I needed to see you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Sam’s brow furrowed, and he stepped aside to let her in. The room was sparse, a small bed and a single chair by the window. A sword rested on the table, gleaming in the faint candlelight. Gemma glanced at it, the weight of what she was about to do pressing down on her. 

Sam closed the door behind her, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern. "Why are you here, Gemma?" he asked again, softer this time. "Is something wrong?"

Gemma turned to face him, her hands trembling. She had to tell him the truth. Not just about her feelings, but about everything—who she was, where she came from. She had been living a lie for so long, and now, standing in front of the man she had grown to care for, it felt impossible to keep it hidden any longer. 

"I..." she started, her voice catching in her throat. "There’s something I need to tell you."

Sam took a step closer, his eyes searching hers. "What is it?"

She closed her eyes, steeling herself. "I’m not who you think I am."

He frowned, clearly confused. "What do you mean?"

Gemma took a deep breath, her chest tightening with every word. "My name isn’t Gemma. It never was. I was born Serena. Serena Reyne of Castamere."

The silence that followed was deafening. Sam stared at her, his expression unreadable as the weight of her confession settled between them. 

"Serena Reyne?" he repeated, as if the name itself was foreign to him. 

Gemma nodded, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "The Reynes of Castamere. The family Tywin Lannister destroyed. My family."

Sam remained silent, his gaze never leaving hers. His face was a mask of shock, disbelief, and something else she couldn’t quite place. 

"I’ve been hiding for years," Gemma continued, her voice trembling. "I thought I could escape it, but I can’t. I thought... maybe if I started a new life, I could forget. But the past won’t let me."

She wiped at her eyes, trying to compose herself. "That’s why I came here tonight. I had to tell you the truth. I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. Not with you."

For what felt like an eternity, Sam didn’t say anything. Gemma’s heart sank. She had hoped—foolishly, maybe—that he would understand. That he would still want her, even knowing the truth. 

But how could he? She was a daughter of a fallen house, a girl with nothing left but her hatred for the man who had taken everything from her. Sam had sworn oaths to serve the crown, to protect the realm. He had no place in her world of revenge and bitterness. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and measured. "You’ve been through so much," he said, his gaze softening. "More than I could ever imagine."

Gemma nodded, her throat too tight to speak. 

"But why tell me this now?" Sam asked, stepping closer. "Why tonight?"

Gemma looked down at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. "Because..." she whispered, "because I care about you. More than I ever thought I could care about anyone. And I couldn’t keep lying to you."

Sam’s expression softened, and for a brief moment, she thought he might pull her into his arms, that he might tell her that none of it mattered, that he would stay by her side no matter what. 

But instead, he asked, "And what do you want, Gemma? What do you want from me?"

Gemma swallowed hard, the words she had been dreading finally bubbling to the surface. "I want you to leave the Kingsguard," she whispered, barely able to believe she was asking it of him. "I want you to leave and be with me."

Sam’s eyes widened in shock. "Leave the Kingsguard?"

Gemma nodded, her heart racing. "The queen said she would help. She said if you wanted to leave, she could make it happen. You wouldn’t face any consequences."

Sam stared at her, his expression torn between disbelief and something that looked like hope. "You really think that’s possible?"

Gemma nodded. "Yes. She told me herself. If you want, you could be free of your oaths. You could be a knight again. You could... you could be with me."

For a moment, Sam didn’t say anything. Gemma watched him closely, her heart pounding in her chest. She had laid everything bare in front of him, her heart, her soul. Now, all that remained was his choice. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet. "Gemma... I care about you, too. More than I should. But..."

Her heart sank at that word—but. 

"But I made a vow," Sam said, his voice heavy with regret. "A vow to serve the crown, to protect the realm. I can’t just walk away from that."

Gemma blinked back tears, her hands trembling. "But you could have a life, Sam. A real life. We could be together."

Sam shook his head, his expression pained. "I can’t. I swore an oath."

Gemma’s heart shattered at his words. She had been foolish to think he would choose her over his duty. She had been selfish to ask him to give up everything for her. She was nothing now. Just a girl with a stolen name and a broken past. 

"I should go," she whispered, her voice barely audible. 

Sam’s eyes widened in surprise. "Gemma, I—"

"No," she said more firmly, her heart breaking with every word. "This was a mistake. You have your duty, and I... I have mine."

For a moment, Sam looked like he wanted to argue, to fight her decision. But then, slowly, he nodded, his face filled with regret. 

"I’m sorry," he said softly. 

Gemma didn’t respond. She couldn’t. 

Without another word, Gemma turned and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there, alone. 

As the door closed behind her, Gemma let out a shaky breath, the tears finally spilling over. She had chosen her path. And now, she had to live with it. 

There was no going back. Not anymore. 

Gemma sat by the window of her small quarters, staring out at the distant glow of the city. The candle on her desk flickered softly, casting a wavering shadow across the room. Her mind was still reeling from the encounter with Sam, her heart heavy with regret. She had known it would end this way. She had known that asking him to leave the Kingsguard was selfish, foolish. But a part of her had hoped—hoped that he might have chosen her, that they could have carved out a different life together. 

Now, the silence felt unbearable. She had pushed him away, and in doing so, had lost the only man who had made her feel something other than the endless ache of loss. 

I should have known better, she thought bitterly, running a hand through her hair. I was never meant for anything greater than this. I'm no longer Lady Serena Reyne of Castamere. I'm just Gemma now. A servant. 

She glanced out the window again and saw movement in the courtyard below. Two figures—Tilly, one of the maids, and Harrold, one of the castle cooks—stood together, laughing softly in the dim light. They leaned into each other, Tilly’s hand resting on Harrold’s arm. It was clear from the way they looked at each other that something more than friendship bound them. 

Gemma watched them for a moment, a strange feeling creeping over her. She had seen them together before, whispering and exchanging smiles in the hallways, but she had never thought much of it. Now, though, seeing them so content, she couldn’t help but wonder. 

Is that what my life will be? she mused bitterly. Will I end up with someone like Harrold—a lowborn man, someone who works in the kitchens or tends the gardens? Is that all that's left for me?

Her heart clenched at the thought. She wasn’t meant for anything greater anymore. Not after everything that had happened. She had been born into nobility, raised with the expectation that she would marry a lord or a knight, that she would rule over a household, command respect. But that life was gone now, buried beneath the rubble of Castamere, just like her family. 

I can never go back, she reminded herself. I can never be Lady Serena again. I can never be the daughter of House Reyne. 

She sighed, her gaze drifting back to Tilly and Harrold. They were smiling, caught up in their own little world. They didn’t have to worry about oaths or titles, about betrayals and blood debts. Their lives were simple. They had found something Gemma would never have—a sense of normalcy, a life built on small pleasures. 

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a pang of bitterness. She had been born to more than this. She had been meant for something greater. She wasn’t supposed to live in the shadows, to serve quietly in the background while others ruled. But that was her fate now. She could never have the life she had once dreamed of. Not with Sam. Not with anyone. 

I’m just a servant, she told herself again, the words cutting deep. That’s all I’ll ever be now. 

The thought weighed heavily on her chest. She had accepted this life because she had no other choice. But deep down, the part of her that still clung to the name Serena Reyne ached at the idea of never being more than a servant. 

I’ll never be a lady again, she thought, her heart sinking. I’ll never marry into a noble house, never have lands or titles. I’ll never have a family of my own. 

It was a cruel reality, but it was the truth. And no matter how much she wanted to change it, she knew she couldn’t. 

With a heavy sigh, Gemma rose from the window and walked over to her bed, sitting down on the edge. The room felt colder now, the warmth of the candle doing little to comfort her. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to push away the gnawing loneliness that had settled in.

She had made her choice. She had pushed Sam away, and now she had to live with the consequences.

Maybe this is what I deserve, she thought, her eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. Maybe I was always meant to serve. 

But as she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, a small, stubborn part of her refused to believe that. No matter how much she tried to convince herself that she was just Gemma, a servant to the queen, there was still a part of her that yearned for more. 

A part of her that still remembered Serena Reyne. 

Gemma stood by the window in her small chamber, her hands clenched tightly around the letter she had intercepted. Her heart sank as she read the final line again, unable to believe it. Tywin Lannister, along with half of the court, has left for Casterly Rock and will remain there for a year. 

A year. 

The words echoed in her mind, heavier than she expected. All the tension, all the plans she had imagined, collapsed in on themselves. The window of opportunity she had waited for, hoped for, lived for—gone. 

She slumped into the chair beside her bed, staring at the floor, unsure of what to feel. For years, revenge had been her anchor, the only thing keeping her grounded in this chaotic, treacherous world. It was the one thing that made sense after her family’s murder, after the horrors she’d endured. 

And now, that reason to live was gone. What was she without it?

For a long time, Gemma didn’t move. The soft breeze blowing through the narrow window felt like mockery. She had waited too long, hesitated too much. Now, the chance to kill the man who destroyed her life had slipped through her fingers like sand. 

She stood up abruptly, driven by restless energy, and threw the letter onto the fire. The flames consumed it quickly, as they always did, but this time, she didn’t feel the same satisfaction she used to when watching her anger burn. 

There is nothing left for me, she thought bitterly. I have no purpose, no future here. 

Gemma wandered out of her chambers, needing to escape the suffocating emptiness that had settled in her heart. She made her way down the winding stone stairs, each step slower than the last, until she reached the kitchens. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, but she barely noticed. 

The kitchen staff bustled around her, carrying trays of food, sacks of flour, and jugs of wine for the few remaining lords and ladies still at the Red Keep. A cart filled with food from Essos caught her eye—strange, colourful fruits she didn’t recognize, and a box of fine spices that gave off a heady, unfamiliar aroma. 

She paused beside the cart, running her fingers along the edge of one of the wooden crates. The name Lys was painted in elegant script on the side. 

Lys. The word lingered in her mind. She had heard of it, of course—one of the Free Cities of Essos. A land of beauty and mystery, of wealth and power. Beyond Lys was Braavos, Volantis, and all the other free cities Gemma had only heard whispered in the brothels and taverns of King’s Landing. 

She imagined them now—shining cities, glimmering on the other side of the world, far from the shadow of the Iron Throne, far from the memories of Castamere, the bloodshed, and her futile thirst for revenge. 

Suddenly, the thought of staying in King’s Landing felt unbearable. The idea of waking up every day, knowing Tywin was out of her reach, knowing that she would never be able to avenge her family—it made her sick. She would be trapped in this castle, forever serving a crown that had done nothing for her. 

But Essos... Essos was a place she could disappear into, a place where no one knew her, no one expected anything from her. She could start fresh, explore the world on her own terms. She could be free. 

Why not? The thought struck her, so simple, so clear. What’s keeping me here?

Gemma straightened, a new energy surging through her limbs. She had nothing left in King’s Landing. No revenge to pursue, no love to hold her here. Queen Rhaella had her ladies, and she would be fine without Gemma. And as for the rest of the court—they wouldn’t even notice if she was gone. 

The decision was made before she even fully realised it. 

She would go. To Lys, or Braavos, or wherever the winds took her. She would find a ship at the docks tonight, one bound for Essos. There was always trade between Westeros and the Free Cities; finding passage wouldn’t be hard. 

With renewed purpose, Gemma left the kitchens and hurried back to her chambers. She didn’t have much to pack—just a few simple gowns and the small amount of coin she had saved over the years. It would be enough to start, to get her away from this place. 

As she folded her dresses into a small satchel, her hands trembled slightly. It wasn’t fear—it was excitement. The idea of leaving behind her life here, of finally doing something for herself, thrilled her. She would be no one in Essos, and that was exactly what she wanted. 

Gemma tied the satchel shut and glanced around her tiny room one last time. It had been her sanctuary, her hiding place, but now it felt like a cage. 

With a final glance, she turned and walked out, closing the door behind her. 

The docks were alive with activity by the time Gemma arrived. Sailors shouted orders, crates were loaded onto ships, and the smell of saltwater filled the air. She moved through the crowds with purpose, her hood drawn up to conceal her face. 

Her eyes scanned the ships, searching for one that looked like it could take her to Essos. A large merchant ship caught her attention, its sails bearing the sigil of Braavos. She approached one of the sailors standing by the gangplank. 

“I’m looking for passage to Braavos,” she said, keeping her voice steady. 

The sailor looked her up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Braavos, eh? That’ll cost you, girl.”

“I can pay,” she replied, pulling a small pouch of coins from her satchel. 

The sailor weighed the pouch in his hand, then nodded. “We leave at first light. Be here by dawn if you want a spot.”

Gemma nodded and turned to leave, a small smile tugging at her lips. By tomorrow, she would be on her way to a new life, a new beginning. 

[rainstormies]

chapter six

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 1.9k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

Gemma's hands trembled as she uncorked the vial of clear liquid. Tears of Lys, the most potent and undetectable poison in all the known world. She had bought it from a traveler hailing from Lys itself, a man who had been selling rare wares from Essos in a shadowed corner of the city. It had cost her almost everything she had saved, but it didn’t matter. The price was worth it. 

This tiny vial was the key to her vengeance. 

Tywin Lannister would die, and with him, the last remnant of the man who had destroyed her family, slaughtered everyone she had loved, and erased House Reyne from the annals of history. 

She stood in her small room, dimly lit by the flickering candle on the table, staring at the poison in her hand. Tonight, she would serve Tywin Lannister one of his final meals. She would make sure his wine was laced with the Tears of Lys, just enough to be fatal, undetectable by even the most skilled maesters.

This is it, she thought, her heart pounding in her chest. This is the moment.

She moved toward the small mirror by the wall, her reflection staring back at her. Gone was the girl she had once been—noble-born, proud, and protected. Now, she was just Gemma, a shadow of herself, forged in survival. She took a deep breath, tying her dark hair into a neat braid, steeling herself for what she was about to do.

A soft knock on the door startled her, and she quickly concealed the vial in the folds of her dress.

The door creaked open, and Kyra, the maid who had become her closest friend at the Red Keep, stepped inside, her face pale and drawn.

"Gem," Kyra whispered, her voice trembling. "Queen Rhaella... she's fallen ill. She’s asking for you."

Gemma froze, the weight of the words hitting her like a blow to the chest. Queen Rhaella. Her queen. The woman who had taken her in, who had seen something in her when no one else had.

Her stomach twisted with dread. She had known for weeks that the queen was not well. Rhaella had been through so much—so many miscarriages, so much heartache. It was no secret that her health had been deteriorating, but now, hearing that the queen was asking for her, something inside Gemma shifted.

No, she told herself. You have a plan. You cannot be distracted now. 

But the thought of Rhaella alone, scared, possibly dying…

Gemma clenched her fists. She is your friend, her conscience whispered. The queen has treated you with more kindness than you have known since you fled Castamere.

But her anger burned brighter. Your family is gone because of Tywin Lannister. He deserves to die. Nothing else matters.

Kyra’s voice broke through her internal storm. "She needs you. I... I think it’s serious, Gemma. The queen... she’s been so weak, and now this illness—"

Gemma's heart wrenched. She thought of Rhaella, alone in her chambers, as she had been so many times before after losing another child, grieving in silence while the court looked the other way. The queen had always suffered alone, bearing the weight of her losses with grace that no one acknowledged.

The vial of poison was still in her hand, hidden beneath the folds of her dress.

Gemma turned away from Kyra, her mind racing. She had waited so long for this moment, for her chance to strike against the man who had taken everything from her. But the thought of Queen Rhaella, lying ill and asking for her…

I owe her everything, Gemma thought. She gave me a place, a purpose. She saw me when no one else did. I can’t abandon her now.

But revenge. The thought gnawed at her. She had come so far, and this was her moment. If she didn’t take it now, she might never have another chance.

Gemma’s hand clenched around the vial, her thoughts a storm of conflicting emotions. What would my family say? she wondered. Would they want me to throw this away?

But she knew the answer even before she finished the thought. Her mother, her father, her family—they had been noble, and they had been proud. But they had never been cruel. Revenge had consumed her thoughts for so long that she had almost forgotten what they had truly stood for.

Her hand slowly released its grip on the vial. She turned back to Kyra, her decision made.

"I’ll go to her," Gemma whispered, her voice barely audible. "Take me to the queen."

Kyra nodded, relief flooding her face as she led Gemma out of the small room and through the winding corridors of the Red Keep. As they walked, Gemma felt the weight of the decision she had made. Her chance for vengeance was slipping away, but in its place, she felt something else—something more profound. 

Revenge isn't worth it. Not if it means losing the last part of who I am. 

By the time they reached Queen Rhaella’s chambers, Gemma had steeled herself. She was no longer thinking of Tywin Lannister, no longer consumed by hatred and vengeance. Instead, she was focused on the woman who had shown her kindness when she had nothing. 

She stepped into the room, her eyes falling on Rhaella, pale and frail in her bed. The queen’s eyes fluttered open, and when she saw Gemma, a small, weak smile appeared on her lips. 

"Gemma," Rhaella whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with warmth. "You came."

Gemma moved to her side, kneeling beside the bed and taking the queen’s hand in her own. "Of course I came, your grace," she said softly. "I’m here."

And as she sat by Rhaella’s side, Gemma felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time—a sense of peace, of purpose. This was where she needed to be. This was who she needed to be. 

Tywin Lannister would have to wait. 

Gemma sat in the queen’s chambers, the familiar warmth of the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Rhaella rested on her chaise, pale and tired, yet her eyes were alight with a rare flicker of vitality. The queen had been ill for days, her body weakened by yet another miscarriage, and yet she had asked for Gemma’s company, her voice soft but insistent. 

They had spoken little at first, simply sitting in comfortable silence. Gemma’s heart felt heavy, weighed down by the vial of poison still hidden beneath her gown, the decision she had made moments before stepping into the queen’s chambers. She had been so close—so close to finally avenging her family, to ending Tywin Lannister once and for all. 

But when Kyra had burst into the room, telling her the queen needed her, Gemma had hesitated. The image of Rhaella, sick and alone, had been enough to pull her from the edge. Revenge could wait. The queen could not. 

Rhaella’s voice broke through the silence, soft but steady. "You look troubled, Gemma."

Gemma looked up, startled by the queen’s perceptiveness. She forced a smile. "It’s nothing, Your Grace."

Rhaella gave her a knowing look, one that told Gemma the queen was not easily fooled. "Life is fragile," Rhaella said, her voice distant, as if she were speaking to herself as much as to Gemma. "Too fragile. It slips through our fingers faster than we realise, and before we know it, the chance to live... to love... it’s gone."

Gemma felt her throat tighten at the queen’s words. Rhaella’s gaze settled on her, searching, understanding. "You still think of him, don’t you?"

For a moment, Gemma couldn’t speak. The weight of everything—the lost opportunities, the aching in her heart—settled over her like a suffocating shroud. She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaella smiled sadly, her fingers absently tracing the delicate fabric of her gown. "Tell him," she said softly. "Tell him how you feel, Gemma. Life is too short to keep your heart hidden."

Gemma’s heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of hope and fear warring within her. "But he’s a Kingsguard," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "He can’t... he can’t be with me. He’s sworn an oath."

Rhaella shook her head, her expression turning resolute. "Oaths can be broken. Lives can change. If he loves you, truly loves you, then he will find a way. There are other paths for him—he can be a knight, a lord. I will speak to my brother, ensure he can leave the Kingsguard without consequence."

Gemma stared at the queen, disbelief coursing through her. The idea that Sam—her Sam—could leave the Kingsguard for her seemed like a dream too far-fetched to grasp. "You would do that for me?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Rhaella smiled gently. "You have stood by me through my worst moments, Gemma. You have been more than just a companion—you have been a friend. And I know what it is to lose love, to be forced to live without it." Her voice wavered for a moment, but she steadied herself. "I would not wish that on anyone. Least of all you."

Gemma’s heart swelled with gratitude, but fear still gnawed at her. "But what if he doesn’t want that?" she whispered. "What if I’m wrong, and he chooses his duty over me?"

Rhaella reached out, taking Gemma’s hand in her own. "Then at least you will know. At least you will not spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been."

Gemma blinked back the tears that had gathered in her eyes. The queen’s words cut through her like a blade, sharp and true. For years, she had buried her feelings, convinced that there was no future for her and Sam. She had told herself it was impossible, that they could never be together because of the roles they had been forced to play.

But now, hearing Rhaella’s quiet conviction, she realised that maybe... just maybe... there was a chance.

"I don’t know if I can," Gemma said softly, her voice trembling with vulnerability. "I don’t know if I’m brave enough."

Rhaella’s grip tightened on her hand, her gaze fierce and unwavering. "You are stronger than you know, Gemma. You have survived more than most could ever imagine. You have carried your burdens with grace, and you have stood tall even when the world tried to break you."

She paused, her voice softening. "But you deserve more than just survival. You deserve to be happy. To be loved. And if there is even a chance that Sam could give you that... then you owe it to yourself to try."

Gemma’s chest tightened, her emotions a whirlwind of fear, hope, and uncertainty. She had spent so long living in the shadows, so long hiding who she truly was. Could she really allow herself to hope for something more? To believe that she could be more than just a girl with a hidden past and a stolen name?

Rhaella smiled softly, as if she could see the conflict raging within her. "Tell him, Gemma," she whispered. "Tell him before it’s too late."

Gemma nodded, her resolve hardening with each passing moment. Maybe she would fail. Maybe Sam would choose his duty over her. But the queen was right—she couldn’t live the rest of her life wondering what might have been.

"I will," Gemma whispered, her voice filled with determination. "I’ll tell him."

Rhaella’s smile brightened, a flicker of warmth in her weary eyes. "Good," she said softly. "Do not let this world take your heart away from you."

As Gemma rose to leave the queen’s chambers, her heart felt lighter than it had in years. She would tell Sam. She would take the risk, no matter the outcome. 

And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a future worth fighting for. 

[rainstormies]

chapter five

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

Gemma had just finished her duties for the day and was making her way through the winding halls of the Red Keep, her thoughts consumed with the news she had overheard from the other servants. Tytos Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, was dead. Soon, his son—Tywin, the man responsible for her family’s annihilation—would leave for Casterly Rock to assume full control. The thought made her stomach churn.

Time is running out, she thought, her mind racing with plans she could barely form. She had been biding her time, hoping for a moment, a chance to act. But once Tywin left King’s Landing, that chance might be gone forever.

Her steps were brisk as she crossed the courtyard, her dark cloak pulled tightly around her. The Red Keep’s shadows were long this time of day, and she felt as if the very walls were closing in on her. As she turned a corner, she nearly collided with a knight in gleaming white armour. 

Her breath caught in her throat. It was him. 

Samwell. The knight of Sunflower Hall, they called him. Her Sam. 

The man who had once known her as Gemma, the girl from the brothel, his gem. Now, he was a brother of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the royal family. She hadn’t seen him in years, not since the day she had sent him away from her. Her heart quickened as she tried to avoid his gaze, lowering her head and hoping he wouldn’t recognise her in the sea of servants that always filled the castle. 

But Sam knew her too well. 

“Gemma?” His voice, though quiet, carried a weight that stopped her in her tracks. 

She hesitated, her back to him, every muscle tense. No. Not here. Not now. 

She took a step forward, pretending she hadn’t heard him. 

“Gemma, wait!” His voice was more urgent now, and she could hear his footsteps following after her. 

Her pulse raced, her mind scrambling to think of an excuse, a lie, anything. But she was too late. He caught up to her, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. 

“Why are you here?” he asked, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Why are you in the castle?”

Gemma lifted her chin, her expression a mask of cold indifference. “You’re mistaken, Ser,” she said, her voice clipped. “I do not know you.”

But Sam wasn’t easily deterred. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t do this, Gemma. You’re here for a reason. Is it… because of King Aerys?” His voice was softer now, filled with concern. “You’re in his household, aren’t you? Did he-?”

Gemma’s blood ran cold at the implication, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "No," she snapped, her tone sharp and cutting. "It has nothing to do with the king."

Sam blinked, taken aback by her reaction. "Then what is it? Why are you here? You never told me—"

"I don’t owe you an explanation," she interrupted, her voice rising with barely contained anger. How dare he. How dare he assume she was here because of the king, that she was nothing more than a pawn in some sordid game. That she could never be more than someone's mistress. She had chosen this path—this role—as a way to survive, to hide, to bide her time. 

But she would not be reduced to that again. Not by him. 

“Leave me alone, Sam,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less firm. “I am busy. I have duties to attend to.”

Sam stood there, his face a mixture of hurt and confusion, but he didn’t press further. He nodded slowly, his hand falling away from her arm. “If that’s what you want.”

Without another word, Gemma brushed past him, her heart pounding in her chest as she disappeared down the corridor, her cloak billowing behind her. She didn’t look back. 

But as she walked, her thoughts were a whirlwind. She had thought she could handle seeing Sam again, that she had buried those feelings long ago. But his presence had shaken her. He had been kind to her, once. More than kind. She had loved him, in her way, and he had loved her too. But that was a different life. She wasn’t Gemma anymore.

She was Serena Reyne, the last of her house. And she had work to do.

Tywin Lannister was still in the city, but he wouldn’t be for much longer. The death of Tytos meant Tywin would soon be travelling to Casterly Rock to claim his inheritance and tighten his iron grip on the West. Once he left, her chance for revenge would be gone.

The fire inside her grew. It will be too late soon. I have to act before he leaves.

But how? How could she, one girl, strike against maybe the most powerful man in Westeros? The thought plagued her. She had been waiting, hoping for an opportunity, but nothing had come. Now time was slipping through her fingers.

As she made her way back to the Queen’s chambers, her mind raced. She had heard whispers about Tywin’s plans, about his preparations to leave the city. The Lannisters would be travelling with a large retinue, no doubt well-guarded.

Gemma’s hands shook as she opened the door to her small chamber in the servant’s quarters. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the small window, the orange glow of the setting sun casting long shadows across the room.

There has to be a way. 

Tywin Lannister would not get away with what he had done to her family. He would not escape her vengeance. But even as the determination burned inside her, Gemma felt the weight of reality settling on her shoulders. She was alone in this, and the task ahead of her was monumental.

But she couldn’t stop now. 

Gemma stood beside Queen Rhaella as she reclined in her chambers, her hand gently resting on her rounded belly. The queen was well into her pregnancy, and despite the many trials she had faced, there was a soft glow to her in these moments. Gemma couldn't help but feel a strange sense of pride and happiness for the queen, as if this new child could be a small spark of light in the dark world they both lived in. The room was warm and filled with the scent of lavender, soothing and gentle. It was a rare peace.

"How are you feeling, Your Grace?" Gemma asked softly, adjusting the blanket over Rhaella's legs.

Rhaella smiled faintly, her eyes distant but warm. "Tired. But hopeful," she replied, her voice soft, almost wistful. She placed a protective hand on her swollen belly. "I pray this child is healthy. It has been… difficult, these past years."

Gemma nodded. She knew of the queen's miscarriages, the losses that had slowly worn her down. She admired Rhaella's strength despite everything she had endured. In many ways, the queen reminded her of her own mother. Strong, graceful, but trapped in a life she hadn't chosen.

As Rhaella closed her eyes for a moment, leaning her head back, Gemma's thoughts wandered back to Sam. Her heart tightened in her chest, the memory of his face, the way he had looked at her, still fresh in her mind. She hadn't expected to see him again, not after all these years. Seeing him now, as a knight of the Kingsguard, had reopened wounds she thought she had buried long ago.

"Gemma," the queen's voice broke through her thoughts, and Gemma blinked, startled.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"You are troubled," Rhaella said gently, her violet eyes studying her with concern. "You’ve been quieter than usual. Is something wrong?"

Gemma hesitated. She had never confided in anyone about her past, about her complicated feelings. But something about Rhaella, her quiet understanding, made her feel safe enough to speak. Perhaps it was the loneliness that both of them shared, the isolation that came with their roles. She took a deep breath.

"I... saw someone today," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Someone from my past."

Rhaella’s brow furrowed slightly, but she said nothing, waiting for Gemma to continue.

"He... we were close, once," Gemma admitted, her heart racing as she spoke. "But that was before. Before everything changed." She paused, swallowing hard. "Now, he’s a knight of the Kingsguard. And we cannot be together."

The queen’s expression softened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing Gemma’s hand. "And why not?" she asked gently. "Why can you not be together, Gemma?"

Gemma blinked in surprise. "He’s taken the white cloak," she said. "He cannot marry, cannot have heirs. His duty is to the king now. And… I am not the person I once was. I have no family, no name. I am no one."

Rhaella’s gaze grew distant again, a faint sadness in her eyes. "Nothing is impossible," she whispered. "Not in love. If the gods had been kinder, perhaps my life might have been different." Her hand moved over her belly once more. "I, too, dreamed of love once. Of a match made by choice, not by duty."

Gemma looked at her, surprised by the queen's candour. Rhaella was always so composed, so reserved, but in this moment, there was a vulnerability in her words, a longing that echoed Gemma’s own.

"Who would you have chosen, Your Grace?" Gemma asked carefully, not wanting to overstep, but unable to stop her curiosity.

Rhaella smiled sadly. "It doesn’t matter now," she said softly. "But there was a time when I wished my heart could guide me. Instead, I was given to a man who..." She trailed off, her expression hardening slightly, and Gemma knew she meant King Aerys. Her brother. 

"The Targaryens believed in keeping their bloodline pure," Rhaella continued after a moment, her voice distant. "For centuries, they married brother to sister, cousin to cousin, all to preserve their line. Some say it's noble, that it's tradition. Others whisper that it brings madness."

Gemma nodded, though she could never imagine such a fate for herself. She was grateful, in her own way, that she hadn’t been born into a family like that. Noble houses carried burdens of their own, and while Gemma’s past had its share of darkness, marrying a sibling, or being forced into such a union for duty’s sake, seemed a heavier cross than any she'd ever known.

She glanced at Queen Rhaella, her heart aching for the woman sitting beside her. For all the power the Targaryens held, all the prestige and honour that came with their name, there was also a cage. A gilded, blood-stained cage of tradition and duty. Rhaella had been forced into a marriage with her brother, King Aerys—once a prince, now, well, Gemma didn’t see the King much, but she knew how he was. 

"I don’t know how you bear it, Your Grace," Gemma whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Rhaella’s smile was faint, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "We all bear our burdens, Gemma. Some of us... we are born with them. Others, we choose them." She looked down at her swollen belly, her fingers tracing the outline of the child growing inside her. "I chose to love my children. That is my strength. And yet, even that love is... complicated."

Gemma's mind wandered to her own past, her family long lost to her, their legacy drowned in blood and rubble beneath Castamere. She had no such bonds to weigh her down now, no legacy of blood purity or tradition. No family at all. Part of her was bitter for it, for losing everything, but another part was relieved. At least she hadn’t been forced into a marriage to keep some ancient bloodline intact. The Reynes had been noble, yes, but free of the Targaryens' chains. She was glad for it, even if the price of that freedom had been high.

"I never had to face such choices," Gemma said quietly, looking down at her hands. "In some ways, I'm lucky. I didn’t have to marry for duty. I didn’t have to wed someone... not of my choosing."

Rhaella’s eyes met hers, filled with a sorrow that Gemma couldn't fully understand but deeply respected. "But you still lost everything," the queen said gently. "That is a burden too, Gemma. Never forget that your pain is real."

Gemma swallowed hard, her throat tightening at the queen’s words. She hadn’t spoken much about her past to anyone, let alone to the queen. But Rhaella seemed to see through her, as if she could sense the weight Gemma carried, even if she didn’t know the full story.

"Yes," Gemma whispered. "I lost everything."

Rhaella reached out and took Gemma’s hand in hers, a simple gesture of comfort that said more than words ever could. For a moment, they sat together in silence, two women bound by their losses and by the paths that fate had forced them to walk. Different as they were, they both understood what it meant to live in the shadow of pain.

"I wish you could have had a love match, Your Grace," Gemma finally said, her voice soft and sincere. "You deserve that."

Rhaella smiled again, though it was a small, fragile thing. "Perhaps in another life," she said. "But in this one... we must find love where we can. In our children, in our friends." She gave Gemma’s hand a gentle squeeze. "In those who choose to stand by us, even when the world feels like it’s crumbling beneath our feet."

Gemma nodded, though her heart felt heavier than before. She had no children, no friends she could truly call her own. The queen was kind to her, yes, but it wasn’t the same. And Sam... Sam had been her only chance at love, and now that chance was gone, lost to duty and her own tangled web of lies. 

And yet, as she sat there with the queen, she realised that perhaps love could take many forms. Not just the romantic, passionate kind, but the love that came from shared burdens, from loyalty, from standing beside someone when everything else had fallen apart. 

But revenge still burned in her heart. And that, too, was a burden she would have to carry. 

"I hope you find your peace, Gemma," Rhaella said softly, her voice a gentle balm to the storm of thoughts in Gemma’s mind. "You deserve that much, at least."

Gemma smiled faintly, though her heart felt like it was tearing in two. Peace, she thought. Would she ever truly find it? Would revenge against Tywin Lannister give her peace, or only more emptiness? She wasn’t sure. But the anger, the desire for justice, still burned within her, like a fire she couldn’t extinguish. 

"I hope so too, Your Grace," she whispered, though in truth, she wasn’t sure what peace even looked like anymore. 

A heavy silence hung between them, the weight of unspoken pain lingering in the air. Gemma felt a sudden surge of empathy for the queen, a woman trapped by duty and circumstance, just like her. For all the titles, the finery, and the respect that came with being a queen, Rhaella’s life had been far from her own. 

"Do not let fear hold you back, Gemma," Rhaella said after a moment, her voice soft but firm. "If your heart tells you to be with him, then do not let anything stand in your way. Love is rare in this world. Too rare to let it slip away."

Gemma looked away, her thoughts in turmoil. The queen’s words struck a chord deep within her, but the reality of her situation weighed heavily on her shoulders. Sam might care for her, but he was bound by vows now. And even if he weren’t, how could she ever hope to live as his equal? She was no longer Serena Reyne, a lady of Castamere. She was Gemma, a girl with no name, no house, no future. 

"I don’t think I can, Your Grace," she said quietly, her voice tinged with sorrow. "I’m not the girl he knew. I’m not noble, or whole, or anything he deserves."

Rhaella’s hand tightened around hers, her eyes full of compassion. "We are all broken in our own ways, Gemma. But that does not mean we are unworthy of love."

Gemma felt a lump rise in her throat, but she nodded, appreciating the queen’s kindness. Still, she knew that her path was set. She had lost too much already. Love was a luxury she could not afford.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Gemma whispered, her heart heavy. "I will think on your words."

Rhaella gave her a sad smile, her hand still resting on her belly. "You will make the right choice," she said softly. "I can see it in you. You have a strength, Gemma. Don’t forget that."

Gemma bowed her head, feeling a mixture of gratitude and sadness. She could not tell the queen everything, could not share the darker thoughts that now clouded her mind. Revenge still burned within her, a fire she could not extinguish, even with the queen’s gentle wisdom. 

As she left the queen’s chambers, Gemma's heart ached with the weight of her choices. She was torn between the past and the future, between the desire for love and the thirst for vengeance. And as she walked through the cold halls of the Red Keep, she couldn’t help but feel that the world had left her no room for both. 

Gemma followed Kyra through the bustling market streets of King’s Landing, the smell of baked bread and roasted meats filling the air. The market was always alive with chatter and movement, but Gemma’s thoughts were elsewhere. She hadn’t been back to see the bakers—her so-called "parents"—since the day they had cast her out onto the streets. She didn’t know why she wanted to see them now, perhaps to prove to herself she was no longer that helpless girl who burned bread and was too clumsy with her hands.

 Kyra looked at her curiously as they passed by stalls selling fruits and trinkets. “You sure you want to stop by their place?” she asked, giving Gemma a sideways glance.

Gemma nodded, her jaw clenched. “I just want to see. I won’t stay long.”

They reached the small alley where the bakery had once stood, tucked between larger buildings. Gemma’s heart beat faster as they turned the corner, but something was wrong.

The shop was empty. The wooden sign that had hung above the door was gone, and the windows were shuttered tightly. The smell of freshly baked bread, the one thing that had always lingered in the air here, was absent.

Kyra frowned, noticing the unusual stillness. "Something’s off," she muttered.

Gemma took a step forward, her mouth dry. “Where are they?” she whispered to no one in particular. She hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but the silence, the complete abandonment, was unsettling.

A small boy, no older than seven or eight, was sitting on the steps of the neighbouring building, chewing on a piece of stale bread. He looked up at them as they approached. Gemma crouched down, her voice trembling slightly. “Where are the bakers? What happened here?”

The boy stared at her for a moment before shrugging. “City watch took ‘em. Said they were murdered, bodies moved out earlier this morning.”

Gemma’s blood ran cold. “Murdered?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

The boy nodded, as if it were just another fact of life in King’s Landing. “Yeah, whole place covered in blood. Said it was real bad.”

Gemma’s heart pounded in her chest, her stomach twisting in knots. Without another word, she pushed past Kyra and ran toward the bakery, her breath catching in her throat. The door creaked open under her hand, and as she stepped inside, the metallic stench of blood hit her like a wave.

The shop that had once been filled with the warm scent of bread was now a scene of horror. The wooden floor was stained dark with blood, smeared across the countertops and splattered against the walls.

Gemma felt her knees go weak, her chest tightening. Her vision blurred as she stood frozen in the doorway, taking in the gruesome sight.

This is my fault.

Her thoughts spiralled as panic gripped her. Someone knows. Someone found out who I am. They killed the bakers because of me.

She stumbled backward, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Her breath came in shallow gasps as her mind raced. The blood on the floor, the silence that now filled the room—this was because of her. Someone had figured out her secret, and now they were coming for her.

She had never loved the bakers, had never truly considered them family, but the sight of their blood soaked into the floorboards, the violence that had ended their lives... it was too much. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think beyond the terror that clawed at her chest.

Kyra was behind her, her voice distant. “Gemma, we need to leave.”

But Gemma couldn’t move. She was paralyzed, the weight of it all crashing down on her. They had died because of her, because of who she really was. I should have stayed hidden. I should have left the city.

“They’re dead because of me,” she muttered under her breath, barely aware of Kyra tugging at her arm. “I caused this.”

Kyra shook her head, her voice sharp. “You don’t know that. This is King’s Landing—people die every day.”

But Gemma wasn’t listening. All she could see was the blood, the horror of it all. And the fear. Fear that whoever had done this would come for her next.

Fear that they already knew who she was.

Suddenly, the fear turned into something else. Anger. A cold, burning anger that seared through her veins. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Tywin Lannister. This was all because of him. It always came back to him.

He had taken everything from her. Her family, her home, her life. And now, even the scraps of safety she had found in this city were being torn away. She had nothing left to lose.

“I’ll kill him,” she whispered, her voice hardening. “I swear, I’ll kill him.”

Kyra’s eyes widened. “Gemma—”

But Gemma cut her off, her mind now set. The panic and fear were gone, replaced by a cold, vengeful determination. Tywin Lannister had taken everything from her, and she would not stop until he paid for it. 

Her breath steadied, and her pulse slowed as she turned toward Kyra, her face expressionless. “Let’s go,” she said quietly. 

Kyra hesitated, but followed her out of the shop. As they walked back toward the market, Gemma’s mind raced with thoughts of revenge. She would find a way. She had to. Tywin would pay for what he had done, for all the lives he had ruined. 

For the Reynes. For her family. And now, for the bakers, who had died because of her. 

She would find the means, and when the time came, she would not hesitate. Tywin Lannister’s blood would flow, just like her family’s had.

And Gemma would be the one to make sure of it.

[rainstormies]

chapter four

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 2k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

Gemma’s life at the brothel had become a routine of survival, but as the years passed, she had grown restless. She couldn’t help but think about Sam. The man she thought would eventually set her free. 

For a while - after that night - she had looked at the door every time someone walked in, hoping somehow it was him. But Sam had not returned. 

Men had come, but not to set her free. 

She longed for more than the dim rooms and fleeting encounters with men whose names she never learned. That’s when she met Kyra, a girl not much older than herself, who often visited the brothel. But Kyra wasn’t like the others who came to escape their lives. She worked in the Red Keep, as one of Queen Rhaella’s ladies. 

Kyra would come by now and then, usually to speak with the other girls or deliver messages from the castle. The two struck up an unlikely friendship—Gemma had always had a way of making people open up to her. It was a survival skill she had honed after years of pretending to be someone else. 

“Kyra,” Gemma asked one night after a particularly quiet evening, “what’s it like? The castle, I mean.”

Kyra’s eyes had lit up at the question, and soon the two found themselves huddled together, whispering about the inner workings of the Red Keep. Kyra spoke of grand halls and intricate tapestries, of the politics that shaped the lives of every servant and noble alike. But it was when she spoke of Queen Rhaella that Gemma’s curiosity deepened. 

“She’s kind,” Kyra said, her voice soft. “But… lonely. She doesn’t trust many.”

"Why?" Gemma asked, her brow furrowed. 

Kyra hesitated, glancing around as if the walls themselves might have ears. “Because of the king. He… He’s not like her. And some of her ladies… they’ve been dismissed for getting too close to him.”

Gemma didn’t need to ask what she meant. She had seen enough in her life to know what power did to men. But the more Kyra talked about the Red Keep, the more Gemma began to wonder if there was a place for her there.

One night, over the soft glow of candlelight, Kyra made a suggestion. 

"Why don’t you come with me to the castle?" Kyra’s eyes gleamed with excitement. "The Queen’s dismissed several of her ladies recently. They say it’s because they’ve been with the king… she’ll need new ones soon."

Gemma’s heart raced at the thought. Could she really leave this life behind? The brothel had been her prison, but it was also the only place she had known since fleeing Castamere. But then she thought of Sam, of the fleeting dreams she had allowed herself to have. She couldn’t stay here forever. 

“I don’t think I belong in a castle, Kyra. I’ve lived… I’ve been…” Gemma stammered. 

Kyra shook her head, smiling gently. “You’re more than that, Gemma. You’ve got something about you… the way you carry yourself. The way you speak. I swear, sometimes you sound like a lady yourself.”

As Kyra’s words echoed in her mind, Gemma found herself gripped by two opposing forces. Working at the castle? Under the same roof as Tywin Lannister, the man who had destroyed everything she once knew, who now stood as Hand of the King? She should be running the other way, staying hidden, staying safe. Every instinct told her that coming anywhere near him was a risk, a dangerous game she couldn’t afford to play. 

But then, the other force gripped her — the one that burned hotter than fear. The desire to confront him. The hunger for revenge. She wanted him to see her, to know her face, to understand that House Reyne had not been wiped from the world as easily as he'd believed. That a daughter of Castamere still lived and breathed. 

This could be the best way — to walk straight into the lion’s den. To gain his trust, to stand in the halls of power, to find the moment where she could strike. And when that moment came, she would ensure Tywin Lannister paid for every drop of Reyne blood he had spilled. 

The first few days in the castle felt like walking through a dream. Gemma—now calling herself ‘Gemma’ in truth, no longer clinging to Serena—kept her head down, moving through the halls with an unfamiliar grace she hadn't known she possessed. The other girls whispered about her behind her back, but Gemma didn’t care. She had learned long ago how to be invisible when needed.

She didn’t speak much at first, afraid that someone might recognize her—or worse, see through her act. But when she was introduced to Queen Rhaella, something unexpected happened.

The Queen’s eyes swept over her, pausing on her face for a moment longer than the others. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Gemma, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice soft but steady.

Rhaella’s gaze lingered. “Where are you from, Gemma?”

Gemma swallowed hard, trying not to let the panic rise. She had rehearsed this moment countless times. “I’m from the westerlands, Your Grace. My family... they were lost in the war.”

The Queen seemed to accept the answer, nodding slightly before turning away. It wasn’t until later that day when one of the other girls pulled Gemma aside. 

“You impressed her, you know,” Violet said, grinning. 

Gemma blinked, surprised. “I did?”

Violet nodded eagerly. “You don’t act like the rest of us. You speak well. The Queen likes that. She values poise, respect... and loyalty.”

From that day on, Gemma worked diligently, and the Queen took notice. She was given tasks that required discretion and care—organising letters, preparing Rhaella’s chambers, and even sitting with her during her quiet moments. There was a closeness developing between them, a bond that Gemma hadn’t expected. She found herself in the Queen’s good graces, and it wasn’t long before she became one of Rhaella’s favourites. 

The other ladies noticed it too. “The Queen always asks for Gemma,” they whispered with envy. “She never asks for us like that.”

Gemma found herself in rooms where whispers of politics, war, and the Targaryen legacy swirled. She learned quickly to keep her head down and her ears open. Rhaella confided in her, in ways that surprised Gemma. She would talk of her fears, of the king’s rages, and the toll it took on her soul. And Gemma, for the first time in years, found herself feeling needed. 

But there was always a lingering fear. The fear that someone would recognize her. That her past would catch up with her. She was Serena Reyne, the last of Castamere, living in the lion’s den. One misstep, one wrong word, and her true identity could be her undoing. But for now, she had found a new place to belong, even if it was built on lies. 

And as she served the Queen, Gemma vowed to never forget who she really was—even if everyone else did.

-

The day Lady Joanna Lannister arrived in King’s Landing, the Red Keep seemed to shimmer with new energy. Gemma had heard whispers of her arrival days before, the servants gossiping about the beauty and grace of the Lady of Casterly Rock, wife of Lord Tywin Lannister. Some spoke of her warmth, others of the fearsome power she held, not only as Tywin’s wife but as someone who had once served Queen Rhaella herself.

When Gemma first saw Joanna, she understood why the court had so much to say about her. Lady Joanna was tall and regal, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders, bright as the sun itself. Her dress was a deep crimson, embroidered with golden lions, making her look every bit the powerful lady she was rumoured to be. But what struck Gemma most was Joanna’s kindness. Unlike so many of the highborn women she had met, Joanna’s smile seemed genuine, and her laughter was soft and warm, like music. 

Joanna had been walking through the Queen’s garden when Gemma, carrying a tray of wine, passed by. Their eyes met for a moment, and Gemma quickly lowered her gaze, instinctively avoiding the attention of one so highborn. But Lady Joanna had smiled at her, a soft and inviting gesture, as though she could sense something more in Gemma’s demeanour. 

“Is that wine for the Queen, my dear?” Joanna asked gently. 

Gemma nodded, her voice catching in her throat. “Yes, my lady.”

Joanna’s smile widened. “You carry yourself well. The Queen is fortunate to have such attentive ladies.”

Gemma mumbled a thank you, bowing her head. She wasn’t used to kindness from noblewomen, especially not one of Joanna’s stature. As she turned to leave, another maid caught her arm and whispered, “Be careful around Lady Joanna. She used to be one of Queen Rhaella’s ladies... until she was dismissed.”

Gemma frowned. “Dismissed? Why?”

The maid leaned in closer, her eyes darting around. “The Queen believed Joanna was too close to the King... thought she might be his mistress.”

Gemma felt a sudden twist in her stomach. Queen Rhaella, so isolated and paranoid, had cast out someone as kind as Joanna over mere suspicion? It made sense now why the Queen’s mood darkened at the mention of Joanna Lannister. The court’s whispers about the King’s affairs were many, and Rhaella had grown increasingly distrustful over the years.

Later that day, when Joanna returned to the Queen’s chambers, Gemma found herself serving them both tea. She stood at the side of the room, silent, watching the tension between the two women. Joanna spoke politely, but Queen Rhaella barely acknowledged her. The bitterness was palpable, and Gemma wondered what it must have been like for Joanna, dismissed from the Queen’s service for something she had no part in. 

But then, Gemma’s thoughts turned darker. As she poured tea for Lady Joanna, a shadow fell across the room. Tywin Lannister had entered, his presence commanding immediate attention. He was tall, broad, and his golden hair was now streaked with silver. He looked every bit the lion of Lannister, his sharp gaze assessing the room with a predator’s calculation. 

Gemma froze, the teapot trembling in her hands. 

Tywin Lannister. 

The man who had murdered her family. The man responsible for the massacre at Castamere. For the downfall of House Reyne. For her father’s death.

She had never seen him in person before. He was a figure from nightmares, a name whispered in dark corners, a symbol of everything she had lost. And now, here he stood, not ten feet from her, completely unaware of who she was. The room seemed to shrink as her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to scream, to throw the boiling tea in his face, to claw at him with her bare hands.

But she couldn’t. She had to stay still. Stay quiet. She was no longer Serena Reyne. She was Gemma, the Queen’s servant. A girl from nowhere.

She lowered her head, forcing herself to breathe. Tywin’s voice cut through the silence, deep and authoritative as he spoke with the Queen and Joanna. She could feel his eyes briefly glance over her, but there was no recognition in them. Why would there be? She was a nobody. A servant. And to him, the Reynes were long gone, buried under the stones of Castamere.

But Gemma’s blood boiled beneath her skin. She wanted to scream at him, “Do you know who I am? You killed my father! You destroyed my family!” But she couldn’t. She could do nothing.

Tywin spoke for only a short while before excusing himself. As he turned to leave, Gemma’s hands clenched into fists beneath her skirts. The rage inside her burned like a fire, but she swallowed it down, hiding it deep within herself. 

This man, this monster who had ripped her world apart, would never know who she was. She would never have the satisfaction of seeing the fear in his eyes. But maybe, one day, she could avenge them. Maybe, one day, there would be a reckoning for Castamere. 

But not today. Not yet. 

When Tywin left the room, Joanna glanced at Gemma again, her gaze lingering for a moment as if sensing something. But she said nothing, and neither did Gemma. The tea was served, and life went on.

[rainstormies]

chapter three

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 3.4k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

Serena had learned to swallow her pride long ago. Pride had no place in the cold, unforgiving streets of King’s Landing, and even less in the dark halls where she now resided. She had once been noble, once had everything a girl could dream of - silk gowns, servants, the comfort of home. But those days were distant now, so far removed they almost felt like a dream she could barely remember. 

Now, she was Gemma. A name whispered in shadows, a girl who had traded the warmth of home for the harsh realities of survival. 

The woman who had found her outside the brothel had promised her safety, a roof over her head, food, and warmth. But there was always a price, wasn’t there? A cost for surviving in the capital. Serena had learned that well. 

The small cot in the corner of the room was uncomfortable, but it was better than the streets. The girls who lived with her weren’t cruel, but they had their own struggles, their own battles to fight. They were survivors, just like her, some younger, some older, all bound by the same silent agreement: do what you must to get by. 

Serena—no, Gemma, she reminded herself—had become skilled at making herself invisible. She listened more than she spoke, watched more than she acted. The other girls thought she was quiet, reserved. They didn’t know the truth, didn’t know the weight of the name she carried in secret. That name would be her death if it ever slipped, so she let it die in the recesses of her memory, just like her family, just like her home. 

But there were days, moments, when the past clawed at her mind. When she remembered being Serena Reyne, daughter of Roger Reyne of Castamere. The echoes of her old life haunted her sometimes—her father’s laughter, the sound of her mother’s voice, the safety of her aunt’s arms. She’d been loved, once. That thought hurt the most. The love she had known was gone, buried beneath the rubble of Castamere and drowned beneath the wave of Lannister vengeance. 

She was Gemma. And Gemma didn’t cry. 

Gemma liked the older men. 

They treated her with a gentleness that the younger ones didn’t bother with. The younger men were brash, careless, full of arrogance and greed. They demanded, took, and left. But the older ones... they knew the value of patience. They moved slower, spoke softer. They asked questions, sometimes, about her past. She never answered. She couldn’t. They wouldn’t understand, and even if they did, what good would it do?

But then there was him. 

He was young, younger than most who came to the brothel, but older than her by a few years. Handsome, with dark hair and striking eyes, and a way about him that made her heart flutter in a way it hadn’t in years. He had been different from the beginning. He had bought her maidenhood when she was fifteen. Five golden dragons he had paid. 

Gemma saw none of it. 

But she had seen him—again and again. He would visit often, as often as he could. Always asking for ‘his gem’. 

The first time had been nerve-wracking. She had been shaking, afraid of what would happen, of the pain, of the unfamiliarity. But he had been gentle, kind. He treated her with a respect she hadn’t expected. And afterward, he hadn’t disappeared like the others. He came back. He always came back. 

“He’s here again,” one of the girls, Clove, teased her one evening. Gemma had been brushing her hair, trying to tame the wild curls that refused to be tamed, when she had leaned in with a knowing smile. 

“Who?” Gemma asked, though she knew. 

“Ser handsome,” the girl replied, grinning. “He was looking for ‘his gem.’”

Gemma felt her heart skip a beat at the sound of his name for her. His gem. She liked that, liked the way it sounded in his voice, the way he said it with such affection, as though she was more than just another girl in this forsaken place. 

“Is he still here?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. 

The girl gave her a smirk. “No, he left a while ago. Important business at the castle.”

Gemma’s heart sank a little at that. Of course, he had business at the castle. He wasn’t like the other men who frequented the brothel. He had a life, a real one, beyond these walls. But she couldn’t dwell on that. He wasn’t hers. He never would be. 

She wasn’t Serena anymore. And even if she had been, Serena Reyne had nothing to offer a man like him. No lands, no wealth, no family name to speak of. Castamere had been reduced to rubble, and so had she. There was no going back to that life, no reclaiming what had been lost. 

Gemma closed her eyes, willing herself to forget the way he looked at her, the way he made her feel human again, if only for a moment. Because at the end of the day, that’s all it was—moments. Fleeting, temporary, and gone before she could hold on to them. 

She wasn’t a lady anymore. She wasn’t anyone. She was Gemma, just another girl in the shadows of King’s Landing, surviving one day at a time. 

The flicker of the candles cast soft shadows against the walls as Gemma waited for him. Her mind raced, as it often did before his visits. She didn't know why she cared. She had told herself long ago that he was just another patron. But that wasn’t the truth, and she knew it. He was different, and that terrified her. 

When he finally arrived, she greeted him with the same smile she always did, but tonight there was something different in his eyes. He seemed distant, distracted. Usually, he had a certain energy about him, a charm that made him easy to be around. But tonight, he was quiet. 

“My Sam,” she teased, trying to break the silence as he closed the door behind him. But instead of pulling her into his arms or brushing her hair back from her face as he usually did, he merely walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, his shoulders heavy with an unspoken weight. 

Gemma’s brow furrowed as she crossed the room and sat beside him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, though the words felt strange on her tongue. She wasn’t supposed to care, wasn’t supposed to ask. But with him, it was different. It always was. 

He let out a deep sigh, leaning back against the pillows. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, though the tension in his voice betrayed him. He lay back, pulling her down with him, though not with the usual hunger that had marked his previous visits. This time, he held her close but didn’t seem to want anything more than the comfort of her presence. 

They lay in silence for a long moment, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his breath steady but slow. She didn’t push, didn’t press him for more. She had learned that silence often spoke louder than words in places like this. 

Finally, he broke the quiet. “I’ve been thinking... a lot lately.”

“About what?”

“About life. About my family. About what I’m doing here.”

There was a pause, and Gemma stiffened slightly. She had always feared this moment—the moment when he would finally realise he didn’t belong here, when he would leave her and never return. She tried to keep her voice steady. “What do you mean?”

He sighed again, and she could feel the tension in his body as he spoke. “My father is a wealthy lord in the Reach. We have lands near a place called Sunhouse. Have you heard of it?”

Gemma shook her head. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She knew of Sunhouse, though—knew it was a beautiful, fertile place in the Reach. A place she would have heard about, once, if she had still been Serena Reyne. But now she was just Gemma, and Gemma had no place in the Reach. 

“I was supposed to be a knight,” he continued, his voice growing softer. “And I am, I suppose. I’ve been trained since I was a boy, like all the sons of noble houses. I’ve fought in tournaments, won some. I’ve served lords and held my sword high in battle. But…”

“But?” she prompted when his voice trailed off. 

“I don’t know if that’s what I want anymore,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I feel lost sometimes. Like everything I was raised for doesn’t matter anymore. And I don’t know why I come here, to you. I just… I need something real. Something that isn’t expectations and duty.”

Gemma swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She understood that feeling better than he knew. Expectations and duty. Her entire life had been built on those words. But here, with him, she was supposed to be free of that. She was supposed to be Gemma, not Serena Reyne, not the girl who had lost everything. 

But then he turned to face her, his eyes searching hers. “I’ve told you so much about myself. About where I’m from, about my life. But I don’t know anything about you, Gemma. Not really.”

Her heart stopped. She felt it—felt the weight of her past, the name she had buried deep. She couldn’t tell him. She could never tell him. He wouldn’t understand, and even if he did, he would leave. Or worse, he would pity her. 

“You know enough,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. 

“Do I?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “You never talk about yourself. Not your family, your past. Nothing.”

“I’m just a girl from King’s Landing,” she lied, the words burning on her tongue. “There’s nothing more to tell.”

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers for some sign of truth. But Gemma had become an expert at hiding the truth. She had been hiding it for years. 

“You’re not just a girl from King’s Landing,” he said finally. “I can see that. There’s something about you…”

She looked away, feeling the weight of his gaze on her. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell him everything, to spill the truth that had been festering inside her for years. But she couldn’t. If she told him who she really was, it would ruin everything. 

“I’m nobody,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible. 

He reached out, gently taking her hand in his. “You’re not nobody, Gemma. I don’t know who you really are, but I can see that you’re more than what you pretend to be.”

Her throat tightened, and she pulled her hand away, turning to face the flickering fire instead. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. 

But it did matter. It mattered more than she wanted to admit. Because for the first time in years, she wanted to be more than Gemma. She wanted to be Serena again, even if only for a moment. But that wasn’t possible. Not in this world, not with him. 

She closed her eyes, willing herself to stay strong, to keep the walls up. Because if she let them down, if she let him in, everything she had built to protect herself would come crashing down. 

And she couldn’t afford that. Not now. 

Sam’s voice broke the silence. “I have been asked to join the Kingsguard.”

The room fell into a still, uneasy quiet. The flickering firelight danced across the walls, casting long shadows between them. Gemma sat at the edge of the bed, her back to Sam as she stared at the floor, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. 

The Kingsguard. 

He had said it so plainly, as though it were just another part of their conversation. But for Gemma, it was like a hammer blow. Her heart, which had once leapt at the thought of his visits, now sank. 

Sam shifted beside her, breaking the silence. "I’ve been chosen to fill a spot in the Kingsguard," he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard it the first time. 

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She had always known that he was bound for something greater, something more than the fleeting moments they shared in the shadows of her life. But this—the Kingsguard—meant there was no future for him. And worse, there was no future for them, not that she had ever truly believed there could be. 

She turned to him, forcing a small laugh, though it tasted bitter on her tongue. "The Kingsguard?" she repeated, her voice strained. "So that means... no wife, no heirs. You’ll live for the crown, for the king."

He looked at her, his expression solemn. "Yes. I’ve sworn my vows already."

The words hit her like a stone to the chest. "That’s what you want then?" she asked, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "To live a life where there’s no room for anyone else?"

Sam hesitated, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "It’s not that simple."

But it was that simple. The Kingsguard meant a life of duty, of honour, of servitude to the crown. It meant no love, no family, no future outside the white cloak and the sword he carried. 

And for Gemma, it meant no Sam. 

Her breath hitched as she turned away from him again, her fingers twisting in the fabric of the blanket. She had been so foolish. So selfish. She was just a girl from the streets, a nameless, faceless figure who had no business wanting more from life than what she had. Smallfolk. That’s what she was now. Nothing more. 

How could she have ever thought it could be different?

"I was a fool," she muttered to herself, biting her lip hard to keep her tears from spilling. "A stupid, selfish fool."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked gently, his hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. But she pulled away from him, standing up abruptly and crossing the room as though putting physical distance between them could help ease the ache in her chest. 

"Don’t you see?" she said, her voice louder now, sharper. "You’ve chosen your path, Sam. And I… I’m not part of that path. I never was."

He stood up too, his face drawn with confusion and something else—regret, perhaps? "Gemma, don’t do this. You’re important to me. More than you think."

"Important?" she scoffed, shaking her head. "I’m nobody. I’m just a girl who grew up too fast, who learned how to survive in the cracks of this city. And you… you’re a knight, a nobleman. You belong in the world of kings and castles, and I—"

She stopped herself, her throat tight with emotion. She couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t admit the truth. That she had wanted to be part of that world, that she had foolishly dreamed of something more. 

"You could come with me," Sam said softly, stepping closer to her. "To the castle. I could take care of you."

Gemma turned to face him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Come with you? To the castle? And what would I be there? Your secret? The girl you visit when no one’s watching?"

His face fell, and she could see the hurt in his eyes, but she pressed on. She had to make him understand, had to make herself understand. "I won’t be that, Sam. I won’t be something hidden away, something you pretend doesn’t exist. I can’t… I can’t live like that."

For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw tense as he absorbed her words. Then, with a resigned sigh, he stepped back. "I didn’t want that for you, Gemma. I never wanted to hurt you."

She laughed bitterly, wiping at her eyes. "You didn’t hurt me. I hurt myself. I forgot who I was. I’m just Gemma. Just a whore, a possession."

There was a long silence between them, the weight of the truth hanging heavy in the air. Sam, with his noble birth and future in the Kingsguard, couldn’t give her what she wanted. And she, with her broken past and hidden identity, couldn’t be what he needed. 

"I should go," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. 

She nodded, biting her lip to keep the tears at bay. "Yes. You should."

He hesitated for a moment longer, as if there was something more he wanted to say. But instead, he stepped toward the door, his hand resting on the handle for a brief second. He turned back to look at her, his eyes filled with a sadness she had never seen in him before. 

"Goodbye, Gemma."

And then he was gone. 

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, all she could do was stand there, staring at the empty space where he had been. She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t let herself. Instead, she sank back onto the bed, feeling the cold seep into her bones. 

He had paid for the night, but it didn’t matter anymore. She was alone again. 

As she sat there in the dimly lit room, the reality of her life settled heavily on her shoulders. She was Gemma, a girl with no name, no title, no family. And she would always be that. 

There was no going back. 

Late one night, the brothel hummed with the low murmur of patrons and the clinking of cups. Gemma was in her usual corner, cleaning up after a group of guards who had come in earlier, loud and brash after a night of drinking. She worked quietly, her mind elsewhere, until a familiar tune caught her ear. 

One of the guards, slurring his words but still strong enough to sing, raised his voice in a drunken chant. 

"And who are you, the proud lord said..."

The other men joined in, laughing and slapping the table in rhythm, their voices growing louder as the song built. 

"That I must bow so low?"

Gemma froze, the rag in her hand forgotten. She recognized the melody, the words biting into her like shards of glass. 

"Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know..."

The Rains of Castamere. 

They sang it with such careless ease, as though it were just another drinking song to pass the night. But to her, it was more than just words — it was a death knell, a memory of blood and ash. 

One of the men leaned back, his chair creaking as he tipped his cup toward his companions, his laughter harsh and sharp. "Did you know my father fought at Castamere? Watched the walls come tumbling down like they were made of paper. Gods, I wish I'd been there."

The others roared in agreement, sloshing ale onto the table. 

"And now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear..."

Gemma’s grip tightened on the rag, her knuckles white. Her heart hammered in her chest, the words stabbing at the raw wound of her past. Castamere. Her home. Her family. 

"Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall," another one of the guards crooned mockingly, his voice thick with ale, "and not a soul to hear."

They laughed again, that same cruel laugh that had echoed through the halls of Castamere when Tywin Lannister had crushed them beneath his boot. 

Gemma felt bile rise in her throat. She wanted to scream, to throw the rag at them, to do anything to silence their jeers. But she couldn’t. Not here. Not yet. 

Instead, she slipped away into the shadows, her face a mask of cold fury, her hands trembling as she clenched them at her sides. 

Tywin Lannister had taken everything from her — her family, her name, her legacy. He had reduced her to this, to hiding, to cleaning up after the very men who mocked the destruction of her house. 

"But now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear..."

The song haunted her steps as she left the room, its melody swirling around her, feeding the fire that had been burning in her heart for years. 

She would have her revenge. Tywin Lannister would pay for what he did. And she would see him fall, no matter how long it took.

[rainstormies]

chapter two

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 1.5k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

“You are no longer Serena. You are no lady of any house. Your name is Gemma. You’re the daughter of a baker and his wife. Nothing more.” Tessa had told her the day she left. It wasn’t safe for the two girls to stay together. Serena had never seen her since. 

For the first few days, Serena - no, Gemma - didn’t speak much. She wasn’t sure what to say, and when she did open her mouth, it only seemed to cause more trouble. The baker and his wife weren’t unkind, but they weren’t warm either. They were busy, always rushing about, tending to dough, kneading, baking, and selling loaves to the never-ending stream of customers who passed through their shop. Serena, though, had been born into a life of silks and servants, not one of flour-dusted aprons and blistering heat. 

“Don’t just stand there, girl, stir the pot!” The baker’s wife, Marah, barked one morning, her hands deep in dough. Serena had been watching them, mesmerised by how quickly and effortlessly they worked. It was nothing like the elegant meals prepared for her in Castamere, where everything was done behind the scenes. Now, it was expected she would help, and her clumsiness only added to her growing frustrations. 

“I’m trying,” Serena muttered under her breath, though she wasn’t. The ladle felt foreign in her hand, heavy and awkward, and the thick porridge splashed onto the counter as she stirred too fast. 

Marah scowled, her lips pressed thin. “Spoilt, this one. No sense of how to work. Thinks she’s too good for stirring a pot.”

Serena’s cheeks flushed. She didn’t belong here, and every mistake she made reminded her just how far she’d fallen. But she couldn’t say that, not out loud. She wasn’t Serena Reyne anymore. Now she was Gemma, the daughter of a baker and his wife. Nothing more. 

Tessa’s words echoed in her mind as she continued to stir the pot. 

But even as she tried to adjust to her new life, Serena found herself stumbling over the smallest tasks. She fumbled with the bread trays, spilled flour across the floor, and earned scolding after scolding from Marah. She couldn’t stop herself from speaking like a lady, from expecting things to be done for her rather than by her. It felt like the entire world had flipped upside down. 

And the children in the streets weren’t any kinder. 

Serena had tried to keep to herself, avoiding the other lowborn children who ran through the dirty alleyways outside the bakery. But one afternoon, as she attempted to carry a basket of bread to the front of the shop, a boy with messy dark hair darted out of nowhere, knocking into her so hard she nearly dropped the whole basket. 

“Watch it!” Serena snapped, her voice sharp. “You almost knocked me over!”

The boy - probably, not older than her - gave her a long, amused look. “Well, well. Listen to her, talkin’ all fancy.”

Serena bristled. She had forgotten, for a moment, where she was. “I’m not-”

“Oh, you are,” he interrupted, grinning. “Think she’s a little lady, doesn’t she?”

A few of the other children gathered around, laughing. Serena’s face flushed red with embarrassment and anger. She wanted to shout at them, to tell them she was a lady. She was Serena Reyne of Castamere, the daughter of a lord, not some baker’s girl. But she bit her tongue, the weight of Tessa’s warning heavy in her mind. 

"She’s probably never had to do nothin' for herself," the boy went on, crossing his arms as he sized her up. "You don’t look like the rest of us. You look soft."

The other children giggled, nudging each other as they watched her. Serena’s chest tightened with frustration. Everything about this world felt wrong - dirty, rough, nothing like the life she once knew. But these children didn’t know that. To them, she was Gemma, just another girl from the streets. But the way they stared at her, with suspicion now growing behind their eyes, made her uneasy.

"Where’d you come from, anyway?" the boy asked, his grin fading as his eyes narrowed. "You talk like you’re from the fancy part of the city. You ain’t one of us."

"I—" Serena hesitated. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing for a lie. "I grew up in the countryside. Near Oldtown. My father—"

"Yeah, but your ma and pa ain't no bakers, are they?" the boy interrupted, his voice dripping with disbelief. "You ain't cut out for this. Look at you, fumblin' around like you're scared of getting your hands dirty."

Serena clenched her fists. She wasn’t sure how to answer. Every word felt like a trap, and the more they pressed, the more she realised she didn’t know how to blend into their world. Her accent was still too refined, her movements too delicate, and her knowledge of the commoners' way of life was nonexistent.

"She’s too clean," one of the girls muttered. "Too pretty."

The boy’s eyes darkened with curiosity, and his smile twisted into something else. "You ain't a bastard, are ya?"

The question hit her like a punch to the gut. Serena’s blood went cold as the other children exchanged glances. She forced herself to shake her head, trying to hide the panic rising inside her.

"Of course not," she stammered, but the doubt in her voice was obvious.

The boy stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he looked her up and down. "Bastard’s not the worst thing to be. Better’n pretending to be someone you're not. Or are ya pretendin' to be lowborn? What are you really?"

Serena swallowed hard, her heart racing in her chest. She couldn’t afford to let them suspect the truth. Tessa’s warning echoed in her mind. No one can know who you are. If they find out, you’re dead.

"Doesn’t matter who I was," Serena muttered, her voice low. "I’m here now."

But the boy wasn’t satisfied. His smirk widened as he leaned in, his voice a low taunt. "We’ll find out who you really are. You can’t hide it forever."

Serena pulled the basket of bread closer to her chest and quickly walked back inside the shop, the sound of their laughter still ringing in her ears. As she slipped back into the warmth of the bakery, her heart pounded. She was out of place, and they knew it. It wouldn’t be long before someone started asking questions, and she wasn’t sure she could keep the truth hidden much longer.

She was Serena Reyne. And even though her name was now buried with her family beneath Castamere’s ruins, it seemed her old life was haunting her still.

-

She had lived with the baker and his wife for years now. They had demanded she worked in their little shop in exchange for a safe life with them. But Serena was noble born. She had never touched a stove before, much less baked anything. She was useless in the kitchen. 

So one day, before the sun had even risen over the horizon, the baker told her to leave and never come back. 

He had hit her across the face for burning another bread. A sharp sting followed, Serena could feel it throbbing as she raised her hand towards her face. 

“Useless, stupid little girl. We should have never taken you in. Let you rot in the streets. You have no place here.” “Leave now and never come back.”

And so Serena had found herself wandering down the streets of Kings Landing. It had been hours since she had eaten, and her tummy hurt. Serena had never gone hungry. Not even with the bakers, who had given her scraps to live off of. It was not much, but it was food. And it kept her from going hungry. 

Now she had nothing. 

Crouched against the cold stone wall, head in her hands, was how she found her. 

Serena had nothing, didn’t even know where she could go. Tessa was long gone. 

She had asked about her on the first night with the bakers, after the wife had tucked her into her small cot. “This is your home now Gemma. There’s no going back.” The baker's wife had replied. 

Serena wanted nothing more than to go back. To go home. 

But she knew that was impossible. Her parents were gone. Her family was gone. 

The stranger had grabbed Serena’s arms and lifted her to her feet. She had taken a long look at her before ushering her in through the doors she had been crouched next to. 

Inside was warm. Serena hadn’t realised she was freezing. Her teeth shattered as the stranger led her through a dimly lit room decorated with dark lilac carpets covering the walls. The place smelt strange. 

There were girls strewn over the couches that covered the middle of the floor. Some younger, some older. 

Serena was led further, towards a room with gowns hung over chairs, and a bed pressed into one of the walls. 

She had given Serena a home. Well, maybe not a home. But a safe place to stay. 

Food, warmth, clothes. 

In return Serena worked. The pay was little and unfair. It was barely enough to get by. But Serena could not complain, would not complain.

[rainstormies]

chapter one

title: heir of fire

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 1k

synopsis: a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. as revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

The streets of Kings Landing were a world unto themselves. A chaotic symphony of noise, movement, and heat greeted Serena as she and Tessa slipped past the city’s towering gates. 

The ten-year-old girl had never seen anything like it. The buildings were stacked high, leaning in as though whispering secrets to each other. The air was thick with the smell of salt from Blackwater Bay, mingled with the stench of too many bodies crammed into too small a place. For a brief moment, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. 

But she didn’t dare stop. 

Tessa’s hand held hers tightly, pulling her forward as they wove through the bustling crowd. The woman, dressed plainly in a servant’s cloak, kept her hood low, but Serena could still see the edges of her grim expression. They had been walking for hours, days even. Each step had taken them further away from the only home Serena had ever known. From Castamere. 

From the ruin and blood. 

Serena’s legs were trembling beneath her, though she could not tell if it was from exhaustion or the terror that still clung to her like a shadow. She could feel the weight of it, pressing against her chest, reminding her of the screams she had heard as they fled. The walls of Castamere had been strong once. She had thought them unbreakable. But they had crumbled beneath the might of House Lannister. 

Her father, Lord Roger Reyne, had always spoken of power, of how the Reynes stood as proud lions in the Westerlands. Yet in the end, it had been her mother’s face - pale, cold, and filled dread - that Serena remembered the most. She hadn’t been there to see what Tywin Lannister had done to her father, but she didn’t need to be. Castamere had fallen, and with it, House Reyne had been buried beneath the weight of red gold and water. 

Serena shivered despite the warmth in the air. 

“Keep your hood up, child,” Tessa murmured, her voice a low whisper. She had pulled Serena into the shadow of a stall, away from the main flow of people. Her eyes flickered around, sharp, scanning for any sign of danger. 

“They don’t know we’re here,” Serena said softly, though she wasn’t sure if it was true. She had spent every moment of the past few days looking over her shoulder, convinced that any moment she’d see the red-and-gold banners of House Lannister. But there was only the sea of strangers here, none of whom cared for a small girl in a dusty cloak. 

“Not yet,” Tessa replied, “but Tywin Lannister’s reach is long. We cannot be too careful.”

Serena nodded, feeling her stomach twist. She had once been taught that the name Reyne commanded respect, but now it was a death sentence. No one could know who she really was. To the world, the Reynes were gone - extinguished, crushed, and forgotten. 

“Are we safe now?” Serena asked, her voice barely more than a breath. 

“We’re safer than we were,” Tessa answered, though her tone was cautious. “But not safe. Not yet.”

The servant reached into the small pouch slung over her shoulder and pulled out a coin, pressing it into Serena’s hand. “You’ll need to stay quiet. Stay close. We need to find a place to sleep tonight. After that, I’ll look for someone who can help.”

Serena clutched the coin tightly, her thumb running over the cool surface. She didn’t ask who Tessa meant by “someone”. The only people she knew were back at Castamere, buried beneath the rubble and drowned halls. Her mother. Her father. 

All gone. All dead. 

Serena swallowed the lump rising in her throat. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream for them, to demand that this was all some terrible nightmare and that she would wake up in her bed with the morning sun spilling through her windows. But she had cried all the tears she had during their flight. Now, she had only silence. 

Tessa’s grip on her arm tightened as they moved again, weaving deeper into the streets of Kings Landing. Serena kept her head down, her cloak pulled low over her face. The capital was far from the Lannister’s reach, but her heart still beat too fast, and every sound made her flinch. 

The city seemed to stretch on forever, and endless maze of alleys and crowded marketplaces. Eventually, Tessa led her to a small inn tucked away in the narrow streets of Flea Bottom. The innkeeper eyed them suspiciously but took the coin without question. Tessa hurried Serena inside, her fingers still gripping the young girl’s shoulder protectively. 

Upstairs, in a small room barely large enough for a straw mattress, Serena finally let out a shaky breath. Her body ached, and the weight of exhaustion pulled her down. Tessa drew the shutters closed and knelt in front of her. 

“Rest, Serena. We’ll figure out what to do next come morning.”

Serena nodded, though her thoughts were still far from this place. She turned towards the small window, catching a glimpse of the Red Keep in the distance, its towering presence like a shadow looming over the city. 

She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Her place was with her family, in the Westerlands, where the golden lions roamed. But Castamere was gone. Her family was gone. 

Serena Reyne was the last of her name. 

And no one could know. 

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the thin blanket Tessa had draped over her. As she lay down on the small bed, she pressed her cheek against the rough fabric and tried to imagine the soft linens of Castamere. But all she could see was water - dark, cold, and endless. Water that had filled the halls and drowned the last cries of House Reyne. A shudder ran through her. She couldn’t escape the memory. Couldn’t escape the guilt of surviving when everyone else had perished. 

She was ten-years-old, a girl displaced from her home and heritage. Her name was a ghost, a whisper that would get her killed if spoken aloud. 

As the sounds of the inn quieted, Serena closed her eyes, whispering a prayer she wasn’t even sure anyone would hear. 

And for the first time since the fall of Castamere, she let herself cry.

[rainstormies]

masterlist - heir of fire

a daughter of a lost house, hiding in the shadows of a broken kingdom. As revenge and love collide, she must choose between reclaiming her past or forging a new future

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

[rainstormies]

(11) rising storms

title: light the way

mc: alina hightower

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 4.2k

synopsis: the fall of a king, and the rise of a queen. as the warmth of the reach meets the cold north, ice dances with fire

ALINA

The morning dawned grey and heavy, the skies above Winterfell overcast with a lingering chill that crept through the walls of the keep. Alina stirred beneath the furs, her body slowly awakening to the dull murmur of voices outside. She felt Robb’s absence beside her immediately - his warmth no longer by her side. Her hand instinctively reached out to the empty space where he had lain, but it was cold. 

A knock came at the door, followed by a hushed, urgent voice. “My lady,” Nella called softly from the other side, “the Lord Robb requests your presence.”

A sense of unease settled in Alina’s stomach as she rose from the bed, her fingers trembling slightly as she dressed in haste. Winter really was coming. 

When she entered the room Robb found himself in, he was stood near the window, a letter crumpled in his hand. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tight, as though holding back an invisible storm. 

“Robb?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. 

He turned, and for a moment, Alina could see the boy she had come to know. The one who had trained with wooden swords and chased after direwolves. But in that instant, he looked different - older, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen on his shoulders. 

“It is my father,” Robb began, his voice thick with emotion. “He’s dead, Alina.”

The words hit her like a blow. Eddard Stark - Lord Stark, Ned - dead? She struggled to grasp the meaning of it, her mind racing to make sense of something so unfathomable. The King had died not long ago, and his son Joffrey had replaced him. But for Lord Ned to now also be dead? It made no sense. 

Alina took a step toward Robb, but her legs felt weak beneath her. She could barely breathe. 

Ned Stark had been the embodiment of honour to her, a man of unwavering principle and duty. When she had first come to Winterfell, frightened and uncertain of her place in this cold, it had been Lord Ned’s quiet strength that had comforted her. His wisdom, his kindness - it had made her feel safe in a world that often felt so perilous. She had sometimes even wished her own father were more present in his children’s lives - the way she saw Ned was. 

She remembered how he had once given her a small nod of approval after she spoke in defence of one of the maids during a feast. The briefest acknowledgement, but in his eyes, she had seen respect for her, for her courage. He had been a father figure to her, in his own reserved way, and now… gone. 

How could such a man, the most honourable man she had ever known, meet such an end? Her thoughts reeled back to the tales that had trickled the north, rumours of betrayal, of accusations of treason. None of it had seemed possible. How could anyone believe Lord Stark capable of treason?

Her throat tightened, and she forced herself to take a breath. “How?” the question slipped out, though part of her was afraid to hear the answer. 

“They say…” Robb’s voice wavered as he spoke, his eyes dark with grief and anger. “They say he was executed… in King’s Landing. By the order of King Joffrey.”

The room spun. The blood drained from her face as reality sank in. The treachery, the cruelty - Ned Stark had been murdered, and for what? For loyalty? For refusing to bend to lies?

The thought of it made her chest ache. This was the man who had built a small spet in Winterfell for his wife, though he followed the Old Gods himself, a man who had shown her such quiet respect despite her being a girl from the south, a ward of his household. He had been a man of principle, a man who believed in right and wrong - and ultimately it had led to his death. Executed like a common criminal. 

The world suddenly seemed colder, darker as if the very soul of Winterfell had been torn away. 

She blinked back tears, trying to steady her voice for Robb’s sake. “I’m so sorry, Robb,” she whispered, her heart breaking for him. “Your father… he didn’t deserve this.”

Robb’s eyes met hers, his expression hardening. "No, he didn’t. And we’ll make them pay for it. I swear it, Alina. I swear it on his memory." 

Alina swallowed, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm. "You don’t have to swear it. He wouldn’t want you to... to rush into something reckless."

"Reckless?" Robb’s voice cracked, his grief shifting into anger. "My father is dead, Alina. He’s dead because of them - because of the Lannisters, because of Joffrey. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and do nothing? Let his death go unanswered?"

She flinched at his words but understood the fury burning in him. She, too, wanted justice, wanted something to make sense in all the chaos. But she feared what might happen if Robb gave in to the rage that clouded his grief. She feared the bloodshed, the war that would follow. 

But she also feared for him - what this responsibility would do to him, how it would shape the boy she had grown to care for, and the man he was becoming. 

"Robb, your father was the best man I knew," she said softly, her hand gently squeezing his. "And I know he loved you. He’d want you to do what’s right, not what’s easy."

For a moment, Robb’s anger seemed to soften. He looked at her, his blue eyes searching hers as though trying to find something to hold onto in the storm of grief. Then, with a long, shuddering breath, he nodded. 

"I just don’t know what’s right anymore," he murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. 

Alina felt her heart break for him once more. She wished she had the answers, wished she could tell him how to make it all right. But the truth was, she didn’t know either. All she could do was be there for him, to hold his hand and stand by his side as they faced whatever came next. 

"We’ll figure it out," she whispered, her voice steady even though her heart ached. "Together."

Robb nodded again, though his gaze remained distant, locked in a storm of his own emotions. She stood by him, knowing that no words could truly ease his pain, but hoping that her presence - her support - might offer him some small measure of comfort. 

Alina stood in the middle of her chambers, staring out the narrow window that overlooked the training grounds of Winterfell. The air felt heavy, oppressive, as though the very walls of the keep had absorbed the grief and tension that permeated every corner. She hadn't spoken to Robb since the news of Lord Eddard’s death, but something in the air told her that there was more to come, something dark and inevitable. 

A knock on her door broke her reverie. She turned to see Theon Greyjoy leaning against the frame, his ever-present smirk absent from his face. His usually cocky demeanour had been replaced with something more serious, more urgent.

“Theon,” she greeted, trying to hide her unease. “What is it?”

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, his gaze flickering over her as if he was weighing how much to say. "Robb’s made a decision. You should know about it."

Alina's heart tightened. “What decision?”

Theon hesitated for a moment, his face tense. “He’s going to war. He’s calling the banners. He leaves in a few days.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. War. Robb was going to war. She felt the world tilt beneath her feet, the cold truth sinking in. "War?" Her voice wavered, barely a whisper. "He's... he's going to fight?"

Theon nodded grimly. "He thinks it's the only way. With his father dead, he’s Lord of Winterfell now. He has to act."

Alina’s mind raced. She couldn’t believe it - didn’t want to believe it. Robb had always been strong, always willing to do his duty, but this... this was different. War meant bloodshed. It meant death. It meant Robb risking everything, his life, his future, their future. 

Her pulse quickened, and she brushed past Theon without a word, her mind set on one thing: finding Robb. 

She found him in the great hall, speaking with a few of the bannermen who had already arrived. He looked every bit the Stark lord he was meant to be, standing tall, his face serious, determined. When their eyes met, he dismissed the men with a quick wave of his hand, sensing her approach. 

"Robb." Her voice trembled with a mix of fear and anger as she crossed the distance between them. "Theon told me... Is it true? You’re planning to go to war?"

He didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he glanced away. That was answer enough. Her heart sank. 

"Robb, this... this can’t be the way." She took a step closer, her hands trembling. "You don’t need to do this."

“I do, Alina,” he said firmly, turning to face her fully. His blue eyes were dark, filled with a storm of emotions. “My father is dead. They murdered him. The Lannisters won’t stop until they’ve taken everything from us - our lands, our people, our family.”

“But war-” she began, her voice rising in desperation. “War isn’t the answer! More people will die, Robb. Innocent people. You’re not your father. You don’t have to-”

“I don’t have a choice!” he cut her off, his voice sharper than she had ever heard it. “My father is dead, Alina. What do you expect me to do? Sit here and wait for the Lannisters to come for the rest of us? To come for you?"

She flinched at his words but held her ground. "I expect you to think, Robb. To not rush into something you can't undo. There has to be another way. Diplomacy, negotiation - anything but this. You’re talking about leading men into battle, killing people. Do you even know what that means?”

His face softened for a moment, but the fire in his eyes remained. “You think I want this? I’ve thought of nothing else since I got that letter. But there is no other way, Alina. I have to do this. For my father. For the North.”

Alina’s chest tightened, anger and fear swirling inside her. “But why must you be the one to pay the price? You’ve never even seen a battlefield, Robb! This... this could destroy everything! You’re not just risking yourself, you’re risking the lives of thousands!”

He looked at her, his expression torn between duty and the love he clearly felt for her. “If I don’t go, the North has no leader. My family has no one to protect them. This is bigger than you and me.”

She bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. "And what about us? What happens to us if you go? What happens if you don’t come back?"

Robb stepped closer, his hand gently cupping her face. "I will come back, Alina. I swear it."

Her heart ached at the promise, but she could see the truth in his eyes - the uncertainty, the fear that he couldn’t hide, even from her. 

"Then let me come with you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. 

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “I can’t allow that.”

“Why not?” Her voice cracked. “I’m not some fragile southern lady who can’t hold her own. I can help. I can be by your side.”

His expression softened, but his resolve was clear. “Alina, I need you here. I need to know that Winterfell is safe, that Rickon is safe. I need you to be the Stark in Winterfell while I’m gone.”

Alina was not a Stark, not yet. 

She didn’t want to be left behind. She didn’t want to be safe while Robb went to fight, to risk everything. But she also knew there was no convincing him otherwise. 

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she shook her head. “I can’t just sit here and wait for news of your death, Robb. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” he said softly, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “I’ll come back to you. I swear it.”

She wanted to believe him, but the weight of the world felt as if it had settled on her chest, crushing her under the enormity of it all. War wasn’t something she had ever thought would touch their lives, not like this. Not so soon. 

Robb pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against him. “I’ll come back,” he whispered again, his voice hoarse with emotion. 

Alina buried her face in his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her cheek. She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg him not to go. But she knew it wouldn’t change anything. 

War was coming, whether she liked it or not. 

Alina sat by the hearth in her chambers, watching as little Rickon played with his direwolf, Shaggydog, who pawed at the boy with unrestrained energy. She had been keeping him company more often since Lady Catelyn’s departure to King’s Landing, feeling a protective bond growing between them. Rickon had no concept of the turmoil surrounding their family or the storm that was brewing in the North, and his innocence was a welcome respite from the tension filling Winterfell. 

"Alina, watch this!" Rickon called out excitedly as Shaggydog rolled onto his back, feet in the air, as if in surrender. The boy’s bright laughter echoed in the stone walls, warming her heart, if only for a moment. 

Before she could respond, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud thud. Alina jumped, startled, and Rickon’s laughter abruptly ceased. Standing in the doorway was Robb, his face flushed, his chest heaving as though he had sprinted through half of Winterfell. 

“Robb?” Alina blinked, setting aside the carved wooden wolf she had been holding. Rickon peered up at his brother with wide eyes, sensing the urgency in the room. Shaggydog growled softly, but Alina quickly motioned for him to settle down. 

Robb’s eyes were wild, but not with anger or fear. There was something else there - determination, desperation, and an emotion she had never seen in him so openly before. 

“I need to speak with you,” Robb said, his voice low and rough. His gaze flicked briefly to Rickon, then back to Alina, softening ever so slightly. "Alone."

She nodded quickly, gathering herself. “Rickon, why don’t you take Shaggydog outside to play? I’ll join you later, alright?”

The boy frowned but obeyed, sensing the tension between them. Once he was gone and the door closed, Robb took a few steps forward, his hands shaking at his sides as if he couldn’t control them. 

"Robb, what is it?" Alina asked, her voice tinged with worry. She had never seen him like this before. She reached out, but before her hand could touch him, he spoke. 

“We have to marry. Now”

The words hit her like a gust of winter wind, knocking the breath from her lungs. She stared at him, stunned, unable to form a response. "What-"

“There’s no time to wait,” Robb interrupted, pacing as if he couldn’t stand still. "My father... he's gone, Alina. War is coming, and I can’t go into battle with so much uncertainty. I need you by my side - not just in spirit, not just as a promise for the future, but now. As my wife."

Alina’s heart raced in her chest. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, but not like this. Not with the shadow of war hanging over them, with grief clouding Robb’s bright blue eyes. 

“Robb, slow down,” she whispered, stepping closer to him. Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of the moment. "I- I don’t understand. Why now? Why so suddenly?"

He stopped pacing and turned to her, his expression softening as he looked into her eyes. "Because I need something - someone - to fight for. I need you, Alina. And if something were to happen to me…" His voice cracked, and he looked away, jaw clenched tightly. "If something were to happen, I want to know that we had this. That we were together."

Alina’s chest tightened with emotion. She reached out, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining. She could feel the heat of his skin, the unspoken fear and love coursing through him. Her heart ached for him - for both of them. 

“But a wedding, it should be more than this,” she protested softly, though even she wasn’t sure if she believed her own words. "We should wait until it’s safer, until-"

“There won’t be a perfect time,” Robb said, his voice urgent, his hand squeezing hers. "This might be the only time we have. I don’t care about a grand feast or the traditions. I just care about you. And I want you to be mine - now. Before I ride to war."

His words left no room for doubt. They were raw, unfiltered, and filled with a passion that made her heart pound in her chest. She looked into his eyes, and in that moment, all of her fears, all of her doubts melted away. 

Alina nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Alright. Let’s do it."

Robb’s face softened with relief, and in one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if he was afraid to let go.

Robb held her close, his heart pounding so hard that Alina could feel it through his chest. He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes intense and filled with emotion. 

"Tonight," he whispered, his voice urgent. "I want to marry you tonight, Alina. No more waiting. No more delays. Just you and me."

"Tonight?" Alina echoed, her breath catching in her throat. She searched his face, seeing the determination etched in his features. He was serious. The weight of his words settled over her, and despite the chaos around them, she found herself nodding. 

"Tonight," she agreed. 

The wind outside Winterfell howled as evening fell, but inside the castle, the small sept was quiet, its stone walls bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. The modest ceremony was hastily arranged, with only a handful of witnesses present. There was no time for elaborate decorations or the grand feast she had always imagined for her wedding day, but in that moment, none of it mattered. The simplicity of it felt right, felt real. 

Alina stood near the altar, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she adjusted the silver clasp at the front of her fur-lined gown. The gown itself was nothing special - not the elaborate southern dresses she had once pictured wearing on her wedding day - but it was warm and soft, dyed in the Stark colours of grey and white. It suited the North, and now, it suited her. Her hair, brushed back in soft waves, was adorned with a simple braid, held by a small ribbon Robb had given her years ago. 

Robb stood just a few feet away, dressed in a dark wool tunic embroidered with the Stark direwolf, his usual armour set aside for the night. His eyes never left her, the firelight dancing in his gaze as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment, to her. 

Maester Luwin readied the wedding vows, his face solemn but kind. The small gathering included a few of Winterfell's most trusted servants and guards - Hallis Mollen and Ser Rodrik Cassel among them. The atmosphere was intimate, the kind of quiet warmth that made the cold world outside feel distant, almost irrelevant. 

When Robb took her hands in his, Alina felt her heart swell in her chest. His hands were rough, calloused from years of training, but they held hers with such tenderness that her breath caught. 

"I vow to be your husband," Robb began, his voice steady but thick with emotion, "to protect you, to stand by you, and to love you for all of my days." His thumb brushed over her fingers as he spoke, and she felt the weight of his words, heavy with the reality of the war they would soon face. 

Alina’s throat tightened as she responded, her voice soft but clear. "And I vow to be your wife, to stand by your side, and to be your strength when you need it most. I will love you, Robb Stark, until my last breath."

The simple words hung in the air, binding them together more powerfully than any crown or throne could. 

With a nod from Maester Luwin, Robb leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was gentle yet filled with the unspoken promise of everything to come. The kiss lingered for just a moment, long enough for the weight of it to settle between them. 

When they finally pulled apart, the room felt charged with emotion. The small group of onlookers clapped quietly, their smiles soft and knowing. 

It was done. They were husband and wife. 

As they stood there, hand in hand, Alina realised that no matter what storms awaited them in the days ahead, they would face them together. And in that moment, that was all that mattered. 

The dim glow of the dying fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across Robb’s chambers. Alina lay beneath the heavy furs, her bare skin warm from the night they had just shared. Robb was beside her, his strong arm draped lazily over her waist, his breath deep and even as he slept. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, a sign of peace she hadn’t seen in him for weeks. 

But Alina couldn't sleep. The enormity of the day, of everything that had changed, weighed on her. She slipped quietly from beneath the covers, careful not to wake Robb, and pulled on a thin robe before sitting at the small writing desk by the fire. 

The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of embers in the hearth. Her mind drifted to the events of the night - the vows, the kiss, the way Robb had held her as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded. Now, in the stillness of the night, she felt the full weight of her new reality. She was Lady Stark. Wife to Robb. A marriage forged not in courtly splendour, but in urgency. In love, yes, but also in the shadow of war. 

The parchment and quill waited on the desk, and as she dipped the quill into ink, she hesitated. What could she possibly say to her parents? How could she put into words the whirlwind of emotions - the love, the fear, the uncertainty?

Taking a steadying breath, she began to write. 

"Father, Mother..."

The ink flowed slowly at first, but soon the words came with more ease. 

"I write to you with news I never thought I would deliver this way. Tonight, Robb and I were married. It was not the grand ceremony I had once imagined, but it was beautiful in its simplicity. There is no one else I would want by my side as I take this new step in my life. I know you must have wanted to be here, but the times we live in are uncertain, and we could not wait. I hope you will understand."

She paused, her hand trembling slightly as she continued. 

"Robb is everything I could have asked for in a husband. He is strong, kind, and his love for me is real, as mine is for him. I have found a home here in Winterfell, but a part of me will always belong to the Reach, to you. I miss you both terribly, and I hope we will see each other soon."

A tear slid down her cheek as she wrote the final words, her heart heavy with the weight of distance and the looming threat of war. 

"Please know that I am happy, and I am loved. Give my love to Gerald and Samira and tell them I miss them every day."

She carefully folded the letter and sealed it with wax, the symbol of House Hightower pressed into it. As she placed it on the desk, ready to be sent at dawn, she felt a strange sense of calm settle over her. 

Turning back to the bed, she gazed at Robb’s sleeping form. He looked peaceful, his face free of the worries that weighed him down during the day. She knew that soon enough, he would be called to lead men into battle, to take on burdens heavier than either of them could have imagined. But for tonight, in the warmth of the firelight and the quiet of the night, they were just Robb and Alina - husband and wife. 

With a soft sigh, Alina climbed back into bed, resting her head against Robb’s chest. His arm instinctively wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes, finally allowing sleep to claim her. 

Whatever the future held, she would face it with him. And for now, that was enough. 

[rainstormies]

(10) weirwood dreams

mc: alina hightower

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 1.8k

synopsis: the fall of a king, and the rise of a queen. as the warmth of the reach meets the cold north, ice dances with fire

ALINA

Alina stood before the ornate mirror in her chamber, the candlelight drenching her in a shade of soft yellow. The transition from the vibrant and elegant gowns of the Reach to the practical and sturdy attire of the North showed Alina that winter really was nearly here.

Gone were the flowing silks and intricate embroideries that had once adorned her. In their place, she now wore warm cotton gowns in greys and whites, Stark colours. Layers of fur adorned her shoulders, offering protection against the unforgiving chill of Winterfell.

She examined herself in the mirror, the stark contrast between the southern fabrics and the northern attire striking. The fur cloaked draped over her shoulders felt both foreign and comforting, yet she couldn't help but to think how northern she looked.

As she adjusted the clasps of the fur coat, Alina could not help but think about how the Stark colours seemed to suit her. The transition wasn't merely in clothing, and Alina pondered the idea of when she would marry Robb and become Lady of Winterfell.

Her fingers brushed against the fur, feeling the coarse texture beneath the gentle caress. The Stark colours and the practical design spoke of resilience and unity, qualities she had come to admire in the North.

Alina took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the fur and the subtle aroma of the candles. Winterfell had become her home. With a final adjustment, Alina turned away from the mirror, her steps echoing in the quiet chamber.

Alina truly felt like a lady of Winterfell as she sat next to her betrothed in Lady Catelyn's seat. Tyrion Lannister and men from the Night's Watch had requested Robb's presence.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls of Winterfell's Great Hall. Alina stole a glance at Robb, whose expression was grave as he listened to the Lannister's request. He had word from Jon, and was asking for Bran. As the lady beside Robb, Alina felt a surge of pride, knowing that she was now a part of these important conversations. Lady Alina of House Hightower is what he had introduced her as. Alina longed for the day she would be called a Stark.

Robb invited the Lannister to stay at Winterfell, yet he declined the invitation. Alina could not blame him. Lannisters were not exactly welcome at Winterfell. The few men from the Night's Watch did accept Robb's welcomings, beds having already been prepared for them. There would be a feast tonight.

Alina was placed between Robb and Yoren, a member of the Night's Watch dressed in black garments that had long faded to grey. Alina thought of him as stern and hard-faced. He had a foul smell, like spoiled milk, that lingered as Alina sat next to him. Bran was carried in by the stable boy and seated across from Robb. The lord's seat at the head of the table was empty.

The food consisted of suckling pig, which Alina had not had much of in the south, and pigeon pie. It was a common meal in Winterfell. Alina was more used to the food in the Reach, roast swans, poached pears, and all kinds of fruit tarts. Alina missed blueberry tarts more than anything. Here they never drank anything other than beer and wine. Alina loved iced milk, especially when her mother would add honey, and she loved lemonsweet as well. They had none of that in Winterfell.

Yoren simply shrugged when asked about Jon Snow. And when asked about their uncle Benjen, well Robb did not like the answer. He rose from his seat and started pointing with his sword, a habit he seemed to have picked up on as of late. Alina did not like it.

She called his name and pulled on his sleeve to get him to sit back down, but the boy did not listen. After the table had been cleared and Robb decided to carry Bran back to his chambers himself, Alina felt the need to apologise to Yoren for his behaviour.

"I must apologise for my dear Robb's behaviour. Lately, with Lord Eddard's presence in King's Landing, well, everything has fallen on his shoulders." She said to the older man, but he simply brushed her off. "I know how things go," is all he said.

In the morning, Alina found herself in Bran's chambers. She had awoken Rickon earlier so they could break their fast together. She thought of Bran, who spent most of his time in his chambers. Hodor could carry him to the Great Hall, and there they could all eat together.

The boy was already up when Alina entered, Summer, his ever loyal direwolf, was laying over his legs. "Good morning, Bran. Will you join us in the Great Hall? To break fast together." Bran seemed unsure of that.

"Hodor can carry you, I'm sure." Bran did not look pleased, and Alina knew what was wrong.

She sat down next to him. "My cousin, Willas Tyrell, he lost feelings in his leg. It was a grave injury. It was during his first tourney, as a squire. It was against the great Prince Oberyn Martell, I hear they call him the Red Viper. Well he fell off his horse you see, and it crushed his poor leg. But Willas, he is their first-born, and well, one day, he will become Lord of Highgarden."

Bran looked up. "So he's just like me? He's broken too."

"Oh Bran, you're not broken. What happened to you was an accident, just like with Willas. I heard you wanted to become a knight, maybe even a gold cloak."

"Yeah, but I can't anymore."

"No, you can't. But you are a lord, and one day you will marry a beautiful girl and you will have a grand castle in the North. And you will be Robb and I's bannermen."

"Then you'll be my sister. When will you marry Robb, Alina?"

"When I become a woman, then, you and I will become brother and sister."

The courtyard of Winterfell resonated with the sounds of clashing swords and the rhythmic footsteps of practising soldiers. Robb stood at the forefront, his gaze focused on the training grounds, where men sparred with a disciplined intensity.

Seated on a bench near the edge of the courtyard, Alina observed Robb with a mixture of admiration and concern. His dedication to training the guards and ensuring Winterfell's defence was both impressive, but also burdensome. Rickon, perched on Alina's lap, squirmed with excitement, his small hands reaching out to mimic the swordplay happening before them.

Robb noticed Alina and Rickon watching from the sidelines. He flashed them a brief, weary smile before turning his attention back to the training. Alina couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at his commitment, but a twinge of worry nagged her. She understood the responsibilities that came with being the future, or current, Lord of Winterfell, but she also found herself longing for moments of respite.

Alina missed Robb. He was always busy, and seemed to spend more time with Hallis Mollen and Theon than herself.

Rickon giggled as he mimicked the swings and strikes of the practising soldiers. Alina tousled his unruly hair, a small smile playing on her lips. She cherished these moments of innocence amid the solemn duties that surrounded them.

As the training session continued, Alina's thoughts turned to the challenges that lay ahead. Lady Catelyn had left for something Alina was not privy to, and she had still not returned.

When the training concluded, Robb approached the two sat on the bench, wiping sweat from his brow. "Did you enjoy the show, Rickon?" he teased, tousling the young boy's hair.

Rickon grinned widely, nodding in excitement. "I'm gonna be a great knight like you!"

Robb chuckled, glancing at Alina. "He's got the Stark spirit, that's for sure."

Alina nodded, her gaze lingering on Robb. "But even great swords need rest, my lord. You've been working tirelessly."

Robb sighed, acknowledging the truth in her words. "There's much to be done, Alina, but you're right. Shall we?"

Together, they walked back towards the Great Keep, handing Rickon off to Old Nan who promised to tell him stories until he fell asleep.

As night descended, the castle was wrapped in a cocoon of tranquillity. Robb's chambers were warm, thanks to the hotsprings the Great Keep had originally been built upon. Alina, clad in a simple nightgown, sat by the fire, brushing her long, golden hair. Robb, in his customary northern attire, admired her from across the room, the flickering flames highlighting the warmth in his eyes.

"Your hair is like a cascade of sunlight," Robb remarked, crossing the room to join her. He took the brush from her hand and gently continued where she left off. The tender gesture spoke volumes, a silent reassurance in the simplicity of shared moments.

Alina smiled, appreciating the quiet intimacy. "It's one of the few things that haven't fully adapted to the North," she mused. "Still a bit of the Reach lingering."

Robb chuckled, his fingers delicately working through her hair. "A bit of warmth in the heart of Winterfell. I wouldn't have it any other way."

As the brushing continued, the room filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. Robb's direwolf, Greywind, was lying on the floor, its back flush against Alina's legs. As if being near the two comforted him somehow.

With the brushing complete, Robb gestured toward the bed, its furs inviting in the soft glow of the hearth. "Shall we retire for the night, my lady?"

Alina nodded, rising from her seat. Robb had forgotten about their duties, and allowed himself to let Alina sleep in his chambers ever since Lady Catelyn left. There had been whispers, of course, and gossip among the guards and the servants, but Alina couldn't get herself to care.

They could say whatever they wanted to. Alina would soon marry Robb. They were just waiting for Alina to flower. She wondered if Robb's father and his sisters would attend their wedding. They were so far away in King's Landing.

And Alina's family. She wanted them at her wedding.

Robb extinguished the candles - leaving only the warmth of the hearth to dance across the room - pulling Alina from her thoughts.

Alina slipped beneath the covers, and Robb joined her, the furs enveloping them. The room embraced them with a sense of serenity, the weight of responsibility momentarily set aside.

As they lay side by side, Robb turned to Alina, his gaze filled with affection. "I'm grateful to have you by my side, Alina. In the quiet moments and the challenges that lay ahead."

Alina reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. "And I, you, Robb. Together, we'll face whatever comes our way." In the stillness of the night, Alina found solace in the only person she thought finally understood her. 

[rainstormies]

(9) under the starry sky

mc: alina hightower

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 3.2k

synopsis: the fall of a king, and the rise of a queen. as the warmth of the reach meets the cold north, ice dances with fire

SAMIRA

Samira's days in the castle often felt long and uneventful. The grandeur of the Hightower surrounded her, yet its towering walls held little excitement for a young girl with a spirit eager for exploration. On this particular day, boredom gnawed at her, prompting Samira to seek a reprieve from the confines of Hightower.

With a hopeful glimmer in her eyes, Samira approached her mother, Lady Rhonda, who was engrossed in correspondence at her ornate desk. "Mother, may we take a walk through Oldtown? It is such a lovely day, and I wish to see the bustling streets and colourful markets."

Rhonda, adorned in the intricate garments befitting her station, glanced up from her work. Her expression softened at the sight of her daughter's eager anticipation. "Samira, my darling, I'm afraid I have pressing matters to attend to at the moment. Perhaps later?"

Samira's shoulders slumped, disappointment etching her features. She knew her mother held responsibilities befitting the Lady of Hightower, yet the yearning for a simple stroll through the vibrant city outside beckoned.

"Can't I go alone, Mother? I promise I'll stay within sight of the guards," Samira pleaded, her gaze hopeful.

Rhonda sighed. "I understand your desire, my sweet, but Oldtown can be a bustling and unpredictable place. It's not safe for you to venture alone. I wouldn't want anything untoward to befall you."

Samira's disappointment deepened, but she nodded, understanding the validity of her mother's concern. "Very well, Mother. Perhaps another time."

With a gentle smile, Rhonda reached out to caress her daughter's cheek. "I promise, we'll find a moment to explore Oldtown together. But for now, indulge me in a bit of patience, my love. Duty calls."

While strolling through the gardens Samira noticed the absence of the usual guards stationed around the Hightower's garden. She saw it as an opportunity to venture beyond the fortress-like walls and explore the colourful tapestry of Oldtown on her own. A spark of excitement ignited in her.

With deliberate stealth, Samira quickly made her way to her chambers, where she carefully removed the ornate jewellery and expensive adornments that marked her as a member of House Hightower. She opted for simpler attire, donning a modest dress and a hooded cape that concealed her distinctive features. In the cloak's shadow, she felt newfound anonymity, a liberation from the expectations that came with her noble status.

As she stepped into the bustling streets of Oldtown, Samira marvelled at the vibrancy that surrounded her. The marketplaces were alive with the hum of commerce, merchants peddling their waves, and the aroma of various cuisines wafting through the air. The smallfolk moved about, their daily lives unfolding in the heart of the city.

Samira wandered through the crowded thoroughfares, her heart alive with the thrill of anonymity. She listened to the melodic banter of street vendors, observed children playing games, and marvelled at the skilled artisans showcasing their crafts. The rhythmic pulse of Oldtown, often distant within the towering walls of Hightower, now enveloped her in its lively embrace.

In the midst of the crowd, Samira revelled in the freedom to be just another face in the crowd. Her steps carried her through narrow alleys and bustling squares, absorbing the sights and sounds of a world previously glimpsed only from the lofty heights of her family's seat.

As she strolled through the lively market square, Samira's senses were enticed by the vibrant array of stalls. The tantalising aroma of exotic spices mingled with the earthy fragrance of fresh produce, creating a sensory symphony that enveloped her. It was then she caught sight of a colourful fruit stand adorned with an assortment of succulent fruits.

Among the display, oranger, her favourite, gleamed like drops of liquid sunshine. Samira's mouth watered at the thought of it.

Approaching the fruit stand, Samira marvelled at the bounty of nature laid out before her. The merchant, a weathered yet genial figure, overlooked Samira as she greeted another person with a warm smile. "Fine fruits from the orchards. Care for some oranges? They're the juiciest in all of Oldtown."

As the merchant busied with gathering oranges for the man, Samira's gaze wandered beyond the stall. The crowd ebbed and flowed around her, a bustling place of diverse lives intersecting in the heart of the city.

Continuing her exploration through Oldtown's maze of streets, Samira was suddenly drawn by an enchanting melody that danced through the air. Samira's attention shifted from the vibrant fruit stands to the source of the captivating sound. A girl, seemingly not much older than Samira herself, stood near the market square, her voice weaving a magical tapestry that enraptured all who listened.

The singing resonated with a purity and grace that surpassed anything Samira had encountered in the grand halls of Hightower. Mesmerised, she followed the ethereal notes, weaving through the bustling crowd until she found the girl, her eyes closed as she poured her soul into the song.

The melody seemed to transcend the clamour of the market, creating a tranquil oasis in the heart of Oldtown. Samira stood captivated, her eyes fixed on the mysterious songstress. The haunting beauty of her voice echoed through the narrow streets, creating a moment of serenity amidst the chaos of the city.

As the last notes lingered in the air, the girl opened her eyes, her gaze meeting Samira's. With a grateful smile, Samira approached the girl, her admiration evident in her eyes. "Your voice is the most beautiful I have ever heard. What is your name?"

The girl, her cheeks flushed with the emotion of the song, returned the smile. "I'm named Bria. Thank you, kind lady. It warms my heart to know my music has found a listener who appreciates it."

Captivated by the serendipitous encounter, Samira forgot about the oranges she had initially craved. "Where did you learn to sing like that, my lady?"

Intended as an innocent question, panic crept into Bria's expression. With swift determination, she approached Samira, her voice hushed yet urgent.

"Oh... m'lady. I-" The girl stuttered. "This is no place for a lady like you. Let's get you back to the castle." Samira didn't know what had convinced the girl, but something had given away her status as a noble-born.

"I- I just wanted to visit the town. Everything's so boring in Hightower." Samira admitted, her mother must be so worried, if she had even noticed Samira's disappearance.

"This way, m'lady." The girl urged, leading her through the bustling crowd.

As Samira and Bria made their way back to Hightower, the lively market street gradually gave way to the familiar surroundings of Oldtown's towering landmark. The distant hum of vendors and the lively chatter of the crowd diminished, replaced by the echoing footsteps of the two young women against the stone-paved streets.

Bria walked briskly, occasionally stealing glances at Samira, as if the other girl would get stolen away at any moment.

The imposing silhouette of the tower loomed ahead, a sentinel that had witnessed generations come and go. The closer they got to the structure, the more Samira realised how much she did not wish to go back. She had always wanted to go travelling, to see the Red Keep in King's Landing, or the orange mountains of Dorne. Instead, she was stuck in her tower. Like a princess waiting for her knight in shining armour to come rescue her.

As they approached the Hightower's gate, the guards recognised Samira and swiftly opened the massive doors, allowing them entry. The familiar scent of well-tended gardens and the quiet ambiance of the courtyard enveloped them.

Bria seemed to relax as they entered the safety of the Hightower. "Well, m'lady, your family will surely be relieved to see you back and unharmed."

"That is if they even noticed." Samira mumbled, her answer lost in the wind. Bria turned back around to face her, "I'll have to return to my duties. It was nice meeting you m'lady."

"It's Samira. You can call me Samira." The younger girl wasn't fond of titles or courtesies. "And are you sure you have to go back? Your voice, oh it is so lovely. Why don't you stay here, and sing for me often?"

Bria laughed at that. "Oh, m'lady, I wish I could. But I don't think the older lords 'n ladies will like that."

Samira found herself amused by Bria's response. "It's just Samira, remember?" she instead, a playful smile gracing her lips. "And I don't see why your singing would be an issue. Who could resist such a beautiful voice?"

Bria blushed, her humility apparent. "Thank you, m'lady - uh, Samira. But, you see, the lords 'n ladies here like their entertainment more refined. I'm just a common girl with a love for songs."

Samira pondered Bria's words for a moment, her gaze drifting over the ornate architecture of the Hightower that loomed above them. The constraints of societal expectations were ever-present, even within the protective walls of her family's seat.

"Well, I appreciate your honesty, Bria," Samira said with a determined glint in her eyes as they ascended Hightower's grand staircase.

"I don't see why you couldn't stay and sing for us," Samira continued, her steps echoing in the towering stone corridor. "Father won't mind. I'll ask him. He usually listens to what I have to say."

Bria's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, I wouldn't impose. Your father is a busy man, and I'm just a common singer."

Samira waved away Bria's concerns. "Nonsense. You have a talent, and I want to share it with my family. Besides, it's not like we have many entertainers around here. Father will appreciate a change from the usual solemnity of Hightower."

With newfound determination, Samira led the way to her father's solar. The massive door creaked open, revealing the chamber where Lord Baelor attended to matters of governance.

"Father, may I have a moment?" Samira announced as she entered, Bria hesitatingly following in her wake.

Lord Baelor, engrossed in a ledger, looked up with an expectant gaze. "Samira, my dear, what brings you here?"

"I've met a talented singer in the market, Father. Her name is Bria, and I was hoping she could stay here at Hightower and sing for us," Samira proposed, a glimmer of excitement in her eyes.

Her father sighed, closing the ledger with a deliberate motion. "Samira, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the affairs of Oldtown require my full attention. We can't entertain every passing singer who catches your fancy.

Samira felt a pang of disappointment but refused to back down. "But Father, she's truly gifted. And our castle could use a bit of joy and music."

Lord Baelor, with a weary smile, placed a hand on Samira's shoulder. "Very well, my dear. If it means that much to you, let her stay. But she must understand that her duties here are a privilege, not an entitlement."

Samira beamed with gratitude. "Thank you, Father! You won't regret it, I promise."

Bria curtsied with gratitude, her eyes reflecting a mix of astonishment and gratitude for Samira.

As they exited the chamber, Samira could not contain her excitement. Grasping Bria's hand, she led the way out, the two girls bursting into laughter as they descended the grand staircase. The solemnity of the tower seemed to lift in their wake, replaced by the infectious joy of newfound friendship.

Giggles echoed through the stone corridors as they reached the main hall. Samira's steps were light, and Bria couldn't help but match her infectious enthusiasm.

The massive wooden doors creaked open, revealing the bustling courtyard bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. Samira twirled in delight, her laughter blending with the melodious sounds of their surroundings.

ALINA

Alina was idly flipping through the pages of a worn tome when the calm ambiance was shattered by the frantic clatter of footsteps. The rhythmic drumming of boots echoed through the stone halls, and the urgency in the guards' voices carried a sense of impending disaster.

She put the tome away and walked outside just in time to see Robb descending the staircase from Bran's chambers, his face etched with concern. The guards accompanying him were shouting about a fire in the library tower, and panic began to spread like wildfire.

As Alina neared the commotion the scent of smoke grew stronger with every step, and Alina's heart pounded in tandem with the urgency of the situation.

The heat was intense, and the acrid smell of burning parchment filled the air. She saw Robb alongside the guards, his sleeves rolled up and sweat streaming down his face, as they tirelessly attempted to put the fire out.

As the last embers were extinguished, Robb surveyed the charred remnants of the library, his expression a mix of exhaustion and relief. Alina, too, stood amidst the aftermath, and as she reached Robb she realised his hands were blackened and clothes smudged. She used part of her gown, dipped it in the water bucket closest to her and tried to scrub his hands clean. But Robb wasn't looking at her, his gaze fixated on Bran's chambers where he had originally emerged from.

"Mother-" He suddenly said before dropping Alina's hand and hurrying across the bailey. "Robb, wait!" Alina called after him, but he did not turn around. She ran after him and as she neared the chamber she could hear the distant sound of manic laughter. It was one of the strangest things Alina had heard.

She reached the door to Bran's chamber and saw Lady Catelyn on the floor. Next to her was an awful sight. A man, well Alina wasn't too sure what he was or what he looked like, laid sprawled on the floor. His throat had been torn out and blood was slowly dripping from the wound. There was so much blood it was hard to see. Alina had to look away.

She saw a fur blanket draped over a chair and picked it up, her hands shaking. She crouched down next to Lady Catelyn, who had finally stopped laughing, and wrapped the blanket around her. Ser Rodrik helped Alina get her up, and she heard Robb speak in a low tone. "We should take her to the Great Keep, to her and Father's chambers." So that's what they did. Another guard, Hallis Mollen, replaces Alina in escorting Lady Catelyn.

Once Alina reached her own chambers, she felt the weight of the evening settle on her shoulders. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls as Nella moved about the room. Alina looked down to see her hands covered in dried blood, remnants of her meeting with Lady Catelyn.

Nella approached with a basin of warm water, a soft cloth, and a hint of concern in her eyes. "Let me help you, m'lady," she said gently.

Alina sank into a chair, feeling exhausted. Fur blankets were draped over her shoulders, but all it reminded her off was the ones she had used to warm Lady Catelyn.

As Nella dipped a cloth into the water, the soothing warmth of the liquid eased the tension in Alina's hands. The handmaid's humming filled the room, a melody Alina recognised. Jenny of Oldtone, it was her favourite. The haunting notes resonated in the quiet chamber, bringing both comfort and a sense of melancholy.

Nella's voice, sweet and low, blended with the gentle splashing of water as she worked. Alina closed her eyes, allowing the familiar tune to envelop her. The song had always held a special place in her heart, her mother had often sung it when she was a babe.

Once her hands were cleansed and her body was washed, Nella reached for a fresh cloth to dry her. Alina opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of her dear handmaid. She was a good friend, kind and loving. And she made Alina feel less alone. "Thank you, Nella."

Nella offered a reassuring smile. "Rest now, m'lady. Tomorrow is a new day."

Alina nodded, realising how tired she truly felt. She could feel it in her bones. As Nella continued to hum, Alina settled into bed. Sleep found her easily.

For four days Lady Catelyn slept. Robb was busy attending to his duties and Alina found it hard to spend time with her betrothed. She wished he would realise there were people in Winterfell whose roles were to take care of things, that Robb did not need to burden himself with everything. But he would not listen. Robb was his fathers son, and Alina her mothers.

When news broke of Lady Catelyn awakening, Alina knew she would find him there. And he was, together with Ser Rodrik and Theon Greyjoy.

Before Alina could enter she heard them speak of the intruder from the night before. The man who had attempted to take Lady Catelyn's life. Alina took this as a sign for her to excuse herself, even if no one had seen her. She knew it was a conversation she was not privy to. She reached for little Rickon, who was still clutching at her gown, as he often was, and settled him on her hip. She closed the door behind her, but was unsure whether to leave or wait until they were finished. She decided it was time for Rickon to go to bed anyway and took him to his chambers. Old nan was already there, prepared to read him his bed stories and lull him into sleep. Alina made sure to thank her before exiting the chambers.

When she returned to Bran's quarters the door was open and Maester Luwin had started dressing Lady Catelyn's wounds. Robb was already gone.

Alina knew she should retire to her chambers for the night, but instead found herself wandering through the Great Keep.

It was late, probably too late. Alina should be in bed.

But instead, she found herself outside of his chambers. He looked up from where he was sitting in front of the heath as she entered.

"Alina, what are you doing here?" Robb abandoned the scroll he was reading to greet her.

She shut the door behind her, leaving his guards outside. "I didn't wish to be alone."

Robb pulled her into a hug and Alina rested her head on his chest. She finally got to take a breath in what had felt like forever. This night had been endless.

"Robb," Alina began, not knowing what to say. She didn't know how to say it. "I-".

He looked at her. His eyes a beautiful shade of blue, so much like his mother's. She didn't have to say anything, Robb already knew.

"We shouldn't. We are not yet married, and you know how things are. Alliances change." Always so noble, always so righteous, Alina thought.

"You know what I think Robb? To hell with that." Robb looked at her as she cursed, something she didn't do often. "I want to be with you, and you want to be with me. What more is there to say?"

She was right and he knew it.

His hands went to hold the side of her head as he kissed her. Warmth spread throughout her body as he held her, as he kissed her. He turned her around to kiss her shoulder. His hands worked quickly to untie the lacing on her back. And when she got turned back around, Alina quickly pulled her gown off to reveal her bare skin.

Robb started undressing too as they made their way towards his bed. "Are you sure this is what you want Alina?"

"I'm sure. I've been wanting this since that night, in the godswood."

She wanted him to take her and make her his. Robb was the man she loved, the only man she would ever love.

[rainstormies]

(8) frozen fire

mc: alina hightower

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 3k

synopsis: the fall of a king, and the rise of a queen. as the warmth of the reach meets the cold north, ice dances with fire

ALINA

The news of King Robert Baratheon's visit to Winterfell sent waves of anticipation through the ancient halls of the Stark stronghold. The courtyard bustled with activity as servants prepared for the arrival of the royal entourage. Alina, her gaze fixed on the bustling scene below from her chamber window, felt the excitement of the impending arrival.

The Great Hall was adorned with banners of both Stark and Baratheon, the air filled with a lively buzz of anticipation. The long tables were adorned with silverware and fine linens, illuminated by the flickering glow of candles. As the guests took their seats, Alina entered the hall, her demeanour poised, yet the tumult of emotions beneath the surface betrayed her.

The procession began with Lord Eddard and Queen Cersei, a match of solemnity and grace, followed by Lady Stark accompanying King Robert. Rickon, the youngest Stark, entered alone, his innocent eyes wide with wonder.

Then came the moment that sent a subtle ripple through Alina's composure. Robb was chosen to escort Princess Myrcella to the high table. The glimmer of a shared secret between them made Alina envious, an emotion she refused to let surface.

Arya followed, paired with Tommen, their youth evident in their animated chatter. Sansa, as elegant and poised as always, entered with Crown Prince Joffrey. Alina observed from her position, her thoughts a mess of conflicting emotions.

Finally, it was her turn to make her entrance, and she found herself accompanied by Theon Greyjoy. Theon, with a grin that held a hint of mischief, offered his arms. Alina, her gaze fixed ahead, accepted the gesture with the grace expected of a lady. Alina had never liked Theon's company, he was too cocky and promiscuous for her liking.

As they walked down the many rows of tables, Alina could not help but feel the weight of Theon's presence at her side. She stole a glance at the high table, where Robb and Princess Myrcella shared a lighthearted exchange. The contrast with her own escort intensified the feeling of isolation.

When they reached the high table, Theon held out a chair for Alina at the far end. A surge of frustration and disappointment welled within her. It was not lost on Alina that her seat at the end of the table felt like a symbolic placement, distant from the proximity she desired next to her betrothed.

As the feast unfolded, Alina struggled to mask her emotions. Theon, oblivious to her feelings, engaged in light banter with those around her. Alina's gaze frequently wandered to Robb and Princess Myrcella, the laughter between them echoing.

In the midst of revelry, Alina's mind wrestled with conflicting thoughts. She felt disregarded, her position as Robb's future wife seemingly dismissed in favour of political alliances. Alina's thoughts lingered on a table towards the back of the hall.

She could not help but cast fleeting glances towards Jon Snow and the younger squires gathered there. Their laughter, unburdened by the weight of noble expectations, tugged at a yearning within her. Alina longed for the simplicity of their shared moments. She knew Jon probably felt offended for being placed at a different table from his siblings. But where Alina was from, it was not common for bastards to live amongst noble-borns. Her grandfather, Lord Leyton, had several bastards. The youngest one, Faye Flowers, was only five years older than Alina. Her mother was a servant at Hightower, and when Lord Leyton's wife had found out about it, she forced both the servant and little Faye to move out of the tower and find jobs elsewhere.

As Theon continued to regale her with tales of the Iron Islands and their culture, Alina's mind drifted towards the back of the hall, where Jon's eyes met hers in a fleeting glance. In that shared moment, Alina understood how he felt. Allowed to live and train amongst his brothers, but never truly treated like a Stark.

Alina did not care about the ironmen or how much they love raiding and reaving. She thought of them as cruel barbarians, nothing like the rest of Westeros. And definitely not something to be proud of. Theon had been ten when he was sent to Winterfell, and Alina thought of him more as a Stark than anything else. He should be grateful he gets to be brought up by Lord Eddard Stark, the most honourable and just man Alina had ever met.

As the feast continued, Alina's eyes occasionally met Robb's across the crowded hall. In that moment, she wished she was anywhere but here. Each silent exchange of looks with Robb carried a silent plea, a yearning for the understanding that their bond transcended the constraints of political machinations. But even if he did notice, it did not show across his face. Alina could not shake the feeling that her place in Winterfell had shifted, leaving her anchored to a reality where her desires were but whispers in the northern winds.

The hazy effects of wine lingered in her head, casting a soft fog over the edges of her thoughts. She had only had one cup, that was all Lord Eddard allowed. But Alina did not drink wine often. And as the laughter and merriment from the feast echoed through the stone walls, she felt a subtle weariness settle within her.

Theon was passionately telling her about... well Alina wasn't too sure what he was talking about. When he paused to pour more wine into his cup, Alina suddenly wished she was in her chambers.

"My lord," she began, addressing Theon, "I fear the revelry has taken its toll on me. If you would be so kind, please excuse my absence. I find myself in need of some rest."

Theon, though surprised, offered a courteous nod. "Of course, Lady Alina. May the night bring you peaceful dreams." She expected Theon to react differently, but she was grateful he did not.

With a graceful inclination of her head, Alina bid Theon and Benjen Stark, who was sitting on the other side of her, farewell. As she stood up, a sudden wave of nausea hit her. The subtle sway in her steps betrayed the lingering effects of the wine as she sought the quiet sanctuary of her chambers. As the Hall's door closed behind her, Alina's gaze lingered for a moment on the flickering candlelight, casting shadows that danced like elusive dreams. She stood there for a moment, wishing someone, anyone, would notice her absence. But none did.

She slipped through the half-opened door, the warmth of her chambers enveloping her like a familiar embrace. She moved towards the window, the cool night air brushing against her flushed skin.

Her mind replayed the scenes from the feast. Alina's thoughts drifted to Robb, the future that awaited them, and the delicate thread that connected them in a union yet to fully blossom.

As she stood by the window, Alina hoped that Robb would notice her absence and follow her into the quiet sanctuary of her chambers. The anticipation hung in the air, a fragile hope that danced on the edge of expectation. Would they be dancing? Alina thought. Once everyone had enough to drink, dancing would always follow. Alina wondered if Robb would. He had often danced with her before. For a second, she wished she hadn't left. That she had stayed so she could dance again with Robb. Would he even dance with her? Or would he give the princess the honour. Alina did not wish to think more on it.

Minutes passed, but there was no sound of approaching footsteps, no familiar voice calling out her name. A sense of disappointment mingled with the lingering effects of the wine, and Alina found herself wrestling with the conflicting emotions that ebbed and flowed within her.

In the soft glow of the candlelight, Alina's gaze fell upon the bed, its inviting warmth beckoning her to rest. Nella and Miya would probably want to bathe and undress her first, but Alina did not wish to wait for them. Instead, she slipped off her silk gown and, with a sigh, climbed into bed. The dance of shadows on the walls played out like a silent reflection of her inner thoughts.

Covered in furs, Alina lay in a contemplative silence. The memory of the feast echoed distantly, a reminder of what her new life meant in Winterfell.

And just like that, in the quiet solitude of her chambers, Alina surrendered to the embrace of sleep, the world of dreams carrying her away from the complexities of courtly life and the uncharted path that lay ahead.

The cold wind swept through the inner ward, carrying with it an unsettling chill. Alina was sitting next to an oak tree, her thoughts consumed by the echo of hooves and the distant sounds of the hunting party venturing into the Wolfswood. The King loved hunting, and today Robb, alongside Jon and Theon, had been allowed to accompany them. Their figures disappeared beyond the veil of ancient trees.

As the moments passed, Alina's unease lingered beneath the surface, an unshakable feeling that refused to be ignored. The vibrant hues of autumn leaves above her seemed to lose their lustre.

In an attempt to distract herself, Alina reached for the leather-bound book she had brought with her. Its pages, weathered by countless readings, revealed the tale of Rhaenyra Targaryen and the dance of dragons, Alina's favourite. She sought solace in the familiarity of the words, an escape from the real-world uncertainties that lurked beyond the castle walls.

Alina nestled against the sturdy trunk of the oak tree, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns embossed on the book's cover. The cold wind whispered through the branches, rustling the pages of her refuge as if sharing in the secrets within.

With each page turned Alina sought refuge in the tale of a world where challenges were overcome and heroes emerged victorious. Yet, the echo of hooves persisted in her mind, a constant reminder of the reality she wished to escape.

The sun cast dappled shadows on the ground, creating a shifting mosaic of light and shade. Alina's eyes followed the dance of leaves as the branches overhead swayed in the breeze. The distant sounds of the hunting party remained elusive, carried away by the wind that whispered through the ancient trees.

Her fingers brushed across the worn pages, tracing the contours of the printed words with a gentle reverence. And then, the stillness shattered.

A distant cry, a sharp gasp, echoed through the air, and Alina's heart quickened with a sudden fear. Instinct propelled her toward the broken tower, where the commotion seemed to swirl in a chaotic dance of panic.

With each hurried step, Alina's dread deepened. A knot tightened in her stomach as the scene unfolded before her. Bran, the youngest of the Stark children, lay prone on the ground near the shattered remnants of the tower. He lay unconscious, his legs bent in a way Alina did not think was natural. He seemed even younger and more frail than usual.

A collective gasp escaped those who had gathered, their eyes mirroring the disbelief etched on Alina's face. The air crackled with tension as the reality of the situation unfolded - Bran, so young and innocent, had fallen.

After Bran was taken away, Maester Luwin and Lady Catelyn close behind, Alina found herself standing in the same spot, unable to move. Bran, who was always so adventurous and fun, who loved following after his older brothers and playing with them. Now, well Alina wasn't sure if he would even survive the day.

She must have been standing there for a while, because soon enough a clamour of footsteps could be heard, heralding the return of those who had departed in pursuit of the hunt. The King and his party emerged from the shadows of the Wolfswood, their expressions morphing from anticipation to horror as they took in the sight before them.

Robb's eyes met Alina's, and an unspoken understanding passed between them.

In the aftermath of the fall, Alina clung to a hope that Bran's young spirit would prevail against the darkness encroaching upon him. It was up to the gods now if Bran would survive, and Alina hoped the old ones were as merciful as the ones she believed in.

The outer courtyard of Winterfell bustled with activity as the King's party prepared to depart for King's Landing.

Robb, resplendent in his Stark attire, stood by Alina's side as they awaited the final farewell. Lord Eddard Stark, with his two daughters, Sansa and Arya, by his side, approached the couple.

"Safe travels to you, Father," Robb said respectfully, his tone carrying both duty and warmth.

Lord Eddard clasped Robb's shoulder, the weight of paternal pride evident in his gaze. "Look after Winterfell in my absence, my son. You carry the honour of our house with you."

"I will, Father," Robb affirmed, a solemnity marking his features.

Beside him, Alina curtsied to Sansa, her gaze briefly meeting Arya's. "My ladies, may the journey ahead be swift and safe."

Sansa offered a gracious smile. "Thank you, Alina."

As the King's party assembled, Alina's thoughts turned to Jon Snow, who had already taken his leave earlier that day to join the Night's Watch. Oh, how empty Winterfell will feel , Alina thought. The weight of their parting hung in her heart. She recalled the quiet exchange they had shared. The decision to join the Night's Watch, to take the black and forsake family name and inheritance, resonated within her. A mixture of pride and sadness welled up as she considered Jon's sacrifice.

As the farewells continued, Lord Eddard, with a final gaze at his children, turned to depart. The Stark banners billowed in the wind. Alina stood alongside Robb, the echoes of farewells still lingering in the air.

In the wake of Lord Eddard Stark and his daughters' absence, as well as Bran's tragic fall, a sombre cloud settled over Winterfell, casting its shadows across the stone wall and echoing through the corridors. Lady Catelyn, consumed by grief, devoted every waking moment to Bran's bedside, an ever-vigilant guardian over her injured son. The once-bustling chambers of the Stark children now lay shrouded in a heavy silence.

As Winterfell grappled with the aftermath, Robb, burdened with the responsibilities of leadership, found himself thrust into a role he had not expected to shoulder so soon. The weight of managing the affairs of the castle, coupled with the worry for his younger brother, etched lines of weariness on his face.

Alina, perceptive to the strain Robb bore, observed him from a distance. The courtyard, once alive with the sounds of training and laughter, now saw Robb tirelessly managing the concerns of Winterfell's denizens. Duty had transformed the carefree youth into a Lord thrust into the crucible of leadership.

One evening, as the fading sun cast a warm glow over the castle's battlements, Alina sought out Robb amidst the gathering dusk. She found him in the training yard, reviewing the drills with the castle guards. The weight of responsibility bore down on him, visible in the set of his shoulders and the furrowed brow.

Approaching him with a mix of concern and determination, Alina spoke softly, "Robb, may I have a moment?"

He turned, weariness evident in his eyes, but he managed a nod. "Of course, my lady. What is it?"

They retreated to a quieter corner of the courtyard, away from the hustle and bustle. Alina, choosing her words carefully, addressed the heavy burden he carried. "I see the strain on you, my lord. Winterfell looks to you for guidance, and you've taken on the mantle easily, but you mustn't bear it all alone."

Robb's gaze met hers, a mixture of gratitude and fatigue etched in his expression. "I know I should delegate more, but with Mother tending to Bran and Father away, it feels like everything falls on my shoulders."

Alina placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "My love, allow others to share the burden. It is not a sign of weakness but of wisdom."

Robb, for a moment, looked as if a weight had been lifted from him. "You're right. I appreciate your counsel. It's just... it's hard to balance it all."

Her gaze softened with understanding. "You're doing admirably, Robb. Winterfell is lucky to have you. But don't forget to take care of yourself in the process."

A flicker of gratitude crossed Robb's tired features. "Thank you. I'll strive to remember that."

As they returned to the courtyard, Alina's attention was drawn to young Rickon, the three-year-old Stark. He stood at the periphery of the courtyard, his gaze flitting anxiously between the empty spaces that once echoed with the laughter of his siblings. Confusion lingered in his innocent eyes, a reflection of the upheaval that had befallen his world.

Unable to bear witness to the young boy's bewilderment, Alina approached Rickon with a gentle smile. She crouched down to his level, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders as she addressed him. "Hey there, Rickon. What's troubling you, little lord?"

Rickon's solemn expression softened at the sight of Alina, his eyes momentarily distracted from the absence that loomed over Winterfell. "Where everyone go?"

Alina's heart ached for the youngest Stark, who could not comprehend the sudden void left by his absent siblings and mother. She decided to divert his attention, hoping to bring a glimmer of joy back to his world.

"Well, it seems your older brothers and sisters are on an important adventure, they've left you in charge of holding down the fort," she said with a playful twinkle in her eye. "Would you like to explore the castle with me, Rickon?"

The notion of a castle exploration sparked curiosity in Rickon's eyes. He nodded eagerly, and Alina took his small hand in hers. Together, they embarked on an imaginary journey through Winterfell's halls and chambers, turning ordinary into magical realms.

As they moved, Alina weaved tales of knights, dragons, and hidden treasures, drawing a smile from Rickon. The courtyard transformed into a fantastical landscape, and the echoes of their laughter resonated through the castle, momentarily lifting the veil of melancholy that had settled over Winterfell.

Despite the challenges that loomed, Alina found solace in the simple act of bringing a fleeting moment of joy to Rickon's innocent heart. As they continued their playful exploration, Winterfell, if only for a while seemed to reclaim a measure of the warmth and mirth Alina had grown to love.

[rainstormies]

(7) the whispering woods

mc: alina hightower

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 4.1k

synopsis: the fall of a king, and the rise of a queen. as the warmth of the reach meets the cold north, ice dances with fire

ALINA

Darkness enveloped Alina as she found herself standing alone in the midst of a forest. The gnarled branches of the trees reached out like skeletal fingers, casting elongated shadows that danced with an otherworldly rhythm. The air felt heavy.

A distant, haunting howl echoed through the silence, the mournful sound sending shivers down her spine. As she strained to see through the murky shadows, a figure emerged from the darkness - a direwolf, its fur as black as the abyss, eyes gleaming with an unnatural glow. The wolf circled her, its movements a macabre dance, and with each step, the air grew colder.

Suddenly, the scene shifted. Alina found herself in a grand hall, adorned with the banners of House Stark and House Hightower entwined. A celebration was underway, but the air was thick with tension. Alina's eyes sought her family, and there, at the head of the hall, she saw her father and mother, their faces etched with worry.

In the centre of the hall stood Robb Stark, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her uneasy. The revelry around them faded into an eerie silence, leaving only the echo of her own heartbeat. As Robb approached, a sudden gust extinguished the candles, plunging the hall into darkness.

The direwolf's how echoed once more, closer now, as if it were right beside her. Alina's breath quickened, her pulse racing with an unspoken fear. The shadows seemed to writhe and contort, forming grotesque shapes that whispered of impending doom.

Just as the direwolf's eyes locked onto hers, a blinding light erupted from the weirwood tree. The figure of a hooded woman emerged, her eyes pools of infinite knowledge. The woman extended a hand, and Alina felt an irresistible pull, drawing her closer to the tree. The direwolf's how grew louder, echoing in her mind.

The hooded woman spoke, her voice a melodic echo. "The union of ice and fire brings forth the storm, and in its wake, a choice must be made."

Alina tried to speak, to ask for clarity, but her voice was swallowed by the howling wind.

And just like that it was gone.

Alina awoke with a start, the echo of the driewolf's howl still lingering in her ears. Sweat clung to her brow, and her chest heaved with remnants of fear. The woods, the grand hall, the mysterious woman - they all dissolved into the haze of a fading dream.

The bed felt foreign beneath her, the furs less familiar than the ones she used to wrap herself in at Hightower. She missed Oldtown, the gentle breezes that carried the fragrance of flowers, and the radiant warmth that lingered in every corner of her home.

The morning sun spilt through the narrow window, casting a golden glow over the room. As Alina rose, the weight of homesickness settled upon her. Determined to quell the yearning, she decided to seek solace in the small sept within the castle, a place Lady Catelyn had shown her years ago.

The sept, adorned with the symbol of the Faith of the Seven, felt quiet and sacred. Lady Catelyn had explained that it had been built for her by her lord husband as she followed the southern customs, the new gods they believed in. Alina knelt before the altar, her fingers tracing the contours of the seven-pointed star. The familiar prayers of her childhood spilled from her lips, a whisper of familiarity in the foreign North.

As she rose from her prayers, Alina found herself wandering through the corridors of Winterfell. The castle, with its stone walls and towering structures, seemed to hold secrets within its ancient stones. Her steps led her to the godswood, a place that had once scared her with its eerie faces carved into the heart of the trees.

The air in the godswood carried a different kind of stillness. The rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of the castle seemed muted here. Alina's gaze shifted to the faces carved into the trees, each one seemingly watching her with silent judgement. The stories she had heard about the old gods and their connection to the weirwoods lingered in her mind.

With hesitant steps, Alina approached the heart trees, its carved face weathered by time. The eyes, though motionless, felt like they followed her every move. The godswood, once intimidating, now beckoned her to unravel its mysteries.

Alina did not know what force had brought her to the godswood, but she found herself there nonetheless. As she sank to her knees before the heart tree, a feeling of vulnerability settled over her. The carved faces seemed to soften, their ancient gaze becoming more benevolent than judgemental. In the silence of the godswood, Alina whispered her hopes and fears - about her family, about her new home - the words carried away by the rustling leaves.

The godswood cradled Alina in its quiet embrace, the shadows of the ancient heart trees playing on the ground like spectral dancers. She had no intention to end up here, yet the pull of the sacred grove had been irresistible. As she rose from her prayers, a voice cut through the quiet, and she turned to find Robb standing near the entrance.

"Alina," he called gently, the echo of her name carrying a warmth that contrasted with the cool air of the godswood. "A servant told me they saw you enter. What brings you to this sacred place?"

The surprise in his voice made her uneasy. "I... I'm not sure, Robb. It's just... peaceful here."

He nodded, his gaze holding a thoughtful understanding. "It is, isn't it? My father often says the godswood is the heart of Winterfell. A place where secrets find solace."

Alina looked at him, appreciating the way he seemed to understand the unspoken language of the godswood. "Secrets," she mused, "and hopes. Fears, too."

Robb took a step closer, his eyes searching hers. "Tell me, Alina. What secrets, hopes, and fears does the godswood hold for you?"

She hesitated, the vulnerability of the godswood seeping into her words. "I... I worry for my family, for the future. This is all so new, and I miss the warmth of the South, the familiar faces of my home. I fear... well I guess I fear the unknown."

Robb's expression softened, and he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're not alone, Alina. Winterfell may be different from Oldtown, but you have friends here, people who care about you."

Alina met his gaze, and in that moment, the godswood felt like a sacred space shared only by the two of them. "And you," Robb continued, "do you truly wish to be wed to me? It's a decision you cannot take lightly."

She looked away, her gaze falling to the ancient roots beneath her. "At first, it felt like a duty, a responsibility to our houses. But... I've grown to like you, Robb. You're not what I expected."

He chuckled, a warm sound that echoed through the godswood. "I could say the same about you, Lady Alina. The South may be warm, but there's a warmth in you that transcends the Reach."

The godswood held its breath as Robb's warm chuckle lingered in the air, wrapping around them like a tender caress. Alina felt a soft blush touch her cheeks, and her heart quickened as Robb's eyes held hers with a sincerity that felt like the first light of dawn after a long night.

He took a step closer, his hand gently reaching for hers, their fingers entwining like the roots of the ancient heart trees. "Lady Alina," he whispered, the words carrying a delicate intimacy that made her breath catch, "there's a beauty in you that surpasses the gardens of the South. It's a warmth that blossoms even in the harshest of winters."

A soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead, the godswood itself seemingly acknowledging the blossoming connection between them. Alina could not help but meet Robb's gaze, finding a vulnerability mirrored in his eyes - a vulnerability that resonated with her own.

"Robb," she said, unable to hold back her giggle, "but you've never been to the Reach. How could you know about the gardens there, or what they look like?"

Robb laughed at that. "I have heard the stories! And if the gardens are half as beautiful as they say they are, well, they are nothing compared to you."

No one had ever spoken to Alina, or even about her, in the way that Robb did. His voice was sincere, like he meant every word he said. Alina had never felt so lucky.

"Alina," Robb said, his voice low and tender, "when we marry, it won't be just for our houses. It will be because I want to share every season, every joy and challenge, with you. You're not alone in this, and you won't be."

Her heart swelled with a warmth that surpassed the confines of the godswood. "I may have come here seeking solace, but I've found more than that. I've found a friend, a confidant, and maybe even something more." She replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stopped, turning to face her, and Alina felt the world around them fade into a hushed backdrop. Robb's gaze bore into hers with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.

"Alina," he said, his voice barely audible, "I've found more than a betrothed. I've found someone I care about deeply, someone I want by my side through all the seasons of life."

In that quiet corner of the godswood, Robb cupped her cheek with his free hand, his touch gentle yet electrifying. Alina closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, savouring the warmth of his palm against her skin.

"Whatever happens, Alina," he continued, his breath mingling with hers, "we'll face it together."

Time seemed to stop in the quiet of the godswood, and Alina found herself captivated by Robb's earnest gaze. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and the air was charged with an unspoken anticipation. As if guided by an invisible force, Robb's thumb traced a delicate pattern into the back of her hand.

"Robb," she whispered, her voice a fragile echo in the sacred grove.

He leaned in, their breaths mingling in the crisp air. Alina's heart quickened, a flutter of anticipation dancing within her chest. In the delicate space between them, where vows of marriage had been exchanged, something unspoken yet profound lingered - a shared understanding that transcended words.

Their lips brushed in a tender, innocent kiss. It was a delicate meeting, like the first snowfall of winter, soft and pure. The world around them faded, leaving only the rustling leaves and the gentle warmth of Robb's lips against hers.

As they parted, a shy smile played on Robb's lips, mirroring the warmth that blossomed within Alina. The godswood, in all its ancient wisdom, seemed to nod in approval.

"Whatever happens." Alina whispered in reply, her forehead resting against his. The godswood, witness to countless tales of love and loss, held their secret close.

In the Great Keep of Winterfell, Alina found herself in a small chamber that Lord Eddard had graciously set aside for her use. A delicate easel stood in one corner, and the room was bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through a narrow window. On a sturdy wooden table lay an assortment of pigments, brushes, and vellum.

Her fingers traced the array of colours - vivid blues, deep reds, and golden yellows. The pigments were a treasure trove, a palette that beckoned her creativity. Alina marvelled at the richness of the hues, realising the effort it must have taken to acquire such precious materials, especially this far north where tapestries were much more common than paintings.

Lord Eddard, who had taken her in as a ward, had somehow learned of her passion for painting. Perhaps it was a word passed along by her father, or perhaps it was the Lord of Winterfell's own perceptive nature. Either way, the gesture spoke volumes to Alina. She felt a warmth in her chest - a sense of gratitude for the acknowledgement of her individuality, her identity beyond the duties of marriage and alliances. She wished to thank Lord Eddard somehow but was not sure how to.

Seated before the easel, Alina dipped her brush into a pot of royal blue pigment. The liquid was velvety beneath her touch, and she marvelled at the ease with which it glided across the vellum. She began to paint, losing herself in the rhythmic strokes, each one bringing the scene in her mind to life.

As the colours blended and danced on the canvas, Alina found solace in the act of creation. The mundane concerns of betrothals and politics faded away, replaced by the vibrant world she was conjuring with her brush.

The door creaked open, and she looked up to see Lord Eddard standing on the threshold. His eyes, the colour of winter skies, held a quiet understanding.

"Lady Alina," he greeted with a nod, stepping into the room. "I hope the pigments suit your liking."

She smiled, her heart warmed by the thoughtful gift. "They are exquisite, my lord. I did not expect such generosity."

Lord Eddard inclined his head. "Creativity should be nurtured, Lady Alina. Winterfell may be different from Hightower, but we appreciate the arts in our own way."

Alina dipped her brush into a pot of golden yellow, the hue reminiscent of the sun-drenched fields of Oldtown. "I cannot express my gratitude enough, my lord. These pigments must have cost a fortune, especially so far from the markets of Lannisport."

A hint of a smile played on Lord Eddard's lips. "The North may be known for its practicality, but even we recognise the value of beauty. And if it brings you joy, then it is a worthy investment."

As Alina continued to paint, Lord Eddard lingered for a moment before taking his leave, leaving her to her art.

A gentle knock echoed through the chamber, pulling Alina away from her work. Some time must have passed because the sun setting was casting long shadows over the room. Alina had not noticed how late it had become. It was almost time for supper.

She turned around and found herself facing her betrothed. "My lady," Robb greeted, stepping into the room, "may I intrude on your artistic solitude?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Alina's lips. "Of course, Robb. You're not an intruder. I always welcome your presence."

His gaze drifted to the canvas, and he raised an eyebrow. "My father said you'd be here, so I thought I would escort you to the Great Hall." I guess it really was time for supper, Alina thought. "It's a beautiful painting. May I inquire about its subject?" Robb added.

Alina set her brush aside, gesturing for him to approach. "It's a portrait - a portrayal of someone dear to me."

Robb stepped closer, studying the vibrant strokes that captured the essence of the subject. "Your mother, perhaps?"

Surprise flickered in Alina's eyes, and she hesitated before nodding. "How did you know?"

Robb's lips curved into a warm smile. "There's an intimacy in the way you paint. It's as if the canvas itself holds a cherished memory."

Alina chuckled softly. "You're perceptive, Robb Stark. Yes, it was meant to be a landscape at first, but as I painted, memories flooded back. This scene reminded me of a moment I shared with my mother."

He took a seat nearby, his eyes never leaving the painting. "Tell me about it."

Alina's gaze softened as she began to weave the tale. "We were in the gardens of Hightower, surrounded by blooming flowers and the scent of summer. The sun cast a golden hue over everything. My mother loved those gardens, and she would take me there to share stories."

As she spoke, the memory unfolded in her mind like the unfurling of a painted scroll. Robb listened attentively, drawn into the narrative that transcended the canvas.

"We used to sit beneath a willow tree," Alina continued, "its branches offering a gentle shade. I remember the warmth of her hand in mine, and the laughter that echoed through the air. The painting captures the essence of that moment - a reminder of a time that feels both distant and timeless."

Robb's eyes softened, and he nodded in understanding. "It's a truly beautiful tribute, Alina. Your mother would be honoured by such a heartfelt portrayal."

A bittersweet smile touched Alina's lips. "Thank you, Robb. Painting allows me to revisit those moments, to hold onto the memories that time seeks to fade away."

With the remnants of the day's sunlight casting a warm glow across Winterfell's corridors, Robb extended a courteous hand toward Alina. "Shall we, Lady Alina? The feast awaits, and I'm sure the aroma of the Great Hall's delights will compete with the colours of your canvas."

Alina chuckled, placing her hand in his. "Lead the way, my lord. I could use a break from my artistic endeavours."

As they strolled through the stone hall of Winterfell, the flickering torches illuminated the ancient tapestries that adorned the walls. Robb, ever the courteous escort, engaged Alina in casual conversations, sharing stories of Winterfell and its history.

"Your home is quite different from the Hightower, isn't it?" he remarked, his eyes thoughtful.

"It is," Alina replied, glancing around at the sturdy stone walls and the architectural simplicity that defined the North. "Yet, there's a certain strength and resilience in these walls that speaks of enduring winters and battles fought."

Robb nodded, a glint of admiration in his eyes. "Winterfell has weathered many storms, and its foundations have stood firm through generations. It's a testament to the North's character."

As they entered the great hall, the lively ambiance greeted them—the murmur of conversations, the clinking of goblets, and the savoury scents wafting from the long banquet tables laden with dishes. The Stark children sat at the high table, their faces alight with the joy of shared company.

Lord Eddard Stark, seated at the head of the table, acknowledged their arrival with a nod. "Lady Alina, Lord Robb, join us. Winterfell's hospitality is yours to enjoy."

Alina took her place at the table, her eyes scanning the familiar faces. Robb seated himself beside her, and they exchanged a subtle smile, a silent acknowledgement of the connection that had blossomed in the godswood.

Throughout the feast, Alina found herself immersed in the lively atmosphere. The Stark children regaled her with tales of Winterfell's history and the adventures they shared. Even the direwolf pups, now a lively addition to the Stark family, added a touch of whimsy to the evening.

As the feast continued, Lord Eddard Stark raised his goblet in a toast. "To new alliances and shared moments in the North. May the bonds between House Stark and House Hightower grow stronger with each passing day."

The sentiment was met with resounding cheers, and Alina felt a warmth in her chest—a sense of belonging that transcended the differences between the Reach and the North.

The evening unfolded in a symphony of laughter and camaraderie, and as the feast drew to a close, Robb once again offered Alina his arm. "Shall I escort you back to your chambers, Lady Alina?"

With a gracious nod, she accepted his gesture. The dimly lit gallery that leads from the Great Hall to the Great Keep held a quiet hush as Alina and Robb made their way toward her chambers. The echoes of laughter from the feast lingered in the air, but the castle seemed to embrace a gentle stillness as if granting a moment of privacy to those who walked its halls.

Upon reaching the door to Alina's chambers, she turned to Robb, her eyes reflecting a subtle conflict. "Lord Robb, would you... would you care to join me for a while? There are matters we ought to discuss."

Robb's expression shifted, registering both surprise and understanding. "Of course, Lady Alina. I would be honoured."

As they entered the room, Alina motioned towards the small table set by the window. "Please, have a seat. I'll just... I'll just be a moment."

Alina's inner turmoil wrestled with the desire to extend an invitation into her personal space. Tradition and propriety whispered caution in her ear, urging restraint until the vows of marriage were exchanged. She took a steadying breath and decided to follow the path of honour.

Nella, ever attentive, excused herself with a courteous nod. "I'll fetch some tea for you both from the kitchens, m'lady, m'lord."

Once alone, Alina took her seat across from Robb, her gaze meeting his with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. "Lord Robb, there's something I wish to discuss. It concerns our future, our marriage."

Robb nodded a quiet seriousness in his eyes. "I'm listening, Lady Alina."

She hesitated for a moment, choosing her words with care. "It's a delicate matter, one that pertains to the customs of our regions. In the Reach, it is customary for families to share a cup of wine when discussing the betrothal of their children. A gesture of unity and shared purpose."

Understanding dawned on Robb's face, and a gentle smile graced his lips. "I see. It's a beautiful tradition, Alina."

Embarking on the conversation eased some of the tension within her, and Alina continued, "I wanted to extend the invitation to share a cup of wine, a symbol of our families coming together. However, I understand if you feel it's premature, given the current circumstances."

Robb reached for her hand across the table, his touch reassuring. "My lady, I believe in forging our path, one step at a time. If this is a tradition that brings us closer, then I would be honoured to share a cup of wine with you."

A sense of relief washed over Alina, and a grateful smile played on her lips. "Thank you, Robb."

Nella returned with a tray bearing a carafe of wine with two goblets and another with rosemary tea, Alina's favourite. She poured a modest amount of wine into each and discreetly withdrew, leaving Alina and Robb to their private moment.

As they raised their goblets in unison, a silent toast to unity and shared destiny, Alina couldn't help but feel the weight of tradition intertwining with the promise of their future. The wine, a deep red like the tapestries of Alina's old chambers, held the essence of both warmth and commitment.

"To unity and shared purpose," Robb said, his eyes meeting hers in a vow that transcended words.

The warm glow of candles cast a soft ambiance in Alina's chamber, the flickering light dancing on the tapestries that adorned the walls. As they sipped the wine, the atmosphere seemed to shift, becoming charged with a quiet intensity.

"I never imagined your journey North would lead to such moments," Robb confessed, his gaze locked with Alina's.

"Nor I," Alina replied, her voice a gentle melody. "But life has a way of weaving unexpected threads, doesn't it?"

Their fingers grazed briefly as they set down their goblets, the subtle touch sending ripples through the air. Robb's eyes held a warmth that transcended the flickering candlelight. "Lady Alina, there's a question that has lingered in my thoughts."

Alina tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Ask away, my lord."

He took a breath, his gaze unwavering. "When I first saw you in the godswood, there was a moment - a moment where it felt as if time itself had stilled. I felt a connection, something beyond duty or alliances. Tell me, do you believe in destiny?"

A tender smile graced Alina's lips. "I believe that each choice we make, every step we take, shapes our destiny. And in this moment, I choose to believe in the potential for something beautiful."

Robb reached across the table, taking her hand in both of his. "As do I."

Silence lingered between them, a shared understanding that surpassed words. The flickering candles whispered secrets of a future yet unwritten.

As the night wore on, Robb felt a reluctance to part ways. The warmth of Alina's presence enveloped him like a comforting embrace. "Lady Alina, I wish I could stay longer. The night is young, and our conversations are a balm to my soul."

Alina's eyes mirrored his sentiment, a silent acknowledgement of the connection they were forging. "I share the sentiment, Lord Robb. But duty calls, and we must navigate the delicate dance of propriety."

He rose from his seat, a regretful smile on his face. "Indeed, my lady. Until our paths cross again."

Robb's departure left a gentle ache in the room, a reminder of the boundaries that duty imposed. As the door closed behind him, Alina could not help but wonder about the tapestry of their shared moments - each thread woven with the hope of a future that held promises yet untold.

Alina stood by the window, watching the moonlit courtyard below. The echoes of their conversation lingered, a whispered promise in the stillness of Winterfell. 

[rainstormies]

(6) silver shadows

mc: alina hightower

fandom: a song of ice and fire

word count: 1.5k

synopsis: the fall of a king, and the rise of a queen. as the warmth of the reach meets the cold north, ice dances with fire

ALINA

Two years had passed since Alina first arrived in Winterfell. The air bore a hint of anticipation as she remained within the castle's protective walls. The Stark brothers, Robb and Bran, with their half-brother Jon Snow, departed for the execution, leaving the quietude of Winterfell in their wake. The chilly winds nipped at Alina's cheeks.

In a clearing outside of Winterfell, the Stark boys witnessed the solemn execution of a man who had abandoned the Night's Watch. The cold northern wind carried with it the weight of duty and honour, each gut echoing the gravity of the vows sworn in the icy blackness.

When the boys returned, a transformative energy accompanied them. A hushed excitement permeated the air, the castle gates swinging open to welcome back the heirs of Winterfell. In a display that would forever alter the course of their destinies, they returned with six direwolf pups - the sigil of House Stark.

Alina had never seen a real wolf before, much less a direwolf. She had been told they only lived past the Wall.

"Robb, are those?" Alina could not help her excitement as she approached the red-haired boy.

Robb greeted her with a smile and extended his arms to show a small pup with fur as grey as winter clouds. "They're direwolves." He replied.

"They're adorable," Alina exclaimed, her eyes fixed on the little grey pup in Robb's arms. The direwolf nuzzled against Robb's hand, its eyes holding a spark of intelligence that seemed to acknowledge the significance of the moment.

Robb's gaze shifted from the wolf to Alina, a familiar warmth in his smile. "I thought you'd appreciate them. Grey Wind I have decided to call him, like the winds that sweep across the plains of the North."

Alina could not help but smile at that, her fingers gently tracing the soft fur of the pup. "You've always had a way of choosing wisely, Robb Stark. Grey Wind suits you well."

Robb's cheeks tinted with a hint of colour, a bashful response that betrayed a hidden vulnerability beneath his stoic exterior. The two friends, close yet tethered by the unspoken boundaries of their roles, shared a moment of quiet understanding.

As the direwolf pups played around them, their playful antics echoed in the courtyard. Robb, typically confident in matters of leadership, found solace in the simplicity of this shared joy. Alina, too, revelled in the companionship of the wolves, a welcome distraction from the weight of her own responsibilities.

The occasional shyness between them surfaced, a subtle dance of glances and half-smiles that spoke volumes. As they walked through the courtyard, with Grey Wind in tow, Alina's hand brushed against Robb's in a fleeting touch. She felt her face heat up at the accidental touch, and was glad the winds today were cruel, and that her cheeks were already visibly pink.

SAMIRA

Samira sat alone by the castle window, her gaze fixed on the meandering river below. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow across the landscape. Her thoughts, however, lingered far beyond the castle walls, reaching out to the distant lands where her sister Alina now resided.

The gentle rustle of the curtains stirred the air, carrying with it the whispers of the Reach. Samira's fingers traced absent patterns on the windowsill. Alina, her dear sister, was now a world away, surrounded by the ancient stones of Winterfell.

A sigh escaped Samira's lips, a sigh laden with the weight of separation. The river, with its ever-flowing current, mirrored the passage of time that carried Alina farther from the warmth of Hightower and the Reach. The bustling life of Oldtown seemed a distant memory as Samira sat in the quiet solitude of the castle.

She closed her eyes, remembering the images of Alina's spirited laughter, the way her golden hair would catch in the sunlight and the shared secrets that bound them as sisters.

Samira's heart swelled with the bittersweet beauty of memories. The courtyard echoed with the distant sounds of training swords. The vibrant colours of Oldtown, with its blooming flowers and lush greenery, seemed a stark contrast to the northern landscapes Alina now called home.

A small bird perched on the windowsill, its song a melancholy melody.

Driven by an unspoken curiosity, Samira followed the small bird as it flitted through the corridors of Hightower. Its wings fluttered as the bird guided her through the passages of the tower. The air grew cooler as she ascended, each step leading her higher into the heart of the towering structure.

The bird eventually alighted on a window ledge, overlooking the vast expanse of Oldtown. Samira's gaze followed its trajectory, her eyes widening at the breathtaking panorama that unfolded before her. She marvelled at the city below, its labyrinthine streets, and the distant shimmer of the Sunset Sea.

As Samira revelled in the beauty of the scene, a creaking door caught her attention. Turning, she found herself in a dimly lit chamber - the highest point of Hightower. The air was thick with age and wisdom, and Samira sensed a presence that transcended the passing of time.

There, in the bed nestled against the tower's curved wall, lay a figure - a silhouette obscured by the dim light filtering through heavy curtains. Samira hesitated at the threshold, her small form barely noticeable in the expansive chambers.

The air felt different here, tinged with the scent of age and illness. Shadows played on the walls, casting eerie shapes that danced in the corners of Samira's imagination. Her heart quickened, a sense of trepidation welling within her. The room seemed to echo with the hushed whispers of ghostly tales her older brother, Gerald, would share during moonlit nights.

With a tentative step forward, Samira peered at the figure in the bed, her wide eyes adjusting to the low light. The chamber held an otherworldly quality, and for a moment, her imagination painted the room with spectral apparitions. The frail form beneath the blankets seemed to blend with the shadows, giving rise to a sense of unease.

"Who's there?" a soft voice, weakened by illness, broke the stillness.

Samira's breath caught in her throat. She recognised the voice - it was the voice of her grandfather. But the fear, like a shadow, lingered. Her small fingers clutched the edges of her dress as she stammered, "It's me... it's me, Grandfather. Samira."

A flicker of recognition crossed Lord Leyton's eyes, and a feeble smile played on his lips. "Samira, my sweet. The birds told me you would come."

Torn between the desire to obey and the lingering fear, Samira approached the bedside. The room, once shrouded in mystery, gradually revealed its familiar features - the comforting scent of aged wood, the embroidered tapestries, and the warmth of the blankets.

As Samira drew near, the dim light outlined her grandfather's face. His features, weathered by time and ailment, appeared different from her memories. The tales of ghosts that Gerald would spin during their nocturnal gatherings had left an indelible mark on Samira's young mind.

"Grandfather, is it really you?" Samira's voice quivered, her eyes searching Lord Leyton's face for reassurance.

Her grandfather extended a frail hand, his touch gentle as he cupped Samira's cheek. "Yes, my dear. It is me. Do not be frightened."

Relief washed over Samira, and she nestled against her grandfather's side. Lord Leyton, weakened by illness, exuded a warmth that dispelled the lingering shadows. The stories that once seemed haunting now transformed into mere echoes of imagination.

The small bird that had guided her here perched on the window sill, its feathered wings glittering in the sunlight.

As Samira sat by her grandfather's side, her heart felt heavy. "How do you feel, Grandfather?"

Lord Leyton's eyes bore into hers, and he spoke in measured words. "Time has a way of moving swiftly, my dear. But there are moments, like this one, where it seems to slow. I am fading, Samira, and I fear I may not have many moments left."

A lump formed in Samira's throat, and she reached out to hold her grandfather's frail hand. "What do you mean, Grandfather? You won't be here for much longer?"

But there was no response to get from Lord Leyton. His eyes had already closed, and his breathing became steadier and heavier. Samira stayed there, holding her grandfather's hand, too scared to let go.

"Samira," her aunt Malora greeted her. "Grandfather needs his rest. You should visit when he is feeling better."

Reluctantly, Samira nodded, giving her grandfather one last lingering look. The small bird chirped from its perch as if bidding her farewell.

As she descended the tower, Samira carried with her the weight of the moment, the realisation that the towering legacy of House Hightower rested on the shoulders of those who walked the fine line between past and future.

As she resumed her original seat by the windowsill, Samira looked out over Oldtown. The river continued its steady flow.