siravalondulac

[siravalondulac]

010. elia ii

house of lies, city of blood

asoiaf ff | fem!oc centric

summary: elia realises she doesn't like spending time without her sister word count: 1117 warnings: none

masterlist

previous | next

She tried not to let the little incident at the wedding affect her enjoyment of King's Landing, but with her father having to act as a judge and her sister being, for the lack of a better word, out of it, that had not been quite as achievable. She still had her mother, technically.

Some people might be happy being able to spend more time with their mother, and she had been as well when her mother had offered to accompany her instead of Elle, yet at the end of day one she yearned to get her sister back. Because her mother did not want to walk alone with her, insisting on building an entire travelling party.

The three ladies that had come from Dorne with them - Myria Jordayne, Larra Blackmont, and her daughter, Jynessa - accompanied them, as well as her grandfather, Harmen Uller, and, because her mother was her mother, seven servants were forced to join their party as well. At least bloody Daemon Sand had opted to remain in the manse.

They did not wish to explore. Not truly, at least, not as she and Elle had done both here and back home. Instead, they meandered about, looking at this and that, heading through one store then passing another.

“How about this one, Elia?”

Her mother held up a bulky golden necklace, and she did her best not to frown at such a ridiculous thing.

“That will burn my skin as soon as I step foot into the sun.”

Someone giggled behind her - likely Myria, the heir of House Jordayne had never truly liked her - but they were quickly shushed by someone else.

Clothing, hair, beauty - what was she to do with all that? Her interests laid in martial matters, in learning and exploring, to be just like her father. Or heroes like Allyria Dayne, Nimueh Starlight, Queen Valena, and the Golden Paladin.

A knight, travelling the lands and fulfilling great deeds. That was where her destiny laid.

“Have you seen that Kingsguard at the wedding, the one with the wings on his helmet? I believe he is Dornish,” Jynessa said as she excitedly took ahold of Myria’s arm.

“But there are no Dornish knights on the Kingsguard,” the other girl responded. “Perhaps a Marcher lord?”

“No, a northerner could have never been as handsome as him. Believe me, I saw it in his eyes.”

“That he is Dornish or that he is handsome?”

The two girls turned around to Elia, both looking similarly annoyed at her sudden interruption.

“Don’t worry about that,” Myria said. “Lady Lance could never understand that.”

Even despite her condescending tone, Elia knew her words to carry truth. She had, after all, never, not once in her life, been interested in a boy. Nor a girl, for that matter. 

She had tried, of course. Tried to experience that thing that connected her parents, to feel what others experienced every day, to force it out of herself. Perhaps, she had thought, if she only spent enough time with people she thought pretty, it would come naturally.

But no matter how hard she tried, nothing happened. No number of boys or girls she kissed, no amount of forcing herself through those awful books about chivalry and romance Elle so adored changed what was fundamentally different inside of her. And now that she was approaching eight and ten, she assumed it never would.

Good riddance, she thought to herself on some days, when she remembered the girls crying because a boy had rebuffed their advances. Love seemed far too much work than she was willing to put up with. There was no need for it, either. She had everything she needed.

Now she remembered why she disliked being around her mother’s friends. Elle understood her, and when she didn't she at least accepted her and never mentioned it again, but these ladies did neither. Despite hailing from Dorne, even they had preconceived notions of what a woman should be like.

The royal court must be even worse in this regard. If she had been Elle, she would have fled as well.

Her father returned in the evening, while they had already started with dinner - today even her grandfather Harmen and her great-uncle Ulwyck had joined them.

The trial had been over for two days now, Tyrion Lannister having called for a trial by combat according to her father. Yet he had returned to the castle once more today, and now he finally told them why.

“I have offered Lord Tyrion to champion him at his trial on the morrow,” he said as he took his seat at the table, “and he has accepted.”

“Why would you do that?” Elia asked. “I thought we hated House Lannister.”

“Not everyone.” He sent a smile towards Elle. “Rarely is ever an entire family to blame for a crime, as is the case here. I believe Lord Tyrion to be innocent, the evidence is simply too convenient. Yet even if-” He paused. “The crown's champion will be the Mountain.”

It seemed as if even the birds quietened for a moment.

“Be careful,” her mother said. “I know how much this means to you, but be careful.”

“I would fear more for the Mountain,” Ulwyck said. “He will rue the day he decided to challenge Dorne.”

“You have nothing to worry about, my love.” Her father pressed a kiss to her mother’s hand. “I have waited so long for this moment, not even the gods will be able to save that monster.” He chuckled, then his gaze wandered towards Elle, who had remained silent during their conversation. “You haven't eaten.”

Indeed, her sister's bowl was untouched, still filled with Ful Medames, a stew consisting of beans, parsley, garlic, and onions.

“I'm not hungry.”

“You should eat something,” Elia said with a smirk. “How else are you planning to defeat me during our sparring sessions?”

Elle stared at the bowl before her, her hands burying themselves in her skirt's fabric. Then she stood up so suddenly, her chair toppled over and fell to the ground. “I shall return to my rooms, I am rather tired.”

And with that, she had disappeared through the door.

Elia was about to run after her, when her mother laid a hand on her wrist.

“Let her be,” she said quietly. “She has just lost her brother, she needs time to work through it.” Now she felt stupid. Of course Elle had been out of it, she would be as well if she lost a member of her family. Even after she had been told of Elle's real identity, it seemingly still needed time to fully sink in that her sister wasn't only hers.

previous | next

author's note: where's the meme that goes "it is MY sexuality and I get to choose the characters i headcanon as such"

[siravalondulac]

- sapphire steel

"why won't you hate me?” “if my prince wants me to.”

jon snow x fem!oc

summary: one night, a strange woman shows up in jon's chambers additional notes: rhaegar wins au, heavy smut, dubious consent, slow updates

also read on: ao3

series masterlist | additional works masterlist

pinterest board | spotify playlist

chapters:

i. a visitor

ii. hatred

iii. curiosity

iv. ...

°☆to be continued☆°

[siravalondulac]

i've wanted to make a masterpost about my asoiaf ocs for ages now, because i have come up with a lot of them and i feel their lore has become a bit convoluted. there are more than what are listed here, but these are the ones that have already been introduced. so here you go, have fun with them :3

(fyi, these are all from my series stars above, songs below)

cerelle baratheon fc: imogen poots

also known as: elle sand, golden paladin, sir elle of the riverlands inspiration: aelin galathynius, robin hood, elsa of arendelle, allerleirauh

-eldest daughter of cersei and robert (*cough* jaime) -looks exactly like a lannister, besides her blue eyes -mirror image of her mother -born in deep den (seat of house lydden) (the court had been travelling back to king's landing from casterly rock, when one of the worst snowstorms the westerlands had ever seen forced them to stay in the castle) -follows the faith of the seven -has a horse named starlight -is pansexual (because i say so) and autistic (because why not)

-grows up sheltered in the red keep, therefore develops a rebellious streak; climbing the castle walls, escaping in to the city, terrorising the nobles -is betrothed to robb stark at seven, hates this so much she runs away, ending up in braavos, where oberyn martell finds her and convinces her to come to sunspear with him -lives there as elle sand, his bastard, and is finally allowed the freedom she long craved, even learning to fight with a spear and daggers -at fourteen, finds out oberyn had only been using her for her claim and plans to betroth her to quentyn, runs away again, this time ending up north of the wall -is eventually found by benjen stark, and brough to castle black, where she lives until the start of the story

cerelle definitely has abandonment issues, seemingly only ever being valuable to others because of her title and never truly loved for herself. she despises duty and being forced into roles and positions she doesn't want (which makes her knighthood all the more terrifying for her). but she is compassionate and feels a lot very easily, and therefore gets involved in a lot of weird adventures. she hates killing, hates violence, yet because of the world she lives in gets pushed again and again into situations where those are the only means of escape. she has only ever fallen in love with people she can't have (brother of the night's watch, women, her enemies, her kingsguard) as if the distance she is forced into because of that saves her from having to commit. because cerelle has spent her entire life running away, she has forgotten how to stay.

benjiamin vypren fc: sebastian amoruso

also known as: the butcher of sallydance inspiration: kylo ren, the weeping monk

-lord of high anura (castle in the riverlands) -son of elyana vypren and a man from volantis (elyana exists in canon, she is married to jon wylde, a rando from the stormlands. in this version, she was exiled for attempting to kill her younger brother, ending up in volantis and developing an obsession for a man she meets there. she marries him and returns to westeros, this time successfully usurping her younger brother, killing him and their father to consolidate her rule. she is ruthless, efficient, and in charge of one of the largest armies of the realm.) -younger sister: jayna vypren (oc) -expert archer

-raised since he was little to become as ruthless and viscious as his mother, shaped into her perfect ideal of a lord, punished if he doesn't obey -only has one friend, henrix, but even he has to be kept at a distance -archery is his favourite, and it's the one thing he disagrees with his mother on (she says it's a cowardly way to fight) -barely talks to his father or sister, isolated even from them -yet over the years starts slipping from his mother's grasp, thinking on his own, rejecting her violent ways, something she punishes him severely for -one night, he argues with his mother, in his anger pushes her away from him, she stumbles and falls off the castle walls and to her death -feels terrible and hates himself, but remembers what his mother told him: to never show others weakness -so he pretends he killed her intentionally, names himself lord of high anura, and eliminates any opposition -stays in his castle for the most part, treats his subjects just as terribly as his mother, hosts many tourneys and feasts to distract himself, until the golden paladin (cerelle) shows up at one

benjiamin has. so many issues, so much pent-up anger and frustration that he doesn't know what to do with. his mother traumatized him heavily, and even if that doesn't excuse his actions, it certainly explains a lot of them. when cerelle shows up, distrupting his tourney and besting him at something no one had previously beat him at, he becomes obsessed with bringing her down.

helena terrick fc: kelly marie tran

inspiration: helen of troy

-heir to cherrycross (riverlands) (house terrick exists as a name-drop in canon, yet nothing more. i decided to place them along the tumblestone near the border of the westerlands, making their castle invaluable for defense if someone wants to attack riverrun by river.) -parents: leopold terrick and liên (ocs) -younger sisters: hue and hà loan (ocs) -loves stories and tales of brave knights and pretty ladies -very much a lesbian

-grandmother was a merchant from yi-ti, took liên with her wherever she went, ended up in king's landing during robert baratheon's coronation where helena's parents met -loves and appreciates her mother's culture even if she is heir to a westerosi castle; wears the traditional gowns, speaks the language, paints in the art style -lives very isolated from the rest of westeros, so grew to idealise fairytales; brave knights and damsels in distress and true love that conquers all, constantly lost in books -because she is heir to a strategic castle, she gets kidnapped by lannister soldiers during the war of the five kings, which starts her story in the series

helena, at the beginning of the story, looks upon the world with rose-tinted glasses, choosing to only see the romanticised version she has created in her head. so when cerelle comes around - a real-life hero of the people, the golden paladin who dares to stand up to evil - it seems like a dream come true for her, and she develops a rapid obsession with her. of course, even her life will eventually take a turn for the worse, this is westeros we are talking about.

zima fc: ariela barer

inspiration: milady de winter, corinne/phillippe

-bastard of lord jonos bracken (until now, i have only hinted at it in the story, but you could have realised if you read closely enough: how harry and her know each other seemingly very well, how similar they are described, her emphasising harry isn't the eldest, caring so deeply about barbara bracken, knowing intimately what happens at stone hedge) -first born of all of jonos' children -sometimes stays at stone hedge, mostly journeys the lands -cares deeply about her sisters -would do anything to achieve her goals -also very much sapphic

zima, like many characters, is a dark mirror to cerelle. they are both deeply compassionate, care about the innocents, and hate those that abuse their power, but zima will not hesitate to resort to violence. she is active, wheras cerelle is reactive.

harry rivers fc: luke pasqualino

inspiration: prince louis, phillippe

(technically not an oc, as harry rivers exists in canon. but we know virtually nothing about him besides his death, so i'll count him) -bastard son of lord jonos bracken -second oldest of all the children, something he despises -envious of his true-born siblings -wishes to become ruler of stone hedge -sometimes receives attention from his father, which only strengthens his resolve to usurp his sisters

harry has only sisters, and has a massive inferiority complex about it. he knows that if he had been true-born, stone hedge would be his, and that thought has been plaguing him for almost his entire life. every smidge of attention from his father sends him further down the spiral of wanting to be his father's heir, wanting to make him proud, wanting to be the son every westerosi lord desires.

henrix fc: hugh dancy

inspiration: hux

-born in the vale -closest companion of benjiamin vypren -general of the vypren armies

-parents died when he was young, he wandered the lands alone, trying to find work and a home -almost got killed by elyana vypren for trying to steal food from her gardens, benjiamin saved him, took him in -learned to read and write from him, as well as strategy, politics, etiquette -loyal to him without question, was made general when the war of the five kings broke out -involved in every decision benjiamin makes, excells at killing and crafting battle plans, might have an even greater kill count than benjiamin

henrix' entire life, for as long as he remembers, has always revolved around benjiamin. he owes him his life - both literally and in a greater sense, having his current standing in the world from him. he is loyal without question, and fulfills every demand benjiamin has of him, no matter how evil or vile. without benjiamin, he would be lost.

florian penfenics fc: charIes IecIerc

inspiration: sleeping beauty, cinderella

-a king from a time long before the conquest -cursed to sleep for eternity -has magic that can fulfill wishes -can see the future

florian is the character in the story that knows the most, but cannot properly communicate it. he has slept for millennia and was brought into the "modern" world by cerelle, a world he does not know or recognise. he keeps himself contained in his castle in the fear of being distrusted and even killed for posessing magic - something that was inherent to life during his time, but is now seen as something evil. adding to that is the lingering trauma of how the sleeping curse was created and cast upon him. and that is all i will say about him, any more would spoil the story.

[siravalondulac]

omg thank you! the brotherhood are legit so much fun, i desperately want to bring them back in every future part of this series.

lmao you are the first person to notice griechischer wein 😭 i thought it was so funny, and yes you are absolutely right about thoros. if anyone from the got verse would scream this in a bar at the top of their lungs it'd be the brotherhood.

xiv. songs connect me to my people

a heart so golden, a sun so bright

asoiaf ff | fem!oc centric

summary: elle meets the people who worship her word count: 2119 warnings: none author's note: final part of the "brotherhood arc"

masterlist

previous | next

She had expected much and more when Beric Dondarrion had told her to follow him, but to be taken to a cave entrance on the side of a hill was not amongst that.

Thoros approached her with a piece of fabric, moving behind her to lay it over her eyes.

“Do you not trust me?” She winced as strands of her hair got pulled into the knot.

“Just a precaution.”

He laid a hand on her back and pushed her forward.

She hated, hated, hated losing her sight. Oberyn had tried to blindfold her during training a handful of times, and she had always ripped the fabric off after just a few minutes. She had been trapped in darkness before - she would not let it happen again.

But she played nice this time. At least there was some light soaking through to her eyes. Not that that made the steep descent any easier. She stumbled over roots and stones and bumps in the ground, and Thoros had to grab her waist to keep her from falling more than once.

“Didn't know the great Paladin would be so uneasy on her feet.”

She huffed. “Usually, I am able to see-”

The blindfold was suddenly removed from her eyes, revealing the enormous cave before her. Its walls and floors were covered by white roots, with a fire burning in its middle and colouring the ceiling above it black.

Yet more curiously, there were people here, and quite a lot at that. She saw men, women, and children, chattering, working, going about their day. It looked… peaceful.

“What is this place?”

“Welcome to Hollow Hill,” Beric said. “What started out as our base quickly transformed into a refuge for anyone who needed it. Stark, Lannister, Baratheon - all those names mean nothing here.”

“It is wonderful.” Her gaze wandered across the cave. “But I still do not understand why you brought me here.”

Beric smirked. “They sing your songs at night.”

“What?”

“That is how we learned of you,” Anguy, one of the Brotherhood's archers, said. “Thought you were a myth at first, but then people arrived who claimed to have met you personally.”

“At this point,” Beric continued, “your mere existence gives them hope.”

The news of her arrival had spread like wildfire amongst the people, and soon after, the singing had started. A woman had brought out a fiddle and another a lute - not that either of those could be heard above the plethora of voices.

She had never even heard of half of the songs, and yet she had also never felt this good. Dancing at festivities, singing with the people around her, with no manners or rules to tie her down. She could be around whomever she wanted and talk to whomever she wanted.

A frog had called for a celebration

Of the victory over his people

Little did he know

It would all turn sour

The moment he’d let go of his arrow

For a hero had arrived

Determined to end his rule of terror

No matter the cost

She entered the tourney

Unseen by all

And with her golden curls swaying about

She threw her dagger

And buried it into his heart

They sang her songs, just like Beric had said, each and every one that was known to these people. Putting her at the centre of attention - in more ways than one.

Perhaps she was taken

By the king's enemies

Dragons, Snakes, or even the Others

Perhaps she was mistaken

For a lone orphan child

And sent to one of the brothels

Songs about her disappearance had even reached Dorne while she had been living there. After an initial scare that this could mean she could be found, she had started to like them. A lot. She had memorised each and every line to every song about herself she had access to, and sung them loudly at festivities. Oberyn had loved it, Doran… not so much.

Yet the people also sang songs she did not know what to feel about.

He sits alone on a giant throne

Pretendin' he's the king

A little tyke who's rather like

A puppet on a string

Too late to be known as Joff’ the First

He's sure to be known as Joff’ the Worst

A pox on that phoney king of West’ros!

This was her brother they were singing about. Her brother whom they were insulting. Sure, she had not seen him in years, nor heard anything substantial about him - besides what little Jon had mentioned - but she could not forget their childhood. He had been her only friend in the Keep, that had to count for something. Yet now, as she heard what these people said about him…

She’d been away for too long.

Whatever. Didn’t matter. They were in King’s Landing, she was here.

“Who is that up there?” she asked Harwin, pointing towards a lone figure sitting far up on the roots.

“That’s Arya Stark of Winterfell.” He laughs at her shocked expression. “I know, I know. But I remember her from my own service to her father, so you can trust me on this.”

She stared at her. “I met her brother.”

Oh no, oh no - why had she said this? She couldn’t just mention Jon like that! And in such a simple sentence as well.

“Which one?”

Should she expand on this? She could just walk away, leaving Harwin deadly confused. But that was not who she was.

“Her- Her half-brother.”

“Ah, Jon Snow. I remember him. Fine young lad.”

She quickly left his presence, making her way over to the other side of the cave. Climbing the roots, she ignored Beric sitting on a throne-like chair in their midst (without fucking banners they said), and settled a short distance away from Arya. The girl stared at her in confusion.

“Harwin told me who you are,” she said. “I'm Elle.”

Arya studied her, likely evaluating whether she should run or stay.

“What happened to your face?”

“That?” She grazed her fingers over the wounds. Still not healed. “Animal attack. Nothing serious.”

“Did you kill it afterwards?”

“No. It was merely hurt, and lashed out at me. I freed it from its pain and sent it on its way.”

“I would have killed it.”

They fell into silence. Elle's gaze wandered across the cave, across all the dancing and singing figures, before settling on Arya again.

“Why are you not joining them?”

“Why should I?” She seemed almost offended. “I am a prisoner. Prisoners don’t dance.”

“Would you like to?”

“Yeah, sure. But that has never been my world, always only Sansa’s. I forced Jon to take lessons with us, so that I wasn’t so alone, but I don’t think I will ever fit into that.”

Thank the gods for Arya Stark.

“You look like him, you know?”

The girl suddenly went wide-eyed, whipping her head around to her. “Do you- Do you mean Jon? Have you met Jon? When? Where?”

Elle chuckled at her excitement. “I was at Castle Black before coming here, that’s when I saw him.”

“How was he? Did he talk about me?”

“He's doing well. We did not really get to talk much, so he only got to mention you.”

A lie. A blatant, faulty lie. But she didn't want to squander that hopeful look on the girl's face too much. Nor did she want to talk about him too much. She couldn’t talk about him too much, the pain of leaving him still too big.

“I wish I could see him again,” Arya said.

“Aye, me too.”

The girl stared at her again, and cocked her head. “Who are you exactly? Everyone seems to know you.”

“They don't, they just-” She laughed. “Have you heard of the Golden Paladin?”

“Yeah, I heard the Lannisters in Harrenhal talk about her… Wait, are you saying that's you?”

Elle nodded.

“With the way they talked about you I would have expected you to be more…”

“Evil?”

“Yeah.”

Elle pondered. “You were at Harrenhal?”

“Against my will,” she said as if in defence. “Me and my friends had been taken prisoner, and they forced us to serve them. Tywin Lannister took me as his cupbearer, and I was scared he was going to find me out, but I think he was too occupied with his generals.”

“Do you remember what they said about me specifically?”

“Not really. Just that you were a threat and needed to be dealt with.” She played around with the threads on her sleeve. “There was one man who said he was going to hunt you. That he - what was it? That he would use your love for the people against you.”

She looked at the festivities dispersed in the cave once again. All these people had already suffered so much through this pointless war - she could not bear to see them harmed. Attacking them to get to her… It was certainly the easiest way to get her to behave.

A group below them had struck up a song of their own. Elle tried to listen to the words, yet she couldn’t make them out.

“What are they singing?”

Arya scratched at the white bark beneath them. “Some song about wanting to go home but not being able to. It’s in the Old Tongue, that’s why you don’t understand it.”

Griechischer Wein ist so wie das Blut der Erde

Komm, schenk dir ein

Und wenn ich dann traurig werde, liegt es daran

Dass ich immer träume von daheim, du musst verzeih'n

Denn ich fühl' die Sehnsucht wieder, in dieser Stadt

Werd' ich immer nur ein Fremder sein und allein

She slowly made her way through the crowd. How they were still able to go about their singing at such a volume was a mystery to her.

Sitting towards a cave wall was Thoros, staring into a fire. She had seen him throughout the entire night singing and drinking (a mad priest was one thing, but a drunkard, mad priest?), and decided to join him by the small fire.

“I cannot see you in my flames,” Thoros said. “When I ask the lord to show me anything of you, all I see is a dark void.”

“Perhaps my gods shield me from yours.”

He laughed, and took a swig of his bottle. “You don't think much of R'hllor.”

“My gods have never betrayed me. I feel little need to abandon them at this time.”

Again, that quiet laugh. “You'll see. You'll see.”

A change in song. She was unfamiliar with the tune echoing throughout the cave, so she tried to listen closer. And she truly wished she hadn't.

It was not as with the Northern song, where she truly had not understood the words - this time, she understood each and every one. Yet she could not make sense of what they meant.

“What-” She had to swallow. “What are they singing about?”

“Huh?” Thoros looked up in confusion. “Oh, that? That's about the queen's affair with her twin brother.”

Her heart stopped.

“What?” she whispered.

“Haven't you heard? All the queen's children are bastards, born of incest. It's why Stannis and Renly think they have a claim to the throne.”

Bastards. Incest.

“Are you- Are you certain? This is a serious accusation.”

“Oh, yeah. I am. You only had to look at them. Not a drop of old Robert's blood inside those kids.”

Later on, once she had excused herself, she found a small pond in one of the tunnels. Putting up a torch beside it, she stared at herself.

Her hair was her mother’s - it was what she remembered her by. And if she truly concentrated on her memories, she could see how she had gotten her build from her as well. The king had been big and intimidating, her mother lithe and graceful. Just like her. And just like her uncle.

Only her eyes were her own.

The king had never cared about her, she had known that even before she had run away. He had looked the other way when she had talked, had preferred his drinks over her, had never once been concerned when she had gone exploring. Perhaps he had not wanted a daughter - he did pay at least a sliver of attention to Joffrey - or perhaps he had known deep down.

Her uncle had cared. A lot. He had been her constant companion, always encouraging her interests, the only one able to find her whenever she had disappeared into the city. He cared about her more than a normal uncle should.

Her mother’s necklace hung before her, the golden lion glinting in the water.

Jaime was her father.

She buried her face in her hands.

previous | next

[siravalondulac]

Omg hi! I loved the Jon modern au Valentine’s Day with Cerelle, just read it. And I wanted to ask if there will be more parts of this fanfic, because I’m kinda curious of how they’ll work things out and also if Ygrette will make an appearance.

Anyway, just wanted to say, I love ur writing, and also I read some other fanfics of Cerelle as a character, I really liked the newest one in particular. So yeah, if you’re reading this, thank you and I hope there will be more of this modern au 🥰❤️

- 🦢

omg, i always jump up and down in joy when i find out others like my writing just as much as i do! cerelle is taking up so much of my headspace (i really should start charging her rent), i am so happy hearing you appreciate her as well.

i have. so many thoughts about modern!cerelle and jon. i tried to fit in some of them in the valentine's day au, but there is still so much left to be said (ygritte, their backstories, also just the politics of this world). i planned for this to work as a stand-alone while still keeping the option to continue writing on it further if i ever find the time. clearly, i am not the only one interested in their future, so i guess it's time to sort my ideas and start writing them down.

an idea i had would be to make this something of a "holiday au" and see their relationship progression through that. i would use the term holiday very liberally, of course, but i think it would be really cute.

anyway, thank you SO much for this ask. things like these really motivate me to keep writing :3

[siravalondulac]

009. tywin i

house of lies, city of blood

asoiaf ff | fem!oc centric

summary: tywin considers the past days' events, and what they might mean for the future word count: 881 warnings: none

masterlist

previous | next

He would not get anything out of Sansa Stark, that much was clear. Yet in contrast to his revenge-crazed daughter, he also believed the girl had nothing to do with his grandson’s murder. How could she? She was a simple thing with no mind for scheming.

Implicating her in the assassination would not bode well for them. Sansa Stark was the only remaining member of her House and, therefore, the key to the North. Killing her now that her brother's insipid rebellion was finally vanquished would completely hand over control of the North to Roose Bolton, and there was no way he would allow that.

Tyrion was guilty, however, nothing and no one could disprove that now. He had had his doubts in the beginning of the trial, but every piece of evidence, every testimony brought before him had solidified it. That ought to teach him a lesson in believing in the innocence of people merely because they were family.

Though for the first time he actually felt relief his son had been too cowardly to consummate his marriage with Sansa Stark. It should allow him to find her another husband after his son's execution more easily, and hopefully someone with the strength to listen to his commands. And if such a man couldn't be found, then he would not hesitate to take the matter into his own hands.

That woman Lady Sansa had mentioned vexed him. Elle Sand, one of Prince Oberyn’s spawns. The Dornishman had seemed proud to introduce her to him, yet he could not see why. She had been timid and shy, had said naught a word, and then had disappeared quite rudely. The way she had covered up her hair led him to believe she was hiding something, but what?

He needed to set Lord Varys onto her, perhaps he would be able to figure something out.

Though perhaps not. He started slowly doubting his Master of Whisperer's talents, after he had not been able to find out anything of note about the Golden Paladin besides what Tywin had already been told by Benjiamin Vypren. Whom Lord Varys had also not been able to figure out the whereabouts of after he had disappeared a few weeks ago.

A knock sounded on his door.

“Enter!”

Of all the people to walk into his solar in the early hours of the morning, he had not expected it to be the High Septon.

“My Lord Hand, I thank you for seeing me at such an early hour.”

“Say what you have to or it will have been the last time.”

The High Septon was clearly not used to having to listen to commands, acting all flustered at simply being told to speak. Tywin raised an eyebrow at the embarrassing display.

“Last night,” the man finally said, “one of my septas observed something peculiar. A hooded figure came into our sept, walked up to King Joffrey's body, and prayed over him. Then they kissed his forehead and disappeared once more.”

Tywin blinked. Then once more.

“And?”

“That is it, my lord.”

“You have come all the way to the Tower of the Hand to tell me that someone visited the sept?”

“Uh, well-” The septon stammered. “The king has been poisoned, and we don't know who this person was, and they clearly did not want to be recognised-”

“Enough.”

The High Septon took a step back at his harsh tone, and might have continued in his senseless rambling if Tywin had not said, “Leave.”

Why did he have to contend himself with such idiots wherever he went?

A hooded figure praying over the king’s body at night… Such a picture certainly sparked a sense of curiosity in him. The likelihood of this mystery man being involved in his grandson's murder was slim to non-existent, yet he felt as if it were the answer to a question he did not know.

Or, well… Perhaps he did know the question.

Tywin prided himself on his realism, his ability to put emotions aside to focus on what was important and relevant. At every step in his life, he had put the pure and basic interests of House Lannister above all else, knowing to not entertain fantasies of what could have been. And yet he had not been able to help wonder when Lord Varys had told the council of the rumours. Even just for a moment he had considered what it would be like if his granddaughter Cerelle had truly survived all these years.

He wasn't like his daughter, who had held steadfastly on the opinion that her child had been kidnapped and would return to her any day now. After no demand for money had arrived after a year, he had known the princess had likely drowned in Blackwater Bay after yet another mindless flight attempt.

It had been annoying losing such an important piece. He had had plans for her - marriage, alliances, ensuring a peaceful and prospering realm. Him and Elyana Vypren had been close to a betrothal at one point, therefore binding her armies to the crown.

Joffrey had not had a secret lover, so who else was there to visit his corpse and lovingly kiss it but a long-lost sibling?

Only question then was, why was this sibling long-lost?

previous | next

[siravalondulac]

008. sansa i

house of lies, city of blood

asoiaf ff | fem!oc centric

summary: sansa gets called as a witness word count: 1343 warnings: none author's note: i thought not enough happened this chapter, so i'll upload another one right after this one. it should already be out when you're reading this

masterlist

previous | next

The guards had taken her to her rooms mere moments after her husband’s arrest, and she wondered if she would have had a chance escaping while the king had laid dying. Unlikely, but the mere fact she hadn’t even tried frustrated her.

Seeing Joffrey retching and choking on the ground had been horrifying, despite what he had done to her.

And she knew they accused her of his murder.

No one had said it outright, of course, but she had been locked in her quarters without a word or sign from outside, other from the food being brought to her thrice a day. Lord Tyrion had likely been taken to the cells, leaving her alone.

That day's events still hung over her like a dark cloud, one she wasn't able to make sense of.

Joffrey had been poisoned - because choking on wine was rather unlikely - but by whom? And how did they do it?

The king had amassed many enemies, therefore the likelihood of Tyrion being the assassin was low.

(But not impossible.)

Whatever. Why did she even care? Her only objective at this point in time should be to get out of this and far, far away from King's Landing.

A knock sounded on her door, then the key turned in the lock and a Lannister soldier stepped in.

“Lady Sansa, the Queen has demanded you appear before the judges.”

The story that had formed in Queen Cersei's mind was clear to see - after being denied to marry the king and out of revenge for her family, Sansa, with help of her new husband, had conspired to kill the king on his wedding day. Cersei likely regretted the day she had ever allowed her to come south.

As did Sansa.

Her dress was the simple grey-purple gown with the embroidered weirwood leaves she had worn so often before, and she didn't feel like changing it. If they were going to kill her today, let them do it while she was covered in the memory of home.

The walk to the throne room was over quicker than she would have liked. Four soldiers in the intricate red and gold armour of House Lannister had been sent to fetch her, and the notion that she was being treated the way a dangerous criminal might almost elicited a laugh from her. Almost.

People lined the way to the dais, each of them staring at her, but she held her head high and didn't allow her own gaze to leave her destination.

Two wooden stands had been erected, one of them occupied by Lord Tyrion, the other likely meant for her. Lord Tywin was seated on the Iron Throne, and was flanked on both sides by wooden chairs, Lord Mace having taken up the one on her right, Prince Oberyn the one on her left.

This was a trial, presided over by three judges, yet she did not know yet if she was being called as a witness or an accused.

As she took her place in the wooden stand, she could not help but compare just how differently the three men looked. Tywin acted as if he was the king himself, looking upon the room as if every single person inside of it was beneath him. Oberyn downright lounged in his chair, seemingly viewing this trial as something to amuse himself. And Mace was… Well, Mace.

Lord Tywin's voice echoed through the room. “Lady Sansa Stark, you have been called here because your husband, Lord Tyrion Lannister, is being accused of killing King Joffrey. Did you help him?”

She took a breath to calm her trembling hands. “No, my lord.”

“Has he ever talked to you of wanting to kill the king?”

“No, my lord.”

“Have you noticed anything he did that would indicate him wanting to kill the king?”

“No, my lord.”

Perhaps it was in poor taste to always answer the same three words during a trial, but she did not know what else to say. She was answering his questions, at least, so Lord Tywin could not be too angry with her.

“Do you think Lord Tyrion capable of killing the king?”

“Lord Tyrion has always been cordial with me, but based on our limited interactions I cannot say.”

“You were once betrothed to King Joffrey. Did you want to kill him after he broke it off to marry Lady Margaery?”

“No, my lord.” She tried to control her panic, while still letting some of it seep through. Best they saw her as a confused, little girl too stupid to plot a murder. “I loved His Grace, but I am nothing more than the daughter of a traitor. While I was disappointed and sad His Grace had set me aside, I know that Lady Margaery would make a far better queen than I.”

Lord Tywin simply stared at her for a few moments, trying to find anything incriminating in her words. Then he continued, “During King Joffrey's death, you were not at the high table with the royal family, but alone in the crowd. Did you know what was about to happen and tried to run away?”

“No, my lord,” she answered quickly. “I had been feeling sick from one of the foods, I think, so I retreated momentarily to not cause a scene.” Liar. It had not been the food but the show, the dwarves acting out the war and the fate of her brother. But no one could possibly know that, could they? “When I returned I bumped into a woman, she said her name was Elle, and she engaged me in a conversation. The moment I wanted to resume my place at the table, His Grace started choking, and I didn’t know what to do. I was horrified, I had never seen such a-” She took an obvious breath. “I don’t know how long I stood there, but eventually guards showed up and escorted me to my rooms.”

For the first time since she had entered the room, Prince Oberyn spoke up. “Elle is my daughter. I saw them together before it happened. Lady Sansa is telling the truth.”

Oh. Considering her striking resemblance to Queen Cersei, she had assumed Elle to be a Lannister cousin or something of the sort. Perhaps she covered up her hair because she hated the family she was born into and did not want to be associated with them - at least, that had been what she had thought at the moment. That had also been why she had stayed with her for so long. If anyone could keep her from being punished by House Lannister for leaving her seat, it was one of their own.

To now find out she was a Martell… Maybe what she had said about her brother had been the truth, after all. She had not wanted to believe it - how and why would a Lannister know if her brother had survived, and why would they tell her - but if Elle was a Martell she would have no reason to lie to her. And if she had known her mother, she must have known her brother, and might have been with him during the Red Wedding. If - if - she had been with him, she might even know where he was now.

He’s alive, the words echoed through her head. He’s alive.

She had to talk to Elle again.

“So you had no prior knowledge of the assassination of King Joffrey?”

“No, my lord. I would never wish such a fate upon anyone after what happened to my family.”

Silence hung in the hall, before Lord Tywin dismissed her. She spared a singular glance towards Tyrion yet was not quite able to read his expression. Was he happy, sad, disappointed, glad? In her efforts to save herself she had not made sure to exonerate him as well - had he expected her to?

The four guards took her in their midst once more and escorted her out of the throne room, led her to her quarters, and then locked the door.

previous | next

[siravalondulac]

little left of fame and splendour | j. snow x fem!oc

summary: jon gets ditched on valentine's day and a woman he has never seen before suddenly pretends to be his date. problem one: she's really hot. problem two: she's the president's daughter. problem three: she is definitely flirting with him.

contents: modern au, valentine's day, minor jon/ygritte (negative, nor for ygritte fans), smut (oral (m and f receiving))

words: 5.712

author's note: title from a song i won't tell you bc it's embarrassing. also this was supposed to be a 500 word smut fest wtf happened

masterlist | additional works masterlist

Seconds pass, then minutes, then an hour. The pitiful stares drill into his flesh, chip away at his skin. He emptied the glass of wine long ago, and is now ripping at the table cover, separating the carefully embroidered fabric in a way that will likely end with an extra charge on his tab.

Jon knows this was a bad idea. His and Ygritte's relationship has been in a downward spiral for months now, even if neither of them has ever admitted to it. Missed calls, ignored texts, cancelled meetups. He doesn't remember why he thought a fancy date at one of the most expensive restaurants in King's Landing would be a good idea. If his girlfriend hasn't shown up to anything he organised since New Year's, why would this be any different?

So here he was. Stood up. On Valentine's Day.

He put aside money for this he should have spent on paying his bills. He bought a new button-up. He cut his hair. He bought her a gift. And what for? The greatest embarrassment of his life.

He wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole. The waiter has been sending him glances for twenty minutes now - seemingly only waiting for him to raise his hand, pay, and open up the table for a more deserving patron. Someone who doesn't pull down the mood of the entire room.

Jon glowers at the empty plate before him.

He loves Ygritte. He does, truly. She is his first girlfriend, and he doesn't want to lose her like this. And she seemingly feels the same, otherwise she would have broken up with him long ago.

Would she have? While, yes, Ygritte was the one to initiate their relationship, their first kiss, their first time having sex, she has never bothered with the small things. Or the romantic ones. Or the uncomfortable. That has always been him.

(And then she would get annoyed for bringing up how unhappy he was with certain behaviour of hers.)

He jumps up from his chair - admittedly not quite knowing himself what his plan is - and promptly crashes into another person, almost toppling them to the ground.

“I'm s-”

“Oh my gods, I am so sorry!”

He manages to bring a bit of distance between himself and the woman. But before he has any time to register who exactly she is, she starts talking again.

“I am so sorry. This day cannot become any more of a disaster for us, can it? First I leave you sitting here on your own for an eternity, and then I almost throw you into this wonderfully decorated table.”

She talks so loudly and turbulently he has trouble processing her words.

“I should have called you to let you know I would be late, but my cat vomited up blood, can you believe it, and I had to bring her to an emergency clinic. Luckily Helena - you met her before, she was the one in neon pink at Halloween - was there and took care of her. She- My cat is now staying overnight at the clinic. I sped here as quickly as I could after realising what time it is.”

Jon is insanely confused. At the woman, her weird story, and that she seemingly thinks he is her date.

“I know this will take ages to make up to you, but let me start by paying the bill tonight, okay? I know this whole date was your idea, but I already feel so awful for making you endure this on Valentine's Day, this is the least I can do.”

Whoever this woman is, she apparently never has to take a breath when talking.

He clears his throat. “I think you confu-”

“Let us sit down, baby. Then we can talk about everything.”

She lets her hands run over his shoulders and chest, pulling lightly at his shirt, probably to straighten out any creases that have accumulated. Then she gently pushes him towards his chair, and gracefully sits down in the seat opposite him.

And finally, he gets a proper look at her.

Simply describing her appearance - white skin, blue eyes, blonde hair - would indicate she looks like Val, one of Ygritte's friends, but that could not be further from the truth. This woman's face is full of sharp and defined edges, with nary a blemish or inconsistency in sight, yet with a smile on her lips so warm it could melt ice. Her hair is more golden than blonde, and falls in messy curls over her shoulders and down her back. And she wears vibrant green, glittering eyeshadow, fanning out like wings towards the side, which is something Val would never be caught wearing.

She lays her black jacket over the back of her chair, revealing the bright white blouse underneath. Three buttons are open, letting him catch a glimpse of her red bra.

He clears his throat, shifts in his chair.

“I don't know who you think I am but-”

She leans forward and grabs his hand, starting to gently trace his knuckles the way a lover might.

(And the way Ygritte never had.)

“Look,” she says with a lowered voice. “I saw you from the back and I… I wanted to save you from the embarrassment of being the guy that has his date ditch on him on Valentine's Day. If you do not want to, I will leave right away.”

That would be even more embarrassing, he decides.

He doesn't want to cheat on Ygritte - and she will see even a simple dinner with another woman as cheating - but she left him here. Abandoned him.

“And…” The woman grins. “I did mean it when I said I would pay. So you can see this dinner as emotional compensation, for being stood up.”

Jon's gaze moves to the restaurant’s menu for a moment. “I- I don't want to, uh, force you to spend so much money on a stranger.”

She laughs - a sound that reverberates in his chest and makes his heart beat faster. “Don't worry, I need to burn my grandfather’s money anyways. This seems like a good way.”

Her proposition is tempting, and her cold fingers on his sweaty hand even manage to calm his rage somewhat. But still… Having dinner with a mystery woman on Valentine’s-

What the hell, why not? He never allows himself to have fun anyways, he deserves this. This one, singular night, away from his friends and family and thoughts of rent and dishes and his eerily empty bank account. None of this will matter anyways.

“Yeah,” he manages to breathe out. “You can stay.”

“Wonderful. I’m Cerelle, by the way.”

“Jon.”

“Nice to meet you, Jon.” Her smile takes his breath away, and he knows he will be alright.

Cerelle has a charm to her, one that comes easy and naturally, and effortlessly captivates each of his senses. She is not flirting with him - he thinks - but it would not take much. Just another touch here, a compliment there, and any man within a thirty metre radius would be begging at her knees.

He realises he is staring, and quickly lowers his gaze.

“Have you picked something out yet?”

His hands find the menu, black leather with cursive, golden lettering on the front, and open it to a random page.

“Uh…” He pretends to read the options, as if he hadn’t had them memorised already fifteen minutes after arriving. “I was going to choose the pasta.”

What a strange place, one that only offered six main courses.

“Really?” she says. “Seems kinda dull for this restaurant.”

“It's the cheapest option,” he answers quietly.

She doesn't respond, and he almost fears she's about to laugh at him. Yet instead, she calmly says, “If you truly want to, you can of course take the pasta. But remember, Jon - I’m paying. And I do not care about some little numbers. Choose the food you want, not the price.”

Eventually, she waves over the waiter, orders her drink and food - an appetizer and a side, the only vegan options, he notes - smiles prettily, says please and thank you, and hands the waiter her menu without being asked like a proper lady.

Jon stumbles over his words, yet manages to order a water and a chicken dish - only the second most expensive item on the menu. He had almost ordered the steak, morbidly curious as to why a piece of meat costs this much - yet did not want to put that kind of burden on Cerelle. Despite what she told him.

After the waiter leaves, she leans forward again and askes, “So, Jon… Tell me something about yourself.”

She draws out his name, and he realises for the first time how comparatively deep her voice sounds.

“Uh-” He plays with one of the buttons on his shirt, hands hidden from her view. “I recently started a new job in a car repair shop. It doesn't really pay much and I think the people there don't like me, but the hours are okay. And for someone without a degree or something, I shouldn't be expecting more.”

“Is there something you'd like to do instead?”

“I'm not sure.” He gnaws at his lip, then realises this is probably not appropriate for a fancy place like this. “I mean, I always wanted to join the police, or the military if that doesn't work.”

“Aw, don't do that. You'd be wasted there.”

“What do you do with your time?” he quickly says.

“Well, when I'm not forced to work for my grandfather, I study law, volunteer at an animal shelter, hang out with my friends, attend my family's fancy dinners, and generally make my mother miserable simply by living the way I do.”

Her eyes sparkle as she laughs, and he desperately wishes the people around them would shut up - or better yet, disappear. But that would mean he likes her company, and prefers it over that of his girlfriend, and he cannot allow himself such a thought.

Instead, he ponders over her words.

“You mentioned your grandfather before,” he says eventually. “Is he, like, a CEO or something, or why does he have so much influence over you?”

Cerelle presses her lips together and averts her eyes for the first time this evening. He wishes he had kept his mouth shut - she will get mad at him for asking, or simply leave, or-

“Uh…” She stammers, for the first time since he met her. Then she looks around them, at the people eating or talking or gazing lovingly at each other across the tables.

Seemingly having decided something, her fingers draw her phone out of her pocket, quickly tap something on the screen, before laying it on the table and sliding it over to him. Her gaze flutters across the other patrons one more time.

Jon looks down on the screen before him, and his eyebrows shoot upwards.

Open before him is the Wikipedia page of Tywin Lannister. The richest man in the world, owner of a million companies, and the father-in-law of Westeros’ current president. Which means…

He looks up at Cerelle.

Politics are not truly something he has the time to show huge interest in, and so most of the developments in the country pass right by him. But if he thinks really thoroughly… He thinks he might have seen her before. Or heard her name.

“If he is your grandfather, does that mean your father is-”

“Yes,” she quickly interrupts him, and takes back her phone. “What a fun family, huh?” She cocks her head. “Honestly, I was surprised you didn't recognise me the moment I walked in.”

Talking to Cerelle is… comforting. She easily guides the conversation, never making him feel awkward when he cannot find the correct words, never laughs when he stumbles over an answer, and always moves on quickly when she realises a topic makes him nervous.

Her face lights up like the sun whenever she talks about a passion of hers, the green fairy wings around her eyes seemingly moving as if touched by a light breeze. She plays with a golden ring on her finger and taps against the table or her intricately chiseled glass, one so delicate he fears it might burst if he even looked at it.

She looked less like a president's daughter and more like a princess.

Fuck, he is having dinner with the president's daughter. Not just any random woman having pity with him, but the child of one of the most powerful men in the country.

What does she have to gain from this? Some people around them will certainly recognise her, so does she hope they spread this story so she will look good? No one can possibly assume she is truly his date.

He doesn't ask her, and she doesn't bring up the woman whose place she has taken.

What they do share with the other are stories of how they grew up, hobbies they had and no longer partake in, places they want to see. And through none of it all, he would have been able to tell who her family truly is.

They eat, they laugh, he almost forgets what led them here in the first place. That she isn't actually his date.

(He allows himself these moments, when he blushes at her remarks, when it almost seems like she is flirting with him.)

Their dinner is finished far too soon, and yet, not early enough. She does not blink when the waiter tells her the total, merely taking out a colourful credit card and adding on an insane tip. They dress in silence, she says goodbye to the staff, and they walk out onto the street.

“Thank you for the dinner, I really enjoyed it,” she says, but he barely pays attention.

Because he just received a notification on his phone. An innocent little message that reads nothing more than:

Sorry, couldn't make it today.

He stares at the letters, then opens the message to see if he's missed something. No. Nothing. The words stay the same, the name at the top stays the same.

Then comes another.

Tormund's birthday's on sunday, see you there.

Jon tries to not make brash decisions, tries to be calm and cold and reasonable, tries to be strong. But in that moment something takes hold of him. He has the message typed and sent before he can truly register what he is doing.

We are over.

He quickly shuts off his phone and hides it in his pocket.

“Are you alright?”

Cerelle's voice pierces through to him and rips him out of a spiral of misery. He stares at her, her padded black jacket, the wild curls, the motorcycle helmet she holds in one hand.

“Y-Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “I think so.”

“Do you live close by or should I give you a ride?”

Sat on a motorcycle behind Cerelle after he has just broken up with his girlfriend-

Seven hells. He just broke up with his girlfriend. Over text. Like a complete loser.

On Valentine's Day, no less.

This day could truly become no more of a disaster.

He remembers Cerelle's question and quickly answers, “It's alright. I just have to take a train and two buses, you don't have to inconvenience yourself any more for me.”

Her eyes widen and she lets out a slight chuckle. “Where do you live that your journey home takes this long?”

“Just- At the northern edge of Flea Bottom. It's not as bad as it sounds,” he hastily adds. “It's cheap, and if you know which parts to avoid you never run into any trouble.”

“And you still want to take public transport? It's past eleven.”

True. But even looking into her star-flecked, haunting blue eyes makes him want to turn around and run the other way. Her suggestion could only lead to chaos, and to bad decisions.

“You probably have better things to do.”

“If I were I would not have spent the evening with you.” She walks to a black motorcycle and takes out another helmet. “So? I promise I want to do this.”

He should say no. Who was he to accept a ride from the president's daughter? He was already sure to end up in twenty tabloids by tomorrow morning, no need to add fuel to the fire.

But he didn't have a girlfriend anymore. He was already broke as fuck, he had no reputation to his name, nothing to ruin, no life that could be destroyed. Either by the press, or her parents. He could enjoy this night. Indulge in it, in her, and forget about all of it in the morning.

So he takes the helmet, says nothing but his address, and even just the smile she gives him is worth all the risks he takes.

She quickly explains the rules of riding on a motorcycle as she dons her helmet and gets on, then nods for him to climb on behind her.

He is flushed tight against her back, and even through the thick layers of clothing they both wear he feels the heat radiating off her, seeping into his skin, his mind. His hips are pressed against her ass, and he tries to move them away, to spare her the embarrassment, but he can't. And then she looks back at him, her eyes glinting with an emotion he can’t quite place, and says, “Ready, pretty boy?”

And he can’t focus on anything but nodding at her words, flushing scarlet red beneath his helmet, and tightening his grip around her waist as they set off.

She drives well, he notes as they make their way through the still busy streets of King's Landing. He never once feels unsafe, never once entertains the possibility of them crashing into the Blackwater.

It all lulls him into a false sense of security. He thinks she won't mind, that she will be able to keep control of their drive, and so he tries to adjust his hips once more.

He fails, yet again. But what previously only led to a small twitch in his dick now results in his pants becoming uncomfortably tight. And - he has to be imagining it, because there is simply no way - her hips even roll back against his.

Why did he agree to this?

He hopes she doesn't notice, that she is too focused on the road to realise something poking into her back, but then she moves again, and Jon thinks she has to be taunting him. Would likely laugh at him as soon as they arrived.

They do, not soon after, but she does nothing of the sort. He gets off, hands her back her helmet, and she takes off hers as well.

Barely a single street lamp functions in his street, but he still sees her blue eyes, clear as the day, beautiful, motives indiscernible.

“Thank you,” he says. “For the ride. And the dinner. And saving me.”

“I really enjoyed your company, Jon. We should repeat this some time.”

He knows what he should do - go inside, lay down on his bed, and forget about those thoughts haunting him in the moment. Indecent thoughts. Ones he should never think about someone like her.

Yet even despite everything inside him screaming to let it go, leave her and never return, he says, “You could come upstairs, and we can repeat it right now.”

Her eyebrows raise almost unnoticeably, but then a smile spreads on her lips. “Are you sure?”

She knows what he wants, he realises. Has likely done something similar a dozen times before. He is not special to her, he is only one in a long list of forgotten flings.

But he doesn't care right now. His entire life has been put on its head recently, the least he can do is indulge in this one simple thing. It won't matter by morning, and perhaps that is a good thing.

“Yes, I am sure.”

She follows him up the creaking stairs and waits patiently as he struggles with the keys. Then they enter, he closes the door, and smashes his lips onto hers.

Jon is grateful she does not push him away, but is caught off guard by how fiercely she kisses him back. Tongue and teeth and lips, and then she buries her fingers in his hair, tugging on his locks, and he moans just from that. He feels her smile, and before he knows what is happening, his back hits the door behind him.

He loses his breath in the kiss, his mind, his sanity. Her hands roam across his body, which is finally freed of his coat. They press and tug and pet, and he is so unbelievably hard.

His fingers struggle with the zipper of her jacket, but then it's off and he paws at her chest, slipping a hand past the opening of her blouse, tracing her skin and the edges of her bra.

She leans further into his touch, and starts grinding over his dick, already hard and straining against his tight pants. And that feeling, her pressed up so close to his body, her tongue exploring his mouth, and her hands eliciting all kinds of noises from him, leads him to do something very stupid.

He grabs Cerelle's blouse, and rips it open.

Regret washes over him immediately, especially when their kiss is broken and he only hears her quiet pants across from him. He is about to apologise, to try and salvage whatever he can of the situation, when he hears a laugh.

“Won't you even offer me something to drink first?”

Her voice is hoarse, and even deeper than before. Seductive is the only word he finds to describe it, and it leads him to wonder if she even had been flirting with him at the restaurant if this is what she sounds like now.

He stammers, a fog having settled on his mind that makes it really difficult to string together coherent sentences. Cerelle's fingers tracing his pulse point does not improve his situation.

Eventually, he does bring out something that vaguely sounds like, “Do you want something to drink?”

She chuckles, and says with a voice even lower and quieter than before, “I think there is something I'd much rather want.”

Faster than he can react, than he can even comprehend what's happening, she has dropped to her knees, removed his belt, freed his rock-hard dick from his pants, taken him to the base, and sucked. Hard.

He almost comes right then and there. Why he doesn't, he cannot say.

“F- Fuck-”

The moan he lets out can likely be heard three blocks down, and the sound of his head crashing against the door behind him probably reverberating around the entire house.

“Relax,” she whispers, now gently mouthing along his dick as her hand encircles his base. “Don't you want to make this last?”

“How-” He moans as her hand starts moving, and rocks his hips into her fist. “How can you expect me to relax when you do-” Another moan. “That?”

“Oh, you mean something like this?”

She presses her thumb against his tip and lets her tongue run along a vein at the bottom, and he wants to curse her to the seven hells.

“Y- Yeah.”

She chuckles, the sound almost vibrating against his dick. “You're cute when you're like that. All breathless and whiny and helpless. Relax. I want to make you feel good.”

Her mouth is warm and inviting, fitting perfectly around his length. She moves up and down in a never-changing rhythm, humming and sucking and pressing her tongue to his tip and underside and everywhere else she can reach.

He keeps his hips flush against the door as well as he can. Even if everything inside him screams to rock them forward, further into the warm embrace around his dick, he does not want to risk hurting Cerelle.

She moves off him, his spit-covered length hitting the cold air and making him hiss.

“Sorry, I need to catch my breath.” Her fist replaces her mouth, moving lazily up and down his dick. “You’re really big.”

“You don't have to, ah, stroke my ego. My girlfriend-” He stops, considers what he just said, yet does not allow himself to stray too far. “My- My ex, she always said I am below average.”

“Liar.” She nuzzles against his dick again, and interlaces the fingers of her free hand with his. “You are perfect. Anything bigger and it would hurt.”

He tries to think about her words, but then she suddenly sucks on his balls - gods help him - and he is once again lost within her.

She speeds up her ministrations, almost as if she has something to prove now, and he doesn’t mind. He cannot think, only feel. Her mouth, her hands, just her. Only her.

Somewhere during all this, he has started lightly thrusting into her, but she says nothing about it, only takes him deeper (if that is even possible).

He feels his release approaching, the one that has been near him for so long now, feels the telltale signs, the warnings. He tries to push Cerelle off, not willing to defile her like this, but she refuses to let him.

Instead, she takes him to the base once more, swallows, and he is done for.

His moan echoes in the small room as his release hits him so hard his vision goes white for a moment. He spends down Cerelle's throat, and she swallows everything he gives her without protest, without pause, without disgust.

He almost falls to his knees, but then she is there and catches him, pressing her lips to his forehead and mumbling quietly against it.

“You did so well.”

He trembles in her arms, and she refuses to let go of him, keeping him tight against her until he manages to stand on his own again.

“Was this your first blowjob?”

All he can do is nod, and she smiles against his temple, his cheek, his lips.

“Thank you for allowing me to do this.”

And then he kisses her again, tasting himself on her tongue, trying to convey to her every one of these insane emotions running wild inside his head.

When he picks her up she wraps her legs around his waist and lets herself be carried by him. A few steps later he bumps into his bed and lays her down on it, and even then they never break their kiss, pressing the other so close they might soon become one.

He stretches out his hand to the side, fumbles shortly as he tries to find the switch.

“Stupid-”

The lamp on his nightstand has not shined at full power for weeks now, but it is enough to see her.

Cerelle lies beneath him. Lips red and swollen, chest heaving with every breath, green fairy wings untouched and sparkling in the low light. He decides she is the most beautiful woman he'll ever see.

Their mouths meet again, and they start to tear at each other's clothing, though Cerelle takes much more care unbuttoning his shirt than he did with hers. Once it is off she lets her hands roam across his chest, and he whines into her mouth. Yet as they reach his lower stomach, he takes them in his.

She has done so much for him tonight already, he cannot allow her to do more. He has to show his gratitude, do something for her in return. Make her time with him be worth it.

He gently directs her hands to lay on the mattress as he descends. First kissing and sucking her jaw and throat, ensuring she would remember him tomorrow, then trailing his mouth down, tracing the edges of her red bralette, before reaching to her back, undoing the clasp, and latching onto her freed nipples.

She arches into him, her moans far quieter and restrained than his. Her breasts are small, but he does not mind, nor does he attempt to give her grievance about it. His fingers work at the nipple he is not currently lathering with kisses, before he switches. Again and again.

Then, once he considers his work there to suffice, he lets his mouth trace the hard lines of her stomach as his hands make quick work of her pants and underwear, casting them to the side.

He wants to take his time with her cunt as well - tease her, kiss first her legs and her stomach, gently trace the area around. But he cannot restrain himself anymore, and before he can reconsider he latches his mouth onto her clit.

She moans, loud and clear, and her fingers bury themselves in the mattress next to her hips.

He sucks on her pleasure spot until he physically cannot anymore. His thumb quickly replaces his tongue, rubbing constant circles on her clit, as his mouth moves further downward towards her hole. One of her hands buries themselves into his hair.

He stops. He knows what will happen next - she will start moving her hips against him, using his mouth to get herself off, at her own speed, telling him to just stay still. Taking control, even now. Ygritte has always done it, and he supposes he has resigned himself to it.

But Cerelle doesn't move. Simply keeps one hand in his hair. Almost like an anchor, like she needs that line of connection with him.

He gives her clit a gentle rub again, then he circles her hole with his tongue. She arches her back and tightens her hand in his curls, but she doesn't move her hips.

He interlaces the fingers of his own free hand with hers, still lying on the mattress, as he plunges his tongue into her. Over and over and over again.

She whines and moans, and eventually presses his face closer against her cunt, but he doesn't mind that, simply indulging her request by thrusting a finger into her and latching his mouth back onto her clit.

He knows he is good at this, and so, even though Cerelle was wet already when he started, he is not surprised by how easily he is able to fuck her. So much so he quickly adds a second and third finger into her cunt. Her mindless begs are like music to his ears.

He crooks his fingers, drags them along her walls, presses down here and there until he finds the spot. But before he can exploit his discovery, she is already coming.

She moans, he swallows all she gives him. His wet and sticky fingers are buried in her thighs as he laps at her cunt, not allowing a single drop of her release to escape.

Eventually, he moves upwards again, and is immediately embraced into a tight kiss, Cerelle's tongue exploring his mouth, likely tasting her own spent on his lips.

She doesn't stop, keeps moving, and he is afraid to say it, to admit to it, but he feels she will understand. If anyone he had ever met… It would be her.

And so he breaks their kiss, breathing in deeply before he dares a look into her eyes. He tries to say it, he really does, but-

“Do you want to continue?”

She has seen it in his eyes, most likely. He is grateful she brought it up.

“I mean, unless you really want to, but after all this I-”

“I understand.” She smiles. “I'm kinda exhausted as well.” Then she laughs and brushes a streak of hair out of her sweaty face. “Fuck, you're really good at this. Like, really good, and I'm not sure your dick could keep up.”

“Are you challenging me?”

“Perhaps.”

Then they laugh together, and Jon has never felt this free.

Cerelle asks if she can borrow some clothes, and after seeing his confused look, she raises an eyebrow and says, “Or do you not want me to stay the night?”

He stumbles to his small wardrobe at that, and hastily pulls out a tee and black sweatpants. She disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes, and when she comes out again he cannot help stare.

She looks… good. Not that she didn't look good before, but this is a different good. Not worth more or less, now that she has removed her make-up and stands there in his clothes, but… He likes it.

He cleans himself up as well, quickly, and then steps into the room again.

His apartment truly is one room - plus the bathroom that is the size of a broom closet - and so it is rather crammed with stuff. But Cerelle doesn't seem to care about any of it, only standing in front of his desk, watching the pictures taped to the wall above it.

He joins her.

“Is this your family?”

The picture hanging front and centre was the yearly family photo shoot in his uncle's house in Winterfell, this one from three years ago.

“Yes.” He reaches forward and points at the people. “These are my uncle Ned and aunt Catelyn, these my cousins, from oldest to youngest. This is my uncle Benjen, here's my grandmother, and this is my mum.”

“And your father?”

“We don't talk about him,” he says bluntly.

He knows who his father is, and he is sure the man knows as well, but they have barely interacted, and so he feels no loyalty towards him.

“I apologise, I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's alright.” He takes a deep breath. “I understand why you'd be curious. But I have my mum, and the rest of my family. I don't need someone else imposing their ideals onto me.”

She is silent for a moment, then says, “You look like her, you know? Same face, same hair, same smile. I think you're right when you say this man doesn’t matter.”

He steals a glance at her, and sees her smiling.

They go to sleep not soon after. Cerelle does not voice a single complaint at the small bed, only snuggles up closer to him, burying her face into his hair.

And for the first time in weeks, perhaps even months, Jon realises he is truly happy.

author's note: hi! thanks for reading until the end. if you're curious, cerelle is an oc from another fanfic of mine, meet me in the dark

[siravalondulac]

Hi! Could you write a one-shot or a mini-series of two chapters? Whichever you prefer! It’s about Jon Snow after season 8, where the reader is either a Tyrell or a Baratheon (it doesn’t matter). The story would involve an arranged marriage because Jon is king and needs a wife. Make it fluffy, please, with some smut (PLEASE)! Also, make it a slow burn, but with lots of tension between them! I’m crying because there are barely any fanfics about him, and I LOVE the fics you write about Jon! OMG, feel free to go wild with the plot! 😙😚

hi! sorry it took me this long to get to your request, i had about a million uni projects to complete, and wanted to do this properly.

you can find the finished version here. i've made the reader cersei's oldest child (so technically a baratheon) bc i found this the easiest way to get her married to jon. also the smut turned into "a bit of spice at the end" because i was never quite happy with what i wrote.

hope you like it :3

(i also wrote an alternate version with my oc here because i cannot stop myself)

[siravalondulac]

pour it in a cup | j. snow x fem!oc

summary: after the devastating wars against the white walkers and house lannister, jon is once again king in the north, and as such, is in need of a wife. how lucky, then, that tyrion lannister has a niece.

contents: arranged marriage, unrealistically quick relationship progression, slight non-graphic smut at the end

words: 5900

author's note: based on this request. i've also written a version x reader here (in case you saw both and were confused, it's the same story)

masterlist | additional works masterlist

Perhaps avoiding any talk about the topic of his missing queen had not been the correct idea. He should have listened to his advisors when they spoke of marriage, of the betrothal offers from the Northern lords, of the suggestion to take a Free Folk woman as wife to unite their people. But he had been too focused on trying to deal with becoming king - again - he had brushed them all off. And this was the punishment.

He stood in the courtyard, his remaining siblings beside him, waiting anxiously for the procession to arrive. The entire castle had gathered to greet the visitors from Casterly Rock, and to catch a glimpse of their new queen.

Horns blasted, and then the first soldiers arrived.

Their red and golden armour had not changed, and neither had the lion on their banners. Fewer men than expected accompanied the party, but all of that was forgotten when she rode in.

Cerelle Baratheon.

Cersei Lannister's oldest child, who had hidden in Casterly Rock for the entire war, staying far removed from the horror the rest of them had to suffer.

She was clad in rich fabrics, a dark red dress with golden embellishments, decorated with soft furs to keep herself warm in the cold. Yet more peculiarly, she did not travel in a wheelhouse as her mother or any of the southern ladies would have done, but sat aside on a horse, its hide as white as the snow around them.

She would become his wife. She would become his queen

Her uncle, Tyrion Lannister, jumped off his own horse and approached him. They shook hands with a smile, and Jon was glad over the lack of proper manners.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion's voice sounded amused saying the title. “I am grateful for the invitation. And that you have accepted the proposal.”

“The North needs this alliance to heal,” he repeated the words of his council. “Just as the Westerlands.”

“That we do.” He beckoned someone forward. “May I introduce your betrothed? My niece, the Princess Cerelle.”

She looked even more breathtaking up close. Her golden hair was more vibrant than her mother's, falling in gentle curls down her back, braids interwoven and pinned to her head. Her skin was pale and unmarred, her cheekbones high and sharp, and her blue eyes were as glowing as the stars at night.

Cerelle raised her hand, and he quickly took it to lay a kiss upon her knuckles.

“My princess, I am honoured.”

“As am I, your grace.”

Her words were polite yet cold, and he realised for the first time she might want this marriage even less than him.

He tried to grasp at something to say. “May I lead you to your chambers?”

She nodded, and closed her hand around his arm.

Perhaps he should have stayed, should have greeted the other lords and ladies as well, should have held a speech - whatever was expected of a king. But he wanted time alone with his bride, wanted to spend their first moments together without dozens of eyes watching them. And so he did not feel bad as he led her into the halls of his castle.

“Uh-” He cleared his throat. “You will receive your own chambers until the wedding, in order to get used to everything. Afterwards you will move into the Lord's chambers with me.”

She nodded, and said nothing.

They passed the main hall, where a wooden throne now eternally stood high above the rest.

“It must be strange,” he said, “being back here after all these years.”

She chuckled. “Strange indeed. The last time I was here, my family was still alive. Now there is only my uncle and me, the dwarven king and the forgotten princess.”

Her voice had become biting, accusatory. And he supposed she had a point.

“I apologise.” He did not dare look at her. “These last years must have been difficult.”

“They sent me away and never came for me,” she answered far too quickly. As if she had prepared it. “I am loyal to the Stark crown and will do my duty by it.”

He did not try to initiate another conversation until they had reached her chambers. And even then, the few words he spoke were only to inform her that a servant would be with her shortly. She seemed as if she wanted to tell him something - a thank, a question, a demand to leave her alone until the wedding the coming week - yet closed the door before any such thing could happen.

She tried to forget him. Tried to ignore the reality of the situation whenever the thought passed her mind. Which was nonsense, she knew. But it was easier than facing the fact she would be marrying a total stranger in just a few, short days.

That first night, Winterfell held a feast to welcome her, and to introduce the castle and the entire North to their new queen.

Despite what would be expected of her, and despite knowing she would have to adhere to her betrothed's customs soon, she had decided on a blood red gown for the evening, while a golden tiara decorated her intricately braided hair.

One last desperate attempt to cling to her heritage. To not lose what remained of her family.

King Jon Stark already awaited her at the doors to the feast hall, clad in yet another set of black and brown leathers and a fur-lined cloak, this time, however, with a spiked iron crown on top of his dark curls.

He smiled at her, she smiled back, then she took his extended arm, and they entered.

The few spots of red and gold were drowned out in a sea of Northmen, all staring at her. Judging her. None of them wanted a tyrant's daughter as their queen, a foreigner, an enemy. Neither did she, but what else was left for her in this world? She was her uncle's heir, yet only until he sired his own children. And afterwards, she would have nothing.

Best accept this marriage. It was certainly the best she could get.

King Jon held a short speech once they stood in front of their seats, thanking first his lords for joining him for this most wonderful occasion, then her uncle for brokering this much needed alliance between their kingdoms, and lastly her. For agreeing.

She smiled and curtsied, and hastily removed her hand from his arm once they were seated.

The food was agreeable, the ale not too bitter, and the constant chattering and even shouting from the wildlings bearable. She had to get used to all this, she reminded herself, especially to the presence of the man beside her.

Jon, to his credit, had not tried to strike up a conversation yet, though the glances he threw in her direction burned on her skin. She would have to look at him eventually, she knew as much. Touch him, even. Lay with him. Perhaps speaking to him now might soften that experience later on.

But he was drawn into a conversation with her uncle before she could decide.

Sansa sat on her other side, beside her brother and two others she did not recognise. She grasped at something to say - something easy, and far removed from the terrors their families had inflicted on each other.

“I like your dress,” Cerelle said carefully, not daring to fully look into Sansa's face.

It was true, she did like her gown - dark blue and simple, with an intricately embroidered wolf just above her heart.

“Thank you. I made it myself a few years ago. I had too much on my hands to sew a completely new gown simply for this feast.”

“You enjoy making them yourself, I take it?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation going. “The last time I was here, you were so proud of what you made, it was all you could talk about for an entire course.”

“And all you could talk about was King's Landing, and how much I would like it there.”

Perhaps Sansa tried to start an argument, to find any excuse to convince her brother to break off the betrothal. Perhaps she wanted to guilt Cerelle into admitting fault for her family's actions. Or perhaps that was simply the only thing she remembered from that evening.

“I am sorry.” She stared at the rings on her fingers. “I should have warned you about Joffrey.”

Cerelle had been sent to Casterly Rock not long after the outbreak of the war - for safekeeping, so that the Baratheon crown could live on through her should disaster strike the rest of her family - but she had still witnessed the beginnings of her brother's cruelty towards Sansa.

“You couldn’t have known what he would do.”

“I grew up beside him. I knew him longer and better than most. What he did to you… I could have prevented it.”

“He would have punished you as well, had you tried.”

Jon had joined some of wildings further into the hall, and she could almost understand their words and cheers from her place at the main table, such was the volume they were speaking at. He looked comfortable with them.

“Your brother…” She hesitated. “What is he like?”

Her eyes stayed on him, even when Sansa eventually answered.

“He will not mistreat you, if that is what you fear.”

“No. I mean-” She chuckled half-heartedly. “That is all anyone tells me about him. He is good, he is kind, he is brave. It all sounds rather dull.”

“He was a bastard, then a brother of the Night's Watch. He still thinks he is undeserving of the crown, even though the Northerners have pronounced him their king twice now. He has already fought in more battles than most will in their entire lifetime. Such a thing is known to leave one scarred and withdrawn. Give him time, he will warm up to you eventually.”

Jon joined her side again after a while, with red cheeks and a small grin on his lips. Yet when he noticed her stare, he swallowed, shook his head slightly, and it had disappeared.

She almost wanted to tell him how cute it had looked.

“I am rather tired from the long ride,” she said instead. “Would it be terribly impolite by Northern customs to leave already?”

“No, not at all.” He stood up and offered her his arm. “Let me accompany you to your chambers.”

Conversations died when they passed.

The cold air hit her the moment they stepped out into the quiet of the night, and she could not stop the noticeable shiver running down her back, nor the slight shaking of her arms. She clenched her jaw and prepared herself for an uncomfortable walk, when a cloak was suddenly laid around her shoulders.

Confused, she looked towards Jon.

“I apologise about the cold. I suppose it will take a while to fully get used to it.”

Then he realised he still had his hands laid on her arms, and he hastily dropped them, taking a step back for good measure.

She pulled the fabric tighter around herself.

“Thank you, your grace.”

They did not touch each other again on the walk to her rooms, and she did not mind at all. Welcomed it, in fact. She would be forced to endure his hands soon enough, there was no reason to invite them sooner.

She thought about saying something once they reached her door - a thank, a question, an invitation to spend the following day with her. Yet all she did was hand him back his cloak, whisper a quick “Good Night”, and quickly close the door behind her.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

Tyrion's words echoed in his mind as he made his way to Cerelle's chambers.

Their distance at the feast last night had surely been noted, he knew it had. Certain Northern lords - Manderly, Umber - were already looking for any excuse to oppose this marriage, he could not provide them with more reasons. Him and Cerelle would be seen conversing happily, spending time together, kissing if necessary. They would not punish her for his misgivings.

He knocked on her door, waited, and assumed for a moment she would ignore him, when he suddenly heard steps. Slow, careful, yet still. His back straightened on its own, and then she stood before him.

A soft green dress draped her body. Simple, without much embroidery, jewels, frills, or lace. Just a lone necklace hung around her neck.

She looked… beautiful.

“Your Grace.” She quickly pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I-” The light caught in her hair, making it appear more golden than blonde. He cleared his throat. “I was planning to check on the castle, make sure everything is working as intended. Would you like to accompany me?”

Best make her believe she would not put unnecessary burdens on his shoulders by agreeing to this walk, but simply to join what he was already doing.

Still… Even despite his efforts, she seemed ready to decline. Her fingers tightening in her dress, the trembling of her lips, the terror in her eyes-

“Yes.”

She quickly had a cloak slung around her shoulders and her hand around his arm, and so they set off.

Jon knew, of course, that Cerelle had only agreed because she was aware of her situation, much like him, and that she needed to play the game in order to survive. Her mother had taught her much.

Their walk through the castle led them past the kitchens, the feast halls, the smithery, the stables, the sept, the glass gardens. He explained everything as well as he could - what lead where, who worked where, whom she should talk to when faced with a problem. All while staring ahead, seldom sending a gaze her way.

Cerelle listened, nodded, smiled. She curtsied when encountering ladies and servants alike, picked up a stray flower she found in one of the hallways. And yet she also rarely spoke a word. Just a question here and there, a greeting, a polite agreement. A pretty thing on his arm.

Perhaps she was hiding. Perhaps this was simply who she was.

They walked through a door and outside, ending up on the pathways surrounding the training yard.

Northmen and wildlings sparred side-by-side, laughing and joking despite their thousands of years of animosity. Some had said their blossoming friendship was due to him - the man who had died to bring innocents south of the Wall - but he knew they attributed far too much to him. Facing death itself was enough to unite even the greatest of foes.

“Are they all living at Winterfell?”

He shook his head, then remembered she likely wasn't looking at him. “No, they are not. Most of them are lords and their entourages, who will leave after the wedding. The wildlings are visiting as well, they are merely here to strengthen our alliance.”

His eyes wandered towards her for a short moment, to glance at her, see if she might express anything but polite interest. And… yes, perhaps that was indeed a small smile on her lips, and a sparkle in her eyes as she watched the children chase each other with sticks and wooden swords.

“I remember the last time I was here,” she said, lost in thought. “My brothers sparred with yours. Tommen was still far too young, so his fighting was more mindless stumbling in a set of armour that didn't quite fit him.”

“Do you miss your siblings?”

She nodded.

They continued their walk around the castle until they ended up in front of her chamber again.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” he said.

“Thank you for letting me.”

Then the door was shut before him once again.

After an eternity of walking circles in her room, she had grabbed a blanket, a book, and hidden in a secluded spot in the glass gardens. Surrounded by flowers and vines that, if she squinted, reminded her at least a little of her home, she had finally felt at ease.

Walking around the castle the previous day had been gruelling. Everyone had stared, knowingly, judgingly, as if they blamed her for her family's crimes, for the dire state the North had been beaten into. And the worst thing was…

She didn't blame them.

Time passed in the safe space she had crafted for herself, amidst the moondusts and dragon’s breaths and coldsnaps, lost in the words of her book.

Then steps drew near.

In her haste to jump off the cushioned bench, she threw over a flower pot, sending it tumbling to the ground. The bench almost tipped backwards, and she only narrowly kept it from crashing into the glass behind it.

No one could see her here. This was not her place, not her home, not hers to enjoy. She should have stayed locked away, deep inside the halls of Winterfell, with a dozen guards to line the way. Here there was no one. Just her. Alone.

If one of the lords found her here… She had seen their eyes the previous days, the glances and stares sent her way. Full of hatred. Lust. She knew them all - their meaning, their consequences. They would mean to punish her for what her family had done to them, and perhaps even find a way to stop this alliance and keep the king from wanting her. She needed to get away from here, back to her rooms, far away-

“Princess? Is everything alright?”

Jon stood amongst the plantlife, dressed in another set of black leathers. He looked down at her, concern etched across his face as he watched her hunched over form, kneeling in the dirt.

“Yes. Yes, everything is alright.” She stumbled over her words. “I- I apologise for this mess. I will clean it up right away and then-”

“Let me help you.”

His hands were calm, strong, cold as they brushed hers. He quickly had the flower pot - not broken, thank the gods - back on its pedestal, and helped her brush the dirt together.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“You would not believe the amount of things I have almost destroyed in this castle.” His chuckle reverberated in her chest, the sound low yet warm and inviting, and something shifted inside her.

“I doubt anyone would have noticed. Winterfell is even more contorted than Casterly Rock.”

And then he laughed, and Cerelle wanted to bottle up the sound and keep it locked away close to her heart.

“Maybe you could show it to me one day. After you have gotten used to your new life.”

She knew she should agree with him, tell him he need not be worried, and that she would be the nice and pleasing wife he desired. Yet something about their current position - sitting on the ground so close next to each other, their fingers mere breaths apart, staring into his dark eyes - made her whisper, “I don’t know if I ever will.”

He cocked his head. “Why would you say that?”

“Just look at me. I don’t belong here - I don’t belong anywhere. Your lords know that, and you would be much more suited marrying one of their daughters. Not the child of a foreign tyrant.”

Jon looked at her, eyes fluttering across her face, her body, her dress, seemingly trying to find an answer to the questions mounting in his head. She turned her head away, yet he quickly caught her chin with his fingers, and forced her to meet his gaze again.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His breath brushed across her cheek, his lips so close to hers she felt the heat radiating off them.

“After our wedding,” she whispered, “I want you to stop lying to me. I get enough of that pity from my uncle.”

And so she quickly stood up, and ran away.

Cerelle had stayed hidden in her room since their interaction the previous day. Or perhaps, simply stayed hidden from him.

He was slowly running short on ideas to make her warm up to him. Nothing, it seemed, that he said or did made her more comfortable around him, nothing caused her to open up to him, nothing led to her seeking him out.

Perhaps he should give up. Commit himself to a sad, lonely life, with an emotionless shell of a person beside him, until the cold finally returned to claim him once more. Perhaps it was what he deserved.

He sat up in his bed; slowly, breathing laboured, skin covered in sweat. The chamber was still wrapped in darkness, with only a sliver of the moon’s silver light falling past the drapes. He buried his face in his hands, then quickly stood up, slipped into a tunica and some boots, and disappeared into Winterfell’s deserted hallways.

No one was awake during this time of the night. The most he would ever encounter during his semi-regular walks around his castle was a stray rat, or a cat running after it.

Ghost had joined him at some point, trotting by his side like a white shadow, the fur cold and soft underneath his scarred hand. He was glad for his direwolf, glad for the quiet company, glad to not be alone in the darkness. Then he stepped on one of the walkways overlooking the main courtyard, and almost had his breath knocked out of him.

A soft breeze wafted through Cerelle’s hair, open for the very first time in his presence, the moonlight illuminating the strands and making them appear more silver than golden. Despite the freezing cold she wore no cloak, just a simple, dark blue dress that hugged her slender frame and made her pale skin almost seem to glow.

She looked… ethereal.

Her blue eyes settled onto him, and he nearly stumbled backwards.

“I- I apologise. I will leave-”

“No.” Her gaze settled on the yard beneath her once again. “It’s alright.”

He slowly, carefully walked towards her, yet made sure to stop a good distance away from her, and then followed her gaze into the abandoned courtyard. Usually brimming with life, now dark and empty.

“I apologise about my behaviour yesterday,” she almost said in a whisper. “You were merely trying to be nice towards your betrothed, and I should not have run away.”

“I understand why you did, and do not hold it over your head.” He buried his fingers into the frost-covered banister.

They stood there, in uncomfortable silence afterwards, neither knowing what to say, if to say anything.

“I suppose…” she said, then hesitated. “My mother sent me away and never came for me. Even as my siblings started dying, even after your brother had been killed, even after my uncles had been defeated, she left me at Casterly Rock, never sending a letter, never visiting. Then she crowned herself queen, and the only way I found out was because my uncle turned up after the war to tell me. And to tell me she had died, and that the Seven Kingdoms were no more.” She took a shaky breath. “I fear that if I trust someone again, they will do the same.”

He had had no idea- He had always thought Cerelle had hid in Casterly Rock, looking down upon them as they were slaughtered on battlefields. That she had been essentially held captive had never once crossed his mind as a possibility.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

“I am not your mother. You will never experience anything like it again, I swear it.”

Ghost eventually left his side and took a few careful steps towards Cerelle, sniffing at her hand, bumping his nose into her arm. And even though Jon had seen her ride in on a horse, had seen her eyes, hard as ice, staring at anyone daring to get too close to her, it still took him by surprise when she did not move back in fear, instead slowly starting to let her fingers glide through his white fur. All while failing at hiding the smile gracing her lips.

He wished she would smile like this at him. Some day, perhaps.

“I remember them from my last visit,” she said. “Though this one has grown quite a lot during this time.”

“His name is Ghost.”

“Ghost.” She chuckled. “An apt name. And I think you agree as well.” She ruffled the direwolf’s fur.

“You changed as well. You grew taller, and your hair has gotten longer as well. Back then you looked just like your mother, but I can’t say you share much resemblance with her now.”

The words had tumbled out of him, and he regretted them as soon as he closed his mouth. What had gotten him to say all this?

Then, into the silence, Cerelle whispered, “I don’t remember you at all.”

Her smile had faded, replaced by the constant state of terrified impassiveness he had gotten so used to seeing on her.

“I do not blame you. I was a lowly bastard, and you part of the royal family. Our paths could have never crossed, even had we wanted to.”

“And yet you remember me.” She looked down into the courtyard. “Likely remember me walking out of that wheelhouse beside my mother, and smiling at your brother, and talking to your sister, and decorating myself with all that useless frivolity, still so deep in the belief that my life would have some meaning.”

“Then perhaps it is time you create those memories of me.”

Something that was far more beautiful than Cerelle trying to hide her smile was her trying to hide her grin. And perhaps, if the sun had been out during their conversation, he would have seen pink bloom on her cheeks.

All week, the castle had been busy preparing for the wedding. Her wedding. The one that would make her queen of a strange and alien kingdom.

She had stayed away, as well as she could - while she still could. After tomorrow, she would be expected to act as their queen, no matter how little she knew her people.

Pacing up and down her chambers had become something of a favourite pastime of hers. Not that she liked it, of course, but she did not dare step foot out of the door on her own, without one of the Starks to accompany her. Defend her against the disapproving stares.

A knock on her door.

She had expected everything, except for King Jon to stand on its other side, a wooden box and a book in his hands.

“May I come in?”

She could not quite forbid her betrothed from walking around his castle, so she stepped aside without a word and closed the thick wooden door behind him.

“I wanted to talk with you about tomorrow,” he said quickly. Either because he did not want to stay in her presence any longer than necessary, or because he was nervous.

She nodded, indicating to him to continue.

“There will not be a bedding ceremony. I have been to Northern weddings before, and approximately know when they happen. We will leave before then.”

She could barely comprehend his words. He could not truly mean-

“Why?”

“I- You will be my wife and queen, and I want my lords to respect you. I don't want their first real interaction with you to be… touching you inappropriately.”

He was seemingly embarrassed by his own words, and if they were not currently talking about the prospect of her wedding night, she might even say it was cute.

“I… thank you.” She tugged at the sleeves of her gown. “But I doubt it would change anything. I am an outsider, whether or not they undress me tomorrow will not change how they see me.”

He then, quite strangely, handed her the book he had been carrying. “But this might.”

Justice and Injustice in the North. She had been reading the tome in the glass gardens two days past, and had forgotten it there in her desperate attempt to escape Jon.

She looked up, and met his dark, endless eyes.

“You are learning about the North,” he said. “Not simply its people, but its laws and customs as well.”

“It's the least I can do.”

“See? Not even married to me and you are already taking your role as future queen of these lands seriously.”

Then he offered her the wooden box, opened the latch, and revealed a simple iron crown. Much like his own, yet this one had a small ruby etched into the front.

“You do not have to wear this tomorrow,” he said. “But you can, if you wish. I will force you to nothing.”

She nodded slightly, took the box, and carried it and the book towards one of the cupboards.

“I assume that will be all?”

She could not remain in the same room with him for any longer, could not stand to remain in vicinity to this man who had been treating her so kindly at no benefit to himself.

“Actually… There is one more thing.”

Jon gently turned her towards him, laying his fingers underneath her chin to urge her to meet his eyes. The moonlight fell through the window beside them, bathing him into a soft, silver light that illuminated his black curls.

“We will be watched for the rest of our lives. Nothing will remain secret, each of our actions needing to ensure prosperity for the North and all who live here. I am certain that tomorrow, even if we manage to escape the ceremony, someone will ensure we have consummated our union. So, if you are willing, I want this one, simple thing to be just ours.”

His lips had gotten so close to hers, a mere hair's breadth apart, and she could once again feel the immense heat radiating off it.

She could refuse, she knew. If she told him no, he would accept her answer, and leave. Yet his words echoed inside her, and she knew them to be true.

And so, instead of whispering that dreaded word, she simply closed the space between them, and sealed their lips in a kiss.

A week ago, Jon would have never thought he would feel so at ease standing before the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, Cerelle before him in a blinding white gown and with the iron crown of winter upon her golden hair, speaking the vows that would bind them. But he was glad the day had come. And he was glad Cerelle was the woman he would share eternity with.

The ceremony, the brief kiss, and the feast passed by him in a breeze, his wife's hand in his the only thing grounding him.

His wife.

He would need some time to get used to that word.

Cerelle looked even more radiant than she had the previous night, cloaked in the silver light filling her room, with red lips swollen from their kiss. He was barely able to keep his eyes off her.

(A part of him desperately hoped his lords noticed.)

And then the moment came. The guests in the feast hall either too distracted or too drunk to pay the pair of them any real mind, so his fingers tightened around Cerelle's, and he pulled her upward, through the servant's entrance behind the high table, and down Winterfell's corridors.

His quick steps had turned into a run at some point, and Cerelle's giggles echoed off the stone walls.

Then they entered his chambers, and she went quiet.

“I-” He swallowed. “I know what I said yesterday, but we do not have to do this today if you do not want to. There is no pressure on us to-”

“No. Let us get through this.”

She took off her crown and cloak, laid both of them on a chair, and then started unlacing her dress. Eyes lowered, half-turned away from him.

Carefully, he stepped up towards her, and laid his hands on hers. And then, when she looked up and met his gaze, blue eyes sparkling in the fire of the candles around them, he laid his lips on hers without hesitation.

Their previous two kisses - one in her chambers, one at the ceremony earlier in the evening - had been chaste. Short and sweet, yes, but over far too quickly, and without ever providing him with the opportunity to feel her. Now he allowed himself to move deeper, to touch her body, explore her mouth with his, trace the lines of her dress, hear her pretty gasps. And Cerelle accepted. Melted into him, almost.

Until he touched the laces at her back.

He pulled back, heart beating in his chest so loudly he feared she might hear.

“If you wish to stop at any point…”

She nodded. “I know.”

To alleviate at least some of her fears, he started undressing, willing to bare himself and that what he feared most to stop her trembling hands. And they did, yet only once he had gotten rid of his blouse.

She stared at the scars on his chest. Carefully, she lifted a hand and let it hover above them. He made no move to stop her, only watching her confused eyes as her fingers traced his skin.

(He did not look down. Would not dare.)

“What-” Her voice broke. “What happened?”

“I was betrayed. They’re all dead now.”

He left it at that, and she did not inquire any further.

Eventually, even their last clothes fell to the ground, their lips once again locked into a kiss as he picked Cerelle up and carried her to the bed.

His hands explored her body slowly, gliding across her breasts, her stomach, her legs. And once she stopped twitching away, he let his mouth follow that same path. First kissing her breasts, then her stomach, then her legs, and then her core.

He listened to her gasps and her moans to find out what she liked, and what she loved. Her body reacted, as if on its own, to every single one of his touches, to the movements of his tongue, the crooking of his fingers, and when she finally peaked, he took everything she offered him.

Then he wandered upwards again, sealing their lips in a kiss. Her fingers got tangled up in his hair, pulls and tugs eliciting groans from his mouth that she swallowed as soon as they spilled across his lips.

He entered her as gently as he could, stopping shortly when she buried her nails into his shoulder. Once their hips sat flush against each other, and he had looked into her eyes, as blue as the warmest summer sky, he started moving. Her back arched at his thrusts, and she swung her leg around his waist to encourage him to speed up. He followed her commands without hesitation.

She peaked again, and he followed shortly afterwards, spilling inside of her and sealing their union.

They laid in his bed afterwards, tangled up, pressed against each other, their heartbeats echoing the other, yearning to beat in tandem.

He would be alright. Perhaps him and Cerelle would never love each other, but they would be friends, and he decided that ruling side by side with someone he trusted was everything he needed.

author's note: if you liked this story and the character of cerelle, may i recommend the fic they were inspired by, meet me in the dark

[siravalondulac]

pour it in a cup | j. snow x reader

summary: after the devastating wars against the white walkers and house lannister, jon is once again king in the north, and as such, is in need of a wife. how lucky, then, that tyrion lannister has a niece.

contents: arranged marriage, unrealistically quick relationship progression, she/her pronouns for reader, one use of y/n, slight non-graphic smut at the end

words: 5814

author's note: based on this request. i've also written a version with my oc here (in case you saw both and were confused, it's the same story)

masterlist | additional works masterlist

Perhaps avoiding any talk about the topic of his missing queen had not been the correct idea. He should have listened to his advisors when they spoke of marriage, of the betrothal offers from the Northern lords, of the suggestion to take a Free Folk woman as wife to unite their people. But he had been too focused on trying to deal with becoming king - again - he had brushed them all off. And this was the punishment.

He stood in the courtyard, his remaining siblings beside him, waiting anxiously for the procession to arrive. The entire castle had gathered to greet the visitors from Casterly Rock, and to catch a glimpse of their new queen.

Horns blasted, and then the first soldiers arrived.

Their red and golden armour had not changed, and neither had the lion on their banners. Fewer men than expected accompanied the party, but all of that was forgotten when you rode in.

Cersei Lannister's oldest child, who had hidden in Casterly Rock for the entire war, staying far removed from the horror the rest of them had to suffer.

You were clad in rich fabrics, a dark red dress with golden embellishments, decorated with soft furs to keep yourself warm in the cold. Yet more peculiarly, you did not travel in a wheelhouse as your mother or any of the southern ladies would have done, but sat aside on a horse, its hide as white as the snow around them.

You would become his wife. You would become his queen

Your uncle, Tyrion Lannister, jumped off his own horse and approached him. They shook hands with a smile, and Jon was glad over the lack of proper manners.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion's voice sounded amused saying the title. “I am grateful for the invitation. And that you have accepted the proposal.”

“The North needs this alliance to heal,” he repeated the words of his council. “Just as the Westerlands.”

“That we do.” He beckoned someone forward. “May I introduce your betrothed? My niece, the Princess Y/N.”

You raised your hand, and he quickly took it to lay a kiss upon your knuckles.

“My princess, I am honoured.”

“As am I, your grace.”

Your words were polite yet cold, and he realised for the first time you might want this marriage even less than him.

He tried to grasp at something to say. “May I lead you to your chambers?”

You nodded, and closed your hand around his arm.

Perhaps he should have stayed, should have greeted the other lords and ladies as well, should have held a speech - whatever was expected of a king. But he wanted time alone with his bride, wanted to spend your first moments together without dozens of eyes watching them. And so he did not feel bad as he led you into the halls of his castle.

“Uh-” He cleared his throat. “You will receive your own chambers until the wedding, in order to get used to everything. Afterwards you will move into the Lord's chambers with me.”

You nodded, and said nothing.

You passed the main hall, where a wooden throne now eternally stood high above the rest.

“It must be strange,” he said, “being back here after all these years.”

You chuckled. “Strange indeed. The last time I was here, my family was still alive. Now there is only my uncle and me, the dwarven king and the forgotten princess.”

Your voice had become biting, accusatory. And he supposed you had a point.

“I apologise.” He did not dare look at you. “These last years must have been difficult.”

“They sent me away and never came for me,” you answered far too quickly. As if you had prepared it. “I am loyal to the Stark crown and will do my duty by it.”

He did not try to initiate another conversation until you had reached your chambers. And even then, the few words he spoke were only to inform you that a servant would be with you shortly. You seemed as if you wanted to tell him something - a thank, a question, a demand to leave you alone until the wedding the coming week - yet closed the door before any such thing could happen.

You tried to forget him. Tried to ignore the reality of the situation whenever the thought passed your mind. Which was nonsense, you knew. But it was easier than facing the fact you would be marrying a total stranger in just a few, short days.

That first night, Winterfell held a feast to welcome you, and to introduce the castle and the entire North to their new queen.

Despite what would be expected of you, and despite knowing you would have to adhere to your betrothed's customs soon, you had decided on a blood red gown for the evening, while a golden tiara decorated your intricately braided hair.

One last desperate attempt to cling to your heritage. To not lose what remained of your family.

King Jon Stark already awaited you at the doors to the feast hall, clad in yet another set of black and brown leathers and a fur-lined cloak, this time, however, with a spiked iron crown on top of his dark curls.

He smiled at you, you smiled back, then you took his extended arm, and entered.

The few spots of red and gold were drowned out in a sea of Northmen, all staring at you. Judging you. None of them wanted a tyrant's daughter as their queen, a foreigner, an enemy. Neither did you, but what else was left for you in this world? You were your uncle's heir, yet only until he sired his own children. And afterwards, you would have nothing.

Best accept this marriage. It was certainly the best you could get.

King Jon held a short speech once they stood in front of their seats, thanking first his lords for joining him for this most wonderful occasion, then your uncle for brokering this much needed alliance between their kingdoms, and lastly you. For agreeing.

You smiled and curtsied, and hastily removed your hand from his arm once you were seated.

The food was agreeable, the ale not too bitter, and the constant chattering and even shouting from the wildlings bearable. You had to get used to all this, you reminded yourself, especially to the presence of the man beside you.

Jon, to his credit, had not tried to strike up a conversation yet, though the glances he threw in your direction burned on your skin. You would have to look at him eventually, you knew as much. Touch him, even. Lay with him. Perhaps speaking to him now might soften that experience later on.

But he was drawn into a conversation with your uncle before you could decide.

Sansa sat on your other side, beside her brother and two others you did not recognise. You grasped at something to say - something easy, and far removed from the terrors your families had inflicted on each other.

“I like your dress,” you said carefully, not daring to fully look into Sansa's face.

It was true, you did like her gown - dark blue and simple, with an intricately embroidered wolf just above her heart.

“Thank you. I made it myself a few years ago. I had too much on my hands to sew a completely new gown simply for this feast.”

“You enjoy making them yourself, I take it?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation going. “The last time I was here, you were so proud of what you made, it was all you could talk about for an entire course.”

“And all you could talk about was King's Landing, and how much I would like it there.”

Perhaps Sansa tried to start an argument, to find any excuse to convince her brother to break off the betrothal. Perhaps she wanted to guilt you into admitting fault for your family's actions. Or perhaps that was simply the only thing she remembered from that evening.

“I am sorry.” You stared at the rings on your fingers. “I should have warned you about Joffrey.”

You had been sent to Casterly Rock not long after the outbreak of the war - for safekeeping, so that the Baratheon crown could live on through you should disaster strike the rest of your family - but you had still witnessed the beginnings of your brother's cruelty towards Sansa.

“You couldn’t have known what he would do.”

“I grew up beside him. I knew him longer and better than most. What he did to you… I could have prevented it.”

“He would have punished you as well, had you tried.”

Jon had joined some of wildings further into the hall, and you could almost understand their words and cheers from your place at the main table, such was the volume they were speaking at. He looked comfortable with them.

“Your brother…” You hesitated. “What is he like?”

Your eyes stayed on him, even when Sansa eventually answered.

“He will not mistreat you, if that is what you fear.”

“No. I mean-” You chuckled half-heartedly. “That is all anyone tells me about him. He is good, he is kind, he is brave. It all sounds rather dull.”

“He was a bastard, then a brother of the Night's Watch. He still thinks he is undeserving of the crown, even though the Northerners have pronounced him their king twice now. He has already fought in more battles than most will in their entire lifetime. Such a thing is known to leave one scarred and withdrawn. Give him time, he will warm up to you eventually.”

Jon joined your side again after a while, with red cheeks and a small grin on his lips. Yet when he noticed your stare, he swallowed, shook his head slightly, and it had disappeared.

You almost wanted to tell him how cute it had looked.

“I am rather tired from the long ride,” you said instead. “Would it be terribly impolite by Northern customs to leave already?”

“No, not at all.” He stood up and offered you his arm. “Let me accompany you to your chambers.”

Conversations died when you passed.

The cold air hit you the moment you stepped out into the quiet of the night, and you could not stop the noticeable shiver running down your back, nor the slight shaking of your arms. You clenched your jaw and prepared yourself for an uncomfortable walk, when a cloak was suddenly laid around your shoulders.

Confused, you looked towards Jon.

“I apologise about the cold. I suppose it will take a while to fully get used to it.”

Then he realised he still had his hands laid on your arms, and he hastily dropped them, taking a step back for good measure.

You pulled the fabric tighter around yourself.

“Thank you, your grace.”

You did not touch each other again on the walk to your rooms, and you did not mind at all. Welcomed it, in fact. You would be forced to endure his hands soon enough, there was no reason to invite them sooner.

You thought about saying something once you reached your door - a thank, a question, an invitation to spend the following day with you. Yet all you did was hand him back his cloak, whisper a quick “Good Night”, and quickly close the door behind you.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

Tyrion's words echoed in his mind as he made his way to your chambers.

Your distance at the feast last night had surely been noted, he knew it had. Certain Northern lords - Manderly, Umber - were already looking for any excuse to oppose this marriage, he could not provide them with more reasons. You two would be seen conversing happily, spending time together, kissing if necessary. They would not punish you for his misgivings.

He knocked on your door, waited, and assumed for a moment you would ignore him, when he suddenly heard steps. Slow, careful, yet still. His back straightened on its own, and then you stood before him.

A soft green dress draped your body. Simple, without much embroidery, jewels, frills, or lace. Just a lone necklace hung around your neck.

You looked… beautiful.

“Your Grace.” You quickly pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I-” The light caught in your hair. He cleared his throat. “I was planning to check on the castle, make sure everything is working as intended. Would you like to accompany me?”

Best make you believe you would not put unnecessary burdens on his shoulders by agreeing to this walk, but simply to join what he was already doing.

Still… Even despite his efforts, you seemed ready to decline. Your fingers tightening in your dress, the trembling of your lips, the terror in your eyes-

“Yes.”

You quickly had a cloak slung around your shoulders and your hand around his arm, and so you set off.

Jon knew, of course, that you had only agreed because you were aware of your situation, much like him, and that you needed to play the game in order to survive. Your mother had taught you much.

Your walk through the castle led you past the kitchens, the feast halls, the smithery, the stables, the sept, the glass gardens. He explained everything as well as he could - what lead where, who worked where, whom you should talk to when faced with a problem. All while staring ahead, seldom sending a gaze your way.

You listened, nodded, smiled. You curtsied when encountering ladies and servants alike, picked up a stray flower you found in one of the hallways. And yet you also rarely spoke a word. Just a question here and there, a greeting, a polite agreement. A pretty thing on his arm.

Perhaps you were hiding. Perhaps this was simply who you were.

You walked through a door and outside, ending up on the pathways surrounding the training yard.

Northmen and wildlings sparred side-by-side, laughing and joking despite their thousands of years of animosity. Some had said their blossoming friendship was due to him - the man who had died to bring innocents south of the Wall - but he knew they attributed far too much to him. Facing death itself was enough to unite even the greatest of foes.

“Are they all living at Winterfell?”

He shook his head, then remembered you likely weren't looking at him. “No, they are not. Most of them are lords and their entourages, who will leave after the wedding. The wildlings are visiting as well, they are merely here to strengthen our alliance.”

His eyes wandered towards you for a short moment, to glance at you, see if you might express anything but polite interest. And… yes, perhaps that was indeed a small smile on your lips, and a sparkle in your eyes as you watched the children chase each other with sticks and wooden swords.

“I remember the last time I was here,” you said, lost in thought. “My brothers sparred with yours. Tommen was still far too young, so his fighting was more mindless stumbling in a set of armour that didn't quite fit him.”

“Do you miss your siblings?”

You nodded.

You continued your walk around the castle until you ended up in front of your chamber again.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” he said.

“Thank you for letting me.”

Then the door was shut before him once again.

After an eternity of walking circles in your room, you had grabbed a blanket, a book, and hidden in a secluded spot in the glass gardens. Surrounded by flowers and vines that, if you squinted, reminded you at least a little of your home, you had finally felt at ease.

Walking around the castle the previous day had been gruelling. Everyone had stared, knowingly, judgingly, as if they blamed you for your family's crimes, for the dire state the North had been beaten into. And the worst thing was…

You didn't blame them.

Time passed in the safe space you had crafted for yourself, amidst the moondusts and dragon’s breaths and coldsnaps, lost in the words of your book.

Then steps drew near.

In your haste to jump off the cushioned bench, you threw over a flower pot, sending it tumbling to the ground. The bench almost tipped backwards, and you only narrowly kept it from crashing into the glass behind it.

No one could see you here. This was not your place, not your home, not yours to enjoy. You should have stayed locked away, deep inside the halls of Winterfell, with a dozen guards to line the way. Here there was no one. Just you. Alone.

If one of the lords found you here… You had seen their eyes the previous days, the glances and stares sent your way. Full of hatred. Lust. You knew them all - their meaning, their consequences. They would mean to punish you for what your family had done to them, and perhaps even find a way to stop this alliance and keep the king from wanting you. You needed to get away from here, back to your rooms, far away-

“Princess? Is everything alright?”

Jon stood amongst the plantlife, dressed in another set of black leathers. He looked down at you, concern etched across his face as he watched your hunched over form, kneeling in the dirt.

“Yes. Yes, everything is alright.” You stumbled over your words. “I- I apologise for this mess. I will clean it up right away and then-”

“Let me help you.”

His hands were calm, strong, cold as they brushed yours. He quickly had the flower pot - not broken, thank the gods - back on its pedestal, and helped you brush the dirt together.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“You would not believe the amount of things I have almost destroyed in this castle.” His chuckle reverberated in your chest, the sound low yet warm and inviting, and something shifted inside you.

“I doubt anyone would have noticed. Winterfell is even more contorted than Casterly Rock.”

And then he laughed, and you wanted to bottle up the sound and keep it locked away close to your heart.

“Maybe you could show it to me one day. After you have gotten used to your new life.”

You knew you should agree with him, tell him he need not be worried, and that you would be the nice and pleasing wife he desired. Yet something about your current position - sitting on the ground so close next to each other, your fingers mere breaths apart, staring into his dark eyes - made you whisper, “I don’t know if I ever will.”

He cocked his head. “Why would you say that?”

“Just look at me. I don’t belong here - I don’t belong anywhere. Your lords know that, and you would be much more suited marrying one of their daughters. Not the child of a foreign tyrant.”

Jon looked at you, eyes fluttering across your face, your body, your dress, seemingly trying to find an answer to the questions mounting in his head. You turned your head away, yet he quickly caught your chin with his fingers, and forced you to meet his gaze again.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His breath brushed across your cheek, his lips so close to yours you felt the heat radiating off them.

“After our wedding,” you whispered, “I want you to stop lying to me. I get enough of that pity from my uncle.”

And so you quickly stood up, and ran away.

You had stayed hidden in your room since your interaction the previous day. Or perhaps, simply stayed hidden from him.

He was slowly running short on ideas to make you warm up to him. Nothing, it seemed, that he said or did made you more comfortable around him, nothing caused you to open up to him, nothing led to you seeking him out.

Perhaps he should give up. Commit himself to a sad, lonely life, with an emotionless shell of a person beside him, until the cold finally returned to claim him once more. Perhaps it was what he deserved.

He sat up in his bed; slowly, breathing laboured, skin covered in sweat. The chamber was still wrapped in darkness, with only a sliver of the moon’s silver light falling past the drapes. He buried his face in his hands, then quickly stood up, slipped into a tunica and some boots, and disappeared into Winterfell’s deserted hallways.

No one was awake during this time of the night. The most he would ever encounter during his semi-regular walks around his castle was a stray rat, or a cat running after it.

Ghost had joined him at some point, trotting by his side like a white shadow, the fur cold and soft underneath his scarred hand. He was glad for his direwolf, glad for the quiet company, glad to not be alone in the darkness. Then he stepped on one of the walkways overlooking the main courtyard, and almost had his breath knocked out of him.

A soft breeze wafted through your hair, open for the very first time in his presence, the moonlight illuminating the strands and making them appear almost silver. Despite the freezing cold you wore no cloak, just a simple, dark blue dress that hugged your frame.

You looked… ethereal.

Your blue eyes settled onto him, and he nearly stumbled backwards.

“I- I apologise. I will leave-”

“No.” Your gaze settled on the yard beneath you once again. “It’s alright.”

He slowly, carefully walked towards you, yet made sure to stop a good distance away from you, and then followed your gaze into the abandoned courtyard. Usually brimming with life, now dark and empty.

“I apologise about my behaviour yesterday,” you almost said in a whisper. “You were merely trying to be nice towards your betrothed, and I should not have run away.”

“I understand why you did, and do not hold it over your head.” He buried his fingers into the frost-covered banister.

You stood there, in uncomfortable silence afterwards, neither knowing what to say, if to say anything.

“I suppose…” you said, then hesitated. “My mother sent me away and never came for me. Even as my siblings started dying, even after your brother had been killed, even after my uncles had been defeated, she left me at Casterly Rock, never sending a letter, never visiting. Then she crowned herself queen, and the only way I found out was because my uncle turned up after the war to tell me. And to tell me she had died, and that the Seven Kingdoms were no more.” She took a shaky breath. “I fear that if I trust someone again, they will do the same.”

He had had no idea- He had always thought you had hid in Casterly Rock, looking down upon them as they were slaughtered on battlefields. That you had been essentially held captive had never once crossed his mind as a possibility.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

“I am not your mother. You will never experience anything like it again, I swear it.”

Ghost eventually left his side and took a few careful steps towards you, sniffing at your hand, bumping his nose into your arm. And even though Jon had seen you ride in on a horse, had seen your eyes, hard as ice, staring at anyone daring to get too close to you, it still took him by surprise when you did not move back in fear, instead slowly starting to let your fingers glide through his white fur. All while failing at hiding the smile gracing your lips.

He wished you would smile like this at him. Some day, perhaps.

“I remember them from my last visit,” you said. “Though this one has grown quite a lot during this time.”

“His name is Ghost.”

“Ghost.” You chuckled. “An apt name. And I think you agree as well.” You ruffled the direwolf’s fur.

“You changed as well. You grew taller, and your hair has gotten longer as well. Back then you looked just like your mother, but I can’t say you share much resemblance with her now.”

The words had tumbled out of him, and he regretted them as soon as he closed his mouth. What had gotten him to say all this?

Then, into the silence, you whispered, “I don’t remember you at all.”

Your smile had faded, replaced by the constant state of terrified impassiveness he had gotten so used to seeing on you.

“I do not blame you. I was a lowly bastard, and you part of the royal family. Our paths could have never crossed, even had we wanted to.”

“And yet you remember me.” You looked down into the courtyard. “Likely remember me walking out of that wheelhouse beside my mother, and smiling at your brother, and talking to your sister, and decorating myself with all that useless frivolity, still so deep in the belief that my life would have some meaning.”

“Then perhaps it is time you create those memories of me.”

Something that was far more beautiful than you trying to hide your smile was you trying to hide your grin. And perhaps, if the sun had been out during your conversation, he would have seen pink bloom on your cheeks.

All week, the castle had been busy preparing for the wedding. Your wedding. The one that would make you queen of a strange and alien kingdom.

You had stayed away, as well as you could - while you still could. After tomorrow, you would be expected to act as their queen, no matter how little you knew your people.

Pacing up and down your chambers had become something of a favourite pastime of yours. Not that you liked it, of course, but you did not dare step foot out of the door on your own, without one of the Starks to accompany you. Defend you against the disapproving stares.

A knock on your door.

You had expected everything, except for King Jon to stand on its other side, a wooden box and a book in his hands.

“May I come in?”

You could not quite forbid your betrothed from walking around his castle, so you stepped aside without a word and closed the thick wooden door behind him.

“I wanted to talk with you about tomorrow,” he said quickly. Either because he did not want to stay in your presence any longer than necessary, or because he was nervous.

You nodded, indicating to him to continue.

“There will not be a bedding ceremony. I have been to Northern weddings before, and approximately know when they happen. We will leave before then.”

You could barely comprehend his words. He could not truly mean-

“Why?”

“I- You will be my wife and queen, and I want my lords to respect you. I don't want their first real interaction with you to be… touching you inappropriately.”

He was seemingly embarrassed by his own words, and if you were not currently talking about the prospect of your wedding night, you might even say it was cute.

“I… thank you.” You tugged at the sleeves of your gown. “But I doubt it would change anything. I am an outsider, whether or not they undress me tomorrow will not change how they see me.”

He then, quite strangely, handed you the book he had been carrying. “But this might.”

Justice and Injustice in the North. You had been reading the tome in the glass gardens two days past, and had forgotten it there in your desperate attempt to escape Jon.

You looked up, and met his dark, endless eyes.

“You are learning about the North,” he said. “Not simply its people, but its laws and customs as well.”

“It's the least I can do.”

“See? Not even married to me and you are already taking your role as future queen of these lands seriously.”

Then he offered you the wooden box, opened the latch, and revealed a simple iron crown. Much like his own, yet this one had a small ruby etched into the front.

“You do not have to wear this tomorrow,” he said. “But you can, if you wish. I will force you to nothing.”

You nodded slightly, took the box, and carried it and the book towards one of the cupboards.

“I assume that will be all?”

You could not remain in the same room with him for any longer, could not stand to remain in vicinity to this man who had been treating you so kindly at no benefit to himself.

“Actually… There is one more thing.”

Jon gently turned you towards him, laying his fingers underneath your chin to urge you to meet his eyes. The moonlight fell through the window beside you, bathing him into a soft, silver light that illuminated his black curls.

“We will be watched for the rest of our lives. Nothing will remain secret, each of our actions needing to ensure prosperity for the North and all who live here. I am certain that tomorrow, even if we manage to escape the ceremony, someone will ensure we have consummated our union. So, if you are willing, I want this one, simple thing to be just ours.”

His lips had gotten so close to yours, a mere hair's breadth apart, and you could once again feel the immense heat radiating off it.

You could refuse, you knew. If you told him no, he would accept your answer, and leave. Yet his words echoed inside you, and you knew them to be true.

And so, instead of whispering that dreaded word, you simply closed the space between you, and sealed your lips in a kiss.

A week ago, Jon would have never thought he would feel so at ease standing before the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, you before him in a blinding white gown and with the iron crown of winter upon your hair, speaking the vows that would bind you. But he was glad the day had come. And he was glad you were the woman he would share eternity with.

The ceremony, the brief kiss, and the feast passed by him in a breeze, his wife's hand in his the only thing grounding him.

His wife.

He would need some time to get used to that word.

You looked even more radiant than you had the previous night, cloaked in the silver light filling your room, with red lips swollen from your kiss. He was barely able to keep his eyes off you.

(A part of him desperately hoped his lords noticed.)

And then the moment came. The guests in the feast hall either too distracted or too drunk to pay the pair of you any real mind, so his fingers tightened around yours, and he pulled you upward, through the servant's entrance behind the high table, and down Winterfell's corridors.

His quick steps had turned into a run at some point, and your giggles echoed off the stone walls.

Then you entered his chambers, and you went quiet.

“I-” He swallowed. “I know what I said yesterday, but we do not have to do this today if you do not want to. There is no pressure on us to-”

“No. Let us get through this.”

You took off your crown and cloak, laid both of them on a chair, and then started unlacing your dress. Eyes lowered, half-turned away from him.

Carefully, he stepped up towards you, and laid his hands on yours. And then, when you looked up and met his gaze, eyes sparkling in the fire of the candles around you, he laid his lips on yours without hesitation.

Your previous two kisses - one in your chambers, one at the ceremony earlier in the evening - had been chaste. Short and sweet, yes, but over far too quickly, and without ever providing him with the opportunity to feel you. Now he allowed himself to move deeper, to touch your body, explore your mouth with his, trace the lines of your dress, hear your pretty gasps. And you accepted. Melted into him, almost.

Until he touched the laces at your back.

He pulled back, heart beating in his chest so loudly he feared you might hear.

“If you wish to stop at any point…”

You nodded. “I know.”

To alleviate at least some of your fears, he started undressing, willing to bare himself and that what he feared most to stop your trembling hands. And they did, yet only once he had gotten rid of his blouse.

You stared at the scars on his chest. Carefully, you lifted a hand and let it hover above them. He made no move to stop you, only watching your confused eyes as your fingers traced his skin.

(He did not look down. Would not dare.)

“What-” Your voice broke. “What happened?”

“I was betrayed. They’re all dead now.”

He left it at that, and you did not inquire any further.

Eventually, even your last clothes fell to the ground, your lips once again locked into a kiss as he picked you up and carried you to the bed.

His hands explored your body slowly, gliding across your breasts, your stomach, your legs. And once you stopped twitching away, he let his mouth follow that same path. First kissing your breasts, then your stomach, then your legs, and then your core.

He listened to your gasps and your moans to find out what you liked, and what you loved. Your body reacted, as if on its own, to every single one of his touches, to the movements of his tongue, the crooking of his fingers, and when you finally peaked, he took everything you offered him.

Then he wandered upwards again, sealing your lips in a kiss. Your fingers got tangled up in his hair, pulls and tugs eliciting groans from his mouth that you swallowed as soon as they spilled across his lips.

He entered you as gently as he could, stopping shortly when you buried your nails into his shoulder. Once your hips sat flush against each other, and he had looked into your eyes, he started moving. Your back arched at his thrusts, and you swung your leg around his waist to encourage him to speed up. He followed your commands without hesitation.

You peaked again, and he followed shortly afterwards, spilling inside of you and sealing your union.

You laid in his bed afterwards, tangled up, pressed against each other, your heartbeats echoing the other, yearning to beat in tandem.

He would be alright. Perhaps you  would never love each other, but you would be friends, and he decided that ruling side by side with someone he trusted was everything he needed.

author's note: if you liked this story, may i recommend the fic it was inspired by, meet me in the dark

[siravalondulac]

007. cerelle iii

house of lies, city of blood

asoiaf ff | fem!oc centric

summary: a purple wedding word count: 2338 warnings: depictions of ptsd and panic attacks, violent imagery

masterlist

previous | next

People cheered and laughed and feasted. They delighted themselves with the countless attractions built around the gardens, imported statues and tamed beasts, and with the music echoing across every path.

Elia had fun, and she was glad that at least one of them did. For her, the memory of what had happened when she last had attended a wedding still haunted her far too clearly.

(Oberyn had had trouble enough convincing her to attend the festivities. The ceremony - confined in a tight space, with doors that could be locked and soldiers guarding all exits - had been impossible.)

She had her dagger hidden beneath her dress’ sleeve, just in case. Nothing would happen, but just in case.

Elia chose where they should go, what they should do, and she followed without protest. Which was easy enough - her sister scarcely glanced at the high table acting as the centre point of the festivities, letting her effortlessly avoid what she feared most.

Instead, her sister amused herself with the entertainers scattered around the gardens - jugglers, pyromancers, pipers, dancing dogs -, talked to guests clearly not from the Seven Kingdoms, and tasted as much food as possible. She even offered her a bite whenever she remembered, yet Cerelle denied gracefully every time.

Men approached them from time to time - minor lordlings and hedge knights, she assumed - and asked them to dance. Elia laughed at them, and walked away, Cerelle apologised for her sister, and then feigned an injured ankle to escape their presence.

Then, the music changed.

First only the violins, then the harp joined in. And at last, a man started singing the cursed words.

She had tried so hard to suppress those memories, to forget and never remember what had happened at the Twins, what she had done at the Twins. And now it came crashing down upon her once more.

Blood spotted her vision, coated her hands, gushed out of the eyes of the people around her. They stared at her, opened their mouths to scream, piercing sounds drilling through her bones, accusing her, damning her, cursing her to burn in the Seven Hells for all eternity.

She needed to draw her dagger, to defend herself, to silence those wishing her harm. But she couldn't- Her limbs were like ice, unmoving, steadfast, not willing to crack even under the greatest pressure.

Fingers started to rip her beautiful dress, and started to claw at her skin and flesh, opening wounds of old and new. They tore into the long scar on her back, closed around her neck, pulled at her nails and hair, keeping her trapped in this mass of bodies and blood and tears and screams-

The open sea glittered in the sun. Boats sailed towards the distant horizon and over the edge of the world. A tree grew beside her, surrounded by wild, unkempt flowers and bushes.

She blinked.

She knew that tree. That was her tree, the one at the edge of the castle gardens, hidden behind the small labyrinth, where she had run to whenever she had needed to escape court. It had grown since she had last seen it, and not by a little.

How many times had she sat leaned against the wood and stared out to the ocean, wanting nothing more than to sneak away onto a ship and sail to all these distant lands she had heard of.

The bark was rough under her bloody fingers-

Oh. There was blood on her fingers.

She turned them before her slowly, inspecting the small rips and wounds across her skin. Then her gaze wandered across her dress, across the torn pieces of embroidery and the leaves and branches clinging to it. She tried to remember how she ended up in this place, but found only terror.

“Are you alright, my lady?”

She whirled around at the voice, and almost blurted out his name.

Jaime.

He stood before her, the sunlight’s reflection on his silver Kingsguard armour nearly blinding her. Yet she still saw the concern on her uncle's face.

Her uncle. And her father.

She yearned to run over to him and jump into his arms, to tell him who she was and how sorry she was for running, and to beg him to take her to her mother.

And yet she… couldn't. And she didn't know why, just that facing what she had left behind filled her with such terrible amounts of fear.

“Yes,” she finally managed to say with a hoarse voice. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“You ran away quite frantically from the festivities. And far away as well.”

She pulled at her veil, which had not been moved much out of place, thank the gods, and therefore still covered her treacherous hair.

“Believe me, if you were being followed by those lords you would run here as well.”

He stared at her, cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “How did you know of this place?”

Did he know who she was? The way his gaze was fixed on her made it seem like he had a suspicion, but if so why not outright ask it?

“I didn't, I merely found it.”

He didn't believe her, and she wouldn't either. So she quickly curtsied, said, “If you would excuse me, Ser,” and hurried past him to escape his scrutinising gaze. He let her, luckily.

Chatter greeted her, as well as music and dancing.

(To have one of the only things that brought her joy now connected to something so horrible.)

In her desperate attempt to get away she had lost Elia to the endless crowds, and now had no idea how to find her again. Sure, she could try and enjoy the wedding on her own…

She laughed at that notion.

Elia she did not find, but Oberyn spotted her the same time she did him, and waved her over to him and Ellaria. Her plan to ask him about her sister's whereabouts were soon wiped clear from her mind as she saw who he had been talking to.

“My lord, my lady, may I introduce you to one of my daughters, Elle Sand. Elle, these are Lord Tywin and Lady Cersei.”

Mother.

After ten years, she had not changed at all. Still that golden hair, that soft, pale skin, those sharp eyes and high cheekbones, and, of course, dressed in red. How desperate she was to fall into her arms, feel her warmth, hear her soothing words-

Oberyn gently pressed his hand into her back to throw her out of her fantasies. She blinked, and quickly fell into a curtsy.

Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest she feared someone might hear.

“I see the resemblance,” her mother said with a smile. “Though I cannot say she takes much after her mother.” Her gaze had settled on Ellaria.

She knew, of course she did. How could she not recognise her, her eldest daughter and dearest child? Why had Oberyn been so stupid as to parade her around in front of the person who knew her best?

“She does,” Ellaria responded. “I am merely not her mother. She is from one of Oberyn's earlier lovers, but that does not mean I love her any less.”

Tywin responded before her mother could. “Other cultures have… peculiar customs, but we still must treat them with respect.”

“Well, whoever her mother is, she left little of herself in your daughter. You must be proud, Prince Oberyn,” her mother said with a spit of venom in her voice.

She… didn't recognise her. No, it couldn't be! Looking at her mother was like looking into a mirror, it had to be the same for her. She was her daughter, how could she not recognise her? The necklace her mother had gifted her after her sister's birth hung around her neck right this moment, and even though it had been over a decade she had to remember. If she took it out she would know.

Her heart started hammering in her chest again, her breath came in short bursts, it clouded her mind, blurred her vision-

“Father, do you know where Elia is?”

She couldn't stay with the person standing before her, so best remove herself from the situation.

“I thought she was with you.”

“She was, but I lost her. Have you seen her?”

“Last I know she was headed towards the castle,” Ellaria said.

Without another word or curtsy, she walked off, and disappeared into the crowd again.

A part of her wanted to cry, wanted to run back to her tree and never leave. But she had another family, one that had embraced her with open arms twice now, and if her mother didn't want her, she would not force her to.

(Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry-)

Her inattention led her to bump into someone, and she was about to apologise and continue her search for her sister, when she took a closer look at them.

The person turned out to be a girl with auburn red hair tied into an intricate up-do, wearing a purple dress with a necklace of the same colour. Her age was hard to tell because of her height, but she was certainly not older than her. And yet none of these were the reason Cerelle laid a gentle hand on the girl’s arm when she tried to walk away.

“You seem familiar, do I know you?”

“I don’t think so, my lady,” the girl answered timidly.

She chuckled. “Please, I am no lady, just Elle. What's your name?”

“Sansa Stark.”

“Of course, now I understand. You look just like your mother.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You- You met my mother?” Her words were barely above a whisper, as if the mere mention of Lady Catelyn would have her punished.

“I did, right before she… passed.” Her careful wording was for Sansa’s benefit, and her own. “You can be glad you had such an amazing woman as your mother.”

The girl nodded her head slowly, staring at the tip of her shoes.

“I apologise for your loss,” Cerelle continued. “Losing one parent can be difficult, but both of them is not something one can recover easily from.”

Suddenly, Sansa straightened her back, her eyes fluttering about the surrounding guests. “They were both traitors, and should have known better than to stand against King Joffrey. They and my brother received their just punishment.”

Cerelle recognised a caged and beaten animal when she saw one. Sansa must be held captive in the Red Keep, every move and word and action scrutinised for a potential betrayal. Yet something she had said made her pause.

“Your brother?”

“Robb Stark, the King in the North. He was killed along with my mother.”

Sansa thought Robb was dead. Killed alongside Lady Catelyn. The question that remained was, did only she think so, having been told by her captors to destroy her last spark of hope, or did everyone think Robb dead? Had, perhaps, after not being able to eliminate their main target, the Freys lied to the crown?

She almost blurted it out - the truth she herself had run away from. But she was conscious enough of their onlookers to hold herself back.

Instead, she enveloped the surprised Sansa in a hug, pressed her own face towards her ear, and whispered, “He is alive.”

Then she pulled back, smiled as calmingly as she could, and said in a normal tone of voice, “Your family is still your family. Despite what others may tell you, despite you being on opposite sides of a conflict, you are still allowed to mourn for them.”

Sansa's confusion was written plainly on her face, and she couldn't blame the young girl. She tried to signal her to remain calm, to not show the people around her the truth, and eventually, she did.

“I… need to return to my husband,” Sansa said quietly.

Husband? Who could such a young girl possibly be married to? A captive of the crown, no less.

Yet before she was able to question Sansa further, loud cheers rang throughout the gardens. Both their gazes wandered towards the high table and the open space before it, in the middle of which a giant cake had just been cut open by King Joffrey.

Her brother.

Doves flew out from the opening in the pastry, and despite wanting to focus on her family, getting a look at them, finding out what had happened to them, her eyes were drawn to the birds.

“Those poor animals,” she said. “Trapping them to make a spectacle of them.”

“I think they’re beautiful,” Sansa responded absentmindedly.

They remained side-by-side in the middle of the crowd despite the girl’s earlier statement, and watched the king and queen taste their cake. Joffrey commanded their uncle Tyrion to serve him his wine, and he did, yet not without clear resistance.

Cerelle was about to turn to Sansa once more, to talk to her more about her current situation and her family, when Joffrey started coughing loudly. And often. He took another gulp from his goblet yet didn’t stop, only started clawing at his throat.

The queen’s words sent a murmur through the crowd. “He’s choking!”

It took every bit of learned control to keep her from running to her brother, falling down beside his wretching body, and trying to save him. She knew it was folly. Doing so would reveal the connection she had to the king, and would reveal her identity to everyone besides her mother. And what would it get her? Her brother laid twitching and retching on the floor, what could she possibly do?

But she wanted to. She needed to. She had not seen him in so long, she had to talk to him again. Just once, even.

Her hand had closed itself around Sansa’s arm, yet neither of them quite noticed it.

Screams and sobs echoed across the gardens as Cerelle felt the tug around her heart.

King Joffrey, her brother, was dead, and she hadn’t even been able to say goodbye.

previous | next

author's note: rip cerelle you would have loved animal rights organisations

[siravalondulac]

006. cersei i

house of lies, city of blood

asoiaf ff | fem!oc centric

summary: cersei reflects on the past, and hopes word count: 1049 warnings: none

masterlist

previous | next

If she could stop this wedding, she would have done so the moment the betrothal was announced. Alas, she was forced to suffer her dear son falling into the thorns of the Tyrell slut.

Another child lost.

The preparations for the feast had come along nicely. She had not participated, of course, as she was queen and therefore had more important matters to attend to, but she had seen the work in the gardens. Though perhaps she should do something about the concerning amount of golden rose banners being hung from the trees. The people should bow to the king, not his wife.

Joffrey was with her father, much to her great disdain. She wished the Old Lion would leave the city and go back to the Rock, and make her the Hand of the King. She had the experience, after all, having acted as Regent for her son ever since his coronation.

Yet with her father here, she had nothing. Only a title. Life with Robert had been no different.

She deserved to rule, she deserved to wear that crown.

Shouts rang through the halls, and then a grey cat narrowly passed by her. She almost let out a scream - almost. She was a queen, after all.

Then her son crashed into her from behind.

“Tommen!” she called out.

“Apologies, mother.” He seemed fully intent to run after the cat that had disappeared around a corner, yet she held onto his arm.

“This behaviour is unbecoming of a prince. Especially not with so many guests currently in our halls.”

“Apologies, mother.”

“What are you doing out here, anyways? You should be asleep.”

“Merlin escaped my room. I was trying to catch him to bring him back.”

“We have servants for this, my dear.” She tried to brush through his hair, yet was not able to tame his curls.

Tommen was tall for his age, much as all of his siblings had been. He was at this strange state of growth where his limbs were too long for the rest of his body, leading him to stumble and fall more than usual. Perhaps, she considered, he might grow up to look like Jaime. He had the blonde hair, after all, and the interest in jousts and knights. Only his strange obsession with cats and animals could turn into a hindrance towards this.

“Apologies, mother.”

“You must return to your rooms and go to bed this instance. Your brother's wedding is tomorrow, and we represent the strength of the crown. None of us can risk looking tired.”

“But I-”

“I can take him,” a voice suddenly said from behind.

Cersei turned around to see Myrcella standing in the middle of the hallway.

“Yes, do that. And make sure he goes to bed this time.”

“Yes, mother.”

Myrcella took her brother’s hand and led him back down the hallway where they both had come from. After watching them for a few moments, she started walking towards her own rooms.

Something she had not considered, however, was that the path she had chosen would lead her past the door.

It looked unassuming, to the unknowing. Yet another finely crafted door in the royal wing of Maegor’s Holdfast, the dark wood contrasting against the red stones of the Keep's walls.

But what laid behind it…

It had been over ten years since she had stepped foot in these chambers, yet she still knew down to the last detail what they looked like. If she closed her eyes, she still saw the bed that had been far too big for its owner, the red curtains hiding the alcove, the messily painted wardrobe, and the toys lined up perfectly on the cupboard next to the window.

She had forbidden anyone from entering the room. Had locked the door and kept the key safely hidden on her body at all times.

Her hand grasped her pocket as if on instinct, feeling the weight of the metal through the fabric.

These chambers would be unlocked again one day, that she was sure of. Light would flood the room, laughter would ring through the halls, and she would finally embrace her daughter once more.

Her daughter was not dead, she repeated in her head.

Especially not after what she had heard in the small council.

Varys’ words had silenced the entire table.

“I have heard a whisper that there is someone in the Riverlands claiming to be Princess Cerelle.”

The Spider had smiled, as he always did when he shared surprising news, or things only he had had previous knowledge of. Usually, she would have wanted to claw his eyes out.

That name had not been spoken in the Red Keep in so long, or if it had it had not been in her presence. Everyone knew of the kind of punishment that awaited those speaking ill of her daughter or the circumstances of her kidnapping. And now Varys had simply spoken it. As if it meant nothing to him.

“And do these… whispers hold actual weight?”

“That remains to be seen, as they were accompanied by claims that House Penfenics has miraculously re-emerged. After eight thousand years.”

Someone was impersonating her daughter, there could be no other explanation for it. Because if she was out there, if her dearest child was alive and free she would immediately make her way back home.

But what if this was her daughter’s way of sending her a sign? What if she still was being held captive, and was able to only get out a mere whisper of her name, telling her to find her, save her?

She entered her rooms and stared at the necklace laying on her bedside table.

Her daughter’s name day was coming up. Cerelle was turning eight and ten towards the end of the next moon. In the previous years, Cersei had spent that day locked in her chambers, drinking enough wine to forget even her own name. But this time would be different, she knew.

Seven times three she shall be yours.

The time had not passed yet. Cerelle was still out there, waiting to be rescued, desperate to return to her mother. It had promised.

Her daughter would return to her, she repeated in her mind. And everything would be as it once was.

previous | next

author's note: let's get ready and excited, joffrey's wedding's coming up next week

[siravalondulac]

"Is this all I’m worth to you?”

He laid a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Don’t test my patience.”

elle and benjiamin (ocs) from a heart so golden

[siravalondulac]

"why won't you hate me?"

"if my prince wants me to."

jon and cerelle (oc) from sapphire steel

[siravalondulac]

sapphire steel | chapter three - curiosity

j. snow x fem!oc

summary: jon has a conversation with his brother, and finds someone in the library

tags: smut (f/m, fingering, slight exhibitionism, choking (once)), dubious consent, canon divergence - rhaegar won the trident

word count: 3448

author's note: i need to get a bit of plot out of my system before we reach the smut

masterlist | additional works masterlist

previous | next

Aegon dragged him kicking and screaming out of bed and down to the practice yard. He was forced to destroy straw puppets until he collapsed against the wall, out of breath and with a worse headache than usual around this time of day.

His brother jumped nimble-footed across the carnage, spinning and jabbing his spear the way Oberyn Martell had taught him. He looked graceful in a way Jon could never be - constantly drunk and only willing to bend if it got his dick wet.

Aegon was the only one of the three siblings to inherit their father's white hair and purple eyes, yet that was where the similarities stopped. Everything else about his brother - his brown skin, his build, his face, even the softness with which he treated Jon - came from his mother.

The snow under his fingertips was cold, biting into his skin and seeping through his clothing. A storm had raged across King's Landing the previous night, bringing the otherwise buzzling castle to a standstill, leaving the training yard eerily empty.

Aegon sat down gently beside him, the perfect crown prince seeping into every move he made.

They stared out into the snow, a comforting silence settling around Jon.

“I heard you have a new friend,” his brother finally said.

Friend. What a strange word. Foreign. Poisoned.

“I don't know why father keeps sending them.” Jon picked up a fist full of snow and threw it across the yard. “It's like sending lambs into the wolf’s den, hoping for a different outcome every time.”

“Perhaps he hopes you marry one of them. Settle down, stop drinking, continue the family line.”

He laughed, the sound echoing off the high walls around them.

“Who is she?” his brother asked eventually.

Jon would rather do anything but talk about that woman, but knew he would never be able to deny his brother.

“Tywin Lannister's granddaughter.”

Aegon raised his brows. “The bastard no one's ever seen?”

Jon nodded.

“What was she called? Ceryse?”

“Cerelle.”

The name burned on his tongue.

Aegon nodded absentmindedly. Then he smiled. “What is she like?”

Annoying. Intriguing. Terrifying.

“She's a good fuck, even if she never makes a sound when I put my-”

“Not like that!”

Aegon laughed, pushing against his arm. It hadn't been all that hard, but Jon's head still turned, and so such a simple action caused him to topple over and fall into the snow. His brother laughed even harder now.

“How can one fall over while sitting?”

Jon shook the snow from his hair. Black, like those of the mother he killed. “Maybe by having the worst brother in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Don't lie, I know you love me.”

Aegon's words were true, but only because loving him was easy. Everything about Aegon came easily to him - charme, kindness, politics, martial matters. The like of him was an anomaly at their cutthroat court.

Yes, Jon loved his brother, but not in the way Targaryens did. None of them - besides their father and uncle - felt truly comfortable with their ancestors’ traditions, and they all agreed it would be better if that part of their family stayed buried with the Mad King. Even Daenerys, who lived on Dragonstone with her mother most of the time and barely interacted with them, had come to the same conclusion. One conversation during a visit to the capital, and she had sworn to oppose any notion of a marriage to Aegon. Perhaps Rhaella had influenced her in that regard.

“No, truly.” Aegon dragged him up from the ground. “What is Cerelle like?”

Jon pondered what to answer. “She… She isn't scared of me. Nor does she like me. She simply lies there, listens to my commands, and then leaves once it's over.”

“And that is bad… because?”

“Because I could just as well be fucking a puppet. She doesn't react to anything I do, simply repeats father's instructions when I ask her if she wants to continue.”

“Have you tried talking to her outside of sex? I hear women tend to like that.”

“Why would I? She's just a whore at the end of the day.”

Aegon groaned and shook his head. “You are hopeless, Jon.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you expect to get to know her if you don't want to get to know her? She doesn't know you, why would she be willing to be vulnerable around you if you treat her like she is disposable? If at any moment, you could throw her out of the castle gates because you have grown tired of her? She probably doesn't want to get attached only to be broken later on.”

He had never thought of any of his whores and forced lovers that way. That they could be scared, not of him, but of the position they entered.

“Jon,” his brother said softly. “Cerelle is a bastard. Who knows what she has had to go through. What has happened to her to make her so closed-off.”

“I am a bastard, too,” he said quietly.

“Then show her. Tell her. If you want her to open up to you, prove to her it is safe to do so.”

Jon gnawed at his broken lips, his teeth ripping open old wounds and letting droplets of blood glide onto his tongue. The snow seeped into his clothes, wet cold biting his skin.

Then a snowball hit him in the head.

He let out a sound somewhere between confusion and anger, but Aegon just laughed.

“Stop being so gloomy all the time. I'm sure you'll figure out what to do with your little friend. And until then…” He picked out another fistful of snow. “I'll wreck your drunken ass.”

They chased each other across the practice yard, hurling snow and ice at each other until neither of them could properly aim anymore, too busy laughing.

(Not that Jon had been able to aim properly to begin with, the alcohol from the night before still too strong.)

“Oh, Ser Barristan, please save me from this wild beast hunting me,” Aegon begged the knight standing in the shadows, watching their every movement.

The man chuckled. “Some battles have to be won without outside interference, my prince.”

Aegon gasped offended, and Jon used that opportunity to finally let a snowball hit his neck. His brother squealed, quickly peeling the snow out of his tunica.

“Look what you have done, Ser Barristan. Because of you I now have to die.”

The knight likely smiled beneath his helmet, but made no sound.

Jon wrapped his arms around himself. “Let's go back inside, I'm freezing.”

Aegon cleared his throat and donned a grim face. "You are a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, with fire flowing through your veins. You do not cower, you do not bend, and you do not freeze in the cold.”

They both burst out in laughter as they walked back into the castle.

Mocking their father was far too easy. And far too much fun, as well. Though they had to take care never to be overheard doing so, otherwise Jon would certainly bear the brunt of the ensuing punishment. King Rhaegar would never be caught standing against his beloved heir.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Aegon said as a goodbye before heading towards the council chamber.

Jon strolled aimlessly through the Keep, not quite knowing what to do with his day, when he heard voices. Two, to be exact, and he knew both of the men they belonged to.

“Is a journey to the Wall truly necessary?” Jon Connington, the king's Hand, asked. “There have been reports of skirmishes in the Marches, you must stay to-”

“This winter has lasted four years already, and is sure to be the longest in known history,” his father answered. “I must ensure our protection, or we will be helpless once the eternal darkness falls.”

Fuck.

He did not, under any circumstances, want to encounter his father without allies by his side. Otherwise it would only end like last time, with tears, screams, broken glass, and Jon hiding in brothels for an entire week.

Before the two men could walk around the corner and into his hallway, he quickly slipped through the closest door.

Jon had expected a storage room, or even the chambers of some minor lordling. What he was faced with instead were shelves upon shelves of books, scrolls haphazardly thrown into baskets in a corner, decades and even centuries old manuscripts piling up against the walls.

He had known about the existence of a library in the Red Keep, the way one knew of scorpions or lions. Accepting it even without ever needing or wanting to see it.

But what intrigued him far more than the dusty books was the quiet singing coming from much farther into the room.

He didn't understand a single word, but the voice still captivated him nonetheless. Grabbed his mind, his body, his soul, daring him to follow it into the abyss.

The stone floor muffled his steps, cloaking his approach as he neared the origin of the strange singing. He wanted- He needed to get closer, to find out more about its owner, see with his own eyes what could possibly enchant him so ardently.

Past yet another shelf of books, he finally found her.

Cerelle.

The name almost slipped out of his mouth, and he was barely able to restrain himself.

Ever since his pathetic outburst a fortnight ago, he had not seen her again. She had adhered to his command, even if it had been carried to her by a servant, without protest. He hated her for it - this blind obedience towards everything he told her.

It was her singing that had lured him here, those soft and gentle words wafting through the otherwise quiet library, drawing him in, keeping him close, commanding his every movement.

Love comes easy By the blossoms of spring Love grows easy From the leaves of summer Love lasts easy With the fruits of autumn

But your love shall prove itself In the dying of winter When creatures fall upon me And you wish to flee Let the gods bare witness to all As I beg you to, please Stay with me

She had not noticed him yet, too focused on her singing and sorting through the shelves. Next to her stood two half-empty baskets of even more books.

Her hair did not fall openly down her shoulders in its entirety, as it had done every other time he had seen her, but was braided in some parts, pinned up to keep it out of her face. And her dress wasn't the simple dark red one either. Instead, she wore an intricately embroidered gown of three different shades of blue. Not as grand as the ladies of the court wore them, but better than the one he had always seen her in.

His first words needed to sound smart. He wanted to outwit her at least once during their interactions, wanted to take her off-guard, wanted to finally see her lose control.

He should have drunk alcohol before coming here, it would have made this much, much easier.

Leaning against the shelf to his right, he said, “Pretty song. Didn't know your voice lasted this long.”

Cerelle whirled towards him, and for a single moment she looked genuinely shocked. Then she realised who he was and had her impassive face donned not a second later.

“My prince-”

“No.” He shook his head as he approached her. “I never want to hear these words from you again. You will talk to me, not as if you're forced to by my father, but because you want to.”

He stood before her, trying to gleam any emotion from her blue eyes, but she just watched him. Stared, unmovingly. He had to suppress the urge to avert his gaze, or shift on his feet.

Just when he thought she would never move, she cocked her head and said, “So is that what you are missing? A friend?”

Now he wished he had never forced her to talk. Because what in the seven hells was he meant to answer to that? How was he supposed to defend himself?

Cerelle turned around and walked away, leaving him to stand dumbfounded within a mess of books.

“Wait!”

He hurried after her, knocking over a stack of books and almost tumbling to the ground after them. Cerelle had disappeared around a corner, and he hastily followed her.

“Who gave you permission to talk to a prince like that?”

“You did, just now.”

She sorted one of the books she held in her hands back amongst its brethren, yet did not turn towards him.

“I did not. I only asked you to talk to me like you were a person.”

She continued to walk away from him. “You ordered me to talk to you like I wanted to. And I want to get to know you.”

“By insulting me?”

“You consider the question of your true intentions with me an insult?”

This time, she did turn towards him, yet seemingly only in order to raise a brow, challenging him to give her an honest answer.

She had apparently learned a thing or two from Tywin Lannister, and he hated her for it.

“What are you doing here?” He quickly switched the topic.

“Making myself useful.” She continued her walk along the shelves, occasionally putting a book upon them. “His grace, your father, quite enjoys reading, and so has amassed something of a collection over the years. One which no one has deemed to properly sort all this time. I need to justify my presence in the capital somehow, at least.”

Jon picked up the book she had just shelved and read the title: “Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall among Savages, Raiders, and Woods-witches”.

What a wonderful title.

“But why sorting books?” he asked. “Why not do some of the things you girls do? Embroidery, singing, or gossiping about handsome lords.”

“Things you girls do. Now it is you who is insulting me. You make it sound like there is something bad about being a girl and enjoying non-violent ways to spend one's time.”

He wanted to tell her of all the non-violent ways he spent his time, yet could not think of any. That his clothing was still wet from the snowball fight earlier did not help.

“And how do you spend your time?” He followed her around the library like a lost puppy. “Besides… this.”

“Why do you want to know? You've seemed quite content with not even looking at my face whenever I was with you.”

“Perhaps I want to get to know you now.”

She laughed. An actual, true, unapologetic laugh, swallowed up by the books and scrolls and tomes surrounding them. Jon knew he would never forget the sound.

And yet, despite how it pierced deep into his heart, he could not help feel angry. How dare she, a bastard, a whore, laugh at him the same way those pretentious courtiers did. So full of disdain and arrogance and… and… hatred.

Within a single moment, he had her pressed against the bookshelves, hand burying into the wood beside her head, the impact punching the breath out of her. Her books had tumbled to the ground, her gaze following them, yet he quickly took ahold of her chin to force her face to meet his again.

He cocked his head, trying to find any sense of repulsion in her face. Yet there was nothing.

His gaze darkened.

“Perhaps I want to get to know you-” He slowly let his hands glide down- “Because I know nothing about you. After all these weeks, the most I know is that you do not shiver when your juices gush all over me.” He caught the fabric of her skirt between his fingers. “Do you not want to know the men you fuck?” Slowly, he started pulling her dress up.

“What are you doing?” Her voice wavered just the tiniest bit, and he smiled.

“I think our relationship might have begun a bit… strained.” He let his hand glide up her silken stockings. “We should remedy that.”

“Here?” she whispered.

“Would you prefer the Iron Throne?”

The small spark of fear in her face was quickly replaced by… curiosity.

“You truly hate your father.”

His hand had sprung up and closed around her throat within a single blink of an eye. “If you ever mention him again I will ensure you pay for it dearly.”

The lack of any emotion in her eyes made him so terribly angry, he knew he could not continue his current pace. His free hand grabbed her undergarments, ripped them down, and then pressed against her pearl. Harshly.

She took in a surprised breath. That was enough, he decided, to remove his hand from her throat and grab the shelf beside her head instead.

(He hated that they were the same height. She should stand beneath him, ready to be dominated.)

Pressing his finger against her pleasure point this tightly might not be comfortable for her, but this was not about her. She was his and only his, and she needed to realise that. He would not let her leave like the others.

His thumb moved to her pearl as his forefinger glid further along her cunt and towards her hole, wet and warm and waiting only for him.

“Have you ever touched yourself here?” he asked with a lowered voice, face so terribly close to hers he saw a million shades of blue reflected in her eyes.

“No, my prince.”

He stepped closer and sheathed a finger into her heat up to the knuckle. “I told you not to call me that anymore.”

“Then what am I meant to call you, my prince?” she breathed out. The emphasis on his title could have been accidental, yet Cerelle did not seem like the kind of woman to allow simple accidents.

He curled the finger inside her, and slowly dragged it out before plunging it into her again. “Jon will be just fine.”

“As you command, Jon.”

The sound of his name on her lips made his cock twitch, and he yearned to pull down his pants and fuck her on top of his father's precious books. But he restrained himself (for now).

He quickly added another finger into her cunt, dragging them along her walls and searching for a way to make her lose control. A futile undertaking, he knew, for even though her chest was moving rapidly, her pupils were blown so wide he saw comfortingly little blue, and her nails were buried in the wooden shelves behind her, she simply stared at him. Silently.

Her breathing and the squishing of her cunt echoed in the large room, and if anyone entered they would immediately know what was happening. He wished for it. Let his father know what he thought about his books and plans and gifts.

A third finger entered her tight heat. His thumb continued to rub insistent circles on her pearl, trying desperately to make her peak.

No, not desperately. He could not care less about her pleasure, about how beautiful of an image it would make for her to gush all over his fingers, dropping her juices on the books and scrolls beneath. He simply wanted to torture her, show her what he could do to her body if he only wanted to.

Perhaps this way he could finally learn about her. Question her in the throws of passion, force her to reveal what she wanted from him, why she refused to leave him. And then he could throw her out. Send her back to that rock she called home, mayhaps even with a bastard growing in her belly.

She took in a sharp breath as her walls clenched around his fingers and her juices started flowing out of her. He fucked her through it, prolonging her release to, hopefully, painful levels. She almost closed her eyes, yet kept them open despite it all, and he almost commended her for it.

His hands were sticky when he finally freed them from her cunt, and if she had been anyone else he might have tasted the fluid, but he would not give her the satisfaction. Instead, he grabbed her skirt and wiped it off.

She did not say a thing.

“Tonight. Same time as always.” He turned to leave, yet stopped at the end of the row of shelves. “And make sure I never see that red dress again.”

He needed an entire flask of ale after this entire ordeal.

previous | next

author's note: i already have a vague idea how this fic will end... and i am on chapter three!

anyway hope you liked it :3

[siravalondulac]

Elle. Out of all the possibilities, Jon would have never imagined her name to be so… ordinary. (And yet, so beautiful.)