#;they call him the young wolf. (character study - robb)

[kronulv]

you go to war to save your father and sisters. your sisters are lost (one deemed a traitor, the other lost), your father dead.

is the honor worth the pain?

[damagecompiilation-a]

tag dump - tv muses part 1 cuz wow it got long seeing as i added in ship tags as well (also note that im doing tags for the muses i already have first before i add new muses)

william hill (the haunting of hill house)

kai parker (the vampire diaries)

grey worm, renly baratheon, robb stark (game of thrones)

tommy h. (stranger things)

jennifer blake (teen wolf)

[what-the--curtains]

There Are No Wolves In the Desert

( Oberyn Martell x f!reader, Robb Stark x f!reader)

Part 1 - The Wolf and The Outsider

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Summary: The series of events that have lead to you being in Dorne and why you can never return home.

Authors notes: Oberyn is not in this chapter but he will be in all subsequent chapters! This part is mainly context corner to build up the character! The reader is a distant relative of the Targaryens but I only mention hair colour and eye colour everything else will remain non- descript! Let me know if you want to be tagged (or untagged) in this story 😊😊

Tw: Swearing, violence, mentions of and allusion to sex (none depicted), war, murder the usual GOT stuff, major character death (I wonder who it could be👀👀)

Word count: 5.7k

Tagged: @evyiione

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Kings landing

Cersei tilts her head, eyes thinning as she gazes out over kings landing, the moon illuminating the gold plated roofs of the upper class, the stench of the poor unable to reach her here. Jamie sits on the bed she had shared with her late husband, slowly re-donning the white armour of the king's guard. He turns watching as the summer breeze blows the ends of her golden hair. His shin guard is clipped into place just as three short knocks sound out against the wooden door, filling the quiet air of the night. Sighing loudly Jamie stands up to answer the door, a smile forming on Cersei’s lips as she trunks to greet the visitor.

“Littlefinger, to what do we owe the displeasure,” Jamie asks, sarcasm dripping off every word.

“Funny… I thought knights usually waited outside the bedchamber of those they swore a sacred oath to protect,” he queries smiling, the candlelight illuminating his prominent front teeth.

“Is it done,” Cersei asks through her teeth, tiring of the man’s desperate attempts to hold some semblance of power.

“Yes. Not a soul left alive that isn’t loyal to house Baratheon... or is Lannister perhaps more apt. The north is ours for the taking now the young wolf has fallen, and Sansa is under control here.”

“What of his wife?” she asks, walking towards a nearby table, decanting wine into a goblet turning with eyebrows raised. Littlefinger was not the only one in Kings landing with ears everywhere. She had heard a rumour, one she wished to squash as soon as she can.

“His widow, you mean,” Jamie states from the door frame, dissatisfied at being left out of the conversation.

“Gone, left in the wee hours of the morning from what I heard,” Cersei says, eyes staring into Littlefinger’s, locked in a strategic game of mental chess.

“So she’s alive, ” Jamie adds, despite his previous statement being ignored.

“Not for long,” Littlefinger states , brushing him off.

“Who saw her leave?” Cersei demands, a hint of concern slipping through as she swirls her wine around in the glass.

“No one left alive,” Littlefinger reassures

“So she's...” Cersei begins,

“She’s set to land in Dorne two days from now, she will be dealt with when she arrives. She is…inconsequential.” Littlefinger finishes.

“And so ends the reign of the wolves,” Jamie remarks, as Cersei raises her glass toasting the gods.

Dorne (2 days later)

You watch the docks appear along the horizon as the ship begins to reduce its speed. The sea spray from the trip spattered across your skin was yet to dry, cooling you off, as the southern sun bares down onto you. You lick your lips, the salty taste leaves you parched in a heat the likes of which you’d never known. You’d never been to Dorne, though you’d heard stories of it’s fair weather, people and architecture, and you were eager to see if they held true. You’d heard the wine here was the sweetest the world had to offer, you planned on returning home with some, even if Dorne was merely a stopover. It was not a honeymoon you were here for, no you were here to complete a task of utmost importance. You came in search of the so-called dragon queen at the behest of your husband. He wanted to see if the rumours were true and if they were he hoped to make an ally of her. He had sent you in hopes that your shared lineage, though distant, would work in his favour. The Targaryens held family in high regard, especially with so few of them remaining. You smile as the shore comes into view, the birds above singing to your arrival. The golden hues of the late afternoon sun paint the tents of the markets in the docks. A sense of bliss rolls over you as the crew ties the ship to the dock. It would be one of the last moments of peace you would know for some time. Your feet make contact with the ground, legs wobbling slightly at being back on solid ground. You stumble slightly and a man with a blue beard catches your elbow.

“Winter is coming,” he whispers and you look up as he discreetly passes you a note. You open it. The letter is long and the script rushed, but seven words stand out ‘the King in the North has fallen’ the sheet slips from your fingers and you drop to your knees. “Quick, we haven’t much time,” he says dragging you up, as the first arrow pierces the sky, hitting the captain of your ship in the neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winterfell, 7 years prior (age 17)

You had always stood out in the north, a caveat of the family you were born into, all of you were outsiders here. Your grandfather was a Targaryen, second cousin to the mad king and when war broke out he led a small rebellion that tried to push back the Baratheon troops storming the capitol, but to no avail. Your father and his brothers were there that day, fighting alongside him, but they were outnumbered, and no amount of skill would keep the combined Starks and the Baratheon forces at bay. After the capitol was taken, your grandfather was hanged and your grandmother took your father and his brother and feld while Robert butchered any descendents of the Targaryen line that would weaken his claim to the throne. Your father had split from his family opting to head north, while they trekked south. He never saw them again. Upon his arrival in Winterfell he built a small homestead outside the city walls and sought work, thankfully the distinctive hair and eye colour had skipped him and he could blend in with the northerners. He found work as a stone mason, crafting formidable architecture admired and paid for by the nobility. The payments allowed him to move up the social ladder and while he remained in the forest he had gained the respect of the elite and was accepted as one of them. His hands soon grew tired of creating. They craved the weight of a sword and so he gave up masonry and offered his services to Ned Stark. Your father became a confidant to the King in the North as he moved up through the ranks. He ended up training many of the soldiers, and for a while, even Ned’s own sons. His proximity to the crown brought him into the path of your mother.

A ball was held in celebration of their eldest child's first name day and your mother was in attendance representing the Tyrells. He spotted her across the room, and to this day he swears the sun shone down on her despite being inside a hall. He approached her that night and they married during the long summer, your brother Illirion was born a year later, then a year after that it was your turn. Their final child, your youngest brother Rhaevar was born two years after you, thus completing your family unit. While the honeyed eyes and dark toned hair of the Tyrells presented well with your brothers, the Targaryen traits that had initially skipped your father came through in your genetic composition. Your hair was as white as the snow that came to the north during the winter, and your eyes a lilac similar to the foxgloves that grew in the spring. You attended a local school until you reached the age where girls were no longer allowed to study. Whilst there you heard whispers from the other children. Every now and then a comment of “murderer” or “traitor” would be shot your way, much to your confusion. It wouldn’t be until years later than your parents would tell you why such comments were made. After school ended officially you continued your education at home and studied the methods of healing that your mother had been trained in while in Highgarden.

Your father insisted all his children learn how to defend themselves, the north was a dangerous place after all, and the threat of war loomed large. The stability between kingdoms was teetering, it had been peaceful for too long, a storm was coming. You’d proven to be of high talent, had it not been for your eldest brother's size you would have been the strongest fighter in the family. Illirion married at 18 to a noble girl of high status, and it wasn't long after that you lost many of your friends to marriage. Some of the pairing were good, some bad and some even for love. Despite being propositioned a few times, you had no interest in being a bride.Your parents did not mind now that your brother had secured a wife and would be able to care for you once they passed. Your father also had it on good authority that you all were to be cared for so long as a Stark sat at Winterfell.

You were acquainted with the family since childhood, though outside of parties you rarely saw them. During the gatherings you and Sansa often gossiped together and Arya would sneak you into the courtyard and beg you to train her. The time spent with them was greatly cherished. Their brothers were often gone during such events, off showcasing their prowess to girls of higher status than you, women who would one day be their wives. Little did you know, Jon and Robb had been told to stay away from you so as not to ruin your reputation. That rule had been followed until one day when a particularly cruel comment from a noble girl sent Arya running directly into your path.

You were out tracking a wolf that had killed one of your family's horses. It wasn’t revenge you sought, but its attack on your homestead meant it was getting closer to town, and growing far too bold for your liking. You’d stopped your trek once you realized it was headed back towards the wall. Approaching your house you see Arya sitting on a log outside your house near the fire pit. Her feet swinging, intermittently kicking at the dirt below.

“Arya?” you question placing your gear down on the ground as she turns to face you, her nose running, eye slightly red.

“Is Rhaevar around? I wish to play” she demands, her childlike nature apparent now more than ever.

“I’m afraid he’s gone off in search of the children of the forest, but perhaps we can find something to do together?” you offer sitting beside her, she was upset, evidently so.

“I have no want to stitch,” she huffs, causing you to laugh at her attempt to insult you.

“Good neither do I. I’m no good at it anyways,” you admit and she looks up at you “Well what do you wish, Arya? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

“I wish to know how to shoot my arrow so it hits the target every time. I don’t care what Robb says, Jon thinks I can do it so I want to try.”

“Well, I can help with that, come I’ll show you a trick. You’ll hit it every time. Prove your eldest brother wrong,” your comment earns a rare grin from the youngest Stark daughter. After a few goes she gets the hang of it, hitting your practice targets one after the other.

“By the gods,” you chuckle, you’d never seen such natural talents before. Caught up in your admiration of her gift you fail to catch her turning to aim at a farther target still. The arrow soars through the air as two horses approach your homestead, the arrow only just missing them.

“Arya!” you shout, grabbing her arm “You must be careful!” you exasperate as she looks up to you her mouth ajar. The sound of the horses fast approaching.

“Get behind me,” you murmur, pushing in front of her and aiming the bow true.

“It’s Robb!” she shouts, pushing against you attempting to make a run for it. Despite her efforts to throw you off balance you manage to grab her arm, dropping your weapons in the process.

“Why are you running?” you ask, not releasing your grip on her scrawny arm.

“Because I don’t fit in!” she finally admits.

“Well a secret Arya, no one fits in, we're all different, it's what keeps life interesting and what will keep you alive in your years to come,” you say watching as she stops struggling a softness suddenly coming over her features.

“She said I had a face like a dog,” she whispers, chewing on her lip, eyes down. The cruelty of children was always surprising to you.

“Well I’d find it hard to find someone who does not see the tenderness of a pup, or the strength and beauty of a dire wolf. Either way, You have talents, beyond what beauty can measure, ones that will never abandon you,” you reassure. She sniffs and looks up at you offering a rare smile. You see her shift back into her tough persona, the scowl returning to her face as she runs towards the horses belonging to her brother and who you assumed must be his ward Theon. You watch the eldest Stark, now two years your senior drop down allowing Theon to help Arya, as he strides towards you.

“We’d be lucky to have you in our ranks, if you can teach her to nearly take my head off from a mile away,” he laughs, easing your nervousness slightly, his northern accent heavier than you had remembered.

“I did remind your sister to be more careful lest she be tried for treason, or worse yet, get me tried for treason. As for my services, they are always at the will of the Starks, if you wish me to join the army who am I to refuse,” you say, tilting your head and offering him a smile.

“Women are not allowed in our ranks, lest of all those who look like you,” he charms, an unexpected compliment from a man you rarely got the opportunity to speak with.

“Not yet, but rules are meant to be broken after all my Lord.” You retort, eyes meeting his steel grey gaze causing an unexpected chill to run down your spine.

“Are they?” he laughs, the warmth of it causing a sudden heat to rise within you, counteracting his gaze.

“You should remind your mother of that when you return Arya to her,” you offer, as he hands you the arrow that almost took off his head.

“Thank you for returning my sister, wolves have been prowling about, heaven forbid they got to her before us,” he says, concern etched in his face.

“The wolves have moved north, I do not believe they will return this way, and Arya is stronger than you give her credit for,” you assure, his brows raising at your competence.

“I know, and I think she does too, I fear she’ll outlive us all,” he offers, rubbing the back of his neck, the two of you standing there for a moment, the smirk that usually danced replaced by a nervous grin. His head dips down before turning back to the horse, but he stops one last time swivelling round to face you.

“My lady,” he calls after you.

“Yes my lord,” you say, turning back to face him.

“I look forward to our next meeting,” he offers sincerely.

“As do I,” you say curtseying in such a way to make him smile before you both head back towards your respective homes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2 years later (age 19)

“What is it?” you ask your father as you lay down your quiver and the pair of small pheasants you’d brought home for dinner. He takes a long drag of his pipe, gaze glued to the treeline. “Father tell me?” you stress, knowing he only ever smoked when bad news had arrived.

“Illirion, he’s...” He stammers and drops his head letting out a strangled sob. You shake your head at the suggestion. Your brother had gone down to kings landing a week ago to serve as a bodyguard to Ned Stark who had been summoned at the behest of King Robert Baratheon. Arya and Sansa had gone with them, leaving Catelyn and the boys in Winterfell, Robb currently ruling in his place.

“Ned Stark would never allow…” you begin, sure your father had once again fallen trap to the rumour mill.

“He’s dead, they’re all dead, all of them...” he whispers, dropping his head to his hands.

“What happened tell me everything,” you stress, pushing your own sentiments aside for the moment.

“Beheaded, Ned for treason, for the murder of Robert Baratheon, his greatest friend, unlikely story. They killed your brother as Ned’s head fell. Arya, is missing, presumed dead, Sansa is a prisoner, to be wedded to that horrible snot nosed inbred Joffrey.” He continues in fragmented sentences.

“Mother?” you question.

“She’s in bed still, hasn’t left, I dare not tell her the worst of it,” he admits tear streaked eyes meeting yours.

“What the worst of it?” you ask, unable to think what could possibly be worse. “Lean on me father, there is no else left for you to confide in, lend me some of the burden,” you stress rubbing his arm in encouragement.

“War is upon us and each family must provide a soldier. Since my knee… I am no longer able to fight, the Starks know this. So your youngest brother…” he starts, but a sob catches in his throat stopping him.

“He can’t go, he’s too…” you begin, swallowing as you try to think of the right word.

“Soft” your father offers.

“No, he’s just not skilled enough, at least not in the ways of the sword. Skilled as he is as a mason he wouldn’t last a minute on the battlefield,” you pause, only one path was clear to you “Let me go in his place,” You say, before you have time to process what you had just offered to do.

“No,” your father says without hesitation.

“Let me go and you may end this life with two of three children. If he goes, I will be the only one left and I could not bear it,” you say pushing back tears at the thought of losing another brother.

“Your mother...” he begins

“Knows I was the best fighter. I had the best teacher in all the seven kingdoms after all,” you say nudging him with your elbow. He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, before pulling you into a tight embrace.

“When do I leave?” you ask.

“Tonight. It’s a good thing your brother isn’t tall, his armour will fit you, take this helmet. Do not remove it, keep your hood up, any trouble and cut off their cocks, or else I will.”

“I'll see you again, I swear it,” you state, with every intent of keeping your promise.

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The battle rages forward, men fall around you, but you refuse to meet a similar fate today. Your sword penetrates through the opening of a Lannister’s armour turning quickly to slice the backs of the knees of another soldier, both falling in tandem. You hear a horse whinny on your left and you turn to see Robb Stark fall from his horse becoming trapped beneath the dying creature. You weave throughout the battle towards him. Your blade intercepts the longsword of an enemy soldier just as it’s about to penetrate Robbs armour. You drop your shield to Robb and you push up against the attacker. Releasing your force he falls forward and Robb pushes the shield up hitting the man’s face swinging his head back. Grabbing the man by his hair you slit his throat. You drop your sword and pull Robb out from beneath the horse. He grabs your shoulders giving you nod before returning to the forefront of the battle. As the horn of retreat sounds you celebrate the victory with those around you, surviving the first of many attacks.

You're walking back to the tents when you hear a familiar voice call out to you.

“You, wait,” Robb demands, chuckling with those around him. You continue on your path hoping he was talking to someone else. “It is not wise to disobey your king.” He sounds out again, forcing you to turn towards him.

“Come now friend, we mean no harm. I wish to look upon the face of the man who saved me and invite him to ride alongside me.” he states.

“Perhaps he is too ugly to show his face, my lord,” one of his lieutenants states causing a laugh to erupt from the surrounding crowd of men except for Robb. Though a slight smile pulls at the corner of his mouth breaking the cold façade he’d donned since his father’s death. A moment passes then another until the silence is so prolonged you have no other option but to obey. Slowly you lift your helmet up your eyes meeting his for the first time in a year.

“A prize for the army, my lord?” one of the men questions, hungrily eyeing you up as he fervently steps towards you. Robb's arm stops him in his tracks and you draw your blade.

“Touch me and risk losing more than just your hand, I have fought alongside you. I am your equal. You will treat me as such,” you demand, your voice unwavering despite the uneasiness in your stomach.

“You have a cunt, you are not our equal, though perhaps in bed…” another from the crowd offers.

“Stop! Leave us” Robb orders, and the men retreat back towards the camp ground the sound of laughter and whistles picking up once out of range.

“I did tell you rules were meant to be broken,” you say, watching as he tries to suppress a smile.

“Well they certainly have been now” he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Are you going to hang me, my lord? Or is it my King now?” you question, a bolder move than you should have felt comfortable making.

“To you it's Robb and no I am not going to hang you, but you are going to come with me,” he says offering you his arm which you brush by looking back at him to follow.

“How have you come to be here? Does your father know?” Catelyn stresses,eyes growing wide as she scans over you assessing the damage.

“My lady, yes, he does. You see when the war was announced and after my brother’s death, we knew someone from our family would have to fight. My father’s leg as you know isn’t... as it used to be, and my younger brother while talented in many ways, cannot hold a blade to save his life. My mother’s grief was already far too much for her to lose another child.” You say, eyes risking tears as she meets her gaze.

“So they sent you?” she explains to herself.

“Yes my lady I was the best fighter in the family, or the most skilled at least.”

“Well, we will not make your brother come to fight, but you cannot stay in the army,” she explains softly, hand running up and down your arms in reassurance.

“She saved my life today,” Robb interjects and Cat looks at you as you look at him.

“Then I am indebted to you.” She expresses.

“As am I,” Robb states the two of you not having dropped eye contact, much to the notice of Cat.

“Lady Catelyn, I am a capable fighter, but if you will not allow me to so, at least allow me to tend to the wounded or to serve you in some other manner. I am here after all, put me to use.” you say and she lets out a sigh.

“Well, if you believe yourself able to defend yourself, and if what my son says is true then I would be remiss to send you home, though you will not sleep out with the rest of the army, you will stay with me.” she says.

“And during the battle you will remain close to me,” Robb stresses “not for your protection, but for mine”

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1 year later (Age 20)

Robb watches as you kill another soldier, the sight never failing to impress him. You had remained close over the past year, both in and out of the battlefield. He kept you close at all costs, your company bringing him some semblance of joy, even in his darkest moments. Rumours swirled amongst the men and the other kingdoms, though nothing between the two of you had come to fruition. Due to the colour of your hair, the enemy soldiers had dubbed you the white wolf, in an attempt to link the Starks with the treacherous Targaryens. While the insinuations at your extracurricular activities with Robb pushed the narrative that he was impure, that northerners were savages, who did not abide by the values of the seven kingdoms.

As you wipe the blood from your eyes, an arrow catches you in the shoulder, the force knowing you back into a tree. Robb is at your side in record time, his hand stopping yours from pulling the weapon out.

“Medic!” he shouts, eyes not leaving yours.

“Go! you need to lead your people, I will be fine,” you emphasize and he shakes his head “Robb, it is a shoulder, nothing of importance lives there.”

“No but it is attached to something of the utmost importance.”

“Go you have a war to win,” you state as the medic helps you to your feet and brings you back across the line.

You sit in Robbs tent, despite your insistence at being treated in the same manner as the other soldiers, he had demanded you be brought there instead. A skilled nurse had removed the arrow from your shoulder just as you heard the rambunctious cheers of the men outside, victory had been secured. Unsurprising considering Robbs keen strategic mind, he was smarter than you'd have accredited him for in your youth. He enters the tent blood spatter still on his face, seeing you alive and fine he takes the moment to remove his armour. He pulls his undershirt off and walks to the water basin wiping himself clean of the sweat and grim coating his skin. Your eyes watch his bare skin intently, studying every scar, every freckle. He grabs a fresh cloth dunking it the basin and wringing it out before heading over to you. He kneels before you, staring up at you eyes telling you to drop the blood soaked rag currently held to your wound, and you oblige.

“I must confess I long hoped to share an intimate moment with you, though these circumstances are not as I imagined,” he says, gently dabbing at your wound, you smile at his concentration.

“And under what circumstances would you have hoped to be intimate with me, my king? At one of your fancy parties, in the secrecy of a barn, somewhere no one would know you had been with a Targaryen girl.” You ask trying to keep your eyes forwards and not at his muscular physique.

“Every man in Winterfell had dreamed of sharing a moment like that with you, though none have found any luck,” he says, standing up and walking back over to the basin.

“I have no need for a husband nor do I have the want to be wife,” you say, watching the muscles of his arm flex as he wrigns out the rag.

“and what about a queen?” he queries, as his hand braces against your thigh, continuing to clean your wound, his eyes still focused on the gash.

“Do you ask all your foot soldiers such bold questions,” you quip, laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“Only the ones naked in my chambers,” he retorts, eyes darting up a grin plastered to his face.

“A bare shoulder is hardly naked in your chambers,” you state, and he raises his eyebrows mischievously.

“My fondness for you was never allowed,” he admits, dabbing the cloth into a salve and applying it to the wound.

“Oh wasn’t it,” you ask as he looks up to you

“No, my mother feared one of us would ruin you,”

“A Targaryen In the north, perhaps it was fear of you boys being ruined.” you laugh, but when you look at him the tone has shifted.

‘When that arrow hit you, my feelings were confirmed, I no longer wish to be more than a few feet from you at any given moment. I wish to marry you. If you'll allow me”

“Don’t be stupid my king, you’re to be married to a princess from what I understand.”

“I'll be married to whom I please” he assures.

“Robb is that wise?” you question, unfamiliar with the high stakes games played with marriage.

“The Frey’s will recover besides, we’ve crossed their bridge already, and I have no love for anyone but you.”

“Love? We barely know each other,” you say.

“Only our whole lives,” he reminds you.

“I fear you’ll wake up tomorrow and regret your words, so I will not answer you tonight.”

“Then I will return to these chambers tomorrow morning and restate my intentions to make you my wife.”

“What will they say if you allow me to take your bed for the night?” you ponder aloud.

“I guess we shall see” he states, slinging his bloodied shirt over his shoulder.

“Goodnight my King” you offer, watching in amusement as he attempts to find the tents exit without turning around.

“It’s Robb. For you, it's always just Robb”

True to his word he returned the next day and asked again, and this time you accepted. You married a few days later under an old willow tree, with Catelyn and a few others standing witness. The morning after your wedding you awake in his chambers, the sun yet to rise. Robb snores faintly beneath you, the warmth of the fire sending a chill up your skin that had become exposed in the night. You scan over his features, a peacefulness you hadn’t before on his face. You reach over brushing the white patch of hair amongst the mass of soft brown curls on his head. As you do his eyes open looking over to you propping himself up on his elbow and learning over to kiss your forehead.

“What is it my love?” you ask, kissing his cheek, then his lips .

“I need you to do something,” he says, serious as always.

“What we just did wasn't enough, my king? How else may I please you tonight,” you offer hands dancing across his chest, he grins shaking his head slightly.

“You have pleased me in every way imaginable for the past year, and even more tonight. This favour isn't a pleasure of the flesh however, I need you to complete a task. You’re the only one I can trust,” he states.

“You shift up to face him, the furs falling off you slightly, “find the Targaryen girl. I wish to make an ally of her, to destroy the Lannister once and for all. You are likely the only family she has left, she may listen to you.”

“I'll do what I can, and I'll do it fast, I do not wish to be parted from you for long.” you admit as his hand traces over your back.

“Take this with you, that way i'll be protecting you even while we are apart,” he leans over grabbing his dagger, the one made for him by his father, offering it to you.

“Robb I…” you begin.

“Will return it to me a fortnight from now when you come back. I suggest we make the most of tonight, so you have another reason to return to me,” he states

“I'll always return to you, even in death,” you reassure and he wraps the blanket back over you pulling you tightly to his chest. And so as Robb took his seat in the halls of Walder Frey to watch his supposed bride marry another man, you were catching a boat destined for Dorne.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present day (Age 21)

“Come with me now Lady Stark, your life depends on it,” the stranger says, pulling you to your feet and shuffling you into a nearby tavern ushering you quickly up the stairs. You see a pile of clothes laid out on the bed and immediately strip, all notions of decency erased in favour of time.

“You must disappear, make them think you are dead,” he says, averting his eyes as you change into clothes typical of local mercenaries.

“Who killed him, what happened?” you ask, needing some kind of answers.

“There is no time, and it's safer if you do not know.” He says eyes darting from you to the door.

“I have a right to..”

“The Freys betrayed you, everyone at the wedding is dead, you have no claim to Winterfell. The Lannisters have taken the North”

“Everyone at the wedding..” you echo, sitting on the bed

“Stay here..” the blue bearded stranger says, returning a few moments later with a cloak, sword and black dye in hand, placing them down and grabbing for the clothes and the dagger on the floor, Robbs dagger.

“That stays” you stress grabbingthe dagger from his reach.

“It’s too…” he starts

“It stays, it's all I have left of him,” you whisper harsher than intended, fighting back tears. He nods and you take it from him. You grab the dye from his hand and rub it through your hair, staining it a deep ember.

“Keep your eyes down, they're the only thing we can’t disguise,” he states

“Who are you, why are you helping me?” you question memorizing the man's face.

“You share a common enemy with powerful people. You have allies here. Goodbye Lady Stark I hope we meet again,” he says, and with a swift turn he exits the tavern leaving you alone with your thoughts. You wait a moment before donning the cloak and pulling up your hood. You walk out the tavern, putting as much distance between you and the docks as possible. Keeping your eyes down as men scoured the streets for the person you once were

[lucidpantone]

Wtfock Fanfic Recommends (Worlds/Lit adapt) Pt.1

What up Fockers! 🤘🏽(am back 😈)

Catch up on previous recommends here.

Worlds/Literary adaptation

Literary adaptation is the adapting of a literary source (e.g. a novel, short story, poem) to another genre or medium.

ITW = In the works

**Given recent events with wtfamers concerned over adult content not being marked properly I will be marking all these fics via the USA film rating system. I am going to air on the side of caution so if am over zealous its in respect to others. These ratings are a combination of my opinion and the author’s tags in Ao3.** Vampires

Open your soul out and let it pour out (oneshot) by orphan_account (PG-13)

Lets call this fic what it is. A bite feast. Do you wanna skip all the vampire lore and exposition and just get your teeth sinked into a one shot? Well here you go a funny little oneshot in which Sander bites Robbe(no turning). Its a quickie but it certainly quenched my thirst.

Dead of night (ITW) by orphan_account (PG)

Can’t say to much about this fic. Its a chaptered fic that started to get it wheels turning but we seem to be stuck in neutral. Author you asked for some HC to inspire you to write so jumping off your last vamp fic I would suggested exploring Sander as a lone wolf vampire and how finding Robbe ignites the idea to mate or to herd again. 

Paint me in trust (complete) by themoongirl/ @dearrobbe @dearsander (R/mainly due to violence)

Just completed and what a ride. This is truly a structured love story and though I don’t think the arc will be novel it doesn’t matter because this is such a deep love story about forgiveness, acceptance and sacrifice. I also love how the other characters feed the love story as a whole and how their experiences shaped Sander and Robbe to make decisions about how far they were truly willing to go to be together. The writing is so solid that you will wheeze through this fic. Structurally I think this fic is the author’s best work to date. Alpha/Beta/Omega 

Don't you call him baby (ITW) by @ayellowcurtain (R/Mature)

Big big shout out to this writer for doing something that is rarely successful which is creating an entire narrative story via prompts. Anyone out there who wants to start writing a world inspired fic but maybe feels like they would love input in what ideas to explore within that worlds setting should look at this fic as an example. Its really angsty and at times challenges the idea of the typical Sander alpha and Robbe omega love story. Its really unique but in an incredibly intelligent way and once again its told entirely through short form prompts. Its really great to see an author allowing their readers to create the angles of their storytelling.

Rescue my heart (I'll drown without you) (ITW) by @skamsnake & @zaddyskam (Explicit/Mature/NC-17) Kudos to the detailed world descriptions and exposition building that snake and zaddy undertake in explaining concepts around ABO because I didn’t even know what this genre was until I read this fic. From my understanding ABO writers decide what ABO concepts they borrow or chose not to use in the ABO world. This fic is in canon so set during an equivalent timeline to S3. We get an in-depth look into concepts such as alpha space and also how in this society Alphas/Omegas and Betas live and date interchangeably. Of course we have the normal angst ridden love story at the center of s3 but with a twist or should I say a knot.

Holding On Tight To You (Complete) by pinksaltcrystals (PG-13)

Am really happy to have a ABO fic in the mix that stays within a realm that accommodates readers of all ages. There is no explicit sexual content in this fic aside from mentions of heat and rut. It is a really good case study into how heat effects Robbe (omega) and also the very primal instincts the Alpha/Omega dynamic spark between the lovers(R+S) outside of sexual encounters. Also I love to see how other character canons in this fic are developed. Some interesting choices between who is an alpha/omega and beta. Really gripping read that explains the science of omega heat in the ABO world. 

Sander & Robbe (ITW) by JesseLblack / @jesyblack (Explicit/Mature/NC-17)

Written in Spanish this mpreg fic explores teenage Robbe getting pregnant after unprotected sex. Scandalous! It’s not complete yet but interesting concepts around teenage pregnancy in the ABO world and heighten fertility during heat. Author I haven’t seen an update in awhile but I would be really interested to see where you were going to take this.

Bring me a higher love (complete) By Skamtrash / @vearthling(Explicit/Mature/NC-17)

An Mpreg fic set into the future in which Robbe decides he wants to be a young dad and he has to convince Sander of that too. Once pregnant this is a cute quirky little fic into the weird abnormalities of pregnancy cravings and adjustments that ring very true to what most couples go through in these developing months. Super sugary and Sander gets no.1 best pregnancy partner in this fic. 

Hunger Games

just another dressed up heartbreak (turned his tears to diamonds in his crown) (kinda of a oneshot its part of a volume of works) by aletterinthenameofsanity  (R/mainly due to mentions of every dark trope you can think of)

Robbe and Sander victors of the 80th games. Cold blooded killers that fell deep in love during their Victory tour. This is a one shot in a large volume of works for this author exploring the Hunger Games. Milan is our Haymitch, I mean of course he is. This fic is a one shot part of the larger volume but in this part of the story we find out just because you win the games doesn’t mean the competition to stay alive has ended. Its sinister, dark and not for the fate of heart but some very interesting tropes explored and we truly get reminded that the capital always wins in the end. Also be prepared to see our evak couples how you have never seen them before. I like this fic alot but trigger warnings at every corner as this volume of fics are very very dark.

Game of Thrones

I, I Will Be King (ITW) by proawler / @sander-schmander (PG)

Sander Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Six Kingdoms. Sander Targaryen is betrothed to Britt Lannister when Olenna Tyrell invites the king to a party at Highgarden. During his visit he meets Robbe Tyrell and all the tiresome work of politics melts away as he is completely mesmerized by the budding flower standing before him. Author please continue this fic!!! Its so good. I love everything I have read thus far. I beg of you, am a sucker for GOT and you have done a fantastic job thus far capturing this world.

GOT fics continued in part 2....

[coolkidsstayyoung99]

The children of Lord Gendry and Lady Arya Baratheon

I.  Eddard Baratheon / The Black Stag

The oldest son of Arya Stark and the legitimized Gendry Baratheon. Eddard or ‘’Eddie’’ like his sister call him, was named like that in honor of his late grandfather Eddad Stark which his mother loved so much. Eddard inherited the Baratheon eyes and dark hair. Though he is skilled with a sword he’d rather use a bow and arrows. He is a young man of principle, being patient, noble and just exactly like his grandfather honorable and humble. Though a natural leader, Eddard can be plagued by doubt and criticized himself whenever he makes an error. There are notables similarities between Eddard and his cousin Daemon as: their strong sense of justice and fairness, their loyalty to their family and friends, and the fact that they’re both natural leaders but a difference of his cousin, he has a moderate sense of humor and gets more laid-back more often. He likes to walk and explore all the lands in Storm’s End when he is not study and teaching his little sister Ellena how to use the sword. 

II. Steffon Baratheon / The Strong Blacksmith 

Steffon was the only one out of his siblings that was interested in blacksmithing like their father. Skilled in making any weapon Steffon has a kind-hearted and is a hard working boy. He enjoy making weapons in the Storm’s End forges with his father and believes that making swords and  warhammer are more easy than dealing with ‘’bigger things’’ and because of that he always has his hand all dirty and rough. He also inherited the Baratheon blue eyes and dark hair. Known for being very humorous and easygoing he is the easiest to get long out of his siblings. He is quite popular with the smallfolk due his work in the forges, friendly ways and charisma. Since Steffon likes to spend time in the forges he knows all the weapons and how to use them, but his favorite sword is the first one he did. He spent days and nights trying to get the prefect sword that even his father began to worry, but he always finishes his works perfectly. Steffon has been such a good blacksmith that it is believed that even his father says that he has overcome it him. And the only thing besides that is spending time with all his brothers.

III. Robb Baratheon / The Wild Thing

Robb is the combination of the Starks and Baratheons. He has the dark hair and grey eyes, as same his brother. Robb is strong, honest and brave but headstrong and rash which he inheretd from his grandfather Robert. He’s also hot-blooded, is described as originating from “the wolf blood” that his great uncle Brandon had it. That’s why he is the only child to have a direwolf, which his name is Orys, like the founder. Robb shared this trait with his cousin Rickon, and since the two have the same conditions, they support each other all the time and, as time goes by, they became better friends. Robb is the best swordman among his siblings and an excellent jouster. And although he is excellent with the sword, his favorite weapon is the warharmmer that his brother Steffon forge in his birthday. Because of his personality it is difficult to deal with him, since he tends to be like an animal that if he gets angry becomes wild. Brave and proud takes him to almost always have problems, but since the past is learned, his family and friends are always there to guide him and to control him when he does something wrong. Although Robb is not a boy for easy courtesies, he is very good boy and loving to his family, and especially with his shy twin brother Ryle, that he feel he needs to protect from strangers, and because of that he likes to rider with him.

IV. Ryle Baratheon / The Wise Soul

Although Robb and Ryle were twins, they were completely different. While Robb was stubborn and reckless, Ryle was quiet, reserved and a bit shy. When they were born all were surprised, since it could be a little complicated the delivery of them to their mother. The first to be born was Robb, with the combination of both families, Baratheon hair and Stark eyes, and making so much noises and slight cries. After 10 minutes was born Ryle, with the same physical traits. He did not make any noise, he were so calm that his mother was frightened, but they realized that the little baby was only quieter than normal. Little Ryle loved since he was a boy reading every book that had his reach and all sorts of subjects. From history, healing, herbal, the speech of ravens, the building of castles, navigating by the stars, the measurement of days and the marking of seasons, but mostly the human body, so thats why he wants to be a maeste. Every day he goes to study with the maeste Malleon and encourages to follow his dream. When he is not studying or helping to write letters to the master Malleon, he is with his brother Robb riding or doing some mischief. 

V. Ellena Baratheon / The Brave Maid

The little Baratheon girl was the copy of his mother, but with some differences. The little Ellena has the all Baratheon look, but her personality was her mother Arya. She is a fiercely girl who has a spirited heart. As a little girl like his mother she was considerate a tomboy who wants to learn how to used a bow and arrow, but her wishes were more encouraged that from her mother. As she grown up, all her brothers teaches her all their favorites things and many important things. Shireen learned many subjects from Ryle, like speak some little High Valyrian, from his brother Robb how to fight with a sword and warhammer, with his brother Steffon how to make any weapon with almost every thing, but his most beloved teacher was her oldest brother Robb which teachers her to use the sword. Every afternoons she and Robb would train in the forrest in many situations and even in horses. She admired her mother for her braveness and she hoped that one day she could be just a brave as her. Ellena was the most beloved child of the family and even her brothers know that but they don’t care because she is the favorite in their hearts. In her free times she explore the forests of Storm´s End trying to find a treasure that one day she read in one book, although nobody believes her.

Hey people this is my own little take on the children of Arya and Gendry. Hope everyone like it. Here’s others, because why not? (Update: I changed the as of each character because i didn't like the old ones lol)

JonxDaenerys MeeraxBran  SansaxPodrick

[harlothane]

Why do you love the Starks?

There are ghosts in Winterfell. And I am one of them. They walked on. Barbrey Dustin’s face seemed to harden with every step. She likes this place no more than I do. Theon heard himself say, “My lady, why do you hate the Starks?” She studied him. “For the same reason you love them.” Theon stumbled. “Love them? I never … I took this castle from them, my lady. I had … had Bran and Rickon put to death, mounted their heads on spikes, I …” “… rode south with Robb Stark, fought beside him at the Whispering Wood and Riverrun, returned to the Iron Islands as his envoy to treat with your own father. Barrowton sent men with the Young Wolf as well. I gave him as few men as I dared, but I knew that I must needs give him some or risk the wroth of Winterfell. So I had my own eyes and ears in that host. They kept me well informed. I know who you are. I know what you are. Now answer my question. Why do you love the Starks?” “I …” Theon put a gloved hand against a pillar. “… I wanted to be one of them …” “And never could. We have more in common than you know, my lord. But come.” ADWD. The Turncloak.

This part here is the core of Theon’s character and storyline - up until TWOW at least, as his story may take unexpected turns after ADWD.

It explains every strange move he did, misplaced thought he ever had. Take his devotion to House Stark in AGOT, or this enthusiasm at seeing the wolves distrust other people, strangers. 

Their eyes found Lannister, or perhaps they caught his scent. Summer began to growl first. Grey Wind picked it up. They padded toward the little man, one from the right and one from the left. “The wolves do not like your smell, Lannister,” Theon Greyioy commented.

Theon Greyjoy put a hand on the hilt of his blade and said, “My lady, if it comes to that, my House owes yours a great debt.”

If you take a step back, it is strange that a ward in name but a hostage in truth would demonstrate so much loyalty - why ? He could surely have been treated worse in Winterfell, but it was never the warm home any child dreams of. He had to wear the Greyjoy colours, reminding every single person of his precarious status. And he did live in fear. 

Lady Dustin’s serjeant raised the lantern. Shadows slid and shifted. A small light in a great darkness. Theon had never felt comfortable in the crypts. He could feel the stone kings staring down at him with their stone eyes, stone fingers curled around the hilts of rusted longswords. None had any love for ironborn. A familiar sense of dread filled him.

Still, he encourages Robb to call the banners and start a war for the honour of House Stark; he helps and supports the heir to Winterfell; he saves Bran Stark’s life; he is eager to fight - and risk his life for them; worse, he is proud of this, a fact he does not manage to hide before Balon Greyjoy or Dagmer Cleftjaw. “You take this business too hard, boy. It is only that your lord father does not know you. With your brothers dead and you taken by the wolves, your sister was his solace. He learned to rely on her, and she has never failed him.” “Nor have I. The Starks knew my worth. I was one of Brynden Blackfish’s picked scouts, and I charged with the first wave in the Whispering Wood. I was that close to crossing swords with the Kingslayer himself.” Theon held his hands two feet apart. “Daryn Hornwood came between us, and died for it.” “Why do you tell me this?” Dagmer asked. “It was me who put your first sword in your hand. I know you are no craven.”

Was it a defense mechanism ? Showing loyalty to your captors in the hopes that they will treat you well, always ? Perhaps. But that line - it brings love into the picture.

Also, “Only a fool humbles himself when the world is so full of men eager to do that job for him”, says Theon. He is not one to submit easily, on the contrary. He even defies his father right after meeting him for the first time in years. His loyalty to House Stark wasn’t the product of fear, it came from a place of love, and the desire to be loved back. As he leaves Robb’s side, his status appear to him in all its fragility - he will never be a wolf. But he does regret this. (“I am no Stark.” Lord Eddard saw to that. “I am a Greyjoy, and I mean to be my father’s heir. How can I do that unless I prove myself with some great deed?”)

And the capture of Winterfell, in this light, is a tragedy. Theon in Winterfell reminds me of a terrible child, desperate for a toy he doesn’t know how to handle right. He wanted his toy, he dreamed of it for so long, knowing it could never be his. So he stole it, took it by force, and ended up breaking his precious castle. He desired the love only a true home can offer you. He doesn’t take him long to realise he will never find it with the Ironborn.

He tossed his bow back to Wex and strode off, remembering how elated he’d felt after the Whispering Wood, and wondering why this did not taste as sweet.

By his own actions, he wins the exact opposite. Searching for admiration and love, he lets himself become a despised tyran, rightfully hated by Winterfell, its people, its ghosts and its very stones. He cannot win Winterfell’s heart, and so all of this - the scheme, the capture, means nothing anymore. There is despair in the way he compares himself to Ramsay - of all people - to make himself look good. Worthy of protecting Winterfell.

“There will be no flaying in the north so long as I rule in Winterfell,” Theon said loudly. I am your only protection against the likes of him, he wanted to scream. He could not be that blatant, but perhaps some were clever enough to take the lesson.

The century old place rejects him. Still, he never leaves. He refuses Asha’s offer to come with him. Luwin’s proposal to join the Watch. If his core desire was to prove himself to his father, he would have accepted Asha’s suggestion at least, hoping for another opportunity to show his valor. 

He doesn’t. He prefers to die at Winterfell, that’s where his heart led him, after all. “To great folly”. 

[kopfkinoes]

Game of Thrones Preferences

I was tagged by @beast-makers thank you for the tag!

Do you watch the episodes when they air?   I started watching GOT when the first three seasons had already aired and starting from season 4 I always watched every episode when it aired. With one exception though, season 4 episode 9 which I watched the next day because I had so much to study those days I literally didn’t realize what day it was.  

How often do you rewatch it? Do you rewatch it from season one? I’ve rewatched GOT with my mum from the first to the fifth season. Then, with my dad, from the first to the fifth season again. I’ve rewatched it with a friend from the first to the sixth season. I also go back and watch certain scenes by myself. And I plan to rewatch all of it before season 8 but it’s still too early to start. 

Do you rewatch the previous episode before the next one airs? No. 

Do you eat anything while watching? if so, what do you eat? If I’m hungry, yes. 

One character that everyone seems to like that you don’t care much for: Sandor Clegane, the man’s a child murderer, I don’t care how “grey and complex” he is. This fandom praises being an asshole too much. Also, lately I haven’t cared so much about Tyrion and Sansa has disappointed me by acting like a watered down version of Cersei. Also Olenna Tyrell, mostly because I don’t like Diana Rigg. I mean, I like the character but the fandom is so in love with her and how much of a feminist icon she is, the woman literally loathes feminism. 

Your 3 favourite pairings: JON AND DAENERYS, Ned and Catelyn, Jaime and Brienne but also Robb and Talisa

Favourite scene: There’s lots of badass scenes that get you screaming in this series but I’m more one for the emotional scenes and I literally cannot choose a favourite. Like, Ned and Catelyn saying goodbye when she leaven King’s Landing when he says “He still loves you.” and she responds “Does he?” or Bran seeing young Ned and calling “Father!” after him and Ned turning back but not seeing him, or Ygritte shooting Jon full of arrows then crying as he rides off, Ygritte and Jon meeting in battle and smiling at each other teary-eyed while her bow is drawn, Arya coming back to Winterfell and just looking around at the walls, Jon pledging to Daenerys, telling her she deserves the throne and gripping her hand, Davos discovering the charred stag he had made for Shireen, literally EVERYTHING including Robb and Talisa they were pure fluff and true love from moment one until the end, Jon and Daenerys making love

One character you wish got more appreciation: Davos

Fanfic or nah? Not anymore really. I was a fanfic junkie back in the day. 

Favourite quote: “The next time you raise a hand to me will be the last time you have hands.”

Do you avoid spoilers? They avoid me most of the times. I don’t really mind spoilers unless they’re super big ones. I don’t want any for season 8 though because it’s so far away. 

Favourite house words: Winter is coming. 

One character you’d bring back from the dead: Benjen Stark

One character you’d kill, or kill sooner than they were killed: Littlefinger, it’s the guy’s fault for the War of the Five Kings that fucked the Starks so badly. 

Direwolves or dragons?   Both

Which was more satisfying: Ramsay dying or Joffrey dying? Both

Wildlings or the Dothraki? BOTH! And I really hope the Dothraki get some of the development the Free Folk did. Like, don’t get me wrong but there’s a pretty racist implication in the fact that these brown skinned people are a hive mind of rapists and pillagers. That’s not on the show writers though, it’s on George RR Martin. 

Favourite Lannister?: Jaime

Favourite Stark? I love them all. 

Would you rather be able to be resurrected anytime, but gain scars and all like Beric, or become a faceless man? Resurrected. The Faceless Men are badass but I wouldn’t like to lose my identity and just become a weapon to kill people. 

Would you rather have the rebellion tv show or the conquest tv show? You know what I’d like? A history of House Stark. I wanna see Brandon of the Bloody Blade, Bran the Builder, Brandon the Breaker, the Laughing Wolf, the Hungry Wolf, Edrick Snowbeard, Ice Eyes, the Shipwright, Osric Stark, the she-wolves of Winterfell. I wanna see them hang the entrails of criminals and slavers in weirwoods. 

[wind-in-the-weirwoods]

Dreams of Spring

About 2800 words.  Set after the events of the show and books, so consider this an AU.  I’ll have condensed notes on each of the new Stark children at the end for reference in any future writing, in case I get the drive to explore the characters (and postwar setting!) further.

Spring-born children laughed and ran outside the walls of Winterfell, and the King in the North was glad for it.  This made everything worth it:  the frantic minutes spent fighting in blooded snow and mud, the days spent in chains in an ice cell, the countless weeks and months spent traveling by saddle and sail, and the years spent freezing along the edge of the world.  The oaths he’d broken and the lives he’d taken had all been spent to purchase the peals of children’s laughter.

Not his children, the dark-eyed king thought solemnly.  Jon had swore once to father no children, but that burden had been set aside.  Still, the time was not right for it.  The king was not yet wed and he had promised himself he would put no baseborn babes into this world.

It was a different world from the one he’d known, but the idea of another long-faced lad sitting apart while his lord father broke bread was too much.

So the king was unwed, but not unmatched.  The tall woman sharing his company was proof of that.  They stood together on the battlements as they had so long ago, but nearer, elbows and shoulders almost mingling.  It was arguably too warm to wear the matching wolf-hide cloaks she had sewn them in winter, but allowances had been made.

“You’re brooding,” the Sansa observed, “how can you brood beneath the spring’s sun?”

The king let her question hang unanswered for a long heartbeat.  “Practice.”

He turned to look at her just as the smile reached her eyes.  It was a rehearsed expression, thinning her lips without revealing her teeth. Appropriate for a public space like the castle walls.

Jon kept no such reservations.  Head titled back, the king rolled his shoulders and inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air rush into his chest.  He chuckled at the subtle roll of her eyes, but marveled at how the little grin never left her face.

They had fought so hard to get here, outlasting enemies living and dead, wielding frost and flame. But there would always be a Stark in Winterfell.  The sweet summer children would be safe to play at their games.

Soon, their children would join them and act out their own tales.  He knew it because he dreamed it and because she had shared that dream. Young Starks, dark of hair and light of eye, would someday soon rush across the yards and castle walls.  The stories of the Dragonknight’s duel for love with the Fool, and the cunning Young Wolf’s capture of the Kingslayer would play out again in the shadows of Winterfell’s walls.

But first, a wedding.

They could have wed sooner, but Sansa insisted on waiting out the winter.  Any celebratory feast would have been an extravagance in wartime, much less taken in poor taste after hoarding other Houses’ stores.  And they shared concern that an ensuing winter pregnancy would have been too dangerous to risk carrying.

With Jon’s heritage revealed to all during the War of Three Queens and ensuing Battle of the Long Night, the king faced no lack of offers and suspicions from around Westeros.   He told any who would listen that he had no interest in the Iron Throne – it’s why he had it melted down, so its ancient Valyrian steel could be used for something greater than a seat – but it took a marriage binding him politically and physically to the distant Northlands to placate the anxious Southron lords.

So that was how they came to the godswood in spring, when winter’s last gasping frost was melting away. They took their vows, exchanged their cloaks, and sealed their union.  They walked together arm and arm into the Great Hall and enjoyed a feast worthy of the King and Queen of the North, whose name was Stark.

Not long after, their firstborn came into the world and quickly grew into a quiet, lean girl. The king and queen grappled with whose name she should carry; Cat, Sansa’s mother’s name, was not considered due to the painful divides the matriarch had built between them in their youth.  Arya, sharing titles with the wayward youngest Stark, would have been too recent to be in good taste.  So they settled on Lyanna, a public thanks for House Mormont’s unending support and a private acknowledgement to a mother the king had never known.

The king and queen had hoped for a laughing child, but they had to wait for it with Lyanna.  Ever cautious, she rarely took the lead in her studies or conversations but observed everything with great intensity.  It was rare that something got past her; the girl’s brilliant cornflower eyes were wide as she took in her world, watching soldiers drill in the yard as eagerly as smallfolk reap the fields.

Her stoicism could be unnerving, but in the king’s mind it made her brief smiles all the more rewarding. She shared a love of lemoncakes with her queen mother, and he took pains to keep the kitchens stocked with fruit at all times.  Grey-haired Lord Manderly commented once that the princess recalled no one’s temperament more than their beloved Lord Eddard, father by blood and adoption, and the comparison stuck with many that heard it.

Lyanna was not as eager to leave the sewing-circle for the archers’ range as her namesake and aunt Arya had been, enjoying the contemplative hours spent embroidering and singing with her mother.  But she was quick to learn her duties.  The Wall had fallen to pieces in a dozen places, after all, and the king’s orders to resettle the Gift and arm every Northman, woman, and child of age still stood.

It was on a visit to the rebuilt Eastwatch-By-The-Sea that Lyanna met her first wildling.  She remembered not to call him that or to curtsy or to stare at his wild red mane, as her king father had instructed, and Tormund Giantsbane took an immediate interest in the girl for it.  Reminding the smiling king of how he’d taught another to fight and ride, among other things, the fiery-haired chief of the Free Folk made fast friends with the princess.

But they needed an heir. Mother and father could not have had a better-behaved firstborn, but the family name had to continue, and Winterfell still had room for more Starklings.

Another girl followed. Hair spun like polished copper stole her father’s breath away when he first saw her, and months spent poring over family histories revived the name Jocelyn.

The daughters’ moods ran against one another so often it made the queen reflect unhappily on the frayed relationship shared with her own sister, but as they aged the pair learned – with no small encouragement from their parents – to complement each other’s strengths more than draw into conflict over their differences.  Where Lyanna was somber and watchful, Jocelyn was excitable and always leading the pack.  But each always had the other’s ear, and Jocelyn could be found tending the glass gardens alongside Lyanna as often as the elder sister would share secrets Free Folk spearwives had taught her.

It was Jocelyn that gave their parents headaches, though Lyanna was quick to share the blame.  If a horse bolted from the stables it was because Lyanna had not taught her sister how to tie its lead securely.  When Jocelyn bloodied a butcher’s son while playing at swordplay with sticks, it was due to Lyanna not interceding sooner.  It reminded Jon all too well of lashings he had taken for his trueborn brothers at the girls’ ages.

That’s not to say Jocelyn was a bad seed.  Long-limbed and strong, she wanted nothing more than to follow in the towering Lady Brienne’s path despite the big woman’s cautions.  When it became apparent she would not take to embroidery, calligraphy, and other arts her queen mother impressed upon her, Jocelyn was fostered at Bear Island to refine her talents among other ladies-at-arms.

And then years of trying gave the king and queen their boys.  Robb came first, grey-eyed and dour, but he was joined before his first nameday by little russet-haired Eddard.  Both boys were proud and took quickly to the rhythm of life in Winterfell:  breaking their fasts, enduring maester’s lessons, trying (and failing) to evade Lyanna’s watch in pursuit of mischief, and training at arms with their father in the evening.

Jocelyn loved to prod them into feats of ever-greater daring (“grab Ghost’s tail, he won’t bite”) which probably made her fostering more timely than expected.

Once on a midsummer visit, Jocelyn set Robb and Ned into dueling with quarterstaffs thick enough to hurt but Lyanna diffused them by challenging Jocelyn instead.  Jocelyn was now thirteen and boisterous, and readily accepted. Lyanna, two years her senior, stood taller but knew her sister was faster.  It had been nearly four years since the two had sparred and it drew all eyes to the courtyard.  Smiths stopped their hammering.  Guards on the walls turned nonchalantly.  The queen held up a hand to quiet the maester as the king stalked down the balcony towards her.

“They’ll hurt each other,” the king warned, fingers tapping anxiously on the bannister.  “It’s been too long, they don’t know their strength.”

“Ghost will keep anyone from getting hurt,” the queen answered confidently, picking the direwolf’s eyes out in the dark shade below.  Too big to follow into the lord’s chambers, Ghost had made his bed in a spare stable at the foot of a staircase the queen and king exited every morning during her first pregnancy.  He lingered there still, watching over his pack.

The king exhaled, a controlled relief of frustration.  Stark blood had been shed on that training-yard before, but he wasn’t ready to see it again.  The boiled-leather vests and vambraces his daughters wore offered no relief.

Little Ned caught his attention, grabbing at his father’s jerkin.  The boy had seen just seven light winters and had been infected by the king’s nervous energy.  With a sigh he bent and set his son on the handrail to watch his sisters fight.  In the corner of his eye Jon noticed his queen draw Robb before her, hands resting idly on the heir to Winterfell’s shoulders. How was she so calm when one of their daughters might be broken before them?

Jocelyn struck first, lashing out with a thrust that caught the king’s full attention.  It also drew Lyanna’s, but she gently leaned aside and swatted the quarterstaff away.  Jocelyn let it go and brought the other end into a line ending at Lyanna’s temple, but the taller girl crouched and brought her staff up in a sharp stab that caught Jocelyn below her ribs.

“One,” Lyanna shouted pensively, as if counting nothing significant.  Jocelyn stomped back and away, circling.  The crowd grew and began murmuring excitedly.  If the king could look away he was sure coins were exchanging palms.

Again Jocelyn went on the offensive, shifting her grip to lengthen the staff and thrust overhead at her sister’s center.  Lyanna again leaned away from the blow and sidestepped, but Jocelyn adjusted her grip and followed through, trailing Lyanna’s path.

Lyanna brought her own staff up to intercept but did not anticipate the force behind Jocelyn’s strike. With an unseemly grunt, Lyanna allowed her sister’s quarterstaff to continue moving and spun to get out of its range.

But Jocelyn took her staff in one hand and leapt forward, tapping her sister lightly between the shoulderblades.

“One!” Jocelyn announced hungrily, “Got you to turn.”  Some of the spectators clapped at that.

Lyanna looked flustered. She hadn’t gotten into this to get beaten.  For a moment a familiar rage twitched across her face, but Lyanna buried it with a deep breath and returned to guard.  She held the staff by its weighted end at eye level, levering it down and away from her body to quickly counter any strike.

Jocelyn countered by cocking her right leg behind her and lifting her staff up to shoulder height, holding it parallel to the churned dust and dirt of the training yard floor. It would be a test of endurance; neither guard position could be held for long, and one of them would strike first.

The king heard his queen mutter a brief but emphatic, “yes” when Jocelyn thrust out again, having taken Lyanna’s bait.  The end of Jocelyn’s staff flashed lightning-quick at Lyanna’s face but she batted it aside with her own staff, then crossed the difference.  Lyanna brought her staff into an upward arc directed at Jocelyn’s unprotected midsection.

Somehow, Jocelyn leapt away, kicking out and away to soar from Lyanna’s counter-attack.  The strength in her legs was all she needed to get clear.  On her way out, Jocelyn stretched out and struck her sister lightly, this time on an exposed shoulder.

Jocelyn touched down, crouched, and cooed at her older sister.  “That’s twice now.”  Sansa turned to look uncertainly at her king, who shrugged.  Letting them have at it was her idea.

Lyanna erased the distance in two big steps, half-staffing in a two-handed grip that shortened her reach. It was a conservative stance and odd to use on the offense, but Jon gained clarity not long after Jocelyn did.

The quarterstaffs struck together and a second crack of wood hitting wood swallowed the first. Jocelyn was at a disadvantage without her greater reach, and though she had better leverage she was not as strong as her sister.  Jocelyn shifted her weight to try and get Lyanna to overextend in a bid to disengage, but hissed a curse as she was struck on the hip.

Lyanna looked like she wanted to say something clever, but held her tongue.  She mouthed a silent “two” and again returned to her guard, staff held diagonally across her body.

Jocelyn chewed the inside of her cheek and the king thought of Arya’s similar bad habit.  She was thinking of her next avenue of attack when Lyanna surprised them all by again taking the first step forward.

Jocelyn started and nearly left the ground when Lyanna pulled back.  It was a feint, and it had worked.  She had her sister almost at her mercy, and that was unbearable.

So Jocelyn stepped forward with an incoherent shout and swung the staff from overhead to bring it crashing down on Lyanna.  Little Ned cried out a warning and the king had to seize the boy with bond hands to keep him from falling, feeling his own eyes widen.

But the blow never fell. Lyanna had stopped it with the heavy end of her own staff, bracing it just above her head.  Jocelyn was so committed to a finishing strike that she had gotten off-balance, so Lyanna did something with her ankles, rolled her shoulders, and sent Jocelyn’s quarterstaff tumbling uselessly to the ground.

Lyanna brought the rear end of staff up in a lazy arc and nudged Jocelyn in her side.  “You’re done.”

The king was certain that Jocelyn was about to pounce on her sister bare-handed and desperately hoped Ghost could separate them before his queen got down there.  He saw the same quiet anger rise to Jocelyn’s face that he’d seen on Lyanna’s moments before, and felt on his own in the family crypt and on battlefields.

But that ugly emotion left as soon as it had come.  Jocelyn screwed up her brows and cocked her head, hands on her hips in thought.

“How did you do that?” she asked inquisitively.

The sisters chatted and the crowd dispersed, servants returning to their duties and guards looking again outside the castle.  The king breathed easily and set Ned down to the balcony, where he and Robb took off at a sprint to try Lyanna’s new trick.

His queen turned to him again, leaning on the bannister.  “Did you teach her that?”

“No,” Jon answered honestly, “but Tormund might’ve.  Probably one of the spearwives.”

Sansa was quiet then, watching their children talk easily below.  “I didn’t think they would be so evenly matched.”

“I’m glad they are. It’ll keep one from usurping her sister someday.”

He received an arch look for that.  “Don’t joke about something so terrible.”

He nodded, smiling gently. They had both worried about separation wrecking their daughters’ relationship, but if anything, their different educations had strengthened it.  Jocelyn had always hated losing a race or a game, but besides an expected bit of embarrassment at this public loss looked like she was maturing rapidly.

So Jon settled in next to his queen, inviting her to share his space.  Sansa obliged and leaned a shoulder into his chest.  Their children were talking loudly now, but Ghost had decided he was tired of fighting and had padded out of his shaded spot for their attention.  They crowded the direwolf and spoke to him glowingly.

The queen and her king both enjoyed the sight.  Winter had come and gone for them.  It would be a long summer.

Notes:

Lyanna Stark.  Firstborn, slender, and solemn.  Dark of hair with cornflower blue eyes.  She takes it upon herself to shepherd her rowdier younger siblings.  Often compared to Ned in mood and demeanor.  Her stoicism plays off well with Tormund Giantsbane’s large personality, so they make an unusual pair of friends.  Fifteen years old as of Dreams of Spring.

Jocelyn Stark.  Secondborn, tall and strong.  Red of hair with slate-gray eyes.  She chafes at her expected role more than her elder sister but adapts quickly to life among the more martial women of House Mormont.  Daring but honorable, she recalls Robb, the Young Wolf.  Thirteen years old.

Robb Stark.  The male heir to Winterfell and the North.  Dark of hair and eye, he takes after his father.  Impatient and prone to moodiness, but a quick learner.  He dotes on Ghost more than his other siblings and feels a compulsion to earn his name with great deeds.  Eight years old.

Eddard Stark.  The youngest child, russet-haired like his sister Jocelyn and mother.  Has struggled to find his way in the shadow of other more outgoing siblings, but he shows a remarkable memory for songs and stories.  Seven years old.

[damagecompiilation-a]

adding fiona (mphfpc), robb (got) and jennifer (tw)