#[let's say the servants cleaned his chambers while he was with the maesters

[storiesofthenight]

I don’t understand.

That at least made two of them. He had no idea how he had lost his memories. When he had first woken without his memories, there had been Maesters leaning over him, examining him. It had freaked him out and he had attempted to scramble away only to realise that he was far from alright. He’d been hurt. Bruising and injuries on his skin were obvious as he’d stared at the people in the room with a sense of helplessness coming over him. 

They’d brought him to his chambers once they’d realised he had lost his memories, thinking it would help, but nothing in the room had sparked anything.

As Helaena began to tell him about his relatives and their dragons, he took a slow and deep breath and nodded slowly. “I have … been told some of those things.” He spoke softly, smiling a little awkwardly. “But I am afraid none of that brings back anything.” Aemond admitted slowly, casting down his eye as he fiddled with his hands, a certain unease washing over him. 

“I was told that it might be temporary. But they cannot be certain. It seems I lost my memories while I was attacked in my roo-” He halted and tilted his head, glancing around the place. “Well, here …”

it was starting to dawn on helaena that her brother truly had no idea of who she was. if where he was. — and immediaetly her heart dropped. "i don't undertsand..."

how? what could have happened to cause this? her brother had lost an eye at the age of ten and been fine. as much as one could be, loosing an eye at such a young age.

"your name is aemond targaryen," helaena tried gently instead. maybe if she told him such simple, yet important things, it would help? "a son and prince of house targaryen. rider of the dragon, vhagar." her voice was soft and gentle, approaching slowly. "i'm helaena targaryen, your older sister. i ride the dragon dreamfyre. our eldest brother is aegon, his dragon is named sunfyre and we have a younger brother named daeron, riding the dragon tessarion. — our mother is alicent hightower and father king viserys I." for a moment she considered whether or not to mention their eldest sibling, before settling upon needing to inform him of all. "our eldest sister— step-sister," helaena didn't like to differentiate, but to refresh his memory it would be important to get all facts right. "her name is rhaenyra and she rides the dragon syrax. her sons, our nephews, are jacaerys, lucerys and joffrey."

[maidragoste]

Mistake

Age up!Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader (Daeron's twin sister)

Summary: Your encounter with Jacaerys has consequences and now you are pregnant with his bastard in the middle of the war.

Part two of “I miss you”

A/N: Honestly Jacaerys doesn't appear in this but I promise he will in the next part. The next part will probably be the last and I'll try not to take as long as it takes to post this one (I had most of these written months ago but every time I had to continue writing it made me sad for Reader). Finally, I hope you like it 🥰🥰💞💞

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

At first, you didn't find it strange when your moon blood didn't come. The truth has never been regular. It had happened to you before that it didn't come for a month and the other it did, that's why you didn't worry. But when another moon passed and your sheets were still clean, you began to fear that you were pregnant. Your fears were confirmed when you started having nausea and vomiting in the mornings. You didn't even have time to come up with a plan because your servants went to tell your mother about your condition and she soon appeared in your chambers with the maester.

"Princess, you are pregnant" the maestre confirmed what you already knew.

"Is there no chance of getting rid of the child?" Alicent asked, taking you by surprise.

"Mother!" you screamed in horror and with tears in your eyes. You knew your mother would be furious but it never occurred to you that she would force you to get rid of the baby.

"I'm afraid, your grace, that if we give her the moon tea there is a chance that the princess will not be able to have children in the future."

"Thank you, master. You may retire,” Alicent said and the man gave you a pitying look before leaving.

Once they were alone, you got on your knees and took your mother's hands "Sorry, mother" you apologized through tears, it hurt to see the disappointment on her face, she had never looked at you like that before "Sorry. Sorry, sorry ”you repeated trembling and kissed her hands. You expected some comfort, a caress on the cheek, or even a touch on the hair but nothing. She just kept looking at you. You would have always been the apple of her eye along with Helaena but now you were trouble.

You apologized for letting her down, and for failing her and your brother. You knew that you were an important piece in the war, you were a dragon rider and with your hand, they could win the support of some important house but now no one would marry you while you were pregnant nor could you go to fight in your condition. You apologized because you knew that if you could go back in time you would sleep with Jacaerys again, you were selfish, you loved him.

"Mother, please say something" you begged, unable to bear her silence anymore.

Alicent released her grip and moved away from you. You bit your lip to keep from letting out a sob. You weren't used to cold treatment from your mother. But for now, it would be the only thing you would receive. For a moment you thought about your father, how he would react if he were alive, he would probably be furious too but you thought that the moment he saw you cry he would take you in his arms and tell you that everything would be fine. He would surely have broken Baela and Jacaerys' engagement so that Jace would marry you.

"You will stay in your chambers until further notice" your mother informed you, taking you out of your imagination, and she left your chambers without bothering to look at you again.

Once you were alone you burst into tears and hugged yourself. You didn't know how long you had been crying, you felt that your throat was burning and your knees were starting to hurt so you should get up or the pain would be but you didn't care. You just wanted someone by your side, you didn't want to be alone, so when you heard the door open you couldn't help but look hopeful. They were your brothers. But you felt your heart drop at the sight of Aemond. In his eye, there was nothing but fury.

"He forced you? Did he force himself on you?" asked the prince taking you by the jaw. You shook your head while the tears came out non-stop from your eyes "Tell me!" you sobbed as he increased his strength.

"I slept with Jacaerys because I wanted to" you confessed between trembling and closing your eyes to avoid seeing your brother's face. You were scared, for the first time you had Aemond do something to you. He had never acted like this with you before, you always witnessed how another was the victim of his anger but this time you were the one who disappointed him.

"Aemond, let her go" you heard your older brother's voice "She's scared"

You felt like years passed until you felt Aemond loosen his grip on her "It's okay, sister" he kissed your forehead and stood up "The bastard will pay for bringing you this disgrace"

"Aemond, what will you do?" You asked scared and wanting to follow him but Aegon took you in his arms "Aemond!" you screamed with a broken voice when you saw him leave the room.

"Don't worry, sister" said the king while you cried and clung to him "Everything will be fine, I'm going to legitimize your son"

••••••

The following months were hell for you. You never left your room. Your family did not want anyone at court to know about your condition, much less for the news to reach the Blacks. So they kept you locked in your rooms, and the only company you had were the maids but they weren't great company because they barely entered your room just to feed you and also never spoke to you, they couldn't since none of them had a tongue. Your sanity hung by a thread, exactly on the maester's visits. He was the only person you could talk to, you knew that the old man felt sorry for you because sometimes he extended the visits just so that you could talk to someone. For a while Aegon had also come to visit you, he always consoled you and distracted you, he told you some story about his drunkenness or about some gossip that you had. It didn't matter how many times you asked him about what was happening with your family, the war and Jacaerys but he never answered you. You were afraid that your questions made him angry because one day he stopped showing up.

Sometimes you prayed that your baby would look like Jacaerys because you missed him so much and longed to see his eyes again. But other times you prayed to the gods that the baby would look like you, maybe if your child is born with your hair and Targaryen eyes then your family will forgive you and let you go. For that reason, you were anxious to give birth again but at the same time, you were afraid. You were afraid of doing this alone without Jacaerys, you were afraid that something would go wrong and you would never have had a chance to say goodbye to your lover. You were afraid of dying and leaving your child alone, you didn't know what your family would do with your baby, they could kill it and Jacaerys would never know that you two had a child.

Most nights you dreamed of Jacaerys and your son. You dreamed of an excited Jace choosing a dragon egg to put in front of her son's cradle. You dreamed of Jace singing to the baby to calm him down. You dreamed of him introducing Vermax to the baby. You dreamed of the first flight of the three together. You dreamed of Jace trying to teach his son how to say “kepa” and “muña” even though his High Valyrian is terrible. You wished more than anything that one of those dreams would come true one day. But after being locked up for months you didn't think it would ever happen. If you survive the birth, you would have to raise your child alone within the four walls of your chambers. That if your family allows you after all for them your baby is a mistake.

taglist: @pictureofcaroline @sidneyyyya @minaxcarter @targaryenmoony @thegirlnextdoorssister @angeliod @snh96 @aleemendoza2425-blog @lizlovecraft @natashaobo @krokietino @nyenye @savagemickey03 @missusnora @sabi127 @buckysmainhxe @impartinghades @papichulo120627 @bxdbxtxh15 @rebelliuna @fluffiy @lauufeysonnn @thanya-targaryen @nzygftoji @camy85 @misty-q @bellstwd @

[queenhunter102]

Part 11

Part 10

You hissed as you gently rubbed the salve into your cuts and bruises before wrapping the worst of your cuts in clean cloths. You watched Aeric boil more water while the other clothes steeped in a bowl. “I always disliked doing this as a child,” Aeric said as they watched the water boil. “There was hardly ever enough clean clothes or clean water,” they say, their voice so far away that you lift your head and look at them. "Yes, I know. My mother sometimes had to rip up linen or clothes,” you say, grunting, tying a not into your bandage. Aeric sighed as the steam from the water bellowed into their face. “At least, this time, I can call for a Maester”, Aeric murmured; you looked away, knowing that feeling, the feeling of helplessness, as you watched loved ones suffer; you were fortunate, you guessed, you and your nation where not at the centre of the disease like Aeric was, you had a so much more time than they did, to enjoy what remained of your people. You had the knowledge your mother and your father had given to you before; they had passed, Aeric grunted as they stood from their seat, walking the now boiled water over to an empty bowl and pouring it inside, “There is no need to dwell on what has happened” they said, their typical cheer tone coming back. You nodded as you handed them the dirty bandages, “Yes, no need to think such matters”, you said, trying to mock the tones of the lords and ladies of the court; you watched as that got your smile off Aeric, “Yes no, need, no need” they said smiling, as they dumped the dirty bandages into the water, “I have to bring the clothes up to the prince’s bed-chamber” Aeric said smiling, you lifted a brow “Is that so? Am I to wait for you this evening, or shall I just sleep the night away” you ask, in a playfully sweet voice.

Aeric laughed as they walked to the small line above the fire. “Unfortunately, it is not my daring prince,” they said as they plucked the dry bandages off the drying line, folded them, and placed them in a dry box. Then, they returned to the soaked bandages and handed them to dry. “How many more times must the soak?” you asked, watching Aeric go through the motions. Aeric blew out a breath, trying to blow a strand of hair out of their face, “Another two or three soakings before they are clean”, Aeric said as they pinned the wet bandages to the line; you tilted your head back, looking at the cold ceiling, “It is the feast tonight is it not?” You ask, thinking of the smell that wafts down the halls, “Yes, Alicent’s family has come to visit, I believe, or it is someone’s name day”, Aeric said, waving a hand beside their head like they were either waving the thought away or trying to invite the reason for the feast. You hummed in acknowledgement before standing on your feet, cursing a little, “Shit, that seems to hurt more and more each time I stand”, You muttered; Aeric held out their hand as the other played with another drying bandage; you grumbled as you take it using their hand to steady yourself, Groan when there was a knock at the door, Aeric grumbles something about servant’s still needing sleep. You waddle your way to the door, opening it a crack and eyeing who is there, but your eyes are met with a chest—a broad one, but a chest all the same. You let your eyes trail up said chest and freeze a little when they come into contact with stark white hair. You slam the door shut, pressing your back to the door, your eyes wide. “Shit, Shit, Shit”, you muttered, as your eyes scanned the room quickly before your eyes landed on the small space under Aeric; you promptly waddled over to their bed and crawled under it, pulling the thin blanket down a little to hide where you lay, You watched Aeric’s feet move to the door, you've tried to call their attention wanted to tell them not to open the door, but it was too late. Aeric Swung the door open and squealed, “Daemon,” they said, wrapping their arms around his neck. “Hello, my light,” he said, laughing as he moved into the room. "Where is that other servant? I swore they were here,” he said. Aeric moved over to their bed and lifted the blanket, revealing where you hid. You gave an awkward smile and a small wave as you haphazardly slid out from under the bed. “Hello, Prince Daemon,” you said as you scotched backwards, trying to find the chair. Aeric helped you onto your feet, bringing you to the chair. Daemon watched as you were pulled to a chair. “I assume you are the little thing that has my Nephews chasing their tails,” he says, almost eyeing you like he was sizing you. Your head snaps up. “Why do people believe that I am some Exotic creature that has seduced the Princes?” you say, huffing a little and then freezing. Who were you to talk back to, a lord or a royal? But you relaxed a little when Daemon laughed. “Aeric, my light, you did not say they could make you laugh,” he said, smiling, as he pulled a seat on Aeric's bed. You watched as a face of discomfort passed over his face as he tried to get comfy on the bed. “I did not say they could…I said they had an interesting point of life,” Aeric said as they returned to the bandages. Daemon hummed in acknowledgement before he returned his eyes to you, “I see the rumours are true; you have been attacked” He watched as you shifted uncomfortably, “Hardly; it is a part of my responsibilities as a servant.”

Taglist: prettykinkysou (If you wanna be in my Taglist: Here) Remember: leaving a like, re-blogging, and commenting helps in this world and encourages more. See you around, my little loves. Kissess.

[princessaryathevaliant]

For some reason, this stupid discussion keeps popping back up again and again, let me just freaking clear this up right now. Now read very carefully, as i know some of you find it very hard to do.

“Arya would have never survived the Lannisters-”

- “Now she was fled, and the small household she’d left could not begin to tend the needs of all the knights, lords, and highborn prisoners Lord Tywin had brought, so the Lannisters must forage for servants as well as for plunder and provender. The talk was that Lord Tywin planned to restore Harrenhal to glory, and make it his new seat once the war was done.

Weese used Arya to run messages, draw water, and fetch food, and sometimes to serve at table in the Barracks Hall above the armory, where the men-at-arms took their meals. But most of her work was cleaning. ”

- “If there were ghosts in Harrenhal, they never troubled her. It was the living men she feared, Weese and Ser Gregor Clegane and Lord Tywin Lannister himself, who kept his apartments in Kingspyre Tower. ”

-  “Though ravens came and went every day, Lord Tywin himself spent most of his days behind closed doors with his war council. Arya caught glimpses of him, but always from afar—once walking the walls in the company of three maesters and the fat captive with the bushy mustache, once riding out with his lords bannermen to visit the encampments, but most often standing in an arch of the covered gallery watching men at practice in the yard below. ”

- “In his own small strutting way, Weese was nearly as scary as Ser Gregor. The Mountain swatted men like flies, but most of the time he did not even seem to know the fly was there. Weesealways knew you were there, and what you were doing, and sometimes what you were thinking. He would hit at the slightest provocation, and he had a dog who was near as bad as he was, an ugly spotted bitch that smelled worse than any dog Arya had ever known. Once she saw him set the dog on a latrine boy who’d annoyed him. She tore a big chunk out of the boy’s calf while Weese laughed.”

“Or the Boltons.”

- “Let go,” Arya said, wriggling out of his grasp.

The lord regarded her. Only his eyes moved; they were very pale, the color of ice. “How old are you, child?”

She had to think for a moment to remember. “Ten.”

“Ten, my lord,” he reminded her. “Are you fond of animals?”

“Some kinds. My lord.”

A thin smile twitched across his lips. “But not lions, it would seem. Nor manticores.”

She did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

“They tell me you are called Weasel. That will not serve. What name did your mother give you?”

She bit her lip, groping for another name. Lommy had called her Lumpyhead, Sansa used Horseface, and her father’s men once dubbed her Arya Underfoot, but she did not think any of those were the sort of name he wanted.

“Nymeria,” she said. “Only she called me Nan for short.”

“You will call me my lord when you speak to me, Nan,” the lord said mildly. “You are too young to be a Brave Companion, I think, and of the wrong sex. Are you afraid of leeches, child?”

“They’re only leeches. My lord.”

“My squire could take a lesson from you, it would seem. Frequent leechings are the secret of a long life. A man must purge himself of bad blood. You will do, I think. For so long as I remain at Harrenhal, Nan, you shall be my cupbearer, and serve me at table and in chambers.”

-  “Roose Bolton was seated by the hearth reading from a thick leatherbound book when she entered. “Light some candles,” he commanded her as he turned a page. “It grows gloomy in here.”

She placed the food at his elbow and did as he bid her, filling the room with flickering light and the scent of cloves. Bolton turned a few more pages with his finger, then closed the book and placed it carefully in the fire. He watched the flames consume it, pale eyes shining with reflected light. The old dry leather went up with a whoosh, and the yellow pages stirred as they burned, as if some ghost were reading them. “I will have no further need of you tonight,” he said, never looking at her.

She should have gone, silent as a mouse, but something had hold of her. “My lord,” she asked, “will you take me with you when you leave Harrenhal?”

He turned to stare at her, and from the look in his eyes it was as if his supper had just spoken to him. “Did I give you leave to question me, Nan?”

“No, my lord.” She lowered her eyes.

“You should not have spoken, then. Should you?”

“No. My lord.”

For a moment he looked amused. “I will answer you, just this once. I mean to give Harrenhal to Lord Vargo when I return to the north. You will remain here, with him.”

“But I don’t—” she started.

He cut her off. “I am not in the habit of being questioned by servants, Nan. Must I have your tongue out?”

He would do it as easily as another man might cuff a dog, she knew. “No, my lord.”

“Then I’ll hear no more from you?”

“No, my lord.”

“Go, then. I shall forget this insolence.”

- “Someone must have the courage to say it,” Ser Hosteen said. “The war is lost. King Robb must be made to see that.”

Roose Bolton studied him with pale eyes. “His Grace has defeated the Lannisters every time he has faced them in battle.”

“He has lost the north,” insisted Hosteen Frey. “He has lostWinterfell! His brothers are dead . . .”

For a moment Arya forgot to breathe. Dead? Bran and Rickon, dead? What does he mean? What does he mean about Winterfell, Joffrey could never take Winterfell, never, Robb would never let him. Then she remembered that Robb was not at Winterfell. He was away in the west, and Bran was crippled, and Rickon only four. It took all her strength to remain still and silent, the way Syrio Forel had taught her, to stand there like a stick of furniture. She felt tears gathering in her eyes, and willed them away. It’s not true, it can’t be true, it’s just some Lannister lie.

“Had Stannis won, all might have been different,” Ronel Rivers said wistfully. He was one of Lord Walder’s bastards.

“Stannis lost,” Ser Hosteen said bluntly. “Wishing it were otherwise will not make it so. King Robb must make his peace with the Lannisters. He must put off his crown and bend the knee, little as he may like it.”

“And who will tell him so?” Roose Bolton smiled. “It is a fine thing to have so many valiant brothers in such troubled times. I shall think on all you’ve said.”

His smile was dismissal. The Freys made their courtesies and shuffled out, leaving only Qyburn, Steelshanks Walton, and Arya. Lord Bolton beckoned her closer. “I am bled sufficiently. Nan, you may remove the leeches.”

“At once, my lord.” It was best never to make Roose Bolton ask twice. ”

“She would have never been able to survive the abuse”

-  “The old man dragged her well off the road into a tangle of trees, cursing and muttering all the while. “If I had a thimble o’ sense, I would’ve left you in King’s Landing. You hear me,boy?” He always snarled that word, putting a bite in it so she would be certain to hear. “Unlace your breeches and pull ’em down. Go on, there’s no one here to see. Do it.” Sullenly, Arya did as he said. “Over there, against the oak. Yes, like that.” She wrapped her arms around the trunk and pressed her face to the rough wood. “You scream now. You scream loud.”

I won’t, Arya thought stubbornly, but when Yoren laid the wood against the back of her bare thighs, the shriek burst out of her anyway. “Think that hurt?” he said. “Try this one.” The stick came whistling. Arya shrieked again, clutching the tree to keep from falling. “One more.” She held on tight, chewing her lip, flinching when she heard it coming. The stroke made her jump and howl. I won’t cry, she thought, I won’t do that. I’m a Stark of Winterfell, our sigil is the direwolf, direwolves don’t cry. She could feel a thin trickle of blood running down her left leg. Her thighs and cheeks were ablaze with pain. “Might be I got your attention now,” Yoren said. “Next time you take that stick to one of your brothers, you’ll get twice what you give, you hear me? Now cover yourself.”

They’re not my brothers, Arya thought as she bent to yank up her breeches, but she knew better than to say so. Her hands fumbled with her belt and laces.”

-  “I’d sooner tend the horses.” Arya liked horses, and maybe if she was in the stables she’d be able to steal one and escape.

Goodwife Harra slapped her so hard that her swollen lip broke open all over again. “And keep that tongue to yourself or you’ll get worse. No one asked your views.”

The blood in her mouth had a salty metal tang to it. Arya dropped her gaze and said nothing. If I still had Needle, she wouldn’t dare hit me, she thought sullenly.”

-  “Weasel.” Weese’s voice cracked like a whip. She never saw where he came from, but suddenly he was right in front of her. “Give me that. Took you long enough.” He snatched the sword from her fingers, and dealt her a stinging slap with the back of his hand. “Next time be quicker about it.”

For a moment she had been a wolf again, but Weese’s slap took it all away and left her with nothing but the taste of her own blood in her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue when he hit her. She hated him for that.”

“When he saw her, he stopped and grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked brown teeth under the leather flap he wore sometimes to cover the hole in his face. “Yoren’s little cunt,” he called her. “Guess we know why that black bastard wanted youon the Wall, don’t we?” He laughed again, and the others laughed with him. “Where’s your stick now?” Rorge demanded suddenly, the smile gone as quick as it had come. “Seems to me I promised to fuck you with it.” He took a step toward her. Arya edged backward. “Not so brave now that I’m not in chains, are you?”

“I saved you.” She kept a good yard between them, ready to run quick as a snake if he made a grab for her.

“Owe you another fucking for that, seems like. Did Yoren pump your cunny, or did he like that tight little ass better?

“I’m looking for Jaqen,” she said. “There’s a message.”

- “She thought of him again the next morning, when lack of sleep made her yawn. “Weasel,” Weese purred, “next time I see that mouth droop open, I’ll pull out your tongue and feed it to my bitch.” He twisted her ear between his fingers to make certain she’d heard, and told her to get back to those steps, he wanted them clean down to the third landing by nightfall.”

- She spent the rest of that day scrubbing steps inside the Wailing Tower. By evenfall her hands were raw and bleeding and her arms so sore they trembled when she lugged the pail back to the cellar. Too tired even for food, Arya begged Weese’s pardons and crawled into her straw to sleep. ”

- “Arya chewed her lip. “Would it work on dogs?”

“On any animal with warm blood.” The waif slapped her.

She raised her hand to her cheek, more surprised than hurt. “Why did you do that?”

“It is Arya of House Stark who chews on her lip whenever she is thinking. Are you Arya of House Stark?”

“I am no one.” She was angry. “Who are you?”

- “First change your heart. The gift of the Many-Faced God is not a child’s plaything. You would kill for your own purposes, for your own pleasures. Do you deny it?”

She bit her lip. “I—”

He slapped her.

The blow left her cheek stinging, but she knew that she had earned it. “Thank you.” Enough slaps, and she might stop chewing on her lip. Arya did that, not the night wolf. “I do deny it.”

And this doesn't even include half of the mental and physical trauma, manual labor, and the weeks on weeks of starvation she had to go through until the poor kid had to resort to eating bugs and worms, just to keep the pain at bay. 

Its all well and good when you ignore all the stuff she had go through while you skip through the books to the parts you like best, and that dont make you as uncomfortable, due to the sheer amount of war horror and violence that Arya had to be a victim of and a witness to through out the books.  But it’s another when you start crapping on how she isn't enough of a victim, or the right kind of victim to have her pain and suffering acknowledged, and not dismissed, while you sing praises to your favorites. 

Now get your damn facts straight, and keep on stepping. 

[a-libra-writes]

SFW Alphabet - Tywin Lannister

requested at some point, who knows when, lol. NSFW Tywin is here, Masterlist is here, enjoy yall ~ ⭐

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

At the start of your relationship, he was not terribly affectionate, which didn't surprise you. This was Tywin Lannister, and you hadn't expected much beyond the public, perfunctory gestures of holding your arm or kissing the top of your hand. Even when you two were alone, that was it, save for some extra kisses during your marriage bed duties. 

This is why it was so easy to notice when he started tucking away strands of your hair, taking your hand and actually entwining your fingers, giving you chaste kisses in public and so on. Especially after you made some clever comment to a lord or settled a dispute, he'd wait until no one was looking before giving you some affection or an approving glance. As your relationship progressed, he'd accept much more affection from you, and be more willing to give it once you two are alone. 

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

“Friendship” is a bit of a loaded word with him. Tywin doesn’t consider himself to have “friends” nor does he entertain the idea. You know he’s close with his brother Kevan, but you also know Tywin’s friendship is very conditional, as was the case with Genna and Gerion. The problem he sees so few people as equals; you might be in the only one in that category who also isn’t an enemy.... And to him, considering you merely a ‘friend’ would be an insult. Even when you two grew closer, that word never seemed to properly describe the respect, admiration and affection you began feeling for each other.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

You almost exclusively get cuddles when the two of you are in bed, and it’s usually after intimacy. Tywin never sleeps right away, so he lets you rest against him while he looks over a book or paper. If he’s feeling more tired or affectionate, he’ll pet your hair or stroke your back while you doze off. Sometimes you get his full attention, and you two will quietly talk about this or that while you rest against his chest and he runs his fingers through your hair. 

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

It’s a lord’s duty to have a wife and heirs, but he really did love Joanna, and the depression that followed her death hit him hard. He had strong, stubborn, often hypocritical feelings about remarrying - even after Jaime joined the Kingsguard, thus robbing him of the heir he truly wanted. He finally married you after much internal debate and consideration of the politics of the match, and the powerful allies your House would make. He’d never consider it if your family wasn’t so powerful and wealthy in their region. Tywin never expected your marriage to turn into the close relationship you have now.

Tywin never has to worry about cooking or cleaning for himself, but he’s naturally very tidy, almost compulsively so. He doesn’t allow servants to clean in his study or room unless he’s present; not that there’s much for them to do beyond clean the floors and dust. 

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Should your marriage not go according to plan, Tywin would end it brutally and coldly. ‘Divorce’ is not a popular concept in Westeros, but there is precedence, and seeing as he was wary of the match in the first place … You’d walk into your chambers with maids already packing your things, with the news that you were either going to be given to one of his sons or be shipped back to your family’s keep.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Tywin is very loyal to you, and in turn expects zero disloyalty on your part. He won’t tolerate any rumors being told you about you - especially if it regards your virtue or reputation. 

While he’s quick to arrange marriages for his children, he stalled on marrying you, as you were very aware of. Even though you had suitors ready to break your castle’s door down, Tywin took his time sending a raven back to your parents. He was stubborn about wanting you to marry Jaime or Tyrion, but your father was just as stubborn, it seemed. At the present time, Tywin is glad he has you all to himself (although he’d never say such a thing openly).

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Your husband is capable of gentle touches and words, but he so rarely gives them to anyone but you. It’s usually when you’re both alone, but sometimes you’re being so sweet and radiant at a feast or gala, he just has to lean in and whisper something to you while you sit together. 

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Tywin isn’t particularly needy for hugs, but he enjoys your presence, so he tolerates it for a time. If it’s late in the evening, he has a harder time resisting you, so he’ll loosely return it with a kiss to your brow. He has a solid body in spite of his age, and his scent is always comforting and warm. If you were the sort of person who needed this close affection, he’d initiate it more often.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Even after you confront your own feelings and muster the will to say it first, it takes time before Tywin is able to return the words. He shows it in his actions, but the words are a powerful thing, and he hates how they catch on his tongue. It would finally come when he’s at his most vulnerable, his green eyes softening for you, only you. He hides himself by pulling you into his arms and making you rest against his chest. That’s when you hear the words whispered against your hair.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Tywin is very jealous and while he believes he hides it, it’s obvious to you. You know exactly what it looks like, too - how his cold eyes turn absolutely frigid when he notices a lord being too forward with you, or the firm way he takes hold of your waist (instead of your hand) to get you away from said lord. To any man, his voice has the same authority and coldness it always carries, but you can hear the undercurrent of irritation. He’s never done it in front of you, but you’ve heard rumors that men who say inappropriate things or have “untoward” intentions for you end up suddenly leaving Casterly Rock’s court, or disappearing entirely. 

There’s been many times when Tywin has kissed or marked you not out of passion, but out of possessiveness, sometimes even in his office or a secluded part of the castle. You’re free to point out how jealous he’s being, but Tywin is wholly convinced other men should keep their eyes and words to themselves.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

In public, his kisses are proper and chaste. He’ll kiss your fingers, cheek and the top of your head if you’re shorter than him. They aren’t that common unless you’re both having to sit together for a long time at a tourney or gala. By the time you two were close and truly fond of each other, you noticed that he couldn’t help himself from bringing your hand to his lips whenever you said something clever. 

In private, it’s a very different story. Your lord husband can be anywhere from simple and gentle, to very rough and firm. Your lips are an obvious place to kiss first - especially when you’re mouthing off - but he loves your pretty neck and your chest, especially when you show them off with a well-tailored dress. He welcomes any deep kisses you initiate … as long as he’s finished with work. 

If you’re on the shorter side, Tywin is amused by how you can’t reach his lips directly and have to settle for kissing his jaw (no, he won’t bend down to meet you halfway until he feels like it). He enjoys when you kiss his jaw or cheek while sitting next to him in public, although he keeps a passive face and pretends not to notice how people stare at Tywin Lannister being doted on by his beautiful, young wife. 

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

You knew going in that Tywin would be a stern parent at best, and at worst, you and the maester would have to be doing most of it. He just wanted an heir, after all, but you noticed how he’d allow your son to quietly sit in his office and study, or he’d give simple, firm instructions to the boy on how to hold a sword, things like that. Jaime and Tyrion wasted no time in telling you that Tywin was far more permissive to your son than he was with them, but sometimes Tywin still felt too cold and distant for your taste. Once your son was older, Tywin was much more involved in teaching him.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

He’s getting ready, you get up at a similar time when you can. You notice how his eyes glance over you as you get dressed and he’ll occasionally leave touches here and there. He likes it when you have breakfast with him - not that he says it, but you don’t miss that pleased expression and how he wants you right beside him. 

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Tywin works late most nights, so unless you’re a night owl, you’re usually in bed by the time he enters your shared chambers. If he comes back early or you’re staying up, Tywin enjoys watching you wind down for the evening. Applying moisturizer to your face, brushing your hair, shimmying into your nightgown, all of that, and he only scoffs if you tease him for looking. He can’t help from reaching out and stroking your hair or helping you slip your night shift on, and eventually things start leading into this or that. He wouldn’t admit such a sentimental thing, but Tywin enjoys it when you curl up close to him while he reads a book or looks over letters in bed.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

It takes time before either of you are comfortable being yourselves around each other, and that includes talking about anything involving your past. You know all the stories and rumors about Tywin Lannister, but steadily getting to know the man was something else. After being married for several months you gradually began to ask ‘innocent’ questions, and then pointed ones. To your surprise, Tywin was willing to speak to you about some things, and he almost seemed … relaxed as you pulled him into conversation. 

It would take much longer for you to learn more personal things, even the ugliness of his thoughts of Tyrion and the harsh words he has for his siblings and father. It isn’t always pleasant, but Tywin tells you, and by that point in your marriage you can tell he’s exposing many old scars and wounds. It would be two years before Joanna’s name was ever said, and much later after that before there was any talk about her. 

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

As much as he appears outwardly patient, you know exactly what sets off your husband’s temper and wounds his pride more than anything. He’ll clench his jaw somewhat and there will be ice in those green eyes, but it’s a very rare day when he raises his voice to his bannermen and other lords. He’s never raised his voice with you during your disagreements, nor would he ever roughly handle you. You two have had disagreements and arguments aplenty, usually involving parenting or how he dealt with a lord without telling you. It’s best that you both fume in your respective rooms for a few days before seeing each other again. 

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Tywin quickly notices your taste in jewelry, clothing, furniture and generally how you wish for things to be presented. This shows most clearly when he’s buying you a gift or when he’s having rooms arranged to how you like. When you two travel, it’s Tywin who ensures the servants are aware of how you want things done. The lady of Casterly Rock, his lady, should have things exactly to her liking.

When it comes to more sentimental things, like memories you’ve told him about, or stories about this or that, Tywin only remembers the especially important things, what you’ve told him during your evening talks in bed. If it was something told in passing or in a very casual setting, he wouldn’t regard it as much.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

He’d refuse having such sentiment, but truthfully, he has several very fond memories of you. A particularly special one is actually an evening, not a single memory. It was the first time you impressed him with how charismatic and charming you during the first feast you arranged at Casterly Rock. The feast itself wasn’t terribly eventful or important, a standard show of wealth to the Westerlands lords, but it was when Tywin realized how much he had underestimated you until that point. 

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He has a protective streak, that’s for sure, and not just for your physical safety. Tywin won’t stand for anyone disrespecting you, not even his children. You have a retinue of personal guards whenever you leave Casterly Rock, but more importantly, he quietly protects you from any plots against you… since his enemies would find you an easy way to get to him. Tywin is very amused and impressed when you express the same protectiveness, and this only solidifies your reputation as Westeros’ Most Terrifying Power Couple.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

You get plenty of gifts, and always the best of anything. Tywin had a good eye for your preference and taste, especially the longer you’ve been married, which always pleasantly surprises you. While it’s expected you’d get something lovely for your name day or a special occasion, sometimes you’ll find a new piece of jewelry or a pretty trinket, and you get to listen to Tywin insist it was just something he happened to come across and buy… Or you don’t say anything, and just notice his pleased expression when you come to the breakfast table wearing the new necklace or hairpin.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

You were fully aware of his frightening reputation and the many things he had been suspected of doing by the time you were betrothed. Once you two were married, you found yourself in the middle of these plots, even if you didn’t agree with them. He’s terribly prideful and has a stubborn streak a mile long, not to mention his dominating nature. There are some things you can fight him on and win, and other things you have to stand down on … Or work behind his back. There are lovely days when he’s your dear husband, but there are other days that remind you of the terrifying reputation he’s rightfully known by.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

It’s practically a Lannister trademark to have pride and concern in one’s appearance, and Tywin is no different, although he never openly fusses over it. He has fine clothes and makes sure he’s well put together. In addition to simply dressing well, he keeps up with his health and physique, so he has a solid, strong body for his age. You can tell he’s pleased whenever you admire him, and he’ll wear things you’ve had made for him. 

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes. When you first married, both you and Tywin had no illusions about your purpose: To give him another male heir, and maybe help the castellan run Casterly Rock. He tried denying his feelings as time went on, but he faced them eventually … The thought of you suddenly not being in his life, just as quickly as you came in, is not something he’s willing to face. He was already colder and crueler after Joanna, and now, it would be worse. He’d alternate between neglecting any children you had together or being too controlling in their lives, and he’d especially struggle if they took after you. His three older children would be deeply unsettled by the change. In short, Tywin absolutely refuses to entertain the idea of anything happening to you, and that denial and fear only grows as you become closer.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Tywin both loves and loathes how well you know him. When he’s ready to verbally tear off a lord’s head for a slight, you’re there to touch his shoulder and try to talk him down. When you get into an argument, you know exactly what to say to yank his chain and frustrate him further. He’s fully aware of when you leave out details to make a plan of action seem more appealing, and at the end of a long day of work, you know just how to relax him again. It’s both a comfort and a concern that he’s so open to you, even when he isn’t trying to be. 

On a small note, it’s a simple thing, but he loves seeing you wear Lannister crimson. It flatters you so well, and the first time you finally wore a crimson gown to a large feast, the whole room was in awe. Tywin was more than pleased as you sat beside him, your gold and jewels glittering under the candles and just highlighting how lovely and powerful you looked. It was then the Westerlands realized you were truly the Lady of Casterly Rock, and just as formidable a presence as your lord husband. 

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

He has no patience for ignorance and slow wit, and those who think themselves higher than their social station. Also, being interrupted from his work for something frivolous is one of his biggest peeves.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He’ll often stay late in his office, but when he returns to your shared room, he’d rather not bring paperwork and letters with him, if it can be helped. He initially began doing this so you both could make a proper heir, but Tywin began to take comfort in having someone so close and warm. He still doesn’t get much sleep, but it’s more restful than it’s been in a long time.

[rickon-on-skagos]

Thaw

Pairing: Ned/Cersei

Prompt: Thaw from @asoiafrarepairs Spring Event

+++

From the way her bed was positioned in the room, Cersei could see the down into the yard. She spent most of the day looking out of the window since there was not much else to do since Maester Luwin had prescribed her bed rest for the last month of her pregnancy for both her and the baby’s health. For a while, she had tried to keep herself busy with needlework but quickly grew bored of it. 

She and Eddard had only been married for a little bit over a year but Cersei had quickly grew into her role at Winterfell, enjoying the way Ned trusted her to keep the servants in check. It was very different from what she was used to from Casterly Rock. Her father would have never let her do that, not when there were Kevan, Tygett or Gerion around. She had been there to look pretty and seduce the prince, nothing more. 

It hadn’t worked out how her father had planned. Cersei hadn’t married a prince and not the king, either. The prince had died and the king- the new king Robert Baratheon, First of his name- had married his true love Lyanna Stark. She had ended up with Eddard Stark. Her father had pushed for the match, unsurprisingly since there were almost no other man left that had been highborn enough for a match with her as Stannis Baratheon had married Catelyn Stark and her father would have never married her to Jon Arryn. 

She had been angry. She had raged about having to marry the northern recluse and moving into this sparse land. Cersei had wanted Jaime. She could not be queen but Jaime had been released from the Kingsguard and had come home, back to her just that she had to leave for Winterfell and he had to marry the other Tully girl, Lysa. Cersei had never been more mad in her life. Being in the North had not helped with that. The wedding had happened in the godswood, a place that still made her feel queasy today, and it had only made things worse back then. 

A soft knock snapped her out of her thoughts. 

    “Come in.” She called. 

Her husband looked almost sheepish as he came into the room, carrying a small tray. Cersei sat up a little straighter, one hand cradling her bump as he approached the bed. A delicious smell wafted over to her and her mouth started watering almost immediately. He made to say something but Cersei was faster. 

    “What’s that?” She asked, already reaching for the tray. 

He chuckled at lowly at that, his eyes wrinkling up as the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. 

    “You said you wanted honey cakes so I got you some.” 

The cakes were delicious, sweet and crumbly, just the way she liked them best and she hummed around every bite, even going so far to lick her fingers clean of any residue. With no one but her husband in the room, she thought to let this slip for once. She was pregnant and very uncomfortable, after all. 

    “It’s thawing.” He said, looking out of the window. “Winter is over, a raven from the Citadel arrived today.” 

She watched him for a long moment, took him in and pondered. During the past few months, she had demanded some outlandish foods to fulfill her cravings and every single time, Eddard had gotten it and personally brought it to her. Robert would have never and she doubted Rhaegar would have either. But Eddard had. He also started taking his dinner in her chambers with her, trying to make it every evening and if he couldn’t, he’d send her an apology. It was… nice. 

Cersei did not love Eddard Stark but she stopped being so angry a while back. She had come here with every intend to wage war against the man who hated her brother so much for every day as long as she lived, had expected him to be cold and harsh, cruel-hearted. But he wasn’t. He had not greeted her with open arms but neither had she and it had taken them a long time until she had grown tired of lashing out and he had enough of avoiding her and then even longer for them work out somewhat of a system. 

He had come to her chamber a lot more, afterwards. It had been one of the things she gave him early into her marriage: Laying with Eddard had never been awful. Awkward, impersonal and, at times, stilted and cold but never bad. He had never slept with a woman before her which had been painfully obvious and he wasn’t her Jaime- nobody could ever be him- but he had been careful and patient, taking to her directions easily enough. 

She rubbed her bump, well aware of how he followed the movement, his fingers twitching. 

Cersei would almost call him handsome in this light. Not an almost ethereal beauty like Jaime was or Rhaegar had been or a rugged attractiveness like Robert but Ned was handsome, in a way. He was softer than his solemn face made him look but not weak how she had assumed at first. His eyes were dark grey and by all accounts, he should come off as cold and unapproachable but he didn’t. 

Her father had ruled by fear, making sure everyone knew what would happen when they betrayed the Lannisters but not Eddard. Eddard invited people to the high table during the rare feasts they held in the Great Hall and listened to them, talked with them and shared laughter with them. It had puzzled her- still did, sometimes- to see him rule with kindness and honor instead of terror. Nobody in Winterfell covered in fear at the name of their liege lord and many came to him for counsel, nobody fearing him like they feared her father. 

Eddard was a good man. 

    “Give me your hand.” She said. 

It surprised him, she could see it on his face but he did without asking any questions and she grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer until she could put it on her stomach. She held his hand- rough and calloused- in place and the child did not disappoint, kicking hard and strong. She winced uncomfortable. 

    “They’re strong.” Eddard said, a visible smile on his face. 

    “A strong son.” She agreed. 

She had to give him a son, father expected it of her. Every man wanted sons for their legacy. A long time ago, back when she had been a child and still naive, she had wished for daughters so she could brush their hair until it shone, read them the stories her mother used to read her and gift them dresses, jewelry and puppets for their name days. She quickly lost those dreams once she grew up. Men needed sons, not daughters. 

    “No matter whether it’s a son or a daughter, as long as they are healthy, I am happy.” 

Cersei looked up at him, green eyes meeting grey ones, and she saw the honesty in them and when Eddard leaned forward- obviously having seen something in her eyes, too- to kiss her brow, she didn’t flinch away. 

+++

The snow had not melted away completely when Cersei went into labour. Eddard hadn’t been with her when the contractions started but he was by her side once she was in the maester’s chamber, looking frazzled and worried. He held her hand as she screamed and cursed him to the seven hells and back for making her go through this. 

The air grew hot and stuffy quickly, her sweat-damp hair clinging to her skin as she pushed and pushed. It smelled like blood, too, and Cersei gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. Eddard’s hand was surprisingly cool as he brushed a strand of hair out of her face, whispering encouragement and praise. 

She didn’t know how long it took but her voice grew rough at some point and her breaths were closer to pants. It was the most humiliating thing Cersei had ever experienced. Spread apart and so undignified, she felt exposed and vulnerable and she wanted it to stop. Tears were burning in her eyes but she refused to let them fall, no matter how much it hurt. She was a lioness and lions do not cry. She gasped for air, fingers squeezing tight around Eddard’s hand. 

Cold lips were pressed against her temple and she instinctively leaned into the touch, mouthing words she herself didn’t know what they meant. A wail stopped her and she gasped, immediately trying to sit up just to be pushed down by the midwife. 

    “Let me-” She rasped. “Let me see my child.” 

It was a boy. Her son was small with pink skin, soft tufts of light hair and grey eyes and still screaming when she took him from the maester, announcing his presence loudly and Cersei loved him. 

He was perfect, absolutely perfect. 

+++

The godswood unnerved her still, especially the heart tree with its weeping face. She had rarely been to the Stone Garden in Casterly Rock, never seen a reason to. Something about the northern woods felt different. 

Her shoes sank into the muddy ground and she pursed her lips, her skirts lifted to not drag through the dirt. Spring had fully arrived and most of the snow had melted already, leaving everything wet and muddy. It wasn’t warm, yet, and Cersei wondered if it ever really got warm up here. 

She finally found her husband underneath the heartree, sitting in the shadow of the big tree, their son in his arms. He was talking in a too low voice for her to hear but she could see his lips move, not even noticing her as he was too focused on their son. It did something to her, seeing him taking an interest in their child. She pushed the feeling down harshly, not liking the way her heart leaped in her chest when she saw him sitting in the nursery, rocking an upset Robb back to sleep as if it was nothing. 

    “My lord.” She called out, catching his attention. 

He smiled at her and for a moment, Cersei wondered how she looked to him. She was beautiful, she knew that but what did he think about her? She had to look awfully out of place with her golden hair, her dress that, despite being weather appropriate, had a distinct style that was popular in the Westerland, adorned with complicated embroidery and the heavy golden jewelry she had brought with her. She didn’t look like the northern ladies that had visited Winterfell and she didn’t try to. Cersei was a lioness. 

    “My lady.” He replied as he stood up. 

She crossed the little clearing, passing by the dark pool and when Eddard held out his hand for her, she took it and let him guide her to where he had been sitting. He sat down next to her, Robb still safely nestled in his arm, blinking up owlishly at his father. She reached for him and Eddard gave him to her easily and both of them smiled at their son, soft and unguarded.

    “Maester Luwin was looking for you.” She said, suddenly remembering why she had come to look for him in the first place. “A letter from White Harbor arrived today.” 

Eddard nodded shortly and thanked her, kissing her brow again before leaving, his form quickly disappearing between the trees. She looked down at Robb and smiled when he grasped for her fingers, making some gurgling noises. It almost made her less angry about the letter tucked away in a pocket of her dress but not forgotten. 

She had written her father as soon as she could, telling him about the birth of his grandson and in his response he had not asked about her health, only asked- no, demanded- for another son to secure the line of inheritance. That was all that mattered to him. Eddard was different in that regard. 

Maester Luwin had advised them to wait a few moons before laying together again and Eddard had not pressed but accepted it. She had always heard about him being honorable to a fault but she had not expected him to actually be like that. Not once did he try to sleep with her anyway and she had yet to hear about any secret trips to the brothels in Wintertown. 

Robb yawned and Cersei kissed his forehead. She loved him so much it almost scared her. She didn’t even love Jaime this much and even if he would ride up to Winterfell now and asked her to abandon everything to run away with him she wouldn’t. Because of Robb. 

    “I love you.” She whispered to him. She had never told anyone but Jaime this. “I love you so much, little lion.” 

He just blinked at her, not understanding what she was saying but paying attention anyway and Cersei laughed. He looked a little bit like his father in that moment, she thought. Robb would never feel like an outsider here, the godswood would never be unnerving to him and he would be a great lord, she would make sure of it. 

+++

Cersei gave Robb to the handmaiden along with a few more instructions and once everything was to her satisfaction, she left and made her way towards Eddard’s chamber. Her heart was fluttering in her chest and she didn’t understand why. He was her husband, he had seen her naked several times and she had never been shy about her attractiveness nor sex but when Maester Luwin had told her she was cleared to see after her wifely duties again, something like nervousness had lodged itself into her stomach. It was still there when she knocked on his door. 

He looked a little bit surprised to see her but let her in anyway and as soon as he closed the door again, she stepped into his space. Since he was only a few inches taller than her, they were almost eye to eye when she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers curling into his long, dark strands. Almost hesitantly, he put his hands on her hips.

    “Cersei?” He asked quietly, a slight frown appearing on his face. 

She licked her lips, taking him in and finally leaned forwards, brushing their lips together in an almost tender kiss. Eddard let her, his fingers flexing slightly and he kissed her back shyly. Cersei had never slept with anyone just because she wanted to except Jaime but somehow, Ned had sneaked his way into her heart. She hadn’t even noticed. 

    “Maester Luwin gave me the clear today.” She said once they pulled apart. “I thought it was a reason to celebrate, my lord.” 

    “Are you sure?” 

She smiled and pressed herself further against him, enjoying the way she could feel his body warmth through their clothes. Her nose brushed over Eddard’s, his breath was hot on her cheek and Cersei felt almost giddy. 

    “Absolutely, my lord.” 

He lifted her up easily, making her first yelp in surprise and then laugh as he carried her over to the bed, carefully laying her out on the soft furs. 

    “Call me Ned, please.” 

    “Ned.” She said, not stumbling over the name despite being unfamiliar with it. 

That night, Cersei did not sleep alone, instead found herself wrapped in a tight embrace, Ned’s legs entangled with hers and her head resting on his shoulder. She splayed her hand over his chest, absently playing with the coarse chest hair growing there. Ned was fast asleep, his hand loosely tangled into her hair, too, snoring softly. 

Cersei closed her eyes, feeling more warm and comfortable than ever before, and wished for a spring to bring her a girl. 

[madamebaggio]

SAY YOUR VOWS AGAINST MY SKIN - JonSa

***

Summary: Jon had married Sansa to protect the North. At least, that was what she thought.

Sansa had married Jon to be protected. At least, that was he thought.

Their marriage might have started for political reasons, but they love each other. Now if they'd could only say that to each other...

Fortunately, one night makes them realize they might've been missing something significant about their relationship.

***

Notes: This work is complete and can be found here.

This is basically my idea: Jon agreed to become Prince of the North, while Dany is the Queen of Westeros, so he could protect the Starks. This is after the war against the Night King, and they are in peace (or as much peace as Westeros can have).

Just some healthy pining and those two being oblivious fools, who can't see how much they love each other.

Mostly it started because the idea of Jon Snow on a tub sounded very sexy. I hope you enjoy it.

***

Chapter 1

“My Lady, the Prince has returned.”

Sansa put down her embroidery. “Order someone to bring a bath to his chambers and some food.” She spoke, even as she stood.

“Yes, my lady.” The maid curtsied and left.

Ghost –who Jon had left behind for reasons Sansa never understood –yawned, before getting up and stretching. Arya sometimes said that Sansa was turning the direwolf on a lazy lapdog.

Sansa ran her hand over her dress, even though there was no need, it was more a nervous gesture than actual concern about her appearance.

She made her way to the courtyard to receive her husband’s party. She knew Jon well enough by now to know that –while the other would prefer to eat at the halls –he would want peace and quiet.

As she took her position ahead of the crowd –with Brienne and Ghost standing guard by her side -the gates of Winterfell opened and the horses came in. Sansa took a deep breath and prepared her public face, her wifely smile.

Jon –as expected –was the first to enter with Arya right behind him. As he dismounted his palfrey, Sansa could notice the exhaustion weighing down his body.

They were gone for more than three moons, hunting down a group of outlaws that had been terrorizing the North. Arya was the one that had kept Sansa informed, writing often. A good thing too, since Jon never wrote.

Sansa cut the thought as soon as it entered her mind. They’d married for convenience, to secure the North, to protect their family. Jon didn’t own her a thing, much less his heart.

Even if she was selfish enough to still want it.

However, she’d agreed with him when he said this marriage should only be political, so now she had to keep her promise, because Jon always kept all of his.

Arya reached Sansa first. She smiled warmly at her younger sister and hugged her. Arya grumbled something about food and left.

Jon stepped up to her, conscious that they were being watched by everybody. “My Lady.”

He had started to call her just Sansa when they were reunited and took Winterfell back. After the wedding he’d just call her “My Lady”.

He looked terrible, beyond tired. She wasn’t sure how he was still standing. “My Lord.” She nodded to him, then took his arm and started pulling him gently. “I asked the servants to bring food to your room and prepare a bath.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” He murmured, his voice low and raspy. He stretched his hand to pat Ghost on the head as the wolf followed them.

Sansa noticed that he was leaning a bit of his weight against her shoulder. “Jon, are you alright?” She asked, truly concerned. “Are you hurt? Do you want me to call the Maester?’

He shook his head. “Just tired.” He mumbled.

She still felt worried, but decided not to nag her husband just a few minutes after he arrived, especially when he was in this state.

She entered his chamber with him. “Do you need help with anything? Should I send for your squire?”

“Yes, please.” He looked at her. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Of course.” She smiled at him, before going to the door and asking someone to fetch Jon’s squire, then she left through the door of their shared solar, while Ghost stayed behind with his master.

At least he could show how much he missed Jon.

She decided to sit there and embroider for a while. She could still hear noises coming from Jon’s room, noises that alerted her to the arrival of his squire and the fact that he ate. Eventually, she heard the sound of water splashing and then the door closing, so she assumed that Jon had dismissed his servant and was now bathing.

She kept working by the fire, she didn’t know exactly how long. It took her a while to realize what was wrong: she’d heard Jon going in the bathtub, but never coming out.

She worried her bottom lip for a second. She didn’t want to intrude in her husband’s room, but it wouldn't be good for him if he fell asleep on the bathtub.

Sansa stood and hesitated for a minute. She walked to the door and listened, but nothing but silence greeted her.

She knocked softly on the door. Perhaps Jon had already gotten out of the tub and was sleeping. Maybe she just didn’t hear it.

There was no answer and Sansa decided to check. Imagine if the Prince of the North drowned on his bathtub because he fell asleep on it.

She pushed the door open. “Jon?” She called in a low voice, not wanting to wake him up in case he had just gone to bed.

However, his bed had only Ghost in it. The direwolf raised his head to look at Sansa when she came in, but –recognizing her as no danger –he just lay down again. Sansa stepped into the room and –sure enough –Jon was still in the tub. She could see just his head and his back braced against the edges of the tub. He was still, so he wasn’t actually bathing.

“Jon?” She called again, coming closer.

Yes, he was sleeping.

Sansa sighed, but couldn’t contain a smile, even if it was a bit sad. Jon worked so hard to protect their land, to care for his people. No wonder he was exhausted.

What should she do now?

There was a piece of cloth floating on the water, like Jon had started to clean himself and then fell asleep in the middle of it. His hair was still dry, but she was sure it was in desperate need of a washing.

Sansa tried not to let her eyes take her husband’s naked chest. She’d never seen Jon without a shirt, because even their beddings were beyond proper: in the dark and both as clothed as possible for the occasion.

It made her wonder if Jon had to think of someone else to touch her.

She’d never seen the scars on his chest, the mark of the betrayal he suffered. The water reached the middle of his chest, so she could only see two of them, but she knew there were more.

Sansa took a deep breath and tried to clear her head of those thoughts. She pulled a stool and sat by the tub, then gently shook her husband. “Jon?”

He startled and opened his eyes, looking around. “Sansa?” He called, his voice heavy with tiredness.

“You slept in the tub.” She indicated. “I thought it was best to wake you up.”

“Thank you, My Lady.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “I…”

“Finish washing yourself.” She directed, perhaps a bit too firmly. “I’ll wash your hair while you do it.”

Even in his fatigue Jon looked surprised. “There’s no need for…”

“Hush, Jon.” She said. “Let us finish this so you can rest.”

Jon just nodded and turned away from her, picked the cloth again and –Sansa assumed –started to clean himself.

“Just lean your head back for a second.” She asked gently, so she could pour water over Jon’s head.

He complied, then Sansa lathered his hair with soap and started massaging his head. She watched Jon washing himself for a while, until his movements grew slow and eventually stopped, his head resting on the tub. He’d fallen asleep again.

Sansa couldn’t contain a smile, even if it saddened her to see him this tired. She’d finished washing his hair and contemplated waking him up, so he could leave the tub, but noticed he hadn’t finished washing himself.

He was her husband and she was just taking care of him. There was nothing wrong with that.

Sansa took a deep breath and picked the cloth. She was just helping him.

She cleaned his neck and collarbone gently, then his shoulders. She didn’t let her hand venture too deep into the water as she washed his chest, because she felt like she was taking advantage of her husband.

She raised her hand and touched the cloth to his cheek. Jon opened his eyes immediately and his hand grasped hers.

“It’s just me, Jon.” Sansa spoke calmly.

Jon shook his head and let go of her hand. “I’m sorry, My Lady. I…”

“Shush. Let’s finish before you sleep yet again.” She cleaned his face, feeling a bit like a mother with a stubborn child. “Let me wash your back.”

That finally seemed to make him a bit more alert. “You don’t have to do that…”

“I fear that, if I leave it to you, you won’t leave this tub tonight.” She joked lightly. “Now let me wash your back.”

Jon was still for a minute and she thought he would refuse, but –after a pause –he gave her his back. Sansa ran the cloth across his shoulders and felt them relaxing. She thought she heard Jon sighing, but couldn’t be sure.

She washed his back a bit lower than she’d dared with his chest, then Jon went all stiff and she stopped.

She felt foolish and stood up. “I’ll get you linen to dry.” She said. “Try to stay awake while I’m gone.” She said, not exactly teasing.

“Aye, My Lady.”

She picked a linen up and came back to offer it to Jon.

Then he stood from the tub.

Sansa was sure he only did it because he was so tired, he’d never exposed himself to her like this otherwise. She let her eyes fall to the ground.

Jon stepped out of the tub and grabbed the linen with a low “thank you”, as he walked –almost stumbled –closer to the bed.

Sansa kept her back turned to him, until she heard the sound of him climbing on the bed. She turned to find the linen abandoned to the floor, along with the shirt his squire had left for him to wear. At least he was wearing pants.

She approached the bed to check on him. He was turned on his belly and hadn’t even pulled the furs to cover himself. His hair was soaking wet.

Sansa considered Jon for a minute. It was cold outside, even with the fires blazing in his room. Sleeping with his hair wet would be bad, he might catch a cold like this.

Feeling a bit foolish Sansa picked a dry linen up and sat on the bed by Jon. She tried to dry his curls the best she could, but she only had some success, considering he was lying down.

She pulled the furs to cover his body and was getting ready to leave, when he grabbed her hand. “Tell me about Winterfell.” He murmured sleepily.

Sansa arched a brow, even though he couldn’t see it. Jon was acting the same way he acted the three times she’d seen in on his cups. On these times, he had sat somewhere close and asked her to tell him how things were around Winterfell.

Sansa remembered these moments very well, because Jon rarely indulged on drinking and because he seemed so relaxed then, just wanting to know about the keep, about the small things.

“You’re too tired, Jon.” She told him in a gentle voice. “Tomorrow we can talk.”

But he didn’t let go of her hand. “Tell me.” He asked again, his voice too heavy with sleep to be a real command.

Still…

Sansa hesitated, then climbed on the bed, putting her back against the headboard. Ghost gave her a look, before closing his eyes and sighing. “Well, one of the stable boys came to ask for permission to marry his sweetheart. Why he thought he needed my permission for that is beyond my understanding…”

She told him of light things, of small details.

Jon never let go of her hand, not even as he fell asleep.

[onthesandsofdreams]

Permission to Love

Fandom: ASoIaF Pairing: Ned x Cersei Rating: G Summary: Cersei is not a Queen. Instead, she is the Lady of Winterfell and now must live with a husband she does not love. Until. Words: 1488 Notes: For @asoiafrarepairs​‘s A Dream of Spring Event. Day 2 dreams | children. It also fills a prompt: She never loved her husband ‘til she loved their child.

Read @ AO3

Cersei curses the Gods.

She should have been Queen, she had been promised. Unfortunately for her, it seems like the Gods are having a good laugh at her expense. She could not be Rhaegar nor Robert’s Queen, instead, she had been wed to the North.

She remembered clearly the moment, when her father had summoned her to King’s Landing. She had felt victorious then, she could almost feel the weight of the crown on top of her head. But it was not to be. Robert Baratheon had married Catelyn Tully, and her father had arranged for her to marry Eddard Stark.

She had raged, cried and begged. All for nothing. Her father had simply ordered her to be ready, so she did. Her aunt had been a source of comfort, but it didn’t take the bitterness out of her mouth. 

Eddard - Ned as he insisted she call him - was a dull man. He had not the spark that Robert had, nor the grace Rhaegar did. Nor the charm of Jaime. He was quiet, almost sullen and looked grim always. He was polite and did his best to indulge her, he spoke to her as much as he was able to.

Their wedding had been near as grand as Robert’s to Catelyn. Their wedding night almost disappoints. Almost because he is a tender lover, he is quiet and dutiful - even in bed, it seems. But she comforts herself of not having to deal with a drunken bastard, at least her husband is thoughtful of her comfort. Even if what she wants instead is passion. At least, a way to forget the dreams that are now shattered.

The way North is hard and slow. Cersei curses the Gods once more, as she travels in her wagon. Jeyne Farman titters about, talking about a new adventure in the North. She resists the urge to scream at her. It’s only when they arrive at White Harbor that she is thankful, at least, a city. Lord Manderley gifts her bolts of cloth, both in red and grey and a sapphire jewelry set in silver. She thanks him, the very image of politeness, she might not like the North, but it would be unwise to make it obvious the moment you step foot on it. 

But the North is cold and she’s shivering. And it’s almost offensive how the others barely notice it. Instead, it’s her who shivers and wraps herself in furs.

She is welcomed like a Queen when they arrive at Winterfell, which is something that at least comforts her. The whole place is dull and grey, much like the rest of the North and she thinks, rather unkindly, that it matches her husband. At least it’s not as cold as outside.

She’s given the warmest room in Winterfell, alongside extra furs. Jeyne finds things to be excited about and she, the one stuck with this permanently, silently curses her. But she is the Lady of Winterfell now, and people pay her proper due. There’s a part of her that she is quite pleased with that.

She is less pleased with the babe Ned has, her rage is about to spill over when Ned looks at her, quite tired and grief stricken, “My nephew,” he says, choking on the words. “Brandon’s boy, I couldn’t leave him. I swear to you my lady, he is my nephew, not my son. My honor could not allow me to abandon him.”

Her rage passes at that. A bastard nephew she can live with. A bastard of his own she won’t tolerate. But Brandon Stark is dead and buried, and her husband feels honor bound to raise his nephew. That is fine. She can live with that. So long her husband doesn’t try and bring any bastards of his own, she can cope with a nephew. “That is fine,” she says. “Your lord brother is not here to care for him, so you must.”

Time passes slowly, and her husband comes to her bed out of duty. Outside their chamber, he treats her with proper respect, does his best to talk to her, listen to what she has to say and asks her opinions on things. She is surprised when he takes her advice on occasion. Pleased, but she still doesn’t allow herself to love this stranger.

And then, her stomach swells.

Ned - that is as far as her walls have fallen - makes sure she lacks for nothing. Tells her to rest and care for herself and their child. Jeyne fuzzes and she has to restrain herself not to strangle. Her father sends her a letter, saying that is well that she is consolidating her position in the North.

She wants a son, a boy that she can raise and mold. A boy that would secure her position and her bloodline on Winterfell’s Lordship. Her husband is incredibly kind, and she is sure that is the babe who is making a mess of her. She still refuses to love him.

But Ned is good. Almost too good to be true. She has heard stories of men who take mistresses, and her Lannister pride will not allow it. But Ned is faithful, not even the slightest rumor or whisper about him and other women. Be ladies, servants or whores. He keeps to her bed and cares for her. Yes, it’s the babe, nothing more.

Her pains come at night, and she sends Jeyne to fetch both Ned and the maester. Ned refuses to leave her side while she labors. Another thing he’s different. Not many men enter their wives’ birthing room. And yet, here he is. Sitting behind her, letting her weight fall upon his chest, gently wiping her sweaty hair away and holding her hands as she screams.

The babe comes, a boy, the maester declares. And she feels victory and relief, she has done her duty. Winterfell has an heir and it’s her son. Once the babe is cleaned, Maester Luwin places the babe on her chest, and she holds her screaming babe with pride. And something inside her heart cracks. This boy will be the pride of the North, she’ll make sure of it. And he already is a mix of them both. Pride swells in her chest.

Then, she passes the babe to Ned. “Your son, my lord.”

Ned takes their son with utmost care, and she feels a knot in her throat when she sees the amount of emotion in his face. His usual long, grim face is softened, his eyes are shining and there’s a gentle smile on his lips. Ned will never be as handsome as other men, but in that moment, she can admit to attractiveness. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, a reverential tone to his voice. “Thank you for this gift my lady. Truly.”

There is so much warmth and tenderness on his voice, that the crack in her heart continues and shatters. “Maybe next one will also be a son.”

“Perhaps, but we have time.” He says and means it.

Little Robb grows and her pride swells when his eyes turn green and green remain. He is a mix of the two, and she loves him. She loves this little boy, and already knows that she would move heaven and earth for him. Ned is a good father too, he cares for his son in a way most men don’t. Cares for her too.

And time passes, she grows used to the strangeness of the North. And two and half years later, her stomach swells again. “Another boy, I’m sure,” she tells Ned.

“Daughters would be welcomed too,” he says, never taking his eyes off hers. “Daughters are precious, and I would not object to a few little girls who look like you running about. But we have time.”

In the end, her newest babe is a girl. And she wonders if this is what her mother felt when she knew she had a daughter, she worries, she knows that the world is unkind to women, but Ned is thrilled at their daughter’s birth. She watches transfixed as Ned holds their daughter, smiles down at the babe and swears to love and protect her for as long as he lives.

And she loves her children. And in that moment, she knows that she does indeed love her husband. Because she knows he speaks the truth. If every babe she births from now on is a girl, her husband will love them all, fiercely and without reserve. His son is already loved. 

Then Ned returns their babe to her arms. She looks at him, a smile coming to her face. She is tired, sweaty and positively disgusting, but the love she has for her child is something fierce and she will love any that come after them. Because she intends to have more children. And she will love them. And she finally permits herself to love her husband too.

[0reoblanc]

Hello - Gendrya Fanfic

(Please be kind on the faults, English is my second language)

It was a stormy night at Storm’s End. Event though it was night, nobody was sleeping. Nobody could sleep. The sound of the screams, the wind, the rain and those of the metal in the forge kept everyone awake.

Everyone were between the high walls of castle except for one. The lord of the place was in the forge, letting his emotions run wild against the metal.

Gendry raised and lowered his harmmer, making a melody that the nearest servants could hear. Like for every other births, the young lord just couldn’t stay still while hearing the screams of his wife for hours and not being by her side. The septas and the maester chased him out of the chamber, saying he would only be in the way. The maester was less and less patient with him. Gendry could understand why. He wasn’t angry against the maester, he was angry against his incapacity. The love of his life was suffering, let’s be honest: it was half his fault, and he couldn’t do anything for her. At that thought, Gendry hit the metal even harder.

Gendry give a look at his work. It was a thin dragonglass dagger about thirty centimeters. He plunged it into the water while thinking. A dagger... the first time it was an axe, the second a sword and now a dagger. It gave him a hint about the sex of the future child and it made him smile.

Gendry ended his work by making the pommel: a wolf with deer antlers. He looked at his work. When he decided he was satisfied, he ranged it in the big locked chest where he also put the dragonglass axe and the dragonglass sword. Once again, he promised himself to give the weapon to the child at his/her fifteen’s birthday.

After that, Gendry went to his chamber and bath himself. He was black of soot. He remembered the first childbirth: he didn’t end the axe in time and a servant told him it was over. He had left all his work in place and was running in the castle. He had tumbled into the bedroom. Arya had been speechless when she saw him so dirty and refused to let him touch their son before he was clean. Of all his life, he never washed himself is fast.

After his bath, Gendry went to his sons’s room. On the way, he asked a servant about the childbirth. She told him the septa thought it wouldn’t last long. « A day isn’t long enough? » he thought sarcastically, but he thanked the girl and she left.

He entered the room of his sons at the exact moment one of them was coming out. It was his junior, Jon. At the opposite of the room, Davos was holding back his elder, Sandor. When Jon saw his father, he couldn’t help but cry and hug his leg.

“Why is mommy crying? What’s happening?”

“I told you she was giving birth!” angrily said Sandor. “She did the same for you!”

“For god’s sake, Sandor.” calmly said Davos. “Jon’s only three years old. Be kinder. You were the same at his age.”

Sandor blushed and started to mumbles. Gendry gently patted Jon’s head.

“It’s alright, Jon. Your mother is doing fine. Isn’t she the strongest lady of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Jon nodded and let go of his leg. Davos and Gendry shared a look. The old smugger reassured Gendry with a smile. Like every day, Gendry thanked the sky for the presence of Davos in the castle. The old ser Onion was a real friend to the Baratheon family and always helped them. Both the lord and the lady of Storm’s End weren’t quite comfortable with their new role but having him with them made the thing way more easy.

Another hour passed before a septa came. Gendry and Davos were playing chess on a table while the boy were playing with the little soldiers of lead their father made for them next to the fire. Gendry jumped on his leg when he saw the septa smiling. He wanted to run to his wife, but he had to hold his sons. If he ran, they would copy him. It happened last time and Sandor almost crushed Jon when he tried to hug his mom.

Gendry took a hand of each of his sons and left Davos alone in the room. The old man was smiling while watching the fire. The Baratheons walked to the childbrith’s room and before they entered, Gendry kneel to talk to his sons.

“Your mother must be really tired. You have to stay calm, okay?”

The boys vigorously nodded and Gendry smiled. They entered the room. Arya was sitting in the bed, a pile of clothes in her arms. She smiled when she saw them. Sandor walked straight to his mother, but Jon grabbed his father’s pants.

Gendry sat on the bed in front of Arya, Jon on his knees, while Sandor climbed to sit next to his mom. The eyes of the six years old boy went wild when he saw the baby’s face and he smiled. Jon leaned forward to see the baby and Gendry helped him. The father had a hard time limiting himself from looking at the baby. The lord exchanged a look with the lady of Storm’s End. They had like a mental communication: everything was fine. They could relax and rest.

“What’s his name?” Jon asked.

Arya straightened and looked solemn.

“Dear lord and and dear heirs of Storm’s End, I present to you Lyanna Baratheon, first female heir of the house Baratheon.”

The eyes of the boys went wild and the had a large smile. Gendry and Arya shared a look. Both of their eyes were sparkling.

“Why Lyanna?” asked Jon.

Arya raises her eyebrows, then smiled.

“Lyanna was my aunt. She was a wonderful and beautiful lady. Lyanna is also the name of the last lady of house Mormont. She was a reckless and dignified fighter.”

“What about Sandor and Jon?” asked Sandor.

“Sandor is the name of one of the strongest and bravest man of the Seven Kingdoms. He saved my life countless time. Jon is the name of my half brother. He was the just and noble 998th commandant of the Night Watch and has also been King in the North. Now, he’s governor of the north and chief of the council of the Seven Kingdoms with your uncle Tyrion.”

“Oooooh.” said the boys with their eyes sparkling.

Jon left his father’s knees to approach his little sister. Arya leaned forward to let him see her. Gendry also tried to look, but he didn’t want to interrupt the meeting between his child. Arya saw him and smiled.

“Wanna hold her?”

Gendry nodded and Arya gave him the baby. It was almost weird to see such a strong man act so gently, but Arya knew Gendry would never hurt Lyanna and that, if it ever happens, he would never forgive himself.

Gendry had a large smile and was almost shinning of happiness. A girl! A daughter! His daughter! THEIR daughter! She was so small and so beautiful! She was an angel.

He gently stroked her cheek with his rough finger. Lyanna openned her eyes. Big grey eyes looking everywhere around her. The moment Gendry’s and Lyanna’s eyes met, Gendry’s heart melt. He instinctively knew he was at her mercy. She could do anything she wants, he would cherish her anyway. Gendry’s smile went larger.

“Hello.”

[shazyloren]

Little Lyanna

Summary:  Jon is out of his mind with worry, trying to busy himself as his wife labours their baby into the world... They've been trying so long, and they had once thought it would not happen.

Notes: As you know, I am taking part in a challenge on tumblr by user 'JonerysFic' and 'MhysaOfDragons' in which for seven days from Valentines day I am uploading a new one shot. The prompts have been provided and the stories have all been written and I gotta say you're in for a lot of Jonerys content. So Day 7, the last day, 20th February, which is when I'm uploading this, the prompt I chose was 'Free Choice'. So I got thinking and decided to expand on my glorious reign series and give you the birth of their first child, Lyanna.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17864576

----

Jon was going crazy.

Waiting for the arrival of his and Dany’s child had left him drinking with Tyrion in the hands quarter as a promise to Dany that he’d stay away while she laboured their baby. All of the dogs in King’s Landing were howling, due to the storm that had captured the city and by extension scared the inhabitants into staying inside. Lighting and rain, flashing and fierce. There had been four storms since he and Dany assumed the throne five years ago, but this had by far been the worse. Ironic that their child would also be known as Stormborn like it’s mother, but that also left deep rooted fear within Jon himself.

He wondered if she would survive, after all both of their mother’s had perished when giving birth to them, although Sam was dealing with her, the only person he trusted. But there was still this nagging feeling of fear within him that meant he was on edge and pacing the hands chambers all the while it was going on. He could stand on the Balcony and see their chambers from it, but he wouldn’t know what was happening.

They’d lost a babe already, after the first time they’d made love on the boat from dragonstone to White Harbour, Dany’s bleeding had not arrived. They didn’t count their chickens before they hatched, both of them knowing what happened to her last babe, but when her belly had began to swell with life they were joyous. Jon requested they not tell anyone, as only Missandei, Sam and themselves knew at that moment. But about ten weeks after the conception, Dany bled hard and the babe was lost.

She’d cried for weeks in private with him, they’d shared his chambers and it had been heart-wrenching to see her suffer. She put on a smile for the lords of Winterfell, and when they’d caught her crying she’d always played it off as the lose of her Dragon, which in a sense was also her child. So when her belly had become swollen once again six months ago, they’d been very joyous yet extremely cautious. Jon had not let her do anything, she was to relax for the first few months, must to her annoyance.

And now, she was in labour, a month early.

To make matters worse, Lord Baratheon and Lady Stark (Jon’s sister) had sprung upon them a surprise visit, which meant they too were in the hands chambers, drinking with him as the entertainment Tyrion had quickly thrown together for the visiting family got cut short. Daenerys was in the middle of giving a speech when she’d gushed on the floor and began to feel light headed.

She was early, and this was all the more reason Jon was worried. The chances of both of them surviving was very small, but he’d hoped that she had, they both had. If she was to go… Jon couldn’t even bare to think about it, he loved her so hopelessly that the even consideration that Daenerys Targaryen, his wife, his queen, would never see him again, would never look at him with those eyes, was completely consuming him

“Stop pacing, you idiot” Arya grumbled, fiddling with a knife, twisting it between her fingers. The Valyrian blade that Bran had bestowed upon her all those years ago, before he’s met his end… Jon shook his head and did as he was told. He may be the king, but when Ayra said to do something, he listened without question.

“It’s natural to be fearful, Your Grace” Tyrion countered, pouring red wine into his goblet and almost downing it instantly. “But I can assure you she’s in very good hands”

Jon knew she was, Sam had delivered several babies now including that of his sister, Sansa’s two children with her husband up in the north. He may be Lord of Horn Hill, but he also was their maester, and Jon trusted him more than anyone else besides Daenerys.

“Perhaps we can do something to take your mind off of everything, Your Grace?” Gendry offered. Nothing would take Jon’s mind off of it, he knew as such, but he took the bate and sat down at the table with the other three. “Are there any pressing issues that need resolving in the city?”

“We’ve been dealing with a speight of theft in flea bottom” Jon shrugs, reminding himself that flea bottom needs to be renamed as it wasn’t the hive of poverty it had once been in the era of the Lannisters rule. Jon and Dany had more than enough comforts here in the Red Keep that he’d make monthly donations of food and clothes that were worn by servants down to them and handed them out personally.

“Okay, let’s focus on that then”

It worked for maybe twenty minutes, until Jon swore he heard screaming all the way across the Red Keep. He knows he didn’t, it was more than likely his mind playing tricks on him, but still, it was enough to stop him from wanting to commit to the City’s issues and think about her instead.

He didn’t pray to the old gods, after all he’s seen in the world he doubted any god’s existence anymore, but he did pray to Sam’s ability that he’d keep her alive, both of them. He should’ve ignored Dany, stayed with her until the end, but it had been hours and she’d begged him to go until it was done. He wouldn’t if it was a case of not wanting to seem weak, or not wanting to see the birth, or perhaps if she did pass, she didn’t want him to see it in front of his eyes.

Whatever her reasons, it was a decision that was driving him crazy and fearful and almost alone.

“Sansa has birthed two children, both of which were successfully delivered by Sam, stop having a crisis you’ll look like you’re supposed to be celebrating your fiftieth name day” Arya was growing impatient and Jon did not blame her in the slightest, but had they known about the baby they lost, then perhaps she’d know why he was frightened for his Queen.

Sansa knew now, shortly after the war and her engagement and subsequent wedding to Gawen of House Glover, she’d come to Jon about bleeding heavily and unsure of anyone to turn too. She’d suffered a miscarriage and it had affected her mentally. Jon had offered comfort and told her the story of her and Dany losing one and from that moment, Sansa had dealt with the issue better.

“I’m her husband, she’s my Queen, let me worry” Jon sighs, thinking back to the times in which his worries were the living dead killing all of men-kind.

So much had changed and so much was still to change now that he and Daenerys were to become parents. The capital had been so happy at the news of their King and Queen welcoming a child soon, and thankfully, the other lords in the kingdom had too. Jon had struggled with it on some occasions. A child was something Jon had always wanted but never envisioned he would have when he was serving on the wall, but something that had come true and very shortly, he’d have to be a father.

Would he be a good one?

“Your Grace” Jon hears behind him and so he turns to note several guardsmen and Sam, the Maester and man he trusted amongst everyone else. He was covered in blood, as was to be expected after delivering a baby, but his appearance still filled him with dread.

“Is everything alright?” Tyrion is the first one to speak.

“Mother and babe are both alright” Sam nods and Jon almost wants to fall to his knees. The relief that over spills in his body is almost too much to handle. He doesn’t know whether to sit down, to run to Dany’s side, to kiss Sam even. “The Queen has lost a lot of blood however, so she needs to rest up for a few weeks, eat plenty and drink lots of water to get her up and running again” Sam takes a small pause. “It’s a girl”

Arya squeals piercingly into the air and yet Jon isn’t affected by it, he’s just shocked, his entire system falling apart as he imagines a small girl in his arms. A girl, a little daughter to call my own, our beautiful miracle, our beloved angel . Jon needs to see them both, he need to hold her in her arms and look at the beautiful life he and Dany created together.

“Can I seem them?” Jon ask, knowing that even if Sam said know he’d still go anyways. Sam just nods and that’s all Jon needs to start a quick pace towards his own bedchambers.

The halls are quiet when he leaves Tyrion’s chambers, only guardsmen with smiles on their faces as Jon feels glee and anticipation build in his chest. He follows the way to his chambers that he was so familiar with at this point, seeing servants cleaning and clearing stuff away, seeing cats up on the balcony, seeing the steps to their space. She was there, his little princess was waiting for him, and his queen too.

When he reached the door to his chambers, he was greeted by Missandei who was holding sheets covered in blood, she was smiling brightly when her eyes connected with Dany’s. Clearly happy both the Queen and the girl were okay. She gleefully grins before heading off in the direction Jon came from, leaving him to open the door.

The sound he was greeted with was like music to his eyes, a soft gurgling and a sweet song that melted away every fear in his body. He did not know the song, he thinks perhaps she made it up, but her voice is tunely and melodic and the happiness that was radiating from it was enough to send Jon wild. He sees them then, Dany, sat up in the bed with a small clothed babe in her arms. Jon, in an instant, is at her side.

“Stars above” Jon whispers as Dany kisses him on the cheek. “She’s absolutely perfect”

As he looked at her, he notices she has been born with a thick head full of hair, black hair like his own and a little bit all over the place. Her eyes however, magnificently violet and delightfully wild. Jon knows the babe can’t see them both yet, but she was content just being in her mother’s arm.

“I’m glad you’re here” Dany sighed, Jon knew she was tired. “She needs to hear her Father speak to her”

She passed him over and for what felt like hours, Jon just held her in his arms and looked at her. She was the most perfect creation that has ever been because of him. He loved her with every drop of blood in his veins, every breath in his lungs and ever word in his mouth. He whispered to her, promised her that he would protect her until his last breath, love her until he could not any longer and he even shed tears. He was sensitive in the moment but he did not care.

She was a dream.

“I want to call her Lyanna” He says out of nowhere, not having heard anything Dany had said, just cut off from it all as he stared at the perfect babe in his arms. “I think my mother deserves that” He stated. After everything his own mother went through, everything she and his real father gave up for him, and after wanting to know about her and finally finding out the truth, Jon felt sure that was the little babe in his arms name. “If that’s okay with you”

“Little Lyanna Targaryen” She sighs, sleep wanting to take his wife over. She was now laying down, hoping to get a moment of sleep. Jon did not mind, it meant he got to hold his babe for longer. Little Lyanna Targaryen, it was. “I like it, then if we have another one, we’ll call him Robb”

If we have another one, we’ll call him Robb.

Jon liked the idea, but they had everything they needed for now. Him, his queen and their beautiful Princess Lyanna. A life Jon never envisioned, but one he was grateful of nonetheless.

[readbookywooks]

Sansa

In the tower room at the heart of Maegor's Holdfast, Sansa gave herself to the darkness. She drew the curtains around her bed, slept, woke weeping, and slept again. When she could not sleep she lay under her blankets shivering with grief. Servants came and went, bringing meals, but the sight of food was more than she could bear. The dishes piled up on the table beneath her window, untouched and spoiling, until the servants took them away again. Sometimes her sleep was leaden and dreamless, and she woke from it more tired than when she had closed her eyes. Yet those were the best times, for when she dreamed, she dreamed of Father. Waking or sleeping, she saw him, saw the gold cloaks fling him down, saw Ser Ilyn striding forward, unsheathing Ice from the scabbard on his back, saw the moment . . . the moment when . . . she had wanted to look away, she had wanted to, her legs had gone out from under her and she had fallen to her knees, yet somehow she could not turn her head, and all the people were screaming and shouting, and her prince had smiled at her, he'd smiled and she'd felt safe, but only for a heartbeat, until he said those words, and her father's legs . . . that was what she remembered, his legs, the way they'd jerked when Ser Ilyn . . . when the sword . . . Perhaps I will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. If she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief. Her body would lie on the stones below, broken and innocent, shaming all those who had betrayed her. Sansa went so far as to cross the bedchamber and throw open the shutters . . . but then her courage left her, and she ran back to her bed, sobbing. The serving girls tried to talk to her when they brought her meals, but she never answered them. Once Grand Maester Pycelle came with a box of flasks and bottles, to ask if she was ill. He felt her brow, made her undress, and touched her all over while her bedmaid held her down. When he left he gave her a potion of honeywater and herbs and told her to drink a swallow every night. She drank it all right then and went back to sleep. She dreamt of footsteps on the tower stair, an ominous scraping of leather on stone as a man climbed slowly toward her bedchamber, step by step. All she could do was huddle behind her door and listen, trembling, as he came closer and closer. It was Ser Ilyn Payne, she knew, coming for her with Ice in his hand, coming to take her head. There was no place to run, no place to hide, no way to bar the door. Finally the footsteps stopped and she knew he was just outside, standing there silent with his dead eyes and his long pocked face. That was when she realized she was naked. She crouched down, trying to cover herself with her hands, as her door began to swing open, creaking, the point of the greatsword poking through . . . She woke murmuring, "Please, please, I'll be good, I'll be good, please don't," but there was no one to hear. When they finally came for her in truth, Sansa never heard their footsteps. It was Joffrey who opened her door, not Ser Ilyn but the boy who had been her prince. She was in bed, curled up tight, her curtains drawn, and she could not have said if it was noon or midnight. The first thing she heard was the slam of the door. Then her bed hangings were yanked back, and she threw up a hand against the sudden light and saw them standing over her. "You will attend me in court this afternoon," Joffrey said. "See that you bathe and dress as befits my betrothed." Sandor Clegane stood at his shoulder in a plain brown doublet and green mantle, his burned face hideous in the morning light. Behind them were two knights of the Kingsguard in long white satin cloaks. Sansa drew her blanket up to her chin to cover herself. "No," she whimpered, "please . . . leave me be." "If you won't rise and dress yourself, my Hound will do it for you," Joffrey said. "I beg of you, my prince . . . " "I'm king now. Dog, get her out of bed." Sandor Clegane scooped her up around the waist and lifted her off the featherbed as she struggled feebly. Her blanket fell to the floor. Underneath she had only a thin bedgown to cover her nakedness. "Do as you're bid, child," Clegane said. "Dress." He pushed her toward her wardrobe, almost gently. Sansa backed away from them. "I did as the queen asked, I wrote the letters, I wrote what she told me. You promised you'd be merciful. Please, let me go home. I won't do any treason, I'll be good, I swear it, I don't have traitor's blood, I don't. I only want to go home." Remembering her courtesies, she lowered her head. "As it please you," she finished weakly. "It does not please me," Joffrey said. "Mother says I'm still to marry you, so you'll stay here, and you'll obey." "I don't want to marry you," Sansa wailed. "You chopped off my father's head!" "He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I'd be merciful, and I was. If he hadn't been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death." Sansa stared at him, seeing him for the first time. He was wearing a padded crimson doublet patterned with lions and a cloth-of-gold cape with a high collar that framed his face. She wondered how she could ever have thought him handsome. His lips were as soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. "I hate you," she whispered. King Joffrey's face hardened. "My mother tells me that it isn't fitting that a king should strike his wife. Ser Meryn." The knight was on her before she could think, yanking back her hand as she tried to shield her face and backhanding her across the ear with a gloved fist. Sansa did not remember failing, yet the next she knew she was sprawled on one knee amongst the rushes. Her head was ringing. Ser Meryn Trant stood over her, with blood on the knuckles of his white silk glove. "Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?" Sansa's ear felt numb. She touched it, and her fingertips came away wet and red. "I . . . as . . . as you command, my lord." "Your Grace," Joffrey corrected her. "I shall look for you in court." He turned and left. Ser Meryn and Ser Arys followed him out, but Sandor Clegane lingered long enough to yank her roughly to her feet. "Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants." "What . . . what does he want? Please, tell me." "He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love," the Hound rasped. "He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words the way the septa taught you. He wants you to love him . . . and fear him." After he was gone, Sansa sank back onto the rushes, staring at the wall until two of her bedmaids crept timidly into the chamber. "I will need hot water for my bath, please," she told them, "and perfume, and some powder to hide this bruise." The right side of her face was swollen and beginning to ache, but she knew Joffrey would want her to be beautiful. The hot water made her think of Winterfell, and she took strength from that. She had not washed since the day her father died, and she was startled at how filthy the water became. Her maids sluiced the blood off her face, scrubbed the dirt from her back, washed her hair and brushed it out until it sprang back in thick auburn curls. Sansa did not speak to them, except to give them commands; they were Lannister servants, not her own, and she did not trust them. When the time came to dress, she chose the green silk gown that she had worn to the tourney. She recalled how gallant Joff had been to her that night at the feast. Perhaps it would make him remember as well, and treat her more gently. She drank a glass of buttermilk and nibbled at some sweet biscuits as she waited, to settle her stomach. It was midday when Ser Meryn returned. He had donned his white armor; a shirt of enameled scales chased with gold, a tall helm with a golden sunburst crest, greaves and gorget and gauntlet and boots of gleaming plate, a heavy wool cloak clasped with a golden lion. His visor had been removed from his helm, to better show his dour face; pouchy bags under his eyes, a wide sour mouth, rusty hair spotted with grey. "My lady," he said, bowing, as if he had not beaten her bloody only three hours past. "His Grace has instructed me to escort you to the throne room." "Did he instruct you to hit me if I refused to come?" "Are you refusing to come, my lady?" The look he gave her was without expression. He did not so much as glance at the bruise he had left her. He did not hate her, Sansa realized; neither did he love her. He felt nothing for her at all. She was only a . . . a thing to him. "No," she said, rising. She wanted to rage, to hurt him as he'd hurt her, to warn him that when she was queen she would have him exiled if he ever dared strike her again . . . but she remembered what the Hound had told her, so all she said was, "I shall do whatever His Grace commands." "As I do," he replied. "Yes . . . but you are no true knight, Ser Meryn." Sandor Clegane would have laughed at that, Sansa knew. Other men might have cursed her, warned her to keep silent, even begged for her forgiveness. Ser Meryn Trant did none of these. Ser Meryn Trant simply did not care. The balcony was deserted save for Sansa. She stood with her head bowed, fighting to hold back her tears, while below Joffrey sat on his Iron Throne and dispensed what it pleased him to call justice. Nine cases out of ten seemed to bore him; those he allowed his council to handle, squirming restlessly while Lord Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, or Queen Cersei resolved the matter. When he did choose to make a ruling, though, not even his queen mother could sway him. A thief was brought before him and he had Ser Ilyn chop his hand off, right there in court. Two knights came to him with a dispute about some land, and he decreed that they should duel for it on the morrow. "To the death," he added. A woman fell to her knees to plead for the head of a man executed as a traitor. She had loved him, she said, and she wanted to see him decently buried. "If you loved a traitor, you must be a traitor too," Joffrey said. Two gold cloaks dragged her off to the dungeons. Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes, and she remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow." In life, the monsters win, she told herself, and now it was the Hound's voice she heard, a cold rasp, metal on stone. "Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants." The last case was a plump tavern singer, accused of making a song that ridiculed the late King Robert. Joff commanded them to fetch his woodharp and ordered him to perform the song for the court. The singer wept and swore he would never sing that song again, but the king insisted. It was sort of a funny song, all about Robert fighting with a pig. The pig was the boar who'd killed him, Sansa knew, but in some verses it almost sounded as if he were singing about the queen. When the song was done, Joffrey announced that he'd decided to be merciful. The singer could keep either his fingers or his tongue. He would have a day to make his choice. Janos Slynt nodded. That was the final business of the afternoon, Sansa saw with relief, but her ordeal was not yet done. When the herald's voice dismissed the court, she fled the balcony, only to find Joffrey waiting for her at the base of the curving stairs. The Hound was with him, and Ser Meryn as well. The young king examined her critically, top to bottom. "You look much better than you did." "Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa said. Hollow words, but they made him nod and smile. "Walk with me," Joffrey commanded, offering her his arm. She had no choice but to take it. The touch of his hand would have thrilled her once; now it made her flesh crawl. "My name day will be here soon," Joffrey said as they slipped out the rear of the throne room. "There will be a great feast, and gifts. What are you going to give me?" "I . . . I had not thought, my lord." "Your Grace," he said sharply. "You truly are a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother says so." "She does?" After all that had happened, his words should have lost their power to hurt her, yet somehow they had not. The queen had always been so kind to her. "Oh, yes. She worries about our children, whether they'll be stupid like you, but I told her not to trouble herself." The king gestured, and Ser Meryn opened a door for them. "Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured. The Hound was right, she thought, I am only a little bird, repeating the words they taught me. The sun had fallen below the western wall, and the stones of the Red Keep glowed dark as blood. "I'll get you with child as soon as you're able," Joffrey said as he escorted her across the practice yard. "If the first one is stupid, I'll chop off your head and find a smarter wife. When do you think you'll be able to have children?" Sansa could not look at him, he shamed her so. "Septa Mordane says most . . . most highborn girls have their flowering at twelve or thirteen." Joffrey nodded. "This way." He led her into the gatehouse, to the base of the steps that led up to the battlements. Sansa jerked back away from him, trembling. Suddenly she knew where they were going. "No," she said, her voice a frightened gasp. "Please, no, don't make me, I beg you . . . " Joffrey pressed his lips together. "I want to show you what happens to traitors." Sansa shook her head wildly. "I won't. I won't." "I can have Ser Meryn drag you up," he said. "You won't like that. You had better do what I say." Joffrey reached for her, and Sansa cringed away from him, backing into the Hound. "Do it, girl," Sandor Clegane told her, pushing her back toward the king. His mouth twitched on the burned side of his face and Sansa could almost hear the rest of it. He'll have you up there no matter what, so give him what he wants. She forced herself to take King Joffrey's hand. The climb was something out of a nightmare; every step was a struggle, as if she were pulling her feet out of ankle-deep mud, and there were more steps than she would have believed, a thousand thousand steps, and horror waiting on the ramparts. From the high battlements of the gatehouse, the whole world spread out below them. Sansa could see the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya's hill, where her father had died. At the other end of the Street of the Sisters stood the fire-blackened ruins of the Dragonpit. To the west, the swollen red sun was half-hidden behind the Gate of the Gods. The salt sea was at her back, and to the south was the fish market and the docks and the swirling torrent of the Blackwater Rush. And to the north . . . She turned that way, and saw only the city, streets and alleys and hills and bottoms and more streets and more alleys and the stone of distant walls. Yet she knew that beyond them was open country, farms and fields and forests, and beyond that, north and north and north again, stood Winterfell. "What are you looking at?" Joffrey said. "This is what I wanted you to see, right here." A thick stone parapet protected the outer edge of the rampart, reaching as high as Sansa's chin, with crenellations cut into it every five feet for archers. The heads were mounted between the crenels, along the top of the wall, impaled on iron spikes so they faced out over the city. Sansa had noted them the moment she'd stepped out onto the wallwalk, but the river and the bustling streets and the setting sun were ever so much prettier. He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can't make me see them. "This one is your father," he said. "This one here. Dog, turn it around so she can see him." Sandor Clegane took the head by the hair and turned it. The severed head had been dipped in tar to preserve it longer. Sansa looked at it calmly, not seeing it at all. It did not really look like Lord Eddard, she thought; it did not even look real. "How long do I have to look?" Joffrey seemed disappointed. "Do you want to see the rest?" There was a long row of them. "If it please Your Grace." Joffrey marched her down the wallwalk, past a dozen more heads and two empty spikes. "I'm saving those for my uncle Stannis and my uncle Renly," he explained. The other heads had been dead and mounted much longer than her father. Despite the tar, most were long past being recognizable. The king pointed to one and said, "That's your septa there," but Sansa could not even have told that it was a woman. The jaw had rotted off her face, and birds had eaten one ear and most of a cheek. Sansa had wondered what had happened to Septa Mordane, although she supposed she had known all along. "Why did you kill her?" she asked. "She was godsworn . . . " "She was a traitor." Joffrey looked pouty; somehow she was upsetting him. "You haven't said what you mean to give me for my name day. Maybe I should give you something instead, would you like that?" "If it please you, my lord," Sansa said. When he smiled, she knew he was mocking her. "Your brother is a traitor too, you know." He turned Septa Mordane's head back around. "I remember your brother from Winterfell. My dog called him the lord of the wooden sword. Didn't you, dog?" "Did I?" the Hound replied. "I don't recall." Joffrey gave a petulant shrug. "Your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. Women are all weak, even her, though she pretends she isn't. She says we need to stay in King's Landing in case my other uncles attack, but I don't care. After my name day feast, I'm going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That's what I'll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother's head." A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, "Maybe my brother will give me your head." Joffrey scowled. "You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her." This time the knight grasped her beneath the jaw and held her head still as he struck her. He hit her twice, left to right, and harder, right to left. Her lip split and blood ran down her chin, to mingle with the salt of her tears. "You shouldn't be crying all the time," Joffrey told her. "You're more pretty when you smile and laugh." Sansa made herself smile, afraid that he would have Ser Meryn hit her again if she did not, but it was no good, the king still shook his head. "Wipe off the blood, you're all messy." The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn't even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn't matter at all. "Here, girl." Sandor Clegane knelt before her, between her and Joffrey. With a delicacy surprising in such a big man, he dabbed at the blood welling from her broken lip. The moment was gone. Sansa lowered her eyes. "Thank you," she said when he was done. She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.