#(&&Rheagar's conversations)

[rainbowmuses]

Living in this town had almost desensitized Rhaegar when it came to the things people said or did. Now even more so with a killer running around ending the lives of people. Taking a sip from his coffee, he listened to what the other said before he simply shrugged. It was clear that what she had said was perhaps not aimed at him. The last thing he wanted to do was assume. "Have you ever seen one? A dragon, I mean?"

@rainbowmuses | rhaegar targaryen

helaena sat in a quiet corner of a cafe, picking at the food before her , having lost interest in it long ago, instead having focused on the book she had brought with her. however as someone sat by the table next to her own, she caught a glimpse of familiar silver hair, before looking away back to the piece of paper she was toying with. "rubies of the last dragon fell at the rivers ford..." helaena couldn't help but mutter under her breath before she could stop herself and glancing quickly towards the stranger next to her she focused back on tearing apart the paper in her hands.

[sare11aa11eras]

hello i would like to request joncon and rheagar looking after young griff.

Hi! Thanks for the request!!

(I was guessing you meant Genuine Aegon Young Griff? I’m sorry if I got that wrong) So my Dad says that this baby is 12-18 months or so, but I swear I was going for like. A 7yo. 🫣🥴🤷And I think JonCon looks older than he is. But here! Conversations with babies.

[dragonsandwolvesohmy]

I swear I read a one shot where a modern woman helps Lyanna Stark escape Rheagar, who he's trying to force to fulfill his prophecy nonsense. I think the woman kills Rhaegar, maybe by pushing him out a window?

She briefly inhabits Lyanna's body, though, and Lyanna is thinking to her/ they're conversing the whole time.

[waitingforwinterwinds]

A Clash of Kings - 48 DAENERYS IV (pages 628-639)

Dany has a bad time at the House of the Undying Ones.

-

Long and low, without towers or windows, it coiled like a stone serpent through a grove of black-barked trees whose inky blue leaves made the stuff of the sorcerers drink the Qartheen called shade of evening.

...do you think it's on purpose that the colouring of the trees basically screams anti-weirwood? "is the dress-" no, shush!

"Queen Daenerys must enter alone, or not at all." The warlock Pyat Pree stepped out from under the trees. Has he been there all along? Dany wondered.

well now I'm just imagining him hiding behind the tree trying to eavesdrop on their conversation so he can find a good dramatic entrance point.

Further on she came upon a feast of corpses. (...) In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf.

Sounds like the Red Wedding.

I know this room, she thought. She remembered those great wooden beams and the carved animal faces that adorned them. And there outside the window, a lemon tree!

🍋=🥛

... Rheagar? "The man had her brother's hair-" babe your whole family has your brother's hair. (I think technically it's ethnically Valyrian hair?)

Could there be a secret door? A door I cannot see? Another torch went out. Another. The first door on the right, he said, always the first door on the right. The first door on the right... It came to her suddenly is the last door on the left!

Yay! she escaped! good logical thinking under pressure.

The show did not do this place justice, just btw.

"You have taken a wrong turning. Come I will lead you." Pyat Pree held out his hand. Dany hesitated. The was a door to her right, still closed... ... She walked away from him, to the door on the right. "No," Pyat screeched. "No, to me, come to me, to meeeeeee." His face crumbled inward, changing to something pale and wormlike.

Yeaahhhhhh! When in faerieland, trust the rules, trust your gut, trust nothing.

To her right, a set of wide wooden doors had been thrown open. They were fashioned of ebony and weirwood, the black and white grains swirling and twisting in strange interwoven patterns. They were beautiful, yet somehow terrifying.

House of Black and White vision time?

...oh no, the head honchos... being very not like the show?

Fake Undying king: Hail chief, we've been expecting you Fake Undying woman: we got all the loot for you, SSS grade gear, sweet kit~ Drogo: Seems sus, let me bite stuff first Secret door: ooohhhh, not a nat 20 on perception, my hide-and-seek win streak, noooo!

... I feel like I should probably be ashamed that my first alarm bell was "The breast she had left bare in the Qartheen fashion was as perfect as a breast could be." But I didn't pop alarm flags until "and magic weapons to arm you with."

I'm pretty sure I would have crumbled for the loot, I know this of myself.

A long stone table filled this room. Above it floated a human heart, swollen and blue with corruption, yet still alive.

Metaphorical reference to The Night King?

... no.

... morrows not yet made...

So there's a few things in these 'prophetic words' that I was thinking 'oh is that *previous event in the story*' but this line in particular makes me think these things she's being warned about are things that haven't yet occurred.

... mother of dragons, daughter of death... ...mother or dragons, slayer of lies... ...mother of dragons, bride of fire...

Ohhhh, that's interesting. The way these visions are grouped with these titles... Viserys, then whom I'm assuming is Aegon/Young Griff, and Rheagar being labelled Daughter of Death, literally linking the Targaryen house with death, two of them receiving death and one in the act of burning a city. Blue eyed king with red sword, I'm thinking Stannis, then a fake dragon, and a beast of shadow fire being placed under Slayer of Lies, we all know Stannis isn't really Azor Ahai, the fake dragon seems obvious, the beast of shadow fire is curious though, I'm thinking that's the one people think is the dragon escaping from Winterfell during the sack? Hmmm, I'm... not going to go with that as an answer just yet, given the theme of 'false' in this trio. Her silver by the river of stars... Drogo, that's a Drogo metaphor for sure. Middle one is curious, I'm not sure if I want to interpret this one as the Night King or an Other, or as someone who- ... I forgot about Euron for a minute there. He would make more sense in the context, I mean I think I recall there's a thing with him and Dany in the books that didn't make it to the show? And he's... yeah, creepy sonovabich. Third one, blue rose and ice wall? Jon, I'mma go with that's Jon, who's mother is associated with blue roses, and who himself 'bloomed' on the Wall. I mean it does kind of bias me that they had a thing in the show whether I shipped it or not, and this is the Bride section, mind you, the Bride of Fire title as a whole gives me the impression that her connection to fire supersedes her connection to the men.

But the 'Mother of Dragons' having both repetition and priority over the other titles, that's her unchanging title, that's her hat, her priority character trait.

You know... the description of the Undying molesting Dany has echoes of the first vision she saw, of the woman being used and violated and devoured. Not saying it is, just saying echoes.

*hefts steel chair to smack D&D around the head*

Look, I understand why they changed this scene for the show, giving Dany a girlboss moment when she turns the tables and burns Pyat alive, but I feel like it literally wasn't needed in the face of her cunning and logic in this chapter.

Except mental fortitude and wisdom isn't badass enough for some folks, and only deliberate violence is winning. bleh.

There is nothing wrong with Dany needing to be saved by Drogon here, she is still young and finding her footing and facing powers and methods of deception she's never faced before.

When Dany looked behind her, she saw thin tendrils of smoke forcing their way through cracks in the ancient stone walls of the Palace of Dust, and rising from between the black tiles of the roof.

You know what, it would actually be funny if this was the slain lie with the smoking tower and the shadow fire breathing beast. Even though it's not an actual tower and there's no beast. Metaphors~

[warsofasoiaf]

Rheagar did not abduct Lyanna. She went willingly with him. They were just having an affair, common amongst royals. If you don't blame Lyanna then how can you blame Rheagar.

Last I checked, none of the other affairs caused civil wars.

It's rather easy to blame Rhaegar. Let's look at the two's situations to see how we can dole out the blame.

Lyanna is 15, not quite an adult, and faced with the unhappy prospect of the marriage to Robert Baratheon, a man she does not like and she knows will not stop his sleeping around. Rhaegar here offers her a far more palatable out.

Converse that with Rhaegar, an established married adult, who from all accounts does not seem to have an unhappy marriage - including when Aegon the Infant is born assuming Dany's vision is genuine, which is very recent vis-a-vis the Lyanna abduction. For that, we know that none of these pressures that Lyanna is dealing are shared by Rhaegar. Simultaneously, Rhaegar is endangering the Martell alliance and knows that his actions will royally piss off the Starks and the Baratheons - who are both tied by fosterage ties to the Arryns. That's the entirety of the east coast of Westeros from the Arm to the Wall, and that's something that Rhaegar has to take into account. He knows his marriage to Elia Martell is a political transaction, and he knows that the marriage between Lyanna and Robert is as well. So this has to factor into his thinking.

Again, in the most charitable interpretation of Rhaegar's actions, where he sincerely believes that he needs to do this in order to fulfill the prophecy and save the world from an icy doom, he's really hampering his destined child's ability to do that. In every interpretation of the "destroy the Others" myth, the hero is not a lone warrior but a leader of men - even the Last Hero had his companions who died over the course of his journey. That means that it's not enough just to sire this destined child, but to ensure that he has the people necessary to perform his task. That means Rhaegar has to be cognizant of ensuring the realm's preservation.

Of course, if Rhaegar doesn't know this, then he's causing extreme domestic unrest for an unclear reason, which again, is an issue which lays solely at Rhaegar's feet. Lyanna didn't know anything about the Last Hero save as a story from Old Nan.

Rhaegar was a reckless fool, and helped cause the bloody civil war. Aerys was worse, but Rhaegar is no innocent soul swept up into an impossible situation by his father's paranoid insanity. There is no blame Lyanna and Rhaegar equally because both came into this situation from different positions, and have different contexts for their actions. I believe @turtle-paced and @goodqueenaly have written extensively on this subject. They may wish to add or reblog with links to their own writings on the matter as they see fit.

Thanks for your question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[ode-to-fury]

Winter Thorns and Iron Crowns Pt. 9

Summary: After the feast at Winterfell, he reader returned to King’s Landing to tend to princess Elia and her friend Rhaegar. The tourney at Harrenhal is nearing, and tensions and excitement in the Red Keep are high.

Pairings: Arthur Dayne x reader, Stannis Baratheon x reader

Disclaimer: ooh boy this is going to be a long one because I love swordfighting and tourneys! I really really do. But anyway. Certain characters were not mentioned in canon as eing at Harrenhal… I dont really care I think its better this way. Also this is going to change the story a little bit, but just bear with me, I hope it works out in the end.

The tourney at Harrenhaal was nearing. The Red Keep was in an upheaval as everyone prepared for the journey. Rhaegar and Elia had even made the journey back from Dragonstone to prepare. Arthur did not understand the commotion, all he saw was a week’s worth of opportunity for the king and the prince to be harmed on the journey. He’d been surprised that king Aerys wanted to attend, but Rheagar had said that his father was becoming more and more suspicious of him, and he suspected that the little eunuch whispering into the king’s ear did not help matters. Arthur himself was unsure whether Rheagar had had a hand in organising the Tourney, if he had, he had kept it from Arthur, though his presence at the Red Keep pointed toward some scheming. Arthur held his peace, however. His place was to protect Rhaegar, not question him.

Y/n was perhaps the most excited person in the castle. She had scarce been back for a week before the anouncement had been made, and ever since then she had not been able to sit still. The precious few moments that he could find to spend with her, whether alone or in company, were almost completely occupied by thoughts on the journey, the tourney, Harrenhaal itself, and above all, her family. He loved to see her so animated, and also had to admit that he was quite interested to meet her brothers and sister. Rickard Stark he had met already, when she had been presented at court, but the others were still a mystery to him. As he watched her stride through the hall in front of him and Ashara, he wondered if Lyanna Stark was anything as wonderful as her twin sister.

He was startled out of his thoughts by Ashara’s hand on his arm.

“You’ve been quiet these past weeks,” she said to him softly. This was a conversation meant for his ears only.

“I am always quiet, Ashara,” he replied in the same tone.

“Are you worried about the tourney?”

He scoffed. “Please, Ashara, it is far from a havit of mine to boast, but the only opponent who will present a challenge is the Mountain, and I have beaten him before. No, I think rather it is the excitement. A change, perhaps, that makes you think my normal manner is strange,” he finished. Which was true. Everyone around him seemed more animated than usual, even Rhaegar. He would be lying to himself, however, if he said he was not looking forward to the tourney somewhat. A chance to test his skills, a chance to knock men into the dirt. His hand flexed slightly, and he fought to keep the smile from his face.

She nodded as if he’d just confirmed an illness.

“Then it is as I feared,” she said solemnly.

“What is it?” He asked, rather irked, “If you have something to say, say it.”

“You are in love,” she said simply.

Fuck. His stomach did about three somersaults, and every muscle in his body tensed. He kept his face as neutral as possible.

“Let me remind you, sister, of my vows and the nature of them. You think me a fool, then, who would throw away his honour?”

She was silent for a while.

“Then, brother, I will give you some advice,” he opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

“When you stare at her, disguise the longing in your eyes. And do not act on your feelings. She is a kind, noble girl, and a dearest friend. One day she will be married to a great lord, and I do not wish to see either of your hearts broken. Keep your longing to your dreams, Arthur.”

She let go of his arm, and strode on after Y/n, leaving Arthur alone in the corridor.

He hadn’t realised how indiscreet he’d been. He suspected if Y/n had paid him any more attention than she had, they would have been found out.

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

Three days before they were due to leave a letter arrived for Y/n. She was sitting with Ashara in the library, like they did every Saturday.

“It’s from my father,” she said aloud when she saw the wolf’s head seal, to satisfy her companion’s curiosity. Ashara nodded and leant back slightly in her chair.

She watched as Y/n read the letter, a frown appearing almost immediately, and her expression only getting worse from there. By the time she had finished she was pale, and her agitation worried Ashara.

“What is it?” She asked, when the letter had been folded up and placed in Y/n’s sleave.

“Nothing,” she said softly. It was a lie and both of them knew it.

“My father will not attend the tourney, I must go longer without seeing him,” she amended her earlier statement.

“I am sorry, Y/n,” Ashara said, genuinely feeling for her friend. She was alone in King’s Landing, no family. And from how she spoke about him, she had been very close to her father.

Y/n shook her head, and put on a charming smile.

“Well, nothing to be done now,” she said, and continued their chess game.

Perhaps she would ask Arthur to speak to her. Regardless of his feelings toward her friend, she seemed to look at him purely as a companion, and she seemed to enjoy his company. Perhaps she would tell him what she was so very obviously hiding from Ashara.

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

Her room could be reached from the gardens. The plants climbing up the walls, combined with the gutters meant that he could climb up with barely anyone seeing.

Arthur knocked on the window. A few seconds later brought her scowling face to him.

She opened the window, and he pulled himself inside.

“What the fuck are you doing?” She scolded.

“I needed to see you,” was his simple answer.

“So you climb through the window and give me a heart attack instead of using the door?”

He carefully opened the door to her outer rooms, and saw the guards were stationed in the hallway.

“And how did you want me to get in at this hour?”

She didn’t answer, only shook her head and closed the window. This was the first time he noticed she was in her dressing gown, with her hair loose and flowing. He tried to stop the warmth in his cheeks when she turned around to face him. The material was too thin to be a comfort. The fire in her eyes from a few seconds before was gone, replaced with that same darkness that had been clouding them for the past few days.

“You have been subdued,” he said, “Ashara said it has something to do with a letter you received.”

She looked away from him and walked toward her bed, sitting down in front of her writing desk.

“Yes, my father said that he wasn’t coming to the tourney, I told Ashara this.”

“But there is something else,” he said.

She stared at the wood in front of her, not seeing. It pained him to see her so unhappy.

“You avoid my eyes when I look at you.”

She snorted softly, “You have been avoiding me as well.”

“You know why,” he countered.

She shook her head, and then nodded, as if making a decision, before picking up a folded paper and walking over to hand it to him.

“This is my father’s letter,” she said, not looking him in the eyes.

He scanned the first few lines, and then his eye caught hold of a word.

Marriage.

His heart clenched. He read the rest of the letter with a growing feeling of dread, and loss. Carefully holding a neutral expression, for her sake, he said, “I see,” it came out like a croak.

He looked to where she was now sitting on her bed, not looking at him.

“You’re to be married?” He said. His chest was hurting like someone had hit him there.

“I don’t know to who yet, but my father is confident he will arrange the match by spring,” she said. Her voice was just as carefully calm as his.

“Edmure Tully seems likely.”

He sat down in front of her, letter forgotten.

He lifted his hand to cup her cheek, stroking a thumb over the smooth skin.

“I will ask Rheagar to null my vows,” he said fervently.

“If he appeals to his father and- “

“-You think he will?” Came her answer.

“He is my best friend.”

“If I was prince Rheagar, it would take more than that to sway me into relinquishing the Sword of the Morning,” she spoke candidly.

He put the matter aside for later consideration.

“Besides,” she continued, “My father wants an advantageous match. Someone from Westeros, not Dorne. Not from Starfall.”

“I see no way short of running,” she said softly. “And that I know you will not do.”

He had to look away as tears stung his eyes. He stood up and walked over to the window, trying to compose himself, but failing miserably, his heart hurting more with every second.

“Are you that determined to be rid of me?” He asked. He shouldn’t have, because he knew it would hurt.

This time it was her turn to make him look at her. Walking over to where he stood, she kissed him softly, and he wanted to sob.

She smiled and shook her head. It was a sad smile.

“You only ever kiss me once,” she said, looking up at him slyly from beneath her eyelashes.

If he did not feel like his heart was broken in his chest, he would have teased back, but just then, he only leant forward and kissed her again. Over and over. His hands tangling in her soft hair.

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

The tourney started with the melee. Lyanna watched animatedly as the large group of knights stood before the king. Their armour sparkled in the sun. She could barely contain her excitement.

“Y/n, isn’t this incredible?” She asked her sister sitting next to her. Only a year had passed since they had last seen each other, and Lyanna thanked the gods once more for bringing them together again so soon. Benjen sat on Y/n’s other side, holding on to her arm as if to make sure she was real. Y/n ruffled his hair.

Brandon was standing on the field, spreading out with the other men. She so hoped he would win, so house Stark would be honoured at the end of the Tourney. She saw Robert a little further off, laughing and joking with some of the other men. He was handsome, at least. She supposed he was good-natured enough.

But would that ever be a true substitute for love?

“Quite,” her sister said, smiling as she gazed at the knights. Lyanna followed her sister’s gaze and, sure enough, her eyes landed on ser Arthur, splendid in his white kingsguard armour, cape flowing behind him. He was speaking to prince Rhaegar. She forced thoughts of Robert from her mind for now, wanting to enjoy her time with her family.

“Who do you think will win?” Lyanna asked, “I so want Bran to do well, but I would put my money on the Mountain.”

Her sister seemed to contemplate the gathered men, who had started to circle one another.

“Ser Arthur,” she said, nodding, “I have no doubt.”

“Against the Mountain?” Lyanna asked, “Surely you don’t think so?”

The corner of Y/n’s mouth lifted.

“You’ve never seen him fight, Lya,” she said.

“Want to bet?” Lyanna asked.

A mischievous glint appeared in her sister’s eyes.

“Perhaps,” she said. “And what would the loser forfeit?”

“Their pride?” Lyanna suggested. “Is that not enough? Or perhaps that saddle of yours that father had made for you a few years back.”

Y/n’s eyes widened. Then she smiled.

“And if Arthur wins?” She asked innocently.

Lyanna thought for a moment. Then she sighed.

“You get one favour,” she said. “Anything.”

Y/n’s eyebrow lifted above a mischievous smile.

“Agreed,” she said.

“Just because you love him does not mean he will win,” Lyanna said, softly enough so Benjen would not hear.

Y/n narrowed her eyes at her, but did not say anything.

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

The last two competitors standing in the melee were Arthur and the Mountain. Y/n was worried enough about him to almost forget about her bet with Lyanna. Robert had been cut down by The Mountain in one stroke, while Bran had been taken out by Rheagar, and Rheagar by Arthur. The prince was better with a sword than most expected, but he was no match for her Sword of the Morning.

It was with no small amount of pride that she watched the last two competitors square up to each other. Arthur looked like a prince in his kingsguard armour, shining in the sun.

She leaned forward in her seat slightly as the two men circled each other, very aware of Lyanna smiling knowingly from beside her.

The Mountain struck first, a heavy blow that Arthur avoided easily. The crowd gasped and jeered, many of them also having placed bets on one man or the other. Arthur struck next, Dawn’s blunt replacement glimmering in the summer sun, just as heavy a blow that The Mountain didn’t avoid, but easily deflected.

They were testing each other’s defences. The Mountain was the strongest man in the seven kingdoms, but Arthur was smarter and faster.

As they watched, Robert joined them, sitting on the other side of Lyanna, grumbling good naturedly about his loss. She wondered vaguely where Ned and Brandon had gotten to. Stannis was supposed to be here as well, though whether he would actually attend was a different matter.

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

Arthur was struggling today. He was slow. He was still faster than any other man at the fight, but his senses were not what they should be. He’d gone too long without fighting in front of so many people, and their shouts and jeers were distracting him, added to the fact that he had slept badly on their journey and the two days in the tents.

He tried to focus, and walked forward, raining a flurry of blows on Ser Gregor. The man staggered back, but before Arthur could dance back out of reach of his broadsword, Gregor swung, and caught him on the side of the chest, knocking the wind from him, and making him drop to his knees.

The cheers and jeers welled up around him again as he got up, frantically trying to steady his breathing as he and Gregor circled each other again. A real fight would have been over by now, but both men knew there was an element of showmanship that had to be honoured in front of a crowd.

Blood thundered in Arthur’s ears from the thrill of the fight, and he smiled slightly. This was when he felt alive. True, not so much as when he had been fighting the Smiling Knight, when lives were at stake, but here too there was glory on the line. Only here, only in battle was he ever truly free.

Glory, and honour, and bloodlust… the roar of the crowd grew softer, and his senses hightened so that he could feel every muscle in his body, smell the sweat from his opponent, see Ser Gregor’s eyes glittering slightly from beneath his helm.

He advanced forward with a slight snarl, and the trap worked.

Gregor swung, and Arthur dodged, and stepped forward, inside his guard. He swung down on the other knight’s wrists, knocking the sword from them, then kicked him in the stomach, before bringing the hilt of his sword up to make square contact with his opponent’s nose.

The Mountain staggered back, and Arthur hooked a foot behind his, making him fall to the ground, and levelled his sword at him.

“I yield,” the Mountain said.

There was a cheer from the crowd.

The sound of their joyful shouts as Lord Whent lifted up his hand more than equalled the prize money that he had won. He bowed to the crowd and bestowed the flowered crown to Ashara, crowning her the Spring Flower of the tournament, while she kissed him on the cheek in a show of sisterly affection.

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

He was standing shirtless in the healer’s tent when Y/n entered with her sister. His ribs were aching from the Mountain’s blow, and he could already see a dark bruise forming.

She looked happier than she’d been in days, and that made the pain from the bruise seem worth it.

“My lady,” he said, though the formality was cut short with a wince as the Maester applied ointment to his bruised skin.

“I hope you’ll pardon us, Ser Arthur,” the formality was practised, nothing in her voice gave anything away, nothing in her manner, or tone, “but my sister wanted desperately to meet the knight that cost her a bet,” she said, smiling at her sister.

Lyanna Stark was not what he had been expecting. She had the same easy grace as her sister, the same mannerisms and wolfish smile, but that was where the similarities ended. She was shorter, with dark brown hair and a longer face. He could see why some men said she was the more comely sister, though he had to disagree. There were no scars on her cheek, either.

“A pleasure,” he said, smiling at her. “I’m sorry I would greet you more formally, but- “, He winced again.

“You fought well,” Lyanna said, “I was confident I would be the one gloating all the way here, but I underestimated you,” just for a second, he caught a flash of pride in Y/n’s eyes as the sisters smiled, and he nearly fainted.

“I think perhaps your sister did have an unfair advantage, seeing as she has witnessed me beat Ser Gregor before,” he said. Y/n shot him a scathing look, and Lyanna shot a playfully withering look at her.

She opened her mouth to say something, but just then Gregor Clegane entered the tent, he needed to hunch over to fit, and he was holding his nose, which Arthur had no doubt he had broken quite badly.

He caught Y/n smiling as she watched the man and levelled a playful scowl at her. She returned an offended expression.

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

“Lady Stark, I am loath to trouble you,” the poor Maester said, “but Ser Gregor’s wounds are more urgent, and I know you are trained more than most...” he held out the bandage he had been about to wrap around Arthur’s ribs.

“It is no trouble, it won’t take a minute,” she said, taking it from him.

“Lyanna, I will meet you in a few minutes,” she said to her sister.

“Oh… I can wait.” she started uncertainly, but Y/n knew her sister. She was better at sitting still, but not good, and the excitement of the fair around them called to her.

“Go,” she said, one corner of her mouth lifting.

“Oh alright,” she said, “If you’re late for the puppet show I’ll find you and drag you there by your hair.”

“Lyanna!” She exclaimed, glancing at Arthur and the Measter. The latter had not heard, and Arthur was pretending he hadn’t.

Lyanna laughed and was off, dashing from the tent.

She turned to Arthur’s bruise. There was a part of skin in the middle that was open, and small trickles of blood were visible. The Maester hadn’t put enough salve on, in her opinion, so she fetched more.

“He did not do it right?” Arthur asked as she was smearing a thick glob over the wound.

She pressed a little harder and he yelped, which made her grin.

“He is just busy today, I cannot really blame him,” she said.

“You bet on me?” He asked. His tone was low, so that only she could hear.

“Yes, and you almost made me wish I hadn’t. You were sloppy,” she said, putting the ointment down and picking up the bandage again.

“Hold,” she said, pressing it to his chest. He lifted up a hand to hold it there.

“I was tired,” he said, and she felt a twinge of guilt, neither of them had slept well since her father’s letter had arrived.

“You needed my dirty Northern tricks to beat him,” she said, smirking slightly when she looked up at him. He frowned.

“Not so dirty or so Northern as to be dishonourable,” he said, “Besides, the crowds loved it.”

She rolled her eyes as she walked around him with the bandage.

“The crowds loved you, idiot,” she said. She used a needle and thread to secure the bandage.

“If my brother had fought like that he would have been booed from the arena.”

Her fingers involuntarily travelled over the skin of his back, and she felt him shiver slightly.

He turned around, catching her wrist softly. But they were shielded from the Maester by his turned back.

“You should go to your sister, my lady,” he said, tone back to normal, violet eyes filled with such tender affection it hurt to look at them. He kissed her fingers softly, and she couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her lips.

“We will see each other at the feast tonight?” She asked.

“Of course,” he replied. For good measure, she poked him in the ribs, making him yelp in pain again, and scowl at her as she left the tent grinning.

She made her way to the puppet show, but was stopped on the way there by a frantic Lyanna, dragging behind her none other than a very battered and bruised Howland Reed.

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

When Arthur arrived at the feast hall with Ashara, he immediately spotted the Starks.

He was surprised to find Y/n not with her family, and even more surprised to see the Reed boy sitting in the middle of them.

Y/n was speaking to Elia and Rheagar near the front of the room.

She was like a vision. Her dress was Dornish, and he was more than sure that princess Elia must have convinced her to wear it. Fabric crisscrossed over her strong shoulders, and there were stretches of skin visible just below her navel, and at her waist. Her hair was loose, no braids, and the fabric was a seafoam green. It took every ounce of his control not to walk straight over and kiss her, but he managed it.

“Do you like her dress?” Ashara asked him softly as they walked forward. She was smiling knowingly at him.

“It was your idea?” He asked.

“Elia’s,” came the reply.

Y/n made eye contact with him and smiled. That soft smile that she had just for him. He nodded slightly, and he and Ashara started circling over to the prince.

“She looks beautiful,” he breathed, “she is beautiful.”

The pity in Ashara’s eyes when he managed to drag his eyes back to her was unbearable.

“I’m going to marry her one day, Ashara,” he said, his eyes travelling back to her. “When Rheagar takes the throne, I’ll take her away from all of this, and we’ll be happy.”

He had to believe that, it was the only thing that kept him going.

“I know,” she whispered back, squeezing his hand.

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

She excused herself from the discussion with Rhaegar about the day’s events when she saw Arthur and Ashara approaching.

Not for the first time she thought that Arthur was what a prince should truly look like.

He and Ashara both wore light purple, the embroidery on his tunic was gold, and the dress she and her friend had decided on had silver flowers climbing up the skirts.

It was unfair how gorgeous Ashara was, but just then not even a real dragon could have drawn Y/n’s eyes away from Arthur. She so rarely saw him dressed in something other than armour, his dark skin was stark against the light fabric, and his violet eyes shone when he looked at her, making her heart flutter.

She didn’t say hello when she passed them, only squeezed Ashara’s hand warmly, and nodded at Arthur. He bowed slightly, only one corner of his mouth lifting.

She couldn’t help the smile on her face as she floated through the room. She didn’t feel like going to her family just yet, though she did with some interest see Ned leaning over to Brandon and say something while pointing at Ashara.

I’ll make him dance with her before the night ends, she thought, because who better for her brother than her dearest friend? He was perhaps the only man in Westeros who could ever be good enough for her, it would just take her some convincing.

She looked around for a while, trying to find who it was she was looking for. When she saw him next to the door, alone, she smiled.

She immediately made her way over to Stannis Baratheon. Something in her chest always felt lighter when she was close to him, her oldest, truest friend.

He bowed when he saw her.

“Y/n,” he greeted. There was no smile, but she didn’t expect one from him.

“A bit informal, no?” She said, smirking.

He just frowned.

“A dance?” She asked, holding out her hand to him. Sometimes you needed to force someone to have fun, even if they didn’t want to.

“No,” he said curtly.

She frowned at him indignantly, crossing her arms.

“You can’t refuse me,” she said, “It’s not honourable to refuse to dance with a lady when she has had to scrape up all her courage to come ask you.”

He didn’t smile when he said, “I think it’s more honourable of me to spare you from my dancing, and I am sure you didn’t have to scrape together anything other than humility to ask me to dance with you.”

This time her frown was exasperated.

“You can’t stand here alone all night,” she said, and held out her hand again, “dance with me. I’m not wonderful at it either, but it’s still fun. Besides, you already avoided me at the melee earlier.”

He stared at her hand, and then his shoulders seemed to slump ever so slightly.

He took her outstretched hand and allowed her to lead him to where others were dancing.

He’d always been better at dancing than she was, and before long his shoulders had relaxed, and his jaw unclenched enough that she could speak to him. It reminded her of galas at Storm’s End, before his parents had died.

“You truly still are not the best at this,” he said.

“What did you think of Robert losing today?” She asked, ignoring him. “Since you did not deign to sit near me.”

A small smile graced his lips then.

“I would be lying if I said I did not enjoyed it,” he said as they swayed. She smiled back, letting him lead her around the floor for a while.

“Do you think my dress is too much?” She asked. She’d wanted to ask him earlier, but hadn’t known how. If anyone would tell her he would.

For a second she thought she saw him swallow, but she dismissed the thought.

“Only the princess made me wear it, but I feel almost naked,” she said.

She saw his eyes scan down her frame quickly.

“You look fine,” he said. She felt her cheeks warm.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “How is Storm’s End?” she said quickly, changing topics. She didn’t like the tightness in her chest when he complimented her. She frowned slightly when she realised she thought of that as a compliment from him.

“Busy,” he said, “As always.”

“You like busy, it gives you an excuse to avoid people,” she said, and allowed him to twirl her, laughing as she lost her balance slightly. He cast her an annoyed look.

“You know, just because everyone else partakes in the wine- “

She hit him lightly on the arm, plastering and offended expression on her face.

“You know I don’t, and I know you well enough that your insults don’t pass by me unnoticed.”

He smiled at her, but made no response. She frowned. She’d never noticed how soft his eyes became when he smiled.

“Earlier I complimented Lord Edmure on his axe throwing,” he said.

She burst out laughing, knowing that Edmure had not taken part in the axe throwing, but had lost spectacularly in the melee.

Her laughter died quickly, however, when she thought of Edmure.

“My father wants me to marry him,” she said.

To her surprise, Stannis missed a step, but he recovered smoothly, and she ignored it.

“Edmure Tully?” he asked, frowning, any hint of a smile vanished. “I thought your brother was marrying Catelyn Tully?”

“Yes,” she said, and he twirled her again, “So he wants me to marry Edmure so there will be a Stark in Storm’s End, Winterfell and Riverrun.”

He frowned deeper, his jaws grinding.

“Stop that, you’ll run out of teeth,” she said absently. “Edmure at least is better than Jon Umber or,” she shuddered at the thought, “Roose Bolton.”

“Roose Bolton?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, “Don’t the northmen call him- “

“The Leech Lord?” she finished for him. “Correct.”

He pulled his mouth in distaste, and she found herself smiling.

She opened her mouth to tell him about the last time she’d met Roose Bolton, but the music stopped, and she saw that a line of about five girls had formed to take her place in front of Stannis. He might be the younger brother, and not the most charming, but he was still a Baratheon, and an eligible one at that.

She grinned evilly at the small panic she saw in his eyes, but left him to his fate, though somewhat reluctantly. Some part of her wanted to stay next to him for the whole night, like when they were little.

The other part thought of Arthur.

She made her way over to her brothers, Lyanna was off somewhere.

“Is there going to be another Baratheon betrothal sometime soon, sister?” Brandon asked as soon as she sat down and got some food. Benjen, seeing their brother preoccupied with her, immediately reached over and stole a sip from his wine cup. He smiled sheepishly at her, and she winked back, she nudged her own cup closer to him with an elbow.

“No,” she said with her mouth full. “But he’s not standing by the wall alone anymore, so I won’t hear you or anyone else say anything bad about him for the rest of the week.”

Brandon smiled.

“You still eat like a starving peasant,” he said.

“Ned, you should ask Ashara to dance,” she said, taking another large bite to spite her oldest brother.

Ned choked on his wine, and she, Benjen and Brandon laughed.

“If I thought there was a chance I would,” he said when he’d recovered.

She exchanged a look with Brandon, and he winked at her, making her smile.

“Gods they’re going to make me sing,” she said, suddenly remembering, with all the talk of Ashara, that she had been the one to suggest it.

She has the loveliest voice in the world, your grace, of course she must sing at the tourney. It had been all Y/n could do to not throw the potatoes she’d been eating at her.

“They should, you have a beautiful voice,” Ned said.

“Perhaps, but not in front of the entire kingdom,” she replied, “and not with Rheagar.”

“Prince Rhaegar looks more a king than the king does,” Benjen said absently, taking another bite of his food.

“Hush,” Y/n scolded gently. “Not so loud.”

“Why?” Ned asked immediately, and Brandon leant forward.

“His grace is… unstable,” she said slowly. “He thinks Rhaegar planned this whole tourney so he could seize the crown before Aerys dies. Why do you think he came? It was to keep an eye on his son.”

“Surely not?” Brandon was leaning forward in earnest now.

She nodded.

“If you ask me, the sooner the better,” she said. “But enough now. If there was one thing I learned in the Red Keep it’s that there is always another pair of ears listening.”

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

Ned was astounded as he watched his sister sing. She wore a seafoam green dress which showed a lot more than he was comfortable with.

She’d always been the quiet one, between her and Lyanna. The same wild spirit, but a snarl instead of a howl.

Now... she had blossomed in King’s Landing, even more than the last time he had seen her, a year ago at Lyanna’s betrothal. Now, as she sang accompanied by Rhaegar’s harp, he found himself gaping.

“They’ve improved her voice tenfold,” Lyanna said from next to him. He saw a sort of fierce pride in her eyes as she looked at her younger twin.

“As beautiful as a winter rose,” he echoed what he’d overheard one of the knights say to a companion earlier.

Brandon snorted from across the table.

“More like a thorn from one of those roses,” he said. Lyanna grinned, though her eyes never left her sister.

Ned’s eyes were moving around the room, however, and they fell on Stannis Baratheon as Y/n started a new song.

The youth’s spoon was halfway to his mouth, dripping soup as he watched Y/n sing. He almost felt sorry for the younger Baratheon brother, because there was no chance that lord Rickard would consent to having both of his daughters married to Baratheons. It had taken enough convincing for him to consent to Lyanna’s marriage.

There was more than just Stannis watching enraptured as she sang. Many of his father’s bannermen, hedge knights… some squires gaped openly.

His eyes moved further, and he caught sight of Arthur Dayne and his sister, both smiling as they watched her perform. The knight watched her with barely contained longing, but when Ned tried to look closer, he locked eyes with the lady Ashara. She smiled, and he blushed before quickly looking away, all thoughts of ser Arthur gone from his mind.

“These southern lords will reach out their hands, thinking to pluck a flower, and then yowl and curse when they get pricked,” Brandon said, smiling as he looked up at Y/n.

“You think so?” Ned asked.

“Look at her smile, Ned,” Brandon said. “They’ll fall at her feet like slaves if she isn’t careful.”

Lyanna laughed.

“Brandon,” she said, “You know our sister. The day she marries I’ll eat my left foot.”

“I used to say that about you, little Lyanna,” Brandon said, grinning at how her face soured.

“Also, you cannot tell me she hasn’t convinced one of them to teach her the sword yet,” he continued.

Ned scoffed. “You think one of them would?”

“Of course,” he said. “If she pouted at them and batted her pretty eyelashes and said her ‘please milords’. They like flattery, these knights. Look at how she holds herself, look at her arms. Are you telling me stitching gives a woman rocks for shoulders?”

Ned had to admit that Brandon was right.

“I bet you’re dismayed you weren’t the one father sent south now, little Lyanna,” Brandon said. “It might’ve been you up there with a sword arm and a golden voice.”

Lyanna scowled at him.

“I’ve all I need in Winterfell,” she said. “Besides, in a few years I’ll travel south anyhow, and be a grand lady in a southern castle just like her. Court life was always more for her than for me.”

“That’s truth enough,” Ned said. “You’d drag mud on their pretty carpets.”

Brandon laughed.

“Lyanna the little wolf,” he said. “Though I seem to remember that Y/n had about as much mud on her boots as you or I.”

“She did,” Lyanna said, “Though she knew to wipe them off before running inside.”

As if to prove him right, Y/n finished her song, the tale of the moon and her wolf lover, with a wild howl that echoed through the chamber. Lyanna and Brandon replied in kind, though Ned wanted to melt through the floor at his siblings’ behaviour. All three of them laughed loudly at their own jest, and some of the southern lords and ladies even joined in.

Y/n danced merrily from the stage as the band picked up a new tune.

“And here is the Winterthorn herself,” Brandon boomed as she sat down next to him.

“Winterthorn?” She asked, grabbing for a trencher and soup. “Brandon, dear brother, you certainly know how to flatter a lady.”

Brandon laughed.

“It should be your sigil, Y/n,” Lyanna said, grinning her wolf grin. “Thorns on your cloak and your dresses and in your hair. Just as prickly as the rest of you.”

Y/n responded with a grin of her own, and when she did, the two sisters looked so alike that no one could doubt they were twins.

“The she-wolf and the Winterthorn,” Brandon said, leaning back, “What a pair.”

He was stopped from commenting further by Y/n shushing him.

“Lyanna,” she said excitedly, “Listen to Rhaegar sing.”

Sure enough, the prince was tuning his harp for his own song this time. When he started a slow melody, the hall fell quiet.

Lyanna was crying by the end, and Y/n was staring at Rhaegar with a dreamy expression on her face, her eyes far away.

“The dragon can sing as well as fight, then,” Brandon said. He lifted his goblet of wine up to where the Tully’s were gathered, and Ned saw Cat blush and look away from them quickly.

“Oh, he sings wonderfully!” Lyanna said.

“You should hear him, Lyanna,” Y/n said. “He walks out among the people in Fleabottom, singing for them, and by the end most of them are in tears as well.”

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

Ned had ended up dancing with Ashara.

He had barely said two words to her, he was thinking so hard about not falling over his own feet, or hers.

Now he walked to where his and Brandon’s tents were set up. The moon overhead was bright, bright enough that he had no trouble seeing where he was going. The moonlight reflected off of the surface of the lake before him.

Walking around the edge of the pavillions, he heard voices coming from the edge of the lake.

Familiar voices.

He crept closer.

“You looked beautiful.”

That was Arthur Dayne’s voice, coming from the edge of the lake, concealed from Ned by some shrubs on the edge of the water.

“In most places I think it is considered bad form to outshine the crown princess at a gala.”

Ned had a horrible, terrible suspision that he knew who the man was speaking to.

“Ned was dancing with your sister when I left.”

Y/n.

Anger burned through him, and he loosened the sword at his side, crawling closer to where the voices came from.

Ser Arthur laughed softly.

“Touching.”

There was a silence, and Ned’s face burned when he thought of what the two of them might be doing.

Without thinking about it any further, he burst through the bushes, drawing his sword as he did so.

Arthur was already on his feet, pushing Y/n behind him, he had no sword with him, but held a dagger in front of him, ready to attack.

“Ned?” Y/n’s voice was incredulous.

“Get away from her,” was all Ned could think to say.

“Ned, what are you-?“

“Y/n,” he said, not lowering his sword, “get away from him, now.”

“I would ask you not to speak to a lady like that, lord Stark,” Ser Arthur had not dropped his dagger either.

“Oh, both of you, drop your damn weapons!” Y/n said angrily, stepping out from behind ser Arthur, ignoring his protests.

He lowered his dagger, albeit slowly and reluctantly.

Ned did not lower his sword.

Y/n lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Get away from him.”

She lifted her chin.

“Or what?”

“Or what?” He asked incredulously, “Or what? Y/n, this could ruin you!”

She crossed her arms, pursing her lips.

“Do you think perhaps I am some kind of idiot, brother?”

He gaped at her.

“Of course not!” He stammered. “I only- I do not- “

“Ned,” she said, and this time her expression softened. She stepped back and layed a hand on ser Arthur’s arm, looking up at him.

“I care for him.”

“Y/n,” he started. “This is dangerous.”

“I know, Ned,” she said, and for the first time since she had bid goodbye to him at the Eyrie so long ago, he saw sadness in her grey eyes. True sadness.

“I know.”

“Lord Stark,” ser Arthur started, “If you believe for a moment I would let anything happen to her- “

“Perhaps you should hold your tongue, ser,” Ned said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Y/n looked between the two of them.

“Arthur,” she said, still looking at Ned. “I will see you when I am able.”

Arthur nodded, and Ned saw again that dangerous glint in his eyes he had seen during the melee. The knight’s jaw was clenched tightly as he dipped his head.

“Lady Stark,” he said, then turned and bowed to Ned. “Lord Stark.”

When Arthur left, Ned grabbed Y/n by the arm and started pulling her toward their family pavillion.

“You’re not going to tell Brandon, are you?” She asked, trying to rip her arm from his grip.

“I should,” he snapped. “I should tell Brandon and have him go and cut ser Arthur’s pretty little head from his shoulders.”

His sister mumbled something that he chose not to hear.

He glanced at her, caught between worry and exasperation.

“I suppose it is too much to assume Lyanna does not know?”

She stared back at him defiantly, and he sighed in frustration.

“What were you thinking?” He said, stopping before they reached the pavillion.

“He is a good man, Ned.”

“Is he?” Ned asked. “I saw him in the melee today. For the gods’ sakes, Y/n, I saw him but a few moments ago! I saw the bloodlust in his eyes. Is he a good man?”

She pursed her lips.

“Yes,” she said. “He is.”

“Father wants you to marry.”

“I know my duties, Ned.”

“Yet you run around dallying with kingsguard knights- “

“And?” She hissed, careful not to speak too loudly. “I must spend the rest of my life married to some lord I will not like, much less love. Is it a sin to want to know what it is like? Is it a sin to want someone to care for me?”

He sighed again.

“I will not tell Brandon. I will pretend I saw nothing, though it will eat me from inside.”

Her face split into a grin and she opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a finger.

“If,” he said, “You promise to be more careful.”

“Thank you,” she said, standing on her toes so she could kiss his cheek. 

She frowned up at him for a moment.

“He would never hurt me, Ned. Never.”

She turned around and entered the pavilion, ending the discussion. Ned stared after her for a few moments. 

“I hope you are right, little sister.”

[moon-ruled-rising]

as the rain hides the stars | xvii

Read it on ao3... or Wattpad...

Babe, there’s something lonesome about you.

Something so wholesome about you,

get closer to me.

-Hozier, “From Eden”

The Godswood of Winterfell was always magical. Something about the overgrowth of the plants gave it a mystical quality and enhanced that it was a holy place. It was surrounded by activity and noise but remained quiet and peaceful, wholly removed from the frenetic atmosphere of the castle. Jon found himself there often, listening to the soft bubbling of the hot spring and the light birdsong. He’d spend hours there if he could but somebody always discovered him and the moment was ruined. 

 Now, instead of the uninterrupted nature scene, there were a hundred or so chairs arranged in front of the heart tree to form a long aisle lined with white and wine colored flowers and twinkling lights. The decorators even wove them around the tree branches, letting the strings dangle off and wave like the branches of a willow. At the beginning of each row of chairs stood an arch, laden with flowers and greenery. There wasn’t an altar or arbor, the Weirwood provided all of that, its red leaves stretched over the place they would stand. 

On top of the ethereal decor, the excited energy from everyone gathered for the rehearsal ceremony created a palpable buzz. Jon hoped it was enough to cover up his apprehension. He refused to be nervous, it wasn’t any different than all the state appearances and functions he participated in. But there was still reason to be hesitant.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Dany’s voice called from the back of the seating area, “The final fitting took longer than expected.”

The wedding planner assured her it was okay as Dany charged up the aisle. When she reached the front, a bundle of fabric was pushed into her arms and she settled into the seat next to Jon.

“Is that a bride’s cloak?” “Yes,” she sighed, “I had to make a compromise with Her majesty so I could repay a favor I owe someone.”

He assumed she meant the single photographer that prowled around the area of the Godswood, whose obnoxious camera clicks interrupted the soft bird song and whispers around them.

Dany unfolded the bundle and swept the black cloak around her shoulders, fastening the clasp with ease. Jon was a little pleased to see it was lined with fur.

“You’ll be glad to have it tomorrow,” he commented.

“Why? It feels fine right now.”

“There’s going to be a cold snap.”

The forecast didn’t predict for anything other than a rain shower over night but Jon could tell. The drizzle would turn to flurries and the snow would stick around long enough for the wedding ceremony around noon. At least it would be ice and snow instead of muddy and damp.

“Let me guess, you can feel it in your bones?”

“Something like that.”

“Doctors say that’s a sign of arthritis.”

Jon splayed his hands out in front of him and then turned them so Dany could see, “They look fine to me. Would you like to assess them, considering you have a wealth of medical knowledge?”

“Mm, I’ll pass, thank you.”

He shrugged and dropped his hands but unconsciously popped the joints. He noticed Dany doing the same thing.

“Alright everyone, let’s get started,” the wedding planner said, “We will be running through the whole ceremony so everything goes smoothly tomorrow. After the processional we will have the opening remarks and invocation from His Highness, Benjen Stark, a reading from both sets of Their Majesties, then the unity promise and changing of the bride’s cloak, then we’ll exchange vows and rings, and finally the recessional. It should be noted that the vows and rings section will only be mentioned.”

They were given the run down of the processional order and dismissed to their starting positions. Dany retreated back down the aisle with Sansa and Arya right behind her, wrangling a gaggle of high born children. A stirring, melancholy melody started from the string quartet behind the seating and his father and Catelyn started down the aisle. They were followed by Elia, escorted by Bran as her husband would be responsible for leading Dany.

As was a royal wedding custom, the bridesmaids and pageboys followed the bride down the aisle, so Dany walked before them. With her brother absent, she forged down the lengthy walkway by herself. She was far enough away that she looked small and lonely despite the bodies behind her.

That Dany reminded him of the version he’d first met, the outer shell of Daenerys that the media observed and critiqued. Jon would’ve assumed she used her solitary nature as a form of elitism. Keeping people at an arm’s length and seeming to float above them just to show she was better. But he knew her at least a little bit better than that and was starting to understand it.

Being alone was easier for Dany. He noticed that long and lengthy social events weighed on her. She still smiled and made conversation, like any good Princess was taught, but she always slipped away quietly when things settled down. It made sense then, why she skipped the gala to swim in fountains.

As she neared, Jon saw that instead of a bouquet she had a sword in her hands. It took him by surprise until he remembered that she was supposed to have it. The presentation of a weapon the groom could use to defend the bride was meant to further reinforce the idea that she was under his protection. Rheagar would carry it tomorrow but, for now, it was hers. And paired with the stoic look on her face, Dany looked like a painting of a warrior queen Jon saw at a museum opening once. A romanticized rendering of a woman standing against the backdrop of a dark, furious storm. Her dress and hair caught in the forceful gales before the skies opened up, the sword held tight against her chest. 

Then the breeze picked up, tousling Dany’s hair and fluttering the white silk of her rehearsal dress. And Jon wondered if the Gods pulled that warrior out of her frame and set her walking down the path toward him.  

“You picked a fine young woman, Jon,” Uncle Benjen remarked.

There weren’t priests for the old gods so the wedding committee picked the closest thing they had to a holy man. It helped that Uncle Benjen was ordained by the state too.

“We’re just lucky she hasn’t sprinted back down the aisle yet.”

Jon elbowed Robb in the ribs, “That’s because this is a rehearsal, dumbass.”

“You never know.”

But they did know and there was no chance anyone was allowed to get cold feet. 

Finally, Dany was standing at his side, her stoic expression as they turned to face Uncle Benjen. As he started in on his opening remarks, Dany set the tip of the scabbard into the ground and rested her crossed wrists on the pommel. 

The invocation started when Uncle Benjen started asking the Gods to watch over the ceremony and provide a number of things to the couple about to be married. It was during this that Dany leaned toward him and whispered,

“So, do you have a huge bachelor party planned for after this?”

“You mean like a stag party?”

“Yes, that.”

Jon hadn’t wanted to tell her about the custom practiced in the North so it would come as a surprise. But he figured Dany wasn’t a big fan of those, so he decided to tell her. The ceremony moved on to the readings.

“Actually, we have this… tradition-” the look she gave him was full of annoyance- “where the groom has to steal their intended from their family. Otherwise he isn’t worthy of her.”

“I think we’re far past needing to worry about ‘worthiness’ but continue.”

“And we get out of the castle for a while.”

“Just us?” she raised an eyebrow.

“And the security detail.”

“Alright, I’m in. Just one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Am I supposed to put up a fight?” the smirk on her face…

“You can if you want to,” Jon agreed.

“I’m in.”

Uncle Benjen stated it was time for the unity promise and motioned to Dany.

“If you plan to steal me, then you’ll probably need this.”

She offered the sword to Jon, the modestly embellished scabbard glinting as he took it. A hand-and-a-half, a bastard sword. A small smile bloomed on his face, he wondered if Dany knew it was called that. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, a little worn from use, and the silver pommel contained an egg shaped fire opal that shifted between orange and green and red. He pulled the sword out of the scabbard enough to reveal the swirling texture of the blade. Valyrian steel, the technique of making it was long lost to the world. Owning one was rare as the Targaryens kept them in a private collection. 

House Stark had one in their possession, the greatsword Ice. It was gifted to them by the original dragon lords of Valyria who settled on Dragonstone, before Aegon’s ambitious conquest and the doom. The greatsword was only used in the coronation ceremony of a new King of the North now but it was still considered to pass from king to king as though they still used it in battle.

It would belong to Jon, without question. But there was a time when it couldn’t be. He couldn’t remember if he really wanted the sword and he certainly didn't expect it. But what young, bastard boy doesn’t want to rise above his station by some miraculous means?

“Does it have a name? All the best swords have names.” Jon prompted, wondering if Dany knew any of the history behind the weapon.

“If it did, we don’t have any record of it. It’s one that we loan out to museums but I’ve always been fond of it so I figured it could find a home here.”

There was something wistful about her tone, as though she wasn’t really talking about the sword.

Jon handed the sword to Robb, who placed the Stark bride’s cloak in his hands. He turned back to Dany and she removed her Targaryen one. The direwolf embroidered in pearls and jet gave the cloak weight and her shoulders shifted trying to distribute it and keep the clasp from her throat.

“May you each bring your best self to the other. May you each bring commitment as well as faith to the task set before you. May you maintain enduring respect and trust. May all who follow your lives have cause often to rejoice, not only in happiness, but also in your brave and generous living,” Uncle Benjen recited.

Jon couldn’t think of a more perfect blessing for a marriage forged in politics. There was no reflection of love, merely neutral intent and factors that would make any business relationship successful. 

They had to go through the recessional, Dany and Jon retreating down the aisle to the playful cheers of their family. Luckily, the wedding planner deemed the single run through acceptable but there was still one more rehearsal waiting for the happy couple.

The tables of the Great Hall were pushed to the sides, as they would be after the dinner portion of the reception, to create a dancing space. Above them hung the banners of every house in the North, from Karstark to Reed, and the decorators hadn’t spared the hall in their descent upon the castle. The same flowers and lights were strung through the heavy chandeliers, similar bunches near sconces and on window panes.

The choreographer gave them last minute reminders before the music started. An old fiddle, guitar, and pipe ballad at a walking speed, perfectly paced for two arguably amateur dancers but a tad melancholy for a wedding celebration.

“Are you ready for this?” Dany asked over the music as they circled each other.

“As ready as I can be. You?”

“We’ll see.”

The first pass of steps was easy and they stayed far enough away to avoid injury. The next part brought them closer until Jon offered his hands and Dany accepted them. They both had to focus harder to keep from making mistakes. However, their little blunders still happened. 

The instructor once explained the symbolism behind the steps and their order. Something about the development of his and Dany’s relationship but also the expected camaraderie between North and South. Jon didn’t know if any of the wedding guests would pick up on it, they would be too drunk to really care, and all he could focus on was how complicated the steps were despite the slow pace of the song.

Jon second guessed his hand placement and missed the intended mark entirely, colliding with Dany’s rib cage. She stumbled but recovered.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to remember what piece of the overly complex choreography came next.

She chuckled and shrugged it off, “If it boosts your confidence, you’re better than a good portion of the partners I’ve danced with at court.” 

She looked up at him, inclining her chin in the slightest hint of movement. Their bodies were pressed close together as they moved back and forth across the floor, allowing them to lower their voices. 

“I highly doubt that.”

“Not all noblemen are light on their feet. I’ve had my fair share of toes and fingers crushed.”

“Fingers?”

“It’s a long story,” she dismissed.

“One for tonight?”

“If the conversation leads us there.”

They quieted as they came closer to the end of the dance, the series of steps and passes and small hops requiring their full attention if they wanted to get through it. Dany stepped on Jon’s foot when she was behind the music. 

The apologizing started again but was cut off when Jon wrapped his arm securely around her waist for a small lift, foreheads bent close to offset the gravity. Dany’s cheeks were a deeper shade of pink when he set her down but whether that was from the dance or something else he couldn’t tell.

They entered the last section of the dance, a series of spins and twirls ending with the two facing each other, palms touching. Instead of the expected applause, they were celebrated by a groan from the choreographer.

They received a sum of all their mistakes, accented by looks of disappointment, but Jon and Dany fell into their regular fit of stifled laughter that came with the hilarious thought of broken toes and misplaced hands. They would run it two more times before they were allowed to leave the Great Hall, tired and sweating.

Jon found Robb and Theon in the smoking lounge with a large group of people fussing over a pile of foam swords. Left overs from someone’s birthday party long ago but they would serve their purpose. 

“We’re going to have to split into teams, Dany doesn’t have enough family for it to be any fun,” Robb said as Jon approached.

“Sansa and I will be with her and the Southern Queen tonight,” offered Arya as she poked her sister with the soft weapon. 

Sansa knocked it away but when Arya stuck her again, she gripped the foam blade and pulled it from the young troublemaker.

“And I plan to be there too,” Rhaegar Targaryen, who arrived at Winterfell only an hour ago, pitched in.

“Just don’t give Dany a sword. She’d love to knock me senseless right about now.”

“I will make no such promises,” Jon answered, not wanting to deny Dany the satisfaction taking her anger out on her brother in a relatively harmless way.

After double checking the transportation and destination arrangements and sending Sansa and Arya off to ‘guard’ Dany, Jon was able to relax into some light drinking with the men who joined him. They lounged around with their glasses and laughed at stupid jokes they had heard a millions times before. He was already feeling a little more like himself, ready to run through the halls of the ancient castle wielding a foam sword like a damned idiot. It wasn’t long before they were ready to begin that night’s fun.

Jon stood, raised his glass and said, “Alright boys, let’s go steal my bride.”

Cheers and laughter rose up as Jon drained the contents of his glass and slammed it down on the table in front of him.

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                     i’ll spend this summer by your side

{Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark meet in Winterfell when they are just kids. Eventually, they grow up and the time for grown-up decisions comes. // a.k.a. gendrya arranged marriage childhood-friends-to-lovers au}

*ao3

*dedicated to the wonderful @yanak324​ - darling, without you I would’ve never written this fic, let along post it. thank you so much for everything <3

When the bones are good, the rest don't matter

Yeah, the paint could peel, the glass could shatter

Let it rain 'cause you and I remain the same

When there ain't a crack in the foundation

Baby, I know any storm we're facing

Will blow right over while we stay put

The house don't fall when the bones are good

- The Bones, Marren Morris & Hozier

A day’s ride away from Storm’s End, Arya falls asleep in a deep, damp forest that smells so much different than the ones in the North. With a crumpled-up letter underneath her pillow, she dreams of the summer afternoon many years ago – of when Gendry first arrived at Winterfell.

She was a child then, of course, but she remembers it surprisingly well; clutching on her mother’s skirts and watching, wide-eyed, a procession of horses and wheelhouses streaming in through the castle’s main gate. Robert Baratheon looked like a giant from Old Nan’s tales with his black beard and booming voice, and she had to tell herself to be brave many, many times before she managed to clumsily curtsy in front of him; anxiousness making her tremble, lose her balance and stain the hem of her dress with mud.

She recalls that Sansa giggled quietly under her breath while she gracefully dipped down, all auburn-haired and perfect. And Arya could just hear it perfectly clear in this laughter, her sisters’ and Jeyne’s dirty little horseface-s, murmured behind her back all day long, so she lowered her eyes as her cheeks reddened.

But then someone kneeled in front of her, taking her gloved hands in his. And when she raised her chin slightly, there was the bluest stare that she has ever seen, bright and clear and looking at her softly.

‘’Greetings, my lady. My name’s Gendry. Can I ask for yours?’’

Gendry. He looked far older than her, of Jon’s age. And he had the same kindness in his voice, the same warmth hidden somewhere in those winter eyes and that gave her all the courage she needed.

With back straight and head held high, she answered:

‘’Arya. I’m not a lady, tho. Don’t call me that.’’

Her mother hissed her name sharply and Sansa gasped, but none of that even mattered, as Gendry smiled. Still on one knee, he raised her right hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles delicately, just like stupid knights in Sansa’s stupid songs.

‘’As you wish, my lady.’’

***

He is to be fostered in Stark’s household, yet another one her mother had sighed, but with no malice in her voice. It is an honor, no matter how one looked at it and even Arya understands that. First Theon Greyjoy, brought by Father like a souvenir from Rebellion. Prince Jon next, on the insistence of his mother, the Queen, who wanted her son to grow up in the North as she did.  And then the heir to Lord Paramount of Stormlands, son of Father’s dear childhood friend.

Other boys give him some space to adjust to Winterfell and Sansa quickly deems him awfully gloomy and refuses to interact with him at all, her apparent delusions about finally meeting ‘’a true Southern nobleman ‘’ whatever that even means, shattered by Gendry’s stormy glare.

‘’I mean, he cannot even hold a proper conversation.’’ Arya overhears Sansa talking to Jeyne as they are sitting in the sewing room, embroidery hoops in their hands. That’s easily the most interesting thing Sansa has ever said around her.

But Arya herself is pretty curious about him. It is true, he looks gloomy and moody, he scowls all the time and doesn’t speak much at all, but so was Jon when he had first got here.  Maybe he’s just shy?  - she's wondering, although the notion does not work well with how he greeted her.

So, when she catches Gendry  alone one time during breakfast, just as he’s stuffing his face with oatmeal in a decidedly-unlordlike manner, she laces her fingers behind her back and asks him boldly:

‘’Do you miss your home much?’’

His chewing stops abruptly and he’s staring at her all surprised, his cheeks puffed out with food. He looks so comedic like that, that she feels a bubble of laughter buzzing in her throat, but she is determined to keep it there. Laughing at him now would be unkind and Arya wants to be kind to Gendry, the way he was kind to her in the courtyard. So she just hops on the bench next to him, uninvited, and waits patiently for him to swallow his oats.

‘’I- I don’t know, really.’’ He answers sheepishly at last, a little red on the face and still looking at her as if he was not sure what she’s even doing, sitting so close to him.

‘’You don’t know if you miss your home?’’ she repeats, bewildered. ‘’I would die if they made me leave Winterfell!’’

No doubt about it. Lyarra left some time ago, Sansa’s constantly moaning and whining about going South, to Reach or King’s Landing, and even  Robb has asked Father once or twice if he could go stay with their grandfather in the Riverlands -  but Arya’s of North. She was born here and here she intends to stay.

The corners of Gendry’s mouth twitch a little, as if he was fighting a smile.

‘’I miss my sisters a lot, but it’s enough of you that it almost feels like they were with me.’’ He explains. ‘’And it’s as beautiful here as in Stormlands, if not more. Even, if it’s so darn cold.’’

Arya's heart swells. No one has ever told her that they think North is more beautiful than South, not even Jon who just keeps on repeating that it’s decidedly less stinky than the capital.

‘’I think it’s beautiful too.’’ She admits quietly. ‘’Sansa says one day Father will have to marry me off to one of his bannermen, cause no Southern lord will want me, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. I never want to live in a place where there is no godswood. And I don’t want to marry anyway.’’

This time, he actually smiles at her and even chuckles for good measure.

It feels like an achievement, somehow.

‘’What do you want to do, then? If you don’t wish to marry?’’

Countless adults have asked her that before, but always in half-teasing, half-mocking tone, not believing any word she says. Gendry…  Gendry seemed to be actually interested in her answer. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and back bent so they are on the same eye level.

And once again, she is hit by how blue his eyes are. Her mother has blue eyes, same as Robb and Sansa and Bran and even baby Rickon. Arya’s living surrounded by the sea of Tully blue eyes. And yet, Gendry’s are more intense somehow, less washed-down.

‘’I’m going to go behind a Wall and be a spear wife. Or be an explorer, like Sea Snake or Elisa Farman.’’ She dreams about all that and more, about adventure and thrill. ‘’I’m gonna go to Shivering Sea and bring back an ice dragon with me, so everyone would know they really exist. I want to see the Wall and the Lands of Always Winter. ’’

She’s fully prepared for him to laugh at her. Everyone does. Even Father, even Jon, although their laugh is good-natured.

But Gendry doesn’t.

He just nods at her declarations and states:

‘’I don’t want to marry either, or to be a lord. If I could, I’d just be a blacksmith.’’

And just like that, suddenly, they are friends.

***

Sansa and Arya have their lessons separately of boys, probably to avoid subjects that may possibly wound their delicate young minds, but Arya keeps on begging Gendry long and hard enough that he gives in eventually and tells her more about Rheagar’s Rebellion, about Tourney at Harrenhall and The Great Conspiracy.

It is a little embarrassing, talking to him about all this, but less so if she touched the topic with Jon, who is always very tight-lipped about his parents. However, with years passing by, Arya begins thinking about her aunt more and more, with this kind of insatiable curiosity that surpasses any notions of being proper. Everyone knows that Rheagar Targaryen offered her grandfather a crown for his daughter in exchange for Rickard Stark’s men and loyalty. Everyone knows that Lyanna was promised to Gendry’s father at that time, but Lord Rickard, being an ambitious and reasonable man, agreed to Prince’s proposal, having easily calculated how far above Lady of Storm’s End is Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. Everyone knows of the Rebellion and King Aerys’ death and how Baratheons were the last ones to kneel in front of the new king.

The one thing that Arya wonders about is what exactly was Lyanna’s Stark position in all that.

Jeyne and Sansa and even Lyarra always make it into a song; of love forbidden, of blue winter roses, of Wolf Lady and Dragon Prince.

To Arya, it seems more mundane; more like a girl sold to the highest bidder.

‘’I met her, once.’’ Gendry tells her in Godswood, skipping rocks on the still surface of one of the hot pools. ‘’During the royal tour through Westeros.’’

‘’What she’s like?’’ she asks, hungry for details. Father never wants to talk much about aunt Lyanna. Jon rarely even mentions her name and every time he does, it is laced with such a desperate longing that Arya quickly learned to avoid the subject to spare him the hurt.

‘’Beautiful.’’ Gendry crunches on the bank of the lake, staring at the circles on the water. The cold breeze is playing with his dark hair, making it even messier than possible. He’s one and ten now, already taller than Theon and Robb and it doesn’t seem he’s about to stop growing any time soon. Standing next to him, Arya feels even smaller than usual. ‘’Dark-haired, long-faced. She looks like your father and you.’’

Her cheeks redden against her will. Many Northerners have told her that, which makes her head spin a bit, unsure how to imagine a woman who was somehow both beautiful and similar to her.

‘’Yeah, but I’m not asking about her appearance. I’m asking what she’s like.’’

Gendry ponders about her question for a bit, which she is well used to by now. He always takes his time thinking, making people call him stupid and slow behind his back. Which is both unfair and untrue – he doesn’t have a head for numbers like Arya or for houses and histories like Bran, but he is not dim-witted in any way. Especially when the issues of household management and smallfolk are concerned.  

I know he doesn’t want that, but he’ll make a wonderful lord one day, crosses her mind from time to time, watching as Gendry calls every single servant by their name and how he always remembers to pay a visit to the orphanage when they are in Winter Town.

‘’Sad.’’ He settles on, still avoiding her gaze. ‘’Kind and sad. For me, she looked quite lonely.’’

‘’How else can she look like? A wolf can never be happy in the cage. And I heard Father saying she has true wolf's blood, the way uncle Brandon had.’’ Arya doesn’t remember him well; he died when she was barely more than a child, slain while storming Great Wyk. His wife and daughter used to live with them a few years after he passed away, but then Lady Barbrey decided to go back to Rills to her father, so now even Lyarra is not around to remind everyone of Brandon’s hot-blooded nature and  Arya lost a partner in horse riding or secret archery lessons.

‘’Well, good luck to anyone ever trying to cage you.’’ Gendry says, playfully tugging on the end of her braid and making her shriek. ‘’You’re way too wild for that, Arya. Also, you’re all dirty from that leaves and we are already late for dinner, so enough of histories for now.’’

***

‘’One more time.’’ She orders, smirking, when the only answer she hears is a pained groan. ‘’Come on, you were the one who asked me to help you.’’

‘’It’s utterly embarrassing that you’re so good at this and I’m so hopeless.’’ Gendry fixes his stare on the parchment on the desk as if it personally offended him. ‘’These are just swimming in front of my eyes.’’

‘’Books are important.’’ Arya rests her cheek on the stone wall, letting it warm her skin pleasantly. ‘’If you don’t understand books-‘’

‘’-my liege lords will cheat me out of taxes, yeah, I know. But still. Can’t I just ask someone to check them for me?’’

‘’I suppose you can. If you trust this person enough.’’

Gendry sends her a side smile and leans back on his chair.

‘’Well, shame I don’t trust you then. As I don’t know anyone better at sums than you.’’

‘’Why don’t you trust me? How dare you even say so.’’ She presses her hands to her chest in fake-offense, deciding to ignore his praise. ‘’The audacity you have.’’

‘’Don’t play with me, Arry. You’re a terrible cheat. Especially at cards.’’

‘’It’s called strategy!’’

‘’Sure it is.’’

‘’It’s not my fault you are a sore loser.’’

‘’Only with you, my lady. Only with you. I wouldn’t be a sore loser if you were winning fair and square.’’

''Besides, I don't think it's really possible to cheat at monsters-and-maidens. Or come-into-my-castle.''

''And somehow you manage to do just so.''

***

Father lets Gendry work in the forge with Mikken sometimes when all his other duties are done, and Gendry simply loves it, loves it beyond all else – it doesn’t take a lot to notice that. Arya thinks him content enough most of the time, maybe even happy when he spars with Robb on the courtyard, warhammer against sword, or when he playfully wrestles with Bran and Rickon, always letting them win, or when he goes riding with Jon and they sneak her out so she can join them. But smithing, smithing is something else entirely.

‘’That’s just so common.’’ Jeyne Poole wheezes once, outraged, as Gendry passes them on a way to his chambers, soot coving his forearms.

Arya could just strangle her. Instead, she stops abruptly and stomps her foot.

‘’I don’t see how it’s something wrong. Other lords hunt with hawks or gamble – at least Gendry will do something useful at Storm’s End!’’

Jeyne opens her mouth and then closes it, clearly shocked. For a moment she seems to be looking for a good enough reply, but apparently comes short, because she eventually settles on gasping loudly and hurrying away, leaving Arya on the corridor alone.

Escaping from her embroidery lessons, Arya often goes to watch Gendry, as Septa Mordane would never even think of looking for her in the forge. So she has perfected sneaking in and perching on the workbench after discarding outer layers to bask in the heat.  They don’t talk -  to be honest, she is not sure he notices her much at all, too engrossed in his work. Surrounded by the sound of metal hitting metal and billows of smoke, Gendry looks so much different than he usually does, almost like he is some stranger.

Like he is a baseborn blacksmith, not a highborn heir to one of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Arya is wondering many times, as Gendry’s hammering hilts of swords with such force that the sound must be echoing through very bones of Winterfell; would they even meet if he was not nobility? If they both weren’t noble? For sure they wouldn’t, coming from where they come from, a whole continent between them. Even if they both were bastards (she scoffs internally at the idea; as if her father could ever have any children outside wedlock) she would be a Snow and he would be a Storm and bastard boys don’t get fostered, so they would never cross paths.

So, as much as she hates the notion of being a noble lady sitting idly and sewing all day long, she is grateful for being a Stark and she is grateful that he is a Baratheon. If only because she gets to sit between Gendry and Jon during meals and toss her greens onto their plates.  If only because she got to meet Gendry and to bicker with him and to see his smile.

On her tenth name day, he and Jon wake her up early and the first thing she sees is a short, narrow sword in Gendry’s hands.

‘’It’s – uhm, it’s for you.’’ He mumbles, his head low as he’s setting it on her lap.

Arya, breathless, runs her fingers along the hilt, tracing the elegant twist of silver metal. It’s perfect, it’s beautiful, it’s everything she has ever wanted. Sharp and slight, just like her.

Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I’ve got a Needle of my own.

‘’It was Jon’s idea.’’ Gendry adds hastily, before she manages to open her mouth.

‘’Aye, but Gendry made it.’’ Jon smiles with this shy, gentle smile of his. ‘’Don’t sell yourself short.’’

‘’You… made it for me?’’ Arya lets out, bewildered. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she registers Jon’s ruffling her hair and wishing her happy birthday, but all she has eyes for are Gendry’s blushed face, his blue stare and grime underneath his fingernails that flashes when he fiddles with the pelt on her bed.

His hands. He made a sword for her with these hands.

Gendry just nods in reply, smiling.

‘’It’s mostly Mikken work, to be honest, I just helped out, so it should be- uff!’’

Arya has her arms around his neck before he can even finish the sentence, burying her face in his shoulder. When he tentatively hugs her back, she feels so, so happy she could burst.

***

Old Nan is saying to anyone who cares to listen that it’s the longest summer in the living memory and it feels like that sometimes, it really does.

After snows have melted and it got warmer, warm enough that even Northerners shed their furs and expose their pale skin to the sun, one sunny morning, all of them, Winterfell little lords and ladies, go to the hot pools.

It is Arya’s favorite day ever and remains so for many years to come.

Even Sansa comes, sweeter than usually and giggling lightly in her pretty periwinkle dress as she sits on the blanket and plays with Lady, who is desperately trying to catch the loose ribbons around her mistress’ wrists.  

Jon also doesn’t swim; he's just standing awkwardly in the shallow part for the whole time, refusing to go any deeper no matter how they all push and pull, Robb and Theon laughing at him as they cut through the water with ease. The direwolves are still just puppies, all adorably confused by the lake before bravely hopping in and paddling one by one around the edge of the pool - all but Ghost, who, mirroring his master, is deeply distrustful of going in. Instead of following, he opts for sniffling the cattails and stumbling on his little paws in haste to get away when his siblings climb out and shrug water from their fur.

Rickon jumps in with a wild roar, splashing everyone head-to-toe and diving to nip at their ankles until Robb loops his little arms around his neck and hauls him across the lake and back.

And Gendry grabs Arya by the waist and seats her on his shoulders, so that she can reach up and pick fluffy white catkins from the willow trees above them, gathering them in her palms before letting them scatter on his dark hair like snowflakes.  He holds her pale calves tightly, grinning up at her and avoiding incoming swimmers so she won’t fall into the water.

The air smells like grass and berries and lemon cakes; it’s vibrant with laughter.  Gendry’s wet hair sticks to his head after he ducks underwater with her still perched on his shoulders and she uses this moment to jump off, right underneath the surface. They meet face-to-face, bubbles of air escaping from the corners of their mouths, but he doesn’t see her; he’s keeping his eyes closed as he’s floating.

He’s smiling so widely that she’s afraid his cheeks will split.

When she reaches for his hands and his fingers immediately curl around hers, instinctively knowing it’s her without having to open his eyes, something beautiful and painful blooms in her chest for the very first time.

***

‘’Tell me, Arya, whom do you prefer, Jon or Gendry?’’ Bran asks her once when she is ten and two and she scrunches her nose at how weirdly this question is phrased.

‘’What do you even mean by that?’’

‘’Well.’’ Bran slides from the windowsill to take a seat in front of her, the abandoned board of cyvasse spread in between them. ‘’You know they will probably marry you off to one of them, right?’’

What.

‘’How do you know that?’’ she manages to stutter.  Marry... Jon?  Her? Jon has been like an older brother to her for so long that at some point she forgot he is actually her cousin.

And Gendry?

Gendry, a maiden’s daydream. Even Sansa can’t ignore him anymore and suddenly stopped complaining about his rough manners. Even Jeyne keeps her mouth shut now and turns red when he says hello to her.  He is too tall for that, too broad and too skilled with his warhammer. Whores in Winter Town fawn at the sight of him, making him walk with his head low when he is passing brothels.

Marrying Gendry would be-

No, just no.

‘’That’s obvious. They both seem to like you a lot, gods know why-‘’ Bran smoothly avoids her smack, leaning back on his chair and continuing his rant, ‘’- and with Sansa going to King’s Landing – well, I think Mother and Father would make a very smart deal, arranging your marriage with either of them. These are also the only betrothals you could possibly agree too.’’

‘’I would never agree to marry Jon.’’ Arya states, suddenly feeling hot. She keeps her eyes glued to the dices laying on the table, just not to see Bran’s mischievous eyes. She knows what he is going to say and he doesn’t prove her wrong.

‘’And Gendry?’’

Gendry; billows of steam around him.

Gendry; his chest glistening with sweat as he brings the hammer down.

Gendry; calling her ‘’my lady’’ and laughing as she gets mad.

You would like Stormlands, he told her once, when they were deep in the forest, looking for wild berries. It’s harsh in the same way North is.

But it’s too hot, she moaned in response. - Northerners were not made to live that far South.

You could also say Southerners were not made to live that far North, he countered, reaching for her hand and helping her jump over a toppled tree trunk.-  But I and your mother live here and we manage just fine.

Instead of answering, she silently stands up and leaves the solar, fuming,  with Bran’s triumphant laughter chasing her.

***

Arya hates passionately nearly all the female skills Septa Mordane tries to instill in her, be it riding sidesaddle, embroidery or the art of polite yet meaningless conversations - but there is one exception that makes all the difference.

Dancing.

She loves, loves dancing, and even tho those least proper are her favorite, she does not find it too painful to go through the most formal ones.  There is something about spinning and clapping to the rhythm of the music that reminds her very much of sparring with Bran, her Needle in her hand.

After all, sword duels do look like dancing at times, in cases when it’s more about swiftness and agility than brute strength. When she was ten, her father secretly hired her a Braavosi water dancing teacher and well, let’s just say that spinning has long become a natural way of moving for her.

Still, everyone is shocked when she takes to her dancing lessons with no complaining; more so, when in mere weeks she twirls around her teacher gracefully, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She’s good at that, effortlessly; for the first time in her life she truly good at being a girl, shutting everyone’s mouths and making Mother smile proudly in the same way she smiles when Sansa presents her with needlework – and it makes  Arya feel both weirdly unsteady and giddy.  To her delight, she manages to learn slower styles quickly enough, that soon she’s going through faster and more complex steps, never missing a beat, smiling widely at Jon who often offers to partner her.

There is nothing challenging for her about dancing, really.

Not until she gets to dance with Gendry.

‘’You’re such an oaf.’’ – she whines, trying to adjust his stiff grip on her waist. ‘’It’s not so hard, seven hells, let loose a bit!’’

And he just stares at her, wide-eyed and unsure like a newborn fawn. One could think that she has him on knifepoint, not in the empty chambers where she asked him to help her practice.

In the hindsight, she should’ve just waited for Jon.

‘’Didn’t they teach you to dance in Storm’s End? Didn’t they teach you here, with the rest of boys?’’ she asks as he steps on her toes for the fourth time, completely out of rhythm even though she counts it out loud for his benefit.

‘’They did.’’ He spits roughly in response, suddenly dropping her hands and turning his back on her.

Arya’s left standing frozen, her arms loose by her sides and mouth opened.

‘’What has gotten into-‘’

‘’What’s that dress?’’

She looks down at her gown. It’s an old one of Sansa’s, altered in order fit Arya’s shorter frame. She needs a dress to practice dancing well, unfortunately, so she’s taken to wearing them more often, and this one is not terrible. It’s fairly practical, without those stupid dragging sleeves or a train. Just yellow linen trimmed with white lace around the collar.

She thinks it’s quite pretty.

‘’What about it?’’ she asked, bewildered.

‘’How come you’re walking around now, wearing dresses and dancing? Though you did not want any of this?’’ He is still not facing her, so she cannot read his expression. But his voice sounds heavy and rough and so, so unlike his. ‘’Though it was not you. Have you forgotten? You’re not Jeyne or Sansa, Arya. ’’

There is silence stretching between them and for a moment, all Arya hears is the hum of blood in her ears, boiling with anger.

She crosses the room in two long strides and slams her fists onto Gendry’s back, furiously hitting him until he turns around and seizes her wrists.

‘’Ough, Arya, seven hells-‘’

‘’How dare you!’’ There are tears spilling down her cheeks, hot tears of anger, but she just doesn’t care because how dare he. ‘’You think – just because- you think it’s only for Sansa? That I cannot be good at anything like that just because I’m – I’m-‘’

Against her best intentions get drowned in sobs and suddenly she falls forwards into Gendry’s arms, her forehead pressed against his chest. He’s anxiously patting her back, mumbling to her to calm down, but all she can do is cry.

‘’Just because I’m ugly, do you think I cannot be any good in dancing?’’ she sobs, her voice drowned against the leather of his doublet and she gasps in surprise as he grabs her shoulders and tears her away from him, leaning down to look her in the eyes.

‘’Arya, what are you even talking about?’’ he whispers, clumsily wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘’You’re pretty. So pretty. How can you even – don’t listen to Sansa, gods.’’

Gendry is a honest lad. He does not really try to kiss anyone’s arse or  play pleasantries. He has also never been in  any way dishonest to her. But now… now he’s both serious and honest, as he, once again, takes her hands into hers and repeats, loud and clear:

‘’You are not ugly. Don’t ever think like that.’’

She bits on her lip, searching for any note of falsehood in his voice, on his face. But she comes empty-handed.

‘’So why did you get angry?’’ she asks quietly, lowering her eyes to their linked hands.

He also looks down, suddenly sheepish, with faint blush coloring his cheekbones.

‘’It was stupid. I was stupid, I’m sorry. I just thought that you’re not interested in – all of that. And that maybe now you decided to mimic other girls. Which you don’t have to do. Sorry.’’ He shrugs and Arya knows that if he had free hands, he would be scratching the back of his neck.

‘’I am not.’’ She admits. ‘’I’m not – I’m not trying to be Jeyne. Or Sansa. I still think most of those things that Septa Mordane teaches me are stupid. But I like dancing.’’ She pauses for a moment, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. ‘’And I like this dress. And I think – maybe I don’t have to be one thing only. Maybe I could be a good dancer and a good horse rider. And I don’t need breeches to be a good archer. Maybe... I could be just me. ’’

Mother would gasp at her logic, Father would shake his head with this kind, sad smile of his.

Gendry just nods slowly, straightens his back and pulls them into a starting position again, this time leading her on the floor with a grace she would never suspect he possesses. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reply to her words. He just smiles at her softly, his grip gentle, as they move through steps and figures. And she knows that he understands exactly what she means.

***

The night before Gendry leaves Winterfell, she jumps from under the covers the exact moment when Sansa starts to snore and quickly wraps herself up in furs to keep the chill away. The castle is quiet and basked in the light of the full moon; not that it matters in slightest.  She could probably make her way blindfolded, for how well she knows it.

She finds him exactly where she expected; he adds some extra logs to the fireplace in the forge, stripped to his shirt and breeches. When she loudly coughs to announce her presence, he swiftly spins on the balls of his feet and greets her with a smile devoid of even an ounce of surprise.

‘’Came to say goodbye, didn’t you?’’ she asks, trying to keep her tone light, but she obviously fails, cause his brow immediately furrows and the corners of his lips drop down.

‘’Yeah.’’ His voice is soft like kitten’s fur, softer than ever before. He sits on the workbench and motions for her to move closer. Settling on the worn-out wood, she feels something heavy dropping in her stomach. She has been in this forge a thousand times and more already, but without Gendry here, she will have no reason to come again.

It’s almost as if he’s to take a part of her home away with him.

She lays her head on his shoulder and he takes her hands in his (when did his hands grow so big, how did that happen?) and for a moment, they just sit in silence uninterrupted by anything except the crackling of the fire and the sound of their breathing.

‘’I’m gonna miss it so much.’’ He admits at last, keeping his head low as always when he’s being very serious.

‘’The forge?’’

‘’The forge, Winterfell. The North. Your family. Jon.’’ he counts down. ‘’Hmm, and I suppose I will maybe miss you. Just a little though. Finally, some rest from your blabber.’’

Arya gasps at that, showing him off the bench to the floor, where he lays, laughing.

‘’I do not blabber!’’

‘’You do, sometimes.’’

‘’I do not!’’

They shoot back and forth, until Arya quiets down and bites on her lip. No more bickering.

Her eyes sting a bit, so she closes them and flops down on the bench.

‘’Will we ever see each other again?’’ she asks, refusing to look at him and swallowing the bile in the throat. She instantly wishes she did not utter this question, because how will she make it through if he says they won’t?

But Gendry is Gendry, so he doesn’t.

He raises up on his feet and sits down on her right side, this time wrapping his arm around her and pressing her closer to him, so that her head is resting on his chest.

‘’We will.’’ He answers, full of will and conviction. ‘’I don’t think there is anyone who could stop you from doing what you  really want, Arya. So if you will ever want to see me, you will find a way. And I-‘’ he hesitates for a moment as if he was trying to phrase his thoughts in a right way. ‘’- and I will find a way to see you again too.’’

‘’Okay.’’ She says softly, gripping the material of his linen undershirt and pressing her nose to it, trying to memorize how he smells, how he sounds, how he feels, trying to burn it in her mind. ‘’Okay, Gendry. No goodbyes, then.’’

He rests his chin on her head and when he breaths out deeply, her stomach does a somersault. Suddenly, a thought crosses her mind like a flash;  how we must look like, sitting like this. What would someone say, if they saw us now?

But it quickly evaporates, when his lips brush her hair and she hears his whisper.

‘’Aye, Arry. No goodbyes.’’

***

To her despair, Jon soon follows Gendry; riding back to King’s Landing, he leaves behind a string of maidens with broken hearts and Arya’s parents pretending they were not trying to find an excuse to make him stay as long as possible.  And with his departure, things start to change for good right in front of her eyes.

For starters, for the very first time in her life,  Arya learns how terribly and crushing lonely one can feel in their own home, surrounded by their own family.  She has already flowered, meaning that even Father won’t allow her to roll in the mud with a training sword anymore – not that she would have any partners in that anyway, with Syrio Forell also leaving, claiming loudly that he’s ‘’too old for living in such a stern climate and freezing his bones off every night’’.

Margaery Tyrell comes to Winterfell, all pretty and smiling, her rose-embroidered dresses too light for the cold and her cheeks always rosy. And Robb falls, even Arya can see that - he falls so hard and quick that it seems almost unbelievable. Soon, he’s all for strolling around the castle, chest puffed like a peacock and his betrothed by his side, too busy with getting out of his skin to impress Margaery to even notice anyone else, let alone his little underfoot sister.

And Arya likes Margaery well enough, even if she’s instantly Sansa’s new best friend the moment she steps through the threshold (she’s kinder than Jeyne, at least) – but the whole flurry of wedding-related activity makes her sick, especially since she cannot sit in the back of the room with Gendry and make fun of all this pomp and extravagance.

Right before Robb’s wedding, Mother starts to get terrible headaches (the aftermath of raising too many children, she grumbles) and is often bed-ridden, which forces her to finally allow Father to send Rickon to Riverrun. He is to stay with uncle Blackfish for a while, with the hope that maybe it will temper his wild energy a little – fool’s hope, in Arya’s humble opinion, but it’s not like anyone asks her for it.

Bran squires for one of Stark’s bannermen and every free time he has, he devotes to visiting Greywater Watch and the Reeds.

Arya is deprived even of Sansa’s meager company as both her sister and goodsister are busy preparing a dowry for Sansa’s upcoming nuptials. Then Sansa goes South, as eagerly as possible, and the castle becomes ever quieter, unnerving Arya so that she feels she’s surely going to go mad.  Robb’s all Lord-like now, Margaery’s wobbling around pregnant and glowing and it’s all terribly, excruciatingly dull.

So Arya fills her days with silently sitting by Father’s and Robb’s sides as they ‘re taking petitions and lonely horse rides with Nymeria. The winter is truly and well coming now, so there is a lot of work with properly securing livestock and supplies coming from the Reach and every pair of hands is needed, even if hers are small and soft.  She goes to visit Lyarra and aunt Barbrey once or twice and tags along with Bran to meet his betrothed, Meera. She practices archery with Theon, bothers Winterfell’s staff for hours with no end and talks with smallfolk more than it is proper. Twice a week, there are kids in the Winter Town orphanage waiting for her to come and teach them letters and it’s honestly far more fun than she thought it would be.

However, there are letters of another kind that become her main source of entertainment; every day she nags Maester Luwin endlessly, inquiring about ravens and looking for them in the sky or locking herself up with ink and quills in her chambers, pouring all the unsaid words on the parchment.  

Jon writes often;  mostly narrations of his days at court and some amusing anecdotes about annoying nobles. His letters abruptly stop coming for four moons around a year after his departure and when they resume,  he is different. Head over heels in love and married.

To his aunt in fact, which would be a little weird in any other case, but Arya supposes they are Targaryens after all. Even if King Rheagar decided to try to stop the traditional inbreeding by sending for Northern bride for his eldest son and marrying Princess Rhaenys into House Tyrell, no one is really that shocked by Princess Daenerys giving her hand to Prince Jon, especially given that her brother, Prince Viserys, has been one of the victims of the Rebellion.

I heard she’s gorgeous. Congratulations on your marriage, Jon. – she replies politely to the announcement and buries her face in her hands, sitting still for hours afterward.

Dear Arya, I am so very happy, becomes an opening line of every Jon’s letter since then and it makes her oh so confused and even more conflicted.

She has taken to watching her parents closer than ever; observing how they speak with each other, how they seem to understand one another even without any words exchanged. How they stroll through glass gardens during sunny afternoons, laughing quietly.

Accidental marriage, that’s what we are, her mother said to Sansa once, forgetting that Arya was also present, which seems to be a theme for women in her family. I was to marry your late uncle Brandon and gods forgive me, I was not very pleased when I ended up with his brother, nor was my lord father. But it all turned out for the best. By the time I became Lady of Winterfell, I didn’t care much for the title at all. I just wanted to be by Ned’s side.

Arya knows she is well past betrothal age. She knows everyone is wondering why her parents turned every single one of her suitors down. She would very much like to believe that’s because they decided to let her never marry and stay in Winterfell forever like she has begged them for many years, but it’s been a long time since that afternoon game of cyvasse with Bran and she is nowhere as naïve now as then.

She is spoken for, promised to, even if silently, even with no one mentioning that at all. And she is still trying to figure out if it makes her angry or not at all.

She feels Father’s gaze heavy on her every time she makes her way into the Godswood, a letter pressed to her chest.

Gendry writes rarely and even when he does, his letters are shorter than Jon’s, which also makes them infinitely more significant. He is not a man of many words and he is very busy now – it is not spoken loudly, but it is practically a common knowledge that Robert Baratheon is well on his way to drink and whore himself to death, so any duties that Gendry’s mother was fulfilling during his stay in Winterfell  fell on his shoulders as soon as he returned.  Arya understands all of that. At the same time, she still selfishly wishes for more; she just misses talking to him, the banter and silliness and honesty – all of it. There’s no one else who gets her better. No one who takes her as seriously as he did.

So she dutifully sends her own letters every week, raven after raven, even when there’s not much to write about, and cherishes whatever reply appears.

One time, sitting in Godswood with Nymeria’s heavy head resting on her lap, she realizes that, at some point, all of it has stopped feeling like living; it feels like endless waiting, holding her breath.  She is still in Winterfell, but what good is that if everyone else is gone or different. Everyone seems to be moving on to some grand things, with only her stubbornly stuck.  

And then.

Do you think still that marriage is always a cage? Gendry writes to her exactly three years after he went away and Arya’s not stupid. She knows where this conversation would lead.

She just isn’t sure if she wants to actually have it.

I think there are cages in which one feels content. - she replies carefully, after trying out tens of different ways of conveying her thoughts and tearing them all into pieces.-  But I still think caging a wolf may not be the wisest idea at all.

That time, the letter from Storm’s End comes quickly, probably as quickly as the raven managed, poor thing.

She goes riding for half a day until she gathers enough courage to read it, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of parchment all spotted with fat blotches of ink, as if Gendry pressed his quill way too hard in several places.

Even wolves have their hunting grounds, right? Vast, with a lot of space to breath. Their pack around them, running together. Not a cage, but a home.

With her heart beating fast, she closes her eyes for a second. All of it feels so heavy, so final. Couldn’t they just go back to being children in Winterfell? Why must they all grow up?

It makes her so angry. Where are those summer afternoons, what happened with them – with Gendry’s hands innocent on her ankles, keeping her safe and secure?

But then she comes back to reading and gasps at the next paragraph.

Arya, I am no bard, really. You know that. Must we do it this way? I need a lady and miss you so much and gods damn me, if you weren’t always the only lady for me.  Come to Stormlands. Marry me. I promise, I will never cage you. You can call yourself a lord. You can call yourself a blacksmith’s wife. I don’t care. Please, just be with me.

‘’Stupid.’’ Arya murmurs under her breath, feeling fondness filling her head to toe. Gendry always had a way of making things simple, of making her feel at ease.

She looks out of the window; at the silent courtyard, empty, save for a few servants hurrying to the kitchens for their supper. She supposes she could stay here, or tell her parents she will marry close to home and come back as often as possible. She doesn’t have to leave or cross the entire continent.

But her days would be long and empty; her nights -  cold. She would feel like a tree with its roots unmovable, forever in Winterfell’s soil. Bored out of her mind and static. She would be content enough, probably, only it’s never what she wanted. What she wanted was an adventure –

And what is a bigger adventure than going South? Managing a castle the way she wants? Spending the rest of her life with her very best friend?

There’s also the issue of duty, of course. Her duty towards her parents, towards the North. As much as Arya hates politics, she’s aware of how powerful betrothals are. Marriages mean security and supplies and wellbeing of the Houses involves and those, who serve those Houses. It was a coincidence that Robb’s bride came from Reach just as the winter was about to come for good. And her marriage to Gendry would potentially bring many, many benefits for the North, for the still-too-empty coffers and stocks.

Besides. Much better her best friend than some random Northern lord, who would take her Needle away and delegate her to women’s quarters to bear one child after another and gossip with other ladies until her ears fall off. Gendry would never do that to her, of that she can be sure.

Maybe it will be summer again, by his side.

***

Arya likes long letters, rambling and elaborate.

But her last one is the shortest by far, sent just before she straightens her back and knocks on the door to Father’s study.

Dear Gendry,

Just to make it clear; don’t ever expect me to bow down to you.

But aye. I will marry you.  

Yours, Arya

***

Ned Stark listens to her words with a solemn expression on his face, but when she’s finished, the corners of his lips raise up slightly.

‘’I knew this day would come someday.’’ He sighs heavily, reaching for one of the parchments laying on his table and placing it in front of her, so she could read it. “This is what Robert left me, along with Gendry.’’

The contents of the letter make her eyebrows shoot up.

It’s a godsdamned, straight-up business proposal of Robert Baratheon to her father, asking him to consider marrying her or Sansa to Gendry. There’s a lot of bullshit about joining families and old history, because Robert is still beyond obsessed with aunt Lyanna, even after all those years.

But at the root of it, it looks like any trade agreement she has seen in her life. And that just makes Arya so, so mad.

‘’I’m showing it to you now, because I feel you have a right to know.’’ her father says, before she has a chance to respond. ‘’But I don’t think it should influence your decision. As far as I know, Robert did not mention his wish to his boy either, which means you two chose each other on your own free will. That’s a good groundwork for marriage, Arya.’’

Does free will really exist?  - she wants to ask him, anger dying down into something akin to cool resignation in her gut. – Will I marry Gendry out of any feelings I might have for him, or out of loneliness or lack of a better alternative? Or maybe because it will make you and Mother happy? Does it even matter?

Ultimately, in a world she lives in, it doesn’t. So she closes her mouth and nods slowly when Father asks her if he should write to Lord Robert officially.

She just wishes it wouldn’t feel so bitter.

‘’Do you think we will work well? Together?’’ she asks quietly just before leaving the study and this time her father chuckles, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

‘’Aye, in fact. I do, Arya. I like this lad.  And he always smiles around you and you only.’’

***

So now she’s where she is,  Storm’s End on the horizon and anxiousness bubbling in her stomach.

Mother forced her into a proper gown in the morning, deaf to Arya’s arguments that Gendry has already seen her in breeches and linen shirts and still asked her to marry him, so she does not need to be all dolled up. At least the dress is nice – forest green, embellished with golden embroidery and with a corset that somehow allows her to breathe.  It, unfortunately, shows off more cleavage than she’s comfortable with, but she supposes it couldn’t be allowed with those stupid Southern fashions. She braided her hair herself – it’s so long now that it reaches the small of her back, so she opted for a simple Northern style, nothing too fancy, even accounting for the yellow ribbon woven through it. Her hands are clean, nails trimmed. She supposes she looks pretty, as much as she can.

She’s no Sansa. But, as far as she knows, Gendry never wanted Sansa anyway.

Why am I so nervous?

It’s just Gendry.

Three and a half years. How much did he change during that time?

How much did she?

They open the gates for them and suddenly she is the one riding into a courtyard of a foreign castle that she’s now supposed to call her home. I should’ve asked him how it felt like for him.

Storm’s End is just one drum tower, unlike any other holdfast she has ever seen. But it’s a very tall tower, she’ll give it that. It shoots up into the sky like a giant’s fist, the tip of it seemingly tearing through grey clouds above them.

Only Hightower in Oldtown is taller, as far as the towers go. Quality over quantity. -  Bran said to her cheekily sometime before she left Winterfell. –  I heard Lord’s chambers are up on the very top; you will have a nice view of the sea. It must feel like sleeping in a nest.

This castle fits Gendry somehow, with its strong, simple build. There are no frivolities in the grey walls, only endurance. Not a single unnecessary element, just brick and mortar and magic that helped it survive centuries and centuries. Solace and safety.

Arya thinks that even if she cannot love it like she loves Winterfell, she can at least respect Storm’s End for this one reason.

The whole staff stands in the half-circle around them, lowering their heads and curtsying when they dismount. Mother has insisted on coming, despite her aches – maybe because she still doesn’t seem to be very convinced Arya has actually agreed to marry someone – so she slowly and stiffly emerges from the wheelhouse. And Arya stands still, reigns in her hand and her eyes glued to the ground, because if she dares to look up – if she even steals a glance –

But before she can make that decision by herself, someone kneels on the gravel in front of her, making her stupid heart beat faster in her chest.  Of course, of course, he does that, because he is one big, stupid oaf.

‘’Hello, my lady.’’

Despite her best efforts, her lips curve into a smile and she lets him take her hand.

Gendry Baratheon’s voice is still warm and deep, and his eyes are still bluest she has ever seen.

But when he kisses her knuckles… oh, they are truly grown now. And betrothed to each other.  And it all comes crashing down on her suddenly, this realization.

He’s going to marry me. I’m going to marry him. Oh, gods.

Her panicked train of thoughts is interrupted by the collective gasp of gathered people when something big and grey moves from her side and pounces on Gendry, making him lose his balance and land on his ass on the ground.

Arya’s honestly a little bit annoyed with Nymeria, because the way she behaves is just ridiculous. She’s supposed to be this proud, scary direwolf, reminding those damned Southerners that Arya remains a Stark no matter what, that she has North in her blood and her very bones. She is supposed to be wild and untamed.

Instead, her horse-sized wolf hops in circles around Gendry, wagging her tail like an overly-excited puppy, not letting him stand up, before and resting her front paws on his chest, tongue lolling out and begging for scratches behind her ears.

And Gendry complies, laughing when Nymeria licks his face and patting her head.

‘’Hello, girl! Missed me much? You’ve gotten so big.’’ He coos at her as if she was a babe and, in the corner of her eye, Arya sees shocked expression of a petite blonde woman who surely must be Gendry’s mother, given the finery of her gown and how she immediately schools her features, and  curtsies gracefully in front of Father, along with three dark-haired girls surrounding her.

Aelin. Lara. Elinor. My soon-to-be-goodsisters.

‘’Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. Lady Arya. Welcome to Storm’s End.’’ Lady Isabelle Baratheon greets them politely, pointedly ignoring the fact that her son has just been tackled to the ground by a direwolf.  Lacing her gloved hands in front of her, she fixes her bluebell eyes on Arya, surveying her head to toe, until Arya starts to sweat under her stare. ‘’I am afraid my Lord husband is unwell right now and he is not able to attend to you properly. However, I hope that he’ll be able to join us at supper. Please, take your bread and salt.’’

Gendry, back on his feet after finally managing to untangle himself from an overenthusiastic Nymeria, stands by his mother’s side and bows deeply in front of her parents, giving her opportunity to see him better.

Those few years only did him good.

He’s so tall now; he has always been taller than all of Starks, even when they were kids, but now he positively towers above her and Mother, standing even higher than Father. When in Winterfell, other boys called him The Bull and the reasons for that also did not change. His chest, his shoulders, his thighs – all broad and muscled; Gendry could’ve been as well chiseled from solid stone. He’s still got those disheveled black hair, only now paired with a neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes are still as lovely and blue as in her memory, shining, when he steals a glance at her.

He looks more or less the same, truly. Only, either he got even more handsome or she just views him all differently now, because seeing him kissing her mother’s hand and hugging her father makes her feel all funny inside.

‘’Well then, shall we go inside? There is a lot of things to discuss.’’ Lady Isabelle says and something heavy like a stone lands in Arya’s stomach.

***

It seems like her wedding will be the event of the year, which should not surprise her but still somehow does.

Due to the fairly convenient location of Storm’s End and early announcements, nearly all Lord Paramounts of Seven Kingdoms confirmed their presence and Martells are sending Prince Trystane and Prince Oberyn which honestly is probably even bigger honor. Nearly all Tyrells apparently decided to show up, just for the kick of it. The King takes both of his queens with him and of course, Prince Aegon and Sansa will travel from Dragonstone to be earlier than the rest of the guest so that her sister could help with preparations.

Even Gendry’s gruff uncle Stannis will be there and he hates parties.

The pomp and extravagance are simply beyond everything Arya has experienced so far and she’s suddenly hit hard with realization how truly alien the South really is, compared with the stern, simple North. Nobody even thought of suggesting serving a baked swan at Robb and Margaery’s wedding. Arya’s need half a dozen apparently, paired with trays full of bloody oranges, lemons, and pomegranates, with stags made from sugar, towers of cookies and a truly monstrous meat pie.  There is to be a troupe of entertaining fire-eaters for gods' sake, and gods only know who will pay for it all.

All this talk about guests, their seating and stomachs does nothing, but makes Arya feel vaguely sick. She’s stuck at Lady Isabelle’s solar with her mother and soon-to-be goodmother for hours, completely mute after requesting for Jon and his wife to be seated not far from her. All she has left to do is half-seriously contemplate if vomiting on Lady Isabelle’s yellow silk slippers could potentially win her at least a day of solitude.

She would be happy to see Jon and to meet Daenerys and aunt Lyanna. And to finally reunite with Rickon, who’s coming with the Riverrun delegation. But that’s about it.

Oh, and she would also be very happy to see her fucking betrothed since she’s not seeing him now at all. So far, they barely had time to exchange a few words during meals, not even coming closer to the topics they actually should talk about.

Which is the fact that they’re getting married.

It’s not any more real now. Her mother asks her to choose between identical shades of white Myrish lace and Lady Isabelle regularly has a breakdown about the potential of rain on the wedding day, and the whole ordeal still seems like something out of the dream.

So she feels she should really just sit down and talk with Gendry as long as it takes until she feels grounded again.

Besides… she misses him still. And now she doesn’t even have letters to fill that void.

So, when one morning Gendry gently grips her wrist under the table when they break their fast and slips a note in-between her fingers (my lady, if you can sneak away from our mothers, I’ll be waiting in the stables), Arya almost shrieks with relief.

She quickly makes up some lousy excuse about her moon blood coming soon and feeling rather weak today, which works smoothly without any questioning from Lady Isabelle and makes Mother narrow her eyes in suspicion, but ultimately grants her freedom to hide her face under the hood and make her way through the Storm’s End crowded courtyard relatively undisturbed. Every step makes her stomach twist in anticipation; half-nervous, half-excited, she finds Gendry alone, standing next to a saddled black horse and speaking to it softly while feeding it a carrot.

He used to give treats to horses in Winterfell too,  she recalls fondly, pleasantly surprised with how relaxed she suddenly feels.

‘’Hey, Gendry.’’ she calls him softly, grinning as he stumbles on his feet while turning to her.

‘’Hi, Arry.’’ he responds with the old moniker he once gave her, and it makes both of them smile wider. ‘’You escaped my mother alright?’’

‘’Yours was not a problem. Mine might suspect something tho. By dinner I should be in my chambers, abed.’’ Arya steps a bit closer, her eyes wondering in awe as she takes the sight of the horse standing next to Gendry. ‘’Gods, who’s that beauty? Hello, sweetling.’’

She presents her open palm for the horse to sniff, while Gendry snickers:

‘’Knew you’d like him. That’s Thunder and he’s mine. So you might want to make acquaintance. ’’

‘’Lame name, if you’re asking me.’’ She gently runs her hand along the horse’s neck, enamored by his silky black mane and fine posture. ‘’But I guess it fits your whole Baratheon image.’’

‘’Wait till you see him run. This stupid name is not completely baseless. ’’ he shots back, with no bite in his words whatsoever. If anything, he just sounds fond.

‘’I assume you’re taking me for a ride then?’’ she asks, tearing her eyes away from the animal to look at Gendry.

In the half-shadow of the stables, she cannot see his eyes clearly, but, when he slowly laces his fingers with her, it tells her everything she needs to know.

‘’Would you like to get away from this madness for a while and see a little bit of Stormlands?’’

And to that, she cannot do anything but squeeze his hand and say aye.

***

Gendry was right, all those years ago; leaving all the fancies and properties aside, Stormlands are alike to North in a way indeed.

They ride through thick forests, soft-green and quiet except for the sound of the hooves of their horses. Instead of talking, they sink into a familiar silence, not feeling the need to fill it with words when they can just -

Be next to each other.

And then Gendry leads Thunders through the clearing, moving in-between trees until they find themselves on the open field at the edge of the cliff overlooking Shipbreaker’s Bay; the waves angrily hissing, as they break over rocks down below and clouds gathering on the strangely yellowish sky above.

It’s raw and wild and so beautiful it almost takes her breath away.

‘’Hey, Arry! Better catch up!’’ Gendry shouts suddenly and then Thunder shoots forward, passing Arya on her brown mare and soon leaving them far behind as he gallops along the ridge.

For a heartbeat or two, she sits completely still, breathing in the salty air and watching Gendry’s broad back getting smaller and smaller; she can feel the corners of her mouth rising up until she has a full-blown smile on her face. She lets the moment last.

And then she presses her heels to mare’s sides and follows.

The wind is whizzing in her ears as she rises up from the saddle, leaning along the horse’s neck and forcing her into a gallop, gallop as fast as she can. This is her favorite part, the one she can never get enough of; the sky, the grass, the sea – everything disappears. There is only cold biting her face and mare’s muscles dancing underneath her skin and Gendry’s breathless, booming laughter as she appears by his side. He pulls on the reigns of Thunder to regain the advantage, but even though his horse is swift and strong, Arya is way lighter and, between two of them, she has always been a better rider.

So they gallop together, so close to one another that it’s reckless as seven hells, the hooves hitting the ground in unison and their eyes locked. Arya thinks they could’ve run like that for a thousand years or more, but then, out of the blue, lightning splits the sky and rain starts pouring down mercilessly, immediately plastering clothes to their skins and making horses neigh and stumble at the loud boom of the thunder.

‘’We’ve got to wait it out, follow me!’’ Gendry’s voice is almost drowned by the noise of the storm, but fortunately, she remains close enough to hear them. Her mare dances in place nervously until Arya manages to calm her down and steer her behind Gendry, deeper into the land and back to the forest.

They find shelter in a cave; with its entrance half-covered by the vines and damp stone walls spotted with moss, it’s surprisingly comfortable. At least it’s dry, for what Arya’s more than grateful. She can already feel the cold rainwater freezing her to the bone and her teeth are clattering as she jumps from the panicked horse and pats her neck with stiff fingers.

‘’Hush girl, it is all fine. We are fine.’’

Thunder is pacing back and forth along the wall, only calming down when Gendry roughly grabs the reigns and whispers something into the horse’s ear. Soon, Arya’s mare neighs quietly and joins him to munch on some of the grasses growing in-between rocks.

Arya lets her go, herself still remaining near the opening of the cave, shifting on her feet to get warmer and rubbing her arms.

The rain falls so hard now that it sounds like a waterfall and, as she raises her eyes to Gendry and meets his stare, she realizes that she got her wish.

They are alone now. Completely, absolutely alone.

Both of them take the step forward at the same time.

‘’Fuck, you’re soaked. Now, take my coat.’’ Gendry’s tugging on the laces of his fur-lined cloak and throwing it on her shoulders before she can even protest. His hair is plastered to his head just like in pools in Godswood and, for a second she finds herself enchanted by the way raindrops drip down his face, along the line of his jaw.

‘’No, you’re cold too.’’ She shots back, grabbing his hands in hers, meaning to rub them together as she used to with Rickon’s and Bran’s in the North. But somehow, miraculously, Gendry’s skin is wet but still warm and she yelps in surprise, his heat making her fingers tingle.

He grins at her smugly.

‘’No, I’m not. What did you say about South being too warm for you, my lady?’’

‘’It is too warm.’’ She huffs in annoyance, trying to gather the will to drop his hands down and not finding it. ‘’But it’s hard not to get cold in a godsdamned thunderstorm. Should’ve known you’d be abnormal.’’

‘’I got caught in the storm too many times to be much affected by it.’’ He shrugs. ‘’Got used to. To be honest, they may be more sudden and vicious than the ones in the North, but you will see that they last far shorter.’’

‘’I didn’t know they sky can turn such a color.’’ She observes, stealing a glance outside behind her shoulder. ‘’It looked almost yellow before it turned dark.’’

‘’How do you think, where did Baratheon colors came from? We took them from Durrandons, who took them from the Stormlands’ sky before. Gods, you really should’ve dressed warmer.’’ Arya bites on her lip just in time to keep the gasp from escaping, as Gendry raises her hands to his lips and blows on them.  Hot air of his breath warms her palms and then travels through her veins; to the tips of her fingers, to her wrists and the crook of her elbows, to her neck and face, making her tremble slightly.

‘’You still have the smallest hands I’ve ever seen.’’ he grumbles, his thumb tracing circles on her skin.

‘’My hands are not small. Yours are just too big.’’

‘’Blacksmith’s hands. Mikken has always used to say so.’’ he recalls sadly, gleam disappearing from his eyes as he leans on the wall of the cave.

‘’You’re not working anymore?’’ she unlaces their fingers in favor of wrapping his coat tighter around her and moving closer to his side. ‘’In the forge, I mean.’’

He just shakes his head.

‘’Don’t have time to. Storm’s End… there’s a lot of things to fix, if I’m being honest. ‘’ his Adam’s apple bobs and Arya really wishes he wasn’t so tall, because then she could see his face better. ‘’And I really hope I can be honest with you, Arya.’’

‘’Of course you can.’’ she’s almost offended he can even think otherwise. ‘’We’ re-‘’

Friends, she wanted to say we’re friends, but we aren’t anymore, are we?  We are betrothed.

‘’Friends.’’ Gendry finishes instead of her, turning his head to lock his eyes with hers. ‘’No matter what, we’re friends first. And.. uhm… everything else…  next.’’

It’s quite dark in the cave, but even in the shadows, she can see blush blooming on his cheekbones. And maybe this sight of vulnerability gives her the final push to ask the question that has been burning in her gut far longer than she cares to admit.

‘’Why do you want me to be your lady, Gendry? You could’ve tried for Sansa’s hand. Or any of the Stormlands’ ladies. Hells, even Princess Daenerys or Jon’s younger sisters, if you were quick about it. Why me?’’

Rain’s still pouring down outside, but it does not matter, cause Gendry’s voice is nowhere as quiet and tentative as hers.

‘’You still have no idea, don’t you?’’ he chuckles, leaning his head back against the rocks and raising his eyes to the stone ceiling. ‘’Gods, Arya, I don’t know even where I should start. You’re - you’re so smart. No one has your head for numbers. And you are an excellent horsewoman. Not to mention a great archer. And undefeatable with your Needle. And you care so much for people! I mean, do you even notice that? You have such a big heart for everyone. You want to take care of those around you, even those lowest. You-‘’

‘’Stop it!’’ she raises on her toes and presses her hands to his mouth, silencing his words. She has never heard Gendry saying so much at once and she has definitely never heard him praising anyone the way he just praised her. She can feel her whole face burning.

Gendry’s blue eyes gleam like twin gemstones. He slowly raises his own hands and grips her wrists, pulling them down from his face.

‘’Will you let me continue?’’ he asks softly, but it does not sound like a question at all. One of his arms sneaks around her waist and he lowers his head so now they’re standing pressed to each other, nose-to-nose. She can see drops of rain sticking his eyelashes together. ‘’You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. The most willful. Most – most beautiful.’’

Air escapes from her lungs. Beautiful. Beautiful. He called me beautiful.

With his other hand, he cups her face and she can see his eyes hesitantly searching for any sight of discomfort from her part, but he will not find any.

There is no discomfort in Arya.

She is no scared.

All she feels is warmth, warmth engulfing her head-to-toe. Warmth like the forge in Winterfell, cause Gendry’s embrace doesn’t feel like anything else but home.

You chose each other. That’s a good groundwork for marriage.

She crooks her head slightly, letting her cheek fully lean against his palm. Still, in silence, her lips part as he rests his forehead against hers.

‘’I was not lying Arya, when I told you I don’t want to be a lord.’’ His voice drops to the lowest of  whispers. ‘’And after seeing how it looks like here, I definitely didn’t change my mind. The only way I will manage to do it, is with you. Nobody else, but you. Will you be the lady of those lands with me?’’

‘’I’ve already told you, stupid.’’ She huffs, placing her own hand on his cheek and smiling. ‘’I’ve already said yes. To you and to everything. But I hope you know, I’ll be the real pain in your arse.’’

‘’Ha, I know that.’’ He chuckles. ‘’That’s the only thing I’m sure of.’’

‘’What would you promise me in return?’’ she asks playfully, biting on his lips and watching as his eyes darken.

‘’Well, what would you want me to?’’

‘’Humor me. I’m giving you my hand, it better be something nice.’’

She’s thinking they surely must look like idiots, holding each other’s faces and smiling at each other, close enough that they share air and their noses bump.

But she just can’t seem to mind that.

‘’I promise to always be true to you.’’ His voice is like laughter and sun and weirwood leaves; his voice is like gravel on the Winterfell courtyard and the smell of the forest, the sound of waves crashing on the cliff. He is both the most familiar and the most unknown and there is nothing that Arya doesn’t feel when he whispers; ‘’To love you and to keep you wild. ’’

***

Sansa and her husband arrive two weeks before the wedding and her sister takes maybe two steps out of the wheelhouse before Mother runs to her and wraps her arms around her, Father soon following.

Arya watches the whole meeting from the sidelines, standing next to Gendry and trying not to bite on her lip too much. Sansa’s even more beautiful in her memory; she seems to be glowing from inside out the way expecting women are supposed to.

But well. She was always an expert in doing things she’s supposed to do. Why would pregnancy be any different for her?

Prince Aegon also remains in distance to the general merry-making, instead politely greeting Lady Isabelle and Lord Robert, who was wheeled outside on a chair, and whose head sags against his chest as if he was far older than he really is. Arya honestly admires Prince a little bit for coming so close to him, even going as far as kneeling on the ground to make talking to him easier. Robert Baratheon makes her feel a lot of things, pretty much none positive; and her general opinion of him is not improving due to the way his bloodshot eyes follow her every movement whenever she’s around him, a weird mix of nostalgia and desire written on his face.

Robert may hate all Targaryens with burning intensity, but apparently even he is not stupid enough to be rude to the Heir to the Iron Throne. Or maybe he doesn’t have the strength to be, gods only know. Anyway, he seems to be talking with Prince Aegon quite politely, every second word interrupted by the fit of coughing.

Arya thinks she’s probably staring at him a little too intensely, but she cannot help her curiosity; because she did not attend Sansa’s wedding, this is the first time she’s meeting her good brother. And what a sight he is – tall and lean like a willow tree, fair-haired; slim where Jon is broad, lithe where Jon is bulky. One would never guess they are half-brothers.

Where Prince nods his head in front of her, she notices his beautiful blue eyes, darker even than Gendry’s; like the evening sky long after sunset.  

“Arya.’’ Sansa calls for her from Father’s embrace, a small smile on her blushed face and her hands cupping the slight bulge of her belly. ‘’It’s so nice to see you, sister! Please, come closer.’’

Is it really? Arya almost scowls, but Gendry lightly pinches her side before she has a chance to and offers her his arm and, when they’re crossing the courtyard together, she’s feeling strangely giddy. Gendry’s wearing this doublet she likes, the one with claw marks along his shoulders (being subtle has never been his strongest suit) and it’s so good to be by his side, his longer strides matched with her quicker ones.  Marveling at that, Arya manages easily to kiss Sansa’s cheek and politely congratulate her on her pregnancy. She thinks she could even, maybe, possibly, do a little wedding-related small talk on her own free will… just as long as Gendry would be holding her hand the whole time.

***

When Sansa asks her to take a walk around the castle’s gardens, she does not think much of it. Maybe Mother asked her to, maybe she wants to gloat a little, or maybe she lacks female companionship. There could be a number of reasons, all ultimately unimportant.

At first, it goes as expected; they stroll agonizingly slow, Sansa babbles excitedly about the wedding and her babe and how beautiful Dragonstone is and everything else, and Arya listens to her quietly, trying not to look as bored as she is.

But then Sansa sits down on of the benches, taking yet another break. She quiets down for a moment, before lacing her hands on her lap.

‘’Are you in love with him?’’ she asks suddenly, her voice low and serious; a far cry for her previous cheerful tweeting. She keeps her eyes glued to the ground and refuses to meet Arya’s confused stare.

And Arya is simply dumbfounded. Not only to hear this question from Sansa, of all people, but to hear it at all. No one ever wonders about being in love. It’s a silly fancy for women of their kind and even Sansa, so enamored by the tales of knights and fair ladies must already know that. Love is something that one can wish for, but it’s not an end goal. Even Mother and Father have never mentioned it. Gendry and Arya like each other a lot, enjoy each other’s company, are of an equal station and actively asked to be matched, so it was far more than enough for them to be married.

But Sansa is asking about something else entirely. And so Arya finds herself quite at loss to what to say.

‘’I’m not.’’ – she says at last, deciding on the most honest answer she can think of. – ‘’But I think maybe I will be. One day.’’

‘’But you love him, don’t you? And even if you don’t, you know him. You know…’’ Sansa pauses and takes a deep breath before continuing. – ‘’ I am so very jealous of that. Have been, since the moment I realized you will be married to him one day. I met Aegon a week before we were wed and did not know a single important thing about him.’’

The sea breeze plays with stray pieces of Sansa’s beautiful auburn hair and the fringes of her scarlet dress. With her swollen belly and porcelain skin, she’s stunning beyond belief, just like she has always been. And yet, she’s sitting here and telling her, little Arya Horseface, that she’s jealous of her.

When Arya looks at her, really, truly looks at her beyond the perfect exterior Sansa pulls off so well, she notices a few things she has never bothered to see.

There is an unhealthy paleness of her sister’s cheeks and the sheen of sweat on her brow even though they were moving at the snail’s pace during a relatively chilly morning. The Targaryen red shade of the velvet of her gown crashes terribly with her hair. She looks-

Honestly, she looks unhappy.

‘’I still feel like I don’t know him at all.’’ Sansa adds quietly, putting her hands on her belly delicately. ‘’But you two grew up together and he was always so obviously fond of you. Didn’t even spare me a glance, same as Jon. I don’t know if Father intended one of them for you from the beginning, but even if he didn’t, it was soon decided.’’

And of course, Robert Baratheon wanted a Ned Stark’s daughter to marry Gendry right from the start.

Arya thinks about Bran’s absolute conviction, aligning now with Sansa’s words. Was it truly so transparent for everyone, that only she couldn’t see it?

But then again, Arya never wondered much about betrothals and marriages when she was a kid, definitely not even half as much as Sansa. So maybe she just never bothered to notice the clues right in front of her.

How Mother never forbade her running around with Gendry and Jon, long after it stopped being proper. Why would it matter if she got ruined, if it was by her future husband?

How Father turned his eyes away from Arya’s sneaking out to ride with Gendry through wolfswood and how he never said anything against him giving her piggyback rides to her chamber after the supper.

Arya opens her mouth and closes it back, finding no good answer to Sansa’s words.

‘’I think he hoped for either of us to marry him.’’ she says slowly, carefully. ‘’Because Gendry’s Robert’s son. But I’m sure at the beginning he was thinking about you more than me.’’

‘’He won’t be a bad husband to you. He wouldn’t be bad for me also, I’m sure.’’ Sansa chimes and Arya suddenly feels quite faint. Gendry marrying Sansa. How would that feel like? Would she feel anything at all, watching the two of them in front of Septon? Maybe not, if she didn’t know how it feels to stand in his arms, his body so warm and strong against hers. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

‘’But Aegon’s obviously a better catch.’’ somehow, Arya’s statement sounds more like a question.

‘’Oh, he is.’’ Sansa’s giggle is as delicate and lady-like as possible. But the scowl on her face isn’t. ‘’True prince from my dreams. I’ll be his Queen someday, just like I always wanted. What an honor.’’

Her words sound empty. Her eyes are empty; two blue glass marbles set in a lacquered mask.

It’s a particularly pretty spring morning. Soon, they will both go back to the castle and Sansa will surely throw herself into choosing right flowers for the ceremony or pleasantly chat with Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters about the weather for hours with no end. During supper, she’ll sit by Prince Aegon’s side and smile politely, eat like a bird and retire to her chambers early.

But for now, Arya’s standing in Storm’s End gardens in front of her beautiful older sister and, for the first time, pities her.

And maybe it’s just enough for her to bury all the resentment she feels for Sansa deep enough to sit on the bench next to her and lace his fingers with her.

Just enough, that when Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise and her hand twitches in her grip, Arya doesn’t let go.

***

Three days before wedding, they sneak out again; this time, to the beach below the castle.

There’s Gendry, his eyes laughing, his cheeks pink from harsh sea breeze; his pants cuffed so the material won’t get wet in the shallow water, standing next to her and showing her ships sailing somewhere in the distance.

And there’s also this insistent, dangerous thought that keeps on blaring in her mind on repeat ever since they left that cave.

Kiss me.

Kiss me, kissmekissme

She bites on her lip just to keep this plea inside, but he notices, of course he does, cause he is infuriating like that; how can one man be so absolutely dense one second and then suddenly turn perceptive like a hawk?

‘’What?’’

She lowers her gaze to her feet. Pale and submerged, they look like weird fishes.

‘’What, what?’’

‘’What’s going on?’’

The seagulls are shrieking, but it’s nowhere loud enough for her not to hear the sounds coming from the castle. Horses and people and everything. All this fucking noise.

Water splashes around Gendry’s ankles as he moves closer to her. She takes a step back, but he sneaks an arm around her waist, keeping her in place.

He’s so warm. Against sea and wind and sky, he is the warmest thing that exists, warmer even than Nymeria’s fur and Winterfell hot springs.

‘’Arya.’’

Even his voice is warm. Yet, his fingers still make her shiver when he raises her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his.

‘’I just- It’s stupid.’’

‘’I doubt it.’’ He says, so confidently that she almost laughs.

‘’How do you know that?’’

‘’Well.’’ He puts his other hand on her lower back. She is now locked in his embrace, her feet in-between his, his arms around her. ‘’You are not a stupid lass, Arya. So I don’t thank whatever you want to say is stupid either.’’

‘’That’s a stupid line of thinking, tho. Even stupid people sometimes say wise things.’’ Before she can stop herself, she puts her hands on his shoulders, lacing her fingers behind his neck. With the sway of the tides that makes them sway also, it feels a bit as if they were dancing.

‘’Gimmie an example of that.’’ He demands. He’s smiling; he’s always smiling when he’s looking at her, just like her father said. How could she not notice that before?

‘’You. Sometimes you manage to say a thing or two that makes sense.’’

He barks with a booming laughter, loud enough that he startles a few little terns that were resting on the rocks next to them.

‘’Oh, my lady, no one sweet talks me like you do.’’

He’s really, awfully handsome. If Sansa saw him like that, Arya thinks, she would die of jealousy. But I’m the one he wants, I’m the one he asked for.

He saw me, dancing with a practice sword on the courtyard, running around with my hair messy and dress muddied. He saw me and he saw Sansa. And between us two, he chose me. He’s the only one who ever chose me.

Gendry, still chuckling lightly, tucks stray streak of hair behind her ear and stills.

And he is the only one whom I could ever choose.

Courage fills her lungs as she admits sheepishly, in haste, before she can think it over;

‘’I don’t want my first kiss to be in front of all those people.  The king, the queens. My parents. All those lords and ladies. It’s just- I know you don’t – I mean-‘’ she starts to mumble and it suddenly feels too hot in his arms, too scary when he looks at her like that. She’s getting nervous again. Oh, gods. What did she even want to say? It was all a bad idea, the worst. ‘’I’m not asking you to- oh, fuck that, it was stupid, just forge-‘’

Suddenly, underneath blue, blue sky, ankle-deep in cold, cold sea, Gendry’s kissing her.

Her feet on the sharp, slippery pebbles, seagulls shrieking and thunder rumbling somewhere in the far distance, Gendry’s kissing her.

Smiling against her mouth, his lips chapped and warm, Gendry’s kissing her.

And she supposes she’s glad she brought it up at the end, cause it would be embarrassing as hell to gasp like she just did in front of all the guests; to freeze first and then close her eyes and melt, raising on her tiptoes and burying her fingers in soft, dark hair at the back of his head to press him closer to her. Their teeth clash and she winces, but he coaxes her lips to part with his tongue and – oh.

Oh.

***

The Royal House Targaryen streams through the open gate with all the pomp and extravagance possible.  And even Arya has to admit, they are truly a sight to behold. It’s hard not to gawk.

King Rheagar rides first, on a stunning white horse and clad in silver, which, paired with his skin and hair,  makes him look a little bit like a fallen star, as if he was out of this world. He’s far older now than when he took the throne from his father, but still as handsome; and those melancholic eyes are only part of the appeal… at least that’s what Arya’s handmaidens at Storm’s End claim. Then, there are his two Queens, who simply couldn’t be more different from each other; Elia Martell, dark and subtle, her eyes lined with kohl and swaddled in sandy yellow gauze and purple velvets versus Lyanna Stark, pale as the moon, her long brown hair cascading down her back and wide grin on her lovely face when she spots Arya’s father.

But as much as Arya wants to finally meet this woman, her eyes keep on searching, impatience burning in her veins until she spots Jon.

Prince Jaehaerys hops off his horse the moment the procession stops and, ignoring all protocol and curtesies, crosses the courtyard to gather Arya in his arms, spinning her around until she wheezes with laughter.

‘’Jon, let me go!’’ she kicks her legs underneath her skirts, suddenly feeling like a little girl again.

‘’I will, but only so I can take a look at you.’’ he chuckles, finally setting her on her feet and surveying her head-to-toe, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘’Well, you did not grow much, didn’t you.’’

She thinks her mother would positively whip her if she hit a crown prince of Seven Kingdoms in the presence of the rest of the Royal Family and that’s the only thing that stops her from doing just so.

‘’You, on contrary, should really stop growing. Nice to see you, friend.’’ Jon turns to Gendry, who grins in return and soon they’re patting each other’s backs, playfully wrestling like they used to back in Winterfell.

‘’My love, maybe you could introduce me?’’ soft, melodic voice breaks their reunion bubble and soon Arya’s looking at someone who surely must be the most beautiful girl she has ever seen.

Jon’s face splits into the most lovesick and sappy smile in the history of lovesick smiles as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

‘’You’re right, of course. Gendry, Arya- my wife, Princess Daenerys.’’

‘’Dany. Just Dany is enough, we are amongst friends, right? I heard so much about you two, you have no idea.’’ Daenerys winks at them playfully. She’s wearing a simple lilac dress and her silver hair is down, already messed-up by the wind, but Arya supposes it doesn’t matter at all if her face is so strikingly perfect and her body seems to be carved from marble by someone’s loving hands. Daenerys Targaryen would probably still be heart-stopping if she was barefoot and in rags.

‘’Oh, I think we may have some idea about the things he could tell you,  Your Highness.’’ Gendry lowers his head respectfully and Arya takes it as a clue to curtsy also. ‘’Welcome to Storm’s End.’’

‘’Please, no ‘Your Highness’ me. I told you, my name is Dany.’’ Daenerys clasps Arya’s hands in hers. ‘’I heard you have a similar problem with titles. Please, support me here.’’

‘’Of course – Dany.’’ Arya finds it easy to return the smile, squeezing Princess’ fingers. ‘’Besides, we don’t title Jon. It’s only fair not to do that with you.’’

‘’You’re only not titling me, because you have seen me sprawled half-naked on the snow after that prank that Theon pulled.’’ Jon murmurs grimly, but Arya can see how content he looks like with their introduction to his wife. ‘’After all, it would be impossible to remain dignified after that.’’

Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up and she narrows her eyes.

‘’I don’t believe I heard this particular story.’’

‘’You don’t have to know everything, Dany.’’

‘’Oh, but I definitely do.’’ Princess turns back to Arya. ‘’Can’t wait to learn what else he hid from me. We must get to know each other better. Please?’’

And because Jon looks so unquestionably happy when he stares at his wife and because Dany’s plea sounds so incredibly honest-  it’s enough for Arya to exchange a glance with Gendry before they both nod in unison.

It’s different now, when there is an additional person in their old good triumvirate. But somehow, she thinks this might be a change for good.

***

On the morning of her wedding, she wakes up too early - it’s barely grey outside, silent in the whole castle.  Even Nymeria is still deep in her slumber and apparently dreaming of running, judging by the erratic movements of her paws.

Arya jumps from under the covers, walking barefoot on the stone-cold floor to the window to check if Gendry was right yesterday, when he told his mother stop fretting about the weather -  it turns out he was indeed, because the sea is still and flat like a table and the wind has died down, leaving only chill breeze that makes her shiver and wrap her arms around her.

Tomorrow, she will wake up in different chambers, with a better view. And just like the water outside, she is strangely calm with this perspective on the horizon. It’s all right. It’s all good.

It will be fine.

One big, fancy ceremony and she will forever be allowed to kiss Gendry whenever she wants and they will never ever have to sneak out again to go for a horse ride. It doesn’t seem like a too big price to pay.

Alright then. Let the madness begin.

She bathes in rosewater, her cherry maids scrubbing every inch of her body with sea sponges until her skin is pink and itchy.

Then, her mother and sister dress her up in fine white silk adorned with ermine fur and pearls on the hem and around cuffs. The gown is lighter than a traditional Northern one would be, but still heavy and uncomfortable, and Sansa laces it tight enough that Arya has to stop herself from wincing every time she takes a deeper breath. They braid her hair in a soft coronet, adorning it with silver thread and small blue flowers, and they powder her face and paint her lips and cheeks with the rogue.

Sansa gifted her a long string of pearls from the Summer Islands for the occasion and now she takes it out of the box and loops it around Arya’s neck a few times, so that it would complement her dress. After doing that, she steps aside, with a satisfied smile on her face.

When they put her in front of the mirror, she has to blink a couple times to recognize herself.

‘’Look at you.’’ Her mother says, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she clasps her hands together and covers her mouth with them. ‘’You look so beautiful, Arya.’’

Arya’s heart clenches painfully and she looks down, avoiding Mother’s soft gaze. She has waited her whole life to hear those words.  To fit in. To feel like she belongs.

Right now, standing still in her beautiful gown, dripping with jewels and all dolled-up, she finally looks like a proper noblewoman. Proper lady. Even next to the glowing Sansa, queen-to-be in royal scarlet, she does not look out of place.

Beautiful, that’s how her mother called her.

It doesn’t feel good at all. It feels empty. It is empty, because the woman looking back at her from the mirror is not Arya, just some stranger in her skin.

Gendry, thou. – crosses her mind suddenly, filling her with warmth. – Gendry called me beautiful in the forest, when I had my hair loose and I was soaked to the bone with rain. Why would it matter, what anyone else thinks of me today?

Holding onto that thought, she wills her mouth to curve into a smile. If they want her to play the blushing bride, she will be one for today, easily. Because this marriage won’t be her shackles.

‘’Thank you, Mother.’’

***

First, they marry in Sept.

Storm’s End has a beautiful little chapter, ornamented inside with amber and colored glass, making it look like a jewelry box. When light pours through the windows, it basks people in an orange-golden glow and suddenly everyone and everything becomes simply ethereal. Women are porcelain figures. Men – carved marble. The smell of burning spices is making Arya’s nose twitch, harsh light is making her eyes water. At the back of her head, she registers all of it; Nymeria’s silent presence by her one side, Father’s by the other;  the sound of her maiden cloak sweeping the stone floor; Sansa’s red hair looking like a flame around her face.

But it all feels very much unreal, even when she stands in front of Gendry and watches how light dances on his face, turning his eyes green.  The Septon keeps on talking and talking, gods know what about. She doesn’t hear any of his words, only white noise pulsating in her ears. She is not really here, not really registering what’s going on - not until their linked hands are wrapped with silk ribbon and it’s time for them to say their vows.

For a second, her throat goes dry.

There is no turning back now.

She cannot breathe, cannot think, not will all those people watching her and with those godsdamned spices burning, not with her laces so tight and her heart so heavy-

Gendry’s fingers gently squeeze her own and it’s like a fresh breeze on a hot day, like a bucket of blissfully cold water poured on her head.

This marriage won’t be my shackles.

‘’Father.’’ He starts, his voice confident and loud, echoing through the chapel.

And she breathes in.

‘’Smith.’’ The corners of Gendry’s lips twitch slightly.

And she breathes out.

‘’Warrior.’’ She raises her chin up, looking him straight into the eyes and letting smile bloom on her face.

‘’Mother, Maiden, Crone.’’ They say in perfect unison, and Arya feels how her chest rises and falls, how her heart beats steadily, how everything is a song and she just wants to sing it as long as she’s alive.

‘’I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.’’ They stand so close to each other, their linked hands being the only thing that keeps their bodies apart; Gendry leans his head down and she does not care for guests or for the feast or for being the lady of Storm’s End when he’s right here and promises to be hers.

The Septon untangles the ribbon and Gendry’s fingers immediately fly to the laces of her cloak; but then, just as suddenly, he drops them.

He sends her a blinding grin and, instead of taking it off, he simply reaches for the Baratheon black-and-yellow cloak and pulls it on top of her Stark one and she’s quite sure no one ever smiled as widely as her at that moment, when gathered guests gasp and Gendry fulfills her promise to her in the most beautiful way he possibly could.

And then.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.’’ She almost sing-songs, feeling like a giddy girl about to dip into Godswood pools.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.’’ Gendry’s voice drops an octave lower, sending shivers down her spine, before she raises on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

‘’I now pronounce you man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.’’  The Septon announces, and it’s a perfectly lovely line, truly;  but all Arya ever wants to hear is Gendry’s breathy laughter as he embraces her tightly, sweeping her off her feet.

***

They truly do get married when the night falls, at least from Arya’s perspective.

The Godswood here is, of course,  not even close to what she left behind in Winterfell, but it’s easy to fool herself when it’s dark and lit with torches and bigger part of her family is there. Most of the guests decided to remain at the feast inside, so the ceremony is far quieter and simple – only aunt Lyanna, Jon and Daenerys stand next to Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters on the one side of the path, watching as Arya is once again lead towards her husband by her father. From the other side, Sansa sends her a soft smile, locked in Prince Aegon’s arms and Rickon whistles sharply until Mother whacks him on the head.

This time, Father pulls her close before giving her away, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and quietly telling her he loves her and this is when it really, truly hits her- this is goodbye. A farewell. Even of Gendry didn’t take her cloak off… since now, she’ll forever be Lady Arya Baratheon in the eyes of the world.

This makes her cry, just a little and it’s good that Gendry’s close enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

When they kneel on the sweet-smelling grass in front of the bloody-teared heart tree, she closes her eyes and silently asks the old Northern gods of her ancestors to replace Winterfell in her heart with Storm’s End. And for Gendry to never leave her again. And to finally feel that what she has is enough.

***

Aunt Lyanna dances through the whole evening with anyone and everyone who gathers enough courage to ask her; she twirls in her husband’s arms, spins around nearly all Kingsguards, claps along with the rhythm with her son and Prince Aegon, drags Arya’s father to the dancefloor despite his loud complaints.

She even steals Gendry for a song or two, promising Arya to give him back in one piece and just as handsome and bursting into laughter when Gendry turns red.

Elia Martell also dances her with husband, son, nephew and brother, but she is nowhere as blinding as Lyanna, nowhere as attention-catching. She spends most of the feast quietly talking with Sansa and Dayne siblings, only making an exception to sweetly congratulate Arya and Gendry on their union and to wish them to enjoy each other’s company until they’re old and grey.

Funny thing thou; while Elia seems perfectly calm and content to sit at the sidelines, Arya catches Aunt Lyanna longingly stare a little too long at the Stark sigil hanging from the ceiling along the Baratheon one; and, while she’s still a relatively young woman, there are crone’s lines deeply carved in the skin around her eyes. If observed long enough, her laughter sounds quite hollow and there’s some unhealthy nervousness about her quick, erratic movements.

She truly does resemble a caged songbird.

Beautiful and sad, that’s what Gendry said about her years ago. And although probably no one else would call her the latter, Arya supposes he was not wrong at all, just more perceptive than others.

King Rheagar’s sadness is out in the open. For Lyanna’s, one has to dig a little deeper.

But Arya’s  pondering about the subject is rudely, if deliciously, interrupted as Gendry’s lips suddenly brush her earlobe when he whispers:

“Would you do me an honor of dancing with me, my lovely wife?’’

She turns towards him, cheeks blushed, breath catching. Wife, wife, wife.

He’s straight-up fucking beaming at her. She hasn’t been even aware that he can make an expression like that. And when she immediately puts her hand in his, no hesitation, his smile stretches even wider, making his eyes crinkle and highlighting this tiny dimple he has on his chin.

It is unmistakable, how unabashedly happy Gendry looks like.  Oh gods, how could she even think about anything else than him this night?

‘’Lead the way, husband of mine. And try not to step on my toes.’’ She teases and bursts into laughter as he pulls her in-between dancing pairs and spins her around.

***

‘’Maybe we could just ran away.’’ Arya whispers, gently tracing the slope of Gendry’s nose with the tip of her finger. The guests behind their doors whistle and shout obscenities, but they could as well be far away in the North for how little attention Arya pays them. Her and her new husband are laying on top of Gendry’s magnificent featherbed, stripped to their small clothes and in no hurry whatsoever, all hushed voices and feather-like caresses. He’s playing with her hair. She’s exploring his features. Time feels sticky; thick and sweet like honey.

She wants to savor it, every single drop.

‘’Drop the titles, the castles. Just be us.’’ She sounds dreamy and, ultimately, it is exactly what she plans on doing. She’s gonna daydream. She’s gonna talk and talk with him, the way they have always did. And just hope that whatever follows won’t be the first thing that won’t come easy to them.

‘’What would we do?’’ he plays along, gently grabbing her hand and kissing the delicate underside of her wrist, his eyes shining in the moonlight, his lips parted. There’s something written on his face tonight and she does not know how to decipher this message; she only knows it makes her toes curl, her fingers tremble.

‘’You’d be my blacksmith.’’ Arya braces herself for a moment before she swiftly rolls on top of him, settling her hips against his and chuckling when he groans.

‘’And you’d be my Arya.’’

Mine, mine, mine – her blood sings, her breath catches as she watches how he lays spread underneath her, both rough and soft, vulnerable and strong and hers, hers to keep.

His hands rest on her waist and then move upwards, finding her breasts and she moans involuntarily under his touch,  evoking a wave of loud cheering from the corridor. Gendry’s pupils are blown wide, his eyes are so dark that they don’t even look blue anymore.

‘’Aye, I would be.’’ she agrees before lowering her head to capture his lips with hers. ‘’I would always be yours.’’

Never believe things men will tell you to bed you. They won’t mean it, not truly. - Septa Mordane used to warn her and Arya briefly wonders if the opposite is maybe also true. Right now, she would say everything and anything to get Gendry to move, to touch her, really touch her.  This dance they’re doing is marvelous, is delicious, is unlike anything else she has ever felt before. With the anticipation making her dizzy, with want making her silly, there are not many lines she wouldn’t cross.

‘’Say it again.’’ He demands in between kisses, twisting her nipple in-between his fingers and using her moment of weakness to flip them over, swallowing her breathy gasps with his mouth. ‘’Please.’’

‘’Yours. I’m yours, I’m yours.’’ She pants, giddy and happy, and letting excitement bubble inside her as he replaces his fingers with his mouth.

‘’And I’m yours.’’ He vows sweetly, pressing short, burning kisses down her body, stripping her of any shame until everything else disappears without a trace, wiped from the face of Earth, leaving only place for the two of them, together.

***

The next morning, Gendry takes her to the stables with her eyes blindfolded with a silk shawl.

‘’I know where we are going.’’ She whines, feeling more than a little ridiculous as he leads her like a child. ‘’I know you’re gonna give me a horse. Why do we have to do it this way?’’

‘’I’m a fan of all things proper.’’ Comes his answer and Arya’s absolutely sure she must be red to the roots of her hair cause there was abso-fucking-lutely nothing proper about how Gendry spread her thighs and licked her into oblivion just a few hours ago.

‘’Oh, surely you are.’’ She snickers, making him chuckle in response.

‘’Are you suggesting I did not – took care of you properly last night?’’

When did he become such a tease?

She’s just about to shoot something back, but Gendry takes her hand and places it on top of something incredibly delicate and warm.

‘’Say hello, my love.’’ He tells her softly, undoing the knot at the back of Arya’s head. ‘’I hope you’ll be satisfied.’’

In front of Arya stands the most magnificent pale sand steed she has ever seen. It is elegantly built, with the long neck, thin legs and small hooves; even while standing still, it looks like an epitome of grace. From underneath its grey fringe, dark eyes stare intelligently right into hers. The beast is calm like the untouched surface of the lake and Arya can do nothing else but stand and gawk, her hand still resting above horse’s nostrils; she’s just too enchanted to say anything.

‘’Trystane and Oberyn brought her with Dorne on my request.’’ Gendry continues, patting the horse’s side. ‘’How do you like her?’’

How do I like her?

Suddenly, Arya feels a strange urge to cry.

She has dreamt of a sand steed all her life. To just jump onto one and  - ran away, as swiftly as possible, faster than the wind. To disappear somewhere of the horizon, in the lands unknown. To become a tale incarnate. And Gendry knew it all well, for how many times she talked his ears off with her ice dragons, leviathans, Old Valyrias, Elisa Farmans, Princess Aereas and Sea Snakes.

And yet – he gave her this beautiful, beautiful horse and trusted her not to use it to leave him and shame him.

He’s looking so proud of himself. – she thinks, her heart fluttering in her chest like a moth around the flame. Gendry’s eyes are twinkling and he has his arms laced on his chest, standing tall and strong. He’s smiling at her, as always. – And he has a right to be.

‘’If you- if you expect me to call her Lightening to match your Thunder, you will be sorely disappointed.’’ She manages to utter at last, trying to keep her tone playful. – ‘’This would be ridiculous and we won’t be doing that.’’

Gendry barks a laughter, leaning back on one of the wooden pillars and glancing at Arya fondly as she lets the horse sniff her palm before gently pressing a kiss to its nose.

‘’How will you call her then?’’

Arya combs through mare’s fine, silvery mane with her fingers and recalls the feeling of steel grey waves crashing around her calves as Gendry was kissing her on the shore. The feeling of galloping with him on the cliffs, cold rain soaking their clothes. The Old Nan’s stories of the Northern Sea, filled to the brim with monsters from the wildest imagination. The image of the clear sky after the storm, pure and light.

The night they have just spent together.

‘’Shiver.’’ She finds herself stating, with one side of her face pressed to the horse’s warm, strong neck. Her mare smells like sand and sun and salt. Like the only freedom her husband can give her; the freedom to be who she is. ‘’Her name is Shiver.’’

***

As they’re seeing the royal guests away, Aunt Lyanna surveys them both for a moment silently, before exhaling deeply.

‘’Look children, I know you received a lot of well wishes already, but please let me add to the pool.’’ She reaches out and take their hands in her small, glowed ones – Gendry’s in her right, Arya’s in her left. ‘’I hope that your wedding was not the best day of your lives. I hope you will get many, many better in the future, each one more wonderful than the previous. I hope your years together will be as joyous as they can be.’’

Arya’s eyes involuntarily escape from Lyanna across the courtyard, finding Father’s still figure. Her parents are going to accompany royal family to the Capital before going back North and simply the thought of it makes her want to throw up. After they’re gone, only Nymeria will remind her of home.

After they’re gone, there will be no more ceremonies and pleasantries, or formal dinners to suffer through. Only day by day, years passing by.  

‘’My dear.’’ Aunt Lyanna pats her cheek delicately to regain her attention and looks her straight into the eyes, grey meeting grey. ‘’I know it’s hard for us, she-wolves of Winterfell, to live in the South. But you are strong. You will survive this separation – and soon, your childhood will become just a sweet memory to cherish, not something that makes you ache. Believe me.’’ She finishes quietly, quickly bidding them goodbye and hurrying to her horse with skirts fluttering around her ankles as if she was afraid she said too much.

Her voice rings true and Arya suspects she believes in her words. But Lyanna still looks so small and bittersweet in her blue gown, surrounded by the sea of crimson and black. She stands out, a single winter rose in the garden of glasshouse-grown ones. From one side, King Rheagar glances at her, brow furrowed. From another, Jon shoots her a concerned look, wrinkle on his forehead deep like a gash.

Mother hugs her tightly, caressing her hair and saying something about being proud of her, but Arya’s more or less fine until Father appears in front of her and stares down at her so lovingly that she’s sure her heart will break clean in half from the pain.

She can feel her lower lip trembling and before she can even notice, she’s locked in Ned Stark’s warm embrace, surrounded by the familiar scent.

‘’My girl.’’ He whispers softly, letting her tear up against his shoulder and holding her tightly. ‘’My girl, I love you so much. You are going to do so good, you’ll see.’’

‘’I’m going to miss you.’’ She cries, not even carrying if anyone hears. Let them know Starks love their pack. Let them know whose example she is going to follow. ‘’So much. But I’ll do my best.’’

‘’I know you will.’’ Father says warmly, his voice laced with such a certainty that she smiles through tears. ‘’You are a natural; you were born to order people around. And I’m sure you will be happy in Stormlands. Right, Gendry?’’

Arya still has her face pressed to Father’s fur collar, but she’s fully aware that he fixes  a particularly icy stare on her husband, because Gendry’s ‘’I’ll see to that, Lord Stark.’’ sounds a little nervous.

‘’You don’t need to scare him, Father.’’ She says quietly. ‘’You said it yourself; he will be good to me.’’

‘’Oh, I don’t worry about it. But it’s better to be extra safe than sorry, right?’’

So this is how she says goodbye to her family; her face wet and the corners of her mouth up, her husband squeezing her hand tightly as the horses disappear, swallowed by the woods.

***

A week later, just when she thinks all the hard talks and surprises are behind her, Lady Isabelle invites her for a tea in her solar.

Dressed in a teal gown and with her blonde locks half-up, her goodmother looks as delicate and bird-like as always and Arya wonders for the thousandth time how a woman like that put up with years and years of Robert Baratheon, how did she survive giving him a son and three daughters. If Isabelle is akin to a dove, Robert is nothing but a boar; big and loud and vulgar.

And still in love with another woman, even after all those years.

‘’Oh, Arya. Sit please.’’  The woman sets down her embroidery hoop on the table and reaches for a teapot. ‘’I hope you like tea? I heard Xingise don’t drink anything else.’’

‘’I do enjoy tea a lot, goodmother.’’ Arya dutifully takes a seat and watches as Lady Isabelle is pouring dark, sweet-smelling liquid into her cup. There are fresh cut roses in the vase between them and one of the petals falls off just as Arya’s trying to remember if the two of them were ever alone before. To be honest, she cannot recall such situation.

With a cling of porcelain, Gendry’s mother puts teapot back on the tray and announces simply:

‘’Robert and I will soon leave Storm’s End.’’

Arya’s eyes widen. She has expected – fuck, she doesn’t know what she expected, but definitely not this.

‘’Where to, my lady? I thought Lord Robert’s condition doesn’t allow him to travel.’’ She asks carefully, trying not to sound too brash, or, gods forbid, too happy. Even if she is a little bit happy. Which probably makes her the worst person ever.

‘’You are not mistaken.’’ Isabelle purses her lips into a tight line. ‘’But my husband is barely holding onto life the way he is now. Him and I will only trouble Gendry, and he does not need extra problems on his head. Especially… now that he already has you.’’

She could’ve as well slap Arya, for how painful this subtle jab was.

‘’Let me make something clear, Lady Arya.’’ Isabelle continues, any trace of sweetness gone from her voice. ‘’I was against this match, same as I was against Gendry being fostered in Winterfell, especially since we could’ve send him to Eyrie, to my family. Bringing you here is an insult to me, considering – well, considering.’’

Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna. Why won’t you just say her name? We both know you’re thinking about her.

‘’My son is a good man, I made sure of that. I thought there is not a trace of Robert in him, except his looks. But it seems I was wrong.’’

‘’Gendry is different than his father. Completely different.’’ Arya protests, but her words seem distant and distorted as if she was under the water. This whole conversation threw her completely off balance. Where did this woman hide this venom for all those weeks?

‘’Not when it comes to taste in women, apparently. ‘’ Isabelle scoffs and Arya curses in her head, this goddamn shadow of Aunt Lyanna always stuck to me. ‘’Still, I respected his choice. But you should know, you would never deserve him. Never.’’

Looks like an innocent flower, but there’s a true furious stag underneath          

Arya cannot hate Lady Isabelle; she cannot even dislike her now, not when it turned out she is not so bland after all. Years stuck with Robert, seeing his whores and wine would make even a saint bitter.

Besides…  she does understand where her good mother’s fears come from.

Arya laces her fingers on her lap, more lady-like than ever, and takes a sip of her tea.

‘’So let me be honest also; I love your son. And I intend to be a good wife for him. But I will never take your road. I won't ever let him harass me into becoming who I’m not. However, I believe I should thank you for raising him... Because I know he would never do that.’’

Lady Isabelle stares at her for a moment, before nodding slowly.

‘’He wouldn’t. He won’t. Hope you know how lucky you are.’’

In fact, Arya feels like she’s been slowly realizing that from the moment she stepped onto the Storm’s End courtyard and it’s only becoming clearer with time.

‘’Anyway.’’ Isabelle reaches for her own teacup, only the slight tremble of her wrist indicating she has just straight-up insulted Arya. ‘’I wish to visit my older brother and his wife in Runestones. I hope clear mountain air would do Robert well, not like the clammy heat here.’’

Oh, it will certainly do him good. – Arya narrows her eyes, trying to stop herself from chuckling. – So will being tossed in the wheelhouse for weeks, on the hard terrain, when he’s already so weak. You minx. I underestimated you.

Her goodparents do leave eventually, against Gendry’s loud and explicit wishes, and taking his youngest sister with them.  It takes five men to load Lord Robert onto the wheelhouse as he coughs and wheezes and Maester of Storm’s End refuses to see his lord and lady away, whispering to anyone who would listen that this whole idea is pure lunacy.

But it is easier to breathe in the castle without them and Gendry smiles more when he doesn’t have to visit his father every day and see him fading away. Even his two remaining sisters, Aelin and Lara, seem to be a little bit more carefree and talkative, and Lara goes as far as starting to practice water dancing along with Arya.

For all this bliss, Arya doesn’t kid herself into believing that is the last she sees of lady Isabelle. After all, she is of House Royce and Maester Luwin taught Arya her houses well.

And Royces of Runestones have a very memorable motto indeed.

We remember.

***

Little Lady, that’s how smallfolk has taken to calling her. Little Lady and Lady Wolf and Winter Rose even, sometimes, after someone starts to marvel at her likeness to Queen Lyanna. It stung at the beginning, made her stomach turn with irritation and her eyes roll. She could stomach Lady Wolf – it sounded kind of bloody fantastic, to be honest – but all the rest she was honestly despising.

Soon enough tho, a new addition come in front of each of her many names, the one that completely turned everything around.

‘’Our Little Lady’’ - servants address her tenderly, when they think she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Our Lady Wolf!” –  village children would laugh, crowding around her on the streets, tugging on her clothes and begging for sweets and stories.

“Yes, our lady is simply amazing, isn’t she?” – guards would whisper in between each other, after not-so-discretely watching her practice archery in the courtyard on a sunny afternoon.

She does not like being The Lady any more than she thought she would. But she supposes could be their lady, the lady of those people, when ‘’our’’ sounded like a bigger honorific that whatever followed it.

Stormlands grow on her, slowly and surely, like a vine covering stone. This beautiful, violent lands; deep, dark woods, blindingly white cliffs of Durrandon’s Point and Shipwrecker’s Bay’s angry, stone-blue sea.  The sky that seems to always be in motion, just like in the North. Storms, so constant and yet so breathtaking, leaving a peculiar aftertaste in the air. She spends every free moment on the horseback, riding from village to village and along the coast, exploring every inch and nook and letting Nymeria roam loose, until her wolf collapses by Gendry’s feet in the evening, panting and satisfied.

To be honest tho, there is not much time for Arya to waste it like that.

She’s keeping  herself busy, filling her days with bookkeeping and trade negotiations and construction of guilds, with breeding hounds and tending to horses. There is a lot to mend; Robert was a reckless spender and his wife loved unnecessary frivolities, but Arya’s sure they can pay off their debts just fine  if they will manage without peacocks for suppers for a while and cut the amount of lavish feasts in half.

Gendry shows her the maps of trade routes in the region and they spend hours upon hours of reviewing the stream of goods, arguing about the possible new harbors on the coastline and the construction of roads. She’s losing her sleep in favor of counting taxes, monitoring the state of their coffers and wondering what else they could possibly produce. Arya would’ve never guessed all of it would be so engaging, but it is. And all the work feels so very rewarding, so useful.

It’s easy to have a clear objective, when it has a name and a face, be it freckled Mel from the kitchens, her favorite guard Willen or Old Tom that sits in the docks all day long and gifts her with fresh clams every time she’s passing him on Shiver. It’s easy to work for them, to make their lives better. Especially because Arya’s and Gendry’s lives are already so good.

Soon, she introduces her favorite Winterfell tradition of dining with a different resident of the households, be it the Captain of the Guard or the Head Stablemaster. But instead of moving to sidelines like her mother used to, Arya sits on one side of their guest and Gendry on another one, asking questions together. Maybe, just maybe, she even talks more.

Maybe she generally does just as much governing as him, definitely more than is expected of her. Maybe people talk behind her back about how improper it all is.

Maybe, but Gendry himself certainly doesn’t seem to mind all that.

At night, he hoists her legs up, rests her calves on his broad shoulders and fucks her, long and hard and slow, nipping on her neck and collarbone now and then, or suckling on her nipples until she’s trembling like a flame in the fireplace, desperately beginning him with a broken voice that she doesn’t even recognize as hers to please, please, just go faster and finish her off.

She told him she would not bow to any man and she keeps her promise; she does not bow to him. She surrenders thou, gladly and sweetly, if only because it makes her all hot and wet every time he puts his hands on her and pins her down forcefully to cover her body with his. His grip is strong and bruising and maybe she should feel violated by that, but how does it even matter, if his kisses are so gentle and his eyes so loving? This is safety; this is her Gendry. She could close her eyes and moan all she fucking desires and he would never, ever hurt her.

She leaves scratches down his back and he leaves her skin peppered with love bites and they ruin and devour each other in the most delicious, delirious way there is.

How her mother and her sister warned her of a marriage bed. She wants to laugh every time she thinks about it.

***

A raven comes with news of Sansa bearing a healthy girl named Alyssa, said to be red of hair and purple of eyes.  And, as on cue, Arya’s moon blood comes once, twice and then stops.

Soon, her breasts fill up painfully and she stops sleeping well, fruitlessly tossing and turning in bed until Gendry sleepily gathers her in his arms and caresses her hair, calming her down.

And then she barges into the kitchens one day and demands, very loudly, for the cook to stop preparing fish, seven hells, can he just not, is it really that hard to understand that fish makes her sick?

And she knows what it means. She’s not blind or ignorant. But this knowledge feels heavy, so heavy that she’d rather leave it untouched than try to carry it on her shoulders. They have just settled into some kind of routine. This… this will turn everything around yet again.

Unfortunately, she did not marry a stupid man either. A little silly sometimes, but not stupid.

So, when he buries his face in-between her breasts one evening and her gasp clearly a pained, not an aroused one, he carefully rests his chin on her clavicle and breathes out deeply.

“Arya.’’

‘’Gendry.’’

He huffs in annoyance, raising himself up on his elbows and taking his weight off her.

‘'Arya, please.’’

‘’Yes?’’

If he plays dumb, she will also.

‘’Are you with a child?’’ he asks her, straight-up, and his voice – gods, his voice. Everything rings in it, every possible emotion; fear and excitement and anxiousness and hope and love. So much love and he doesn’t even try to conceal it.

And maybe it’s the babe – she seriously hopes so, because otherwise she’s just getting soft which is simply ridiculous – but Arya can feel her heart painfully clenching in her chest as her husband’s blue eyes flicker in the candlelight.

She gently cards her fingers through his thick curls, pushing them away from her face.

‘’Would you like me to be?’’ – she already knows the answer, but she still wants to hear it. Just.. just to be sure. Just to lean against his unwavering strength and drew from it when her doubts eat her alive.

He swiftly rises to a kneeling position and pulls her along, settling her on his lap with her arms looped around his neck and her bare thighs straddling him. A fresh wave of arousal crushes over her and she hums in delight as he places his hand on her hip, his fingers digging into her skin.

‘’Arya. I would be by far the happiest man in the world if you were.’’ He says solemnly, his other hand cradling the back of her head. ‘’But being honest, I am already happier than I ever thought I will be, having you with me. So tell me. Please.’’

He lets go of her hip to tentatively cup her still-flat belly and she just cannot drag it any longer, not when he seems to tremble in anticipation underneath her.

‘’Aye.’’

He breathes in and out deeply, his eyes still locked with hers. There is a dazed expression of his face and Arya’s sure no one has ever looked at her that way; the way Septas look at figures of Mother in Sept, the way Jon was looking at dancing Dany at the wedding, the way sunsets are supposed to be looked at.

He looks at her as if she was a gift sent from gods.

“Aye?’’

‘’Aye. I am.’’ She’s nodding and oh fuck, when did she start crying? When did she start grinning, when did he pull her head closer to his? When did he start kissing her, laughing against her mouth and tasting salt on her lips?

Aye, aye.

Aye.

It seems all the sweetest moments in her life start with just this one word.

***

Dany and Jon come to visit, just as they promised during the wedding; they arrive with a surprisingly small escort and the whole trip seems as informal as possible, for what Arya’s eternally grateful.

She has started to throw up so often and so much that she has grown frail, which drives her insane and irritable. It doesn’t help that the more she vomits, the more Gendry frets, so with the guests at Storm’s End at least he has something else to occupy himself with besides asking her if she’s fine the thousandth time a day.

Which she is. She is perfectly fine and perfectly capable of riding a horse or managing her duties. Thanks gods he has enough reason not to question it out loud, or else she would positively stick him full of holes with a Needle.

Which she is also capable of, just to be clear.

Dany, of course, looks like a daydream. She brings Arya a ton of books and even starts teaching her Old Valyrian, laughing at her butchered pronunciation. The Princess is also far more vocal about the situation at King’s Landing than Jon has ever been and all that she’s talking about gives Arya lots to ponder over in her head at night.

Especially Queen Elia revelation.

‘’I’m honestly surprised it’s not public knowledge already.’’ Dany simply states, ignoring Arya’s wide-opened eyes. ‘’They’re not even trying very hard to be discreet anymore.’’

‘’But – Arthur Dayne? And your brother, he allows it?’’

‘’Arya, please. In this whole situation they have, my brother is the one with the least power whatsoever. After all – ‘’ Dany takes a sip of wine from her goblet, smirking a little, ‘’- he is the one who caused this mess. First, he married Elia even though he didn’t want to. Then he married Lyanna because he wanted to. And one could argue whether or not he was right in any of those cases.’’

“And the children? I mean, doesn’t anyone question if they are really his?’’

Daenerys gracefully rests her chin on her hand and humms.

‘’Well, Aegon is Rheagar’s, there is no wondering about that at all.’’ Arya supposed it was true, given her good brother’s true Targaryen coloring. ‘’Rhaenys, well, maybe one could dig deeper when it comes to her, but why should one bother? It’s not like she is the heir of anything. She’s married now, shipped to Highgarden and, as far as I know, greatly enjoys wreaking havoc there.’’

Arya bites on her lips, looking out of the window and the busy courtyard.  She can hear the sound of hammered steel and that involuntarily makes her smile. They did a few changes in the staff of the castle and now they have such a good steward that Gendry manages to steal a few hours a week to work in the forge. He looks happier now; calmer. Even when he frets over her, it’s less frantic.

‘’You two are adorable.’’ Dany giggles, which makes Arya wheeze.

‘’Please, stop it.’’

‘’No, I’m serious. It really shows how much you care for him. And him for you.’’ Dany’s looking at her with eyes sparkling with mischief and Arya has only a second to brace herself before her almost-goodsister asks: ‘’Is it good in bed? I’m sure it’s good in bed.’’

‘’Dany!’’

‘’What? You’re with a child, do you think I’d believe a stork brought it to you one afternoon?’’

***

‘’Did you know that my father wanted to marry Ashara Dayne before the whole situation with uncle Brandon?’’ she asks Gendry one afternoon, making him tear his eyes away from the scroll he’s currently studying.

‘’What?’’

‘’Oh, yes. Apparently, they were very much in love.’’ She rubs the gentle curve of her belly absent-mindedly, looking at the gathering storm outside. The babe has just started quickening, and she’s starting to get used to the strange sensation. ‘’It’s not like it was not possible. Although that would surely be unexpected, to have a Dornish woman so far North.’’

Gendry murmurs something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like bloody Daynes.

‘’Oh please, stop it already. Ned’s a perfect noble knight.’’

‘’There’s nothing noble in the way he devours you with his damn eyes every time he visits.’’

Arya giggles, trying to imagine honorable, bland Ned ogling anyone.

‘’I think you are irrational. But rest easy; soon I’ll be too fat for anyone to devour me, with their eyes or otherwise.’’

This time Gendry’s groan is even louder and perfectly clear.

‘’Damn you woman, stop whining.’’ He raises from the chair and collapses on the bed next to her, making the mattress bounce. ‘’You know you’re beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Even more beautiful now. How many times will you make me say it?’’

‘’Take off your boots.’’ She grumbles, but softly. It’s hard to be irritated at him when he gets like that; when the candles are so short and she just wants to curl by her husband’s side and talk with him about just anything and everything until they fall asleep.  Gendry sneaks an arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him and resting his forehead on her back, between her shoulder blades.

For a moment they’re just laying like that; under the yellow canopy and buried in the soft furs, with a distant sound of thunder outside, as the room gets darker and darker.

‘’Sometimes I’m wondering if any marriages are happy at all.’’ She lets out with a sigh, making Gendry stir awake from his half-nap. He props himself on the elbow to take a look at her face.

‘’Your parents are happy, I think. Even if they wanted to marry different people at the beginning.’’

‘’Yeah, but- I don’t know. Can you really forget your first love completely?’’

Arya saw Ashara Dayne at the wedding, peering at her father from underneath a fan of dark lashes, her violet eyes so striking and her still pitch-black hair so lovely that even Catelyn Stark’s pale irises and greying red locks didn’t stand a chance in comparison.

And surely Mother must’ve looked at Father many, many times through the years and wonder about uncle Brandon and what could’ve been-s. How weird it must have been for her to live with him and aunt Barbrey those first few years?

‘’I cannot possibly know that.’’ Gendry says gently, raising his hand up to caress the side of her face and then placing it on top of her swollen belly. ‘’You were my first love anyway.’’

‘’You have never told me that before.’’ She breaths out. The babe flutters inside her anxiously and she reassures it inside her head everything’s perfect, everything’s fine. She has never asked him, truth to be told, but she did not kid herself into believing Gendry did not have any flings before he asked her to marry him. ‘’Did you – back in Winterfell?’’

‘’Of course I loved you in Winterfell.’’ He grins, spreading his fingers wider on her middle and trying to feel tiny kicks better. ‘’You were small and always dirty and absolutely unafraid. And underfoot at all times. And you loved to talk, but you would listen so patiently. I was gone before I even knew what’s going on.’’

Cold mud in-between her fingers , crusting her hair. Gendry making faces at her from across the table. How they made wildflower crowns for each other and the one she made for him fell apart in seconds, but the one he gave her stayed intact for the whole weeks.

She loved him then, that was never a question.

‘’But it was different.’’ Her voice is small, laced with too many emotions to untangle them all.

‘’Damn well it was different. ‘’ his arm sneaks underneath her back, pulling her closer until they’re face-to-face. ‘’Until I saw you in that green dress. It was like a lightning strike.. You have frighteningly nice tits Arya, really.’’

‘’Oh gods.’’ She starts to giggle, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck. His skin smells like iron and steel and fresh breeze and she inhales it as deeply as possible. ‘’One can always trust you to ruin the mood, Gendry. Here I thought it’s the time for grand confessions, but you just wanted to admit you married me for my tits.’’

‘’Not only for them.’’ He pinches the side of one of her breast lightly, making her yelp. ‘’But they were definitely a factor in my decision.’’

‘’I love you, you big, stupid idiot.’’ She admits in-between fits of laughter, her lips moving against his skin and shivering violently when he hitches up her nightgown to touch her naked waist that has just began to widen considerably.

‘’I love you too, you wild woman.’’ He chuckles, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of her head. His hand travels down and she can feel her eyelids already fluttering. ‘’More than I ever thought I would love anyone. And I really hope I can prove you wrong – with this no happy marriages thing.’’

‘’You’ve already did.’’ He slips his fingers in-between her folds and curls them, so her voice comes out like a sigh rather than a statement. The hell with how he disarms her, with how he makes her feel. ‘’Because I am happy, I really am.’’

She would never lie to Gendry, she’s sure of that. However, she also does not think she has ever been  as honest as she’s now, saying those words.

***

But the sky falls down upon them anyway.

Arya wakes up in the middle of the night, in the pitch-black chambers; Gendry’s still snoring beside her, the two of them cocooned by the soft furs. She keeps her eyes closed and tries to fall asleep again, to come back to the ever-pleasant dream of running through the Stormlands’ woods on all fours, searching for the prey. But some deep, unsettling sensation inside her keeps her awake; it raises in intensity until it transforms into  pain in her lower belly sharp enough to make her gasp. She shuffles a little, her hand immediately shoots to cradle her bump; and instead of easing, it gets worse with the change of the position, forcing her to kneel on the mattress with her thighs spread.

What’s going on? What’s going on, what’s going on – is running through her mind on a loop and she’s still too sleepy to really get scared until something within her tightens like a bow, making her spine arch and she’s sure she must let out a moan or whine, because Gendry stirs a little. And then whatever was tightened lets lose suddenly, only it does not feel like letting loose; it feels as if someone tore her insides in half, the way maids tears old shirts into rags.

Hunched-over, her lids shut close, and more awake than she has ever been, she begins to pray.

Millions of women  has surely prayed like that before and will pray like that until the end of times. There is only one prayer for a moment like that, the one no one had to teach them; no pretty hymn, but a broken litany.

Don’t, dear gods, don’t, don’t kill my child, please, please don’t let it happen, please, I’m begging you

But it’s for naught, of course.

When she opens her eyes, all she sees is blinding crimson spilling out of her, sticking to her skin, staining the sheets, staining everything.

There is wind blowing outside and wolves howling in the woods and Gendry sleepily asking her what’s wrong, but she does not hear any of that; all she’s hearing is white noise ringing in her ears endlessly, drowning her desperate no-s and please-s in it.

**

Arya's handmaiden Irene is everything Arya isn’t and more; tall and rounded, and fair-headed. Graceful. She curtsies beautifully and wears her hair up often, exposing the beautiful line of her neck.

But most of all, she has two small boys with identical gaps between their front teeth. They herd around Gendry’s legs in the courtyard like the rest of the children at Storm’s End, begging him to play hide-and-seek with them and shrieking with joy when he starts to chase them.

And the very sight of that grips Arya’s throat with an icy fist, stealing her breath away.

She used to play with those children too, teach them letters during sunny afternoons, telling them stories about North and defending them from the cook when they were caught in the kitchens with sweets in their hands. She used to love their presence, their high-pitched laughter and little hands. They were the only ones who listened when she asked them to call her by her name, not ‘’Lady Baratheon’’.

But ever since she lost her babe, she hasn’t been able to muster the courage to tend to other women’s children, Irene’s least of all.

Her boys are dark-haired and blue-eyed, and that inevitably makes Arya wonder, suspicion festering in her heart like maggots on the open wound. How old are they? Three and four? How many years has passed since Gendry came from Winterfell back to Storm’s End?

Numbers are swimming in her mind, stealing her sleep as she lays at night by her husband’s side, having once again escaped from his arms. She curls with her back to him, knowing full well she’s being stupid and inconsiderate and ridiculous. Gendry promised her he’d be true and gave her no reasons to believe he would ever break this promise.

And yet.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he had Irene on a side, or any other woman. Why wouldn’t he?

It’s been a long time since he was a boy with fine leather breeches stained by the Winterfell’s mud and she was a little girl, laughing together after they ate summer peaches, juice dripping down their chins.

Now they’re older and she is nothing but broken.

***

‘’My lady, would you like to go for a horse ride after dinner?’’

‘’I’m sorry, I don’t feel so well today. I think I’ll go and lay down for the afternoon.’’

‘’Lady Arya, would you like me to accompany you on your walk?’’

‘’There is no need Lancel, I’ll be fine on my own.’’

‘’Please, eat some more soup. Or maybe you’d like something else? Some ham or bread with cheese?’’

‘’No, it was enough. Thank you.’’

She burns letter after letter after letter; the fire in their chamber never dies down, fed constantly with Ned and Catelyn’s words, with Jon and Dany’s words, with Sansa’s words, with Bran’s words. Her words are the same and constant, on every parchment she sends back.

I’m fine, don’t worry about me.

It feels easier to lie when they are so far away.

It’s not so easy to lie to those who surround her, and so, for the first time in her life, Arya turns into a lone wolf. Her days are long now; nights even longer - stars obscured by the clouds and corridors of the castle empty and dark when she strolls through them hours before dawn, Nymeria following her soundlessly on her soft paws like a shadow, baring her teeth at anyone who dares to come closer.

It’s weird how washed-down everything has suddenly became, all those things that used to be vibrant and thrilling. The sound of Shiver’s hooves hitting the ground, the icy waters of Shipbreaker’s Bay washing her feet, the stone walls warmed by the sun. Her husband’s eyes. Food in her mouth, air in her lungs.

She naps plenty during the day and in her dreams, she’s back in Winterfell, she is still one and ten and the sky is still the right color. She’s running through the Godswood laughing; she doesn’t see her pack but she knows they’re there, she can hear their voices, she can almost see them in-between trees. And every time, just as she’s about to reach them, the dream turns into air and mist. No matter how fast she’s running, no matter how loudly she calls for them.

Time after time, she wakes up; one second she’s full and another - empty again.

***

One afternoon, as she’s sitting in her solar and reading a book still in her nightgown with Nymeria curled by her feet, Gendry all but barges in without knocking.

She almost jumps, startled, and her direwolf lets out a warning growl but Gendry crosses the room in three long strides and drops to his knees by her chair before burying his face in her lap. All without uttering a single word.

His fist clutch the material of her skirts and when she tentatively puts a hand on his shoulder, he starts to tremble.

‘’Gendry..’’ she sighs, as Nymeria licks his exposed forearms and flops back on the floor, apparently deciding he’s not a danger of any kind.

He’s still not saying anything, so she cards her fingers through his hair – how soft it is, she almost forgot it –  and dragging her hands along the sides of his face before gently pulling his chin up.

He’s crying.

He’s kneeling on the floor in front of her and crying, his blue eyes all wet an eyelashes tangled and she has never seen him like that before. And if she thought she was heartbroken before, she was damn wrong, cause this is what heartbreak feels like. She cannot even breathe.

‘’Gendry. What’s-‘’

‘’I should be asking you that. What’s going on, Arya? Where did you go?’’ he lets those word out of himself like arrows, fast and true. - ‘’Where are you?’’ he asks desperately, staring at her with such intensity that her first instinct is to hide.

‘’I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’ She says weakly and almost winces herself at the falsehood of this sentence.

Gendry’s face breaks.

‘’Arry.’’ He scrambles to his feet, instantly towering above her as he leans down to cup her face in his hands. ‘’Arry, please, don’t do this. Please, come back to me. Please.’’

His tears roll down his cheek and drop on her skin and it’s like the dam inside her was broken, because suddenly a sob escapes from her chest, once, twice, before turning into a wail and she doesn’t even notice  when or how, but she’s in Gendry’s arms, crying her heart out like never before in her life.

‘’Arya, Arry, my love, please.’’ He’s whispering sweet nonsense in her ear, letting her stain his shirt and holding her tight enough that her ribs hurt. He caresses her hair: ‘’It’s alright.’’

‘’No, it’s not.’’ She manages to let out in-between sobs. Her body feels hot; she’s shaking like a leaf on the wind and her crying only intensifies with every passing second. ‘’You don’t – you don’t understand.’’

‘’Arya, it was my babe too-‘’

‘’It died inside me!’’ she’s positively hysteric now, but it doesn’t matter cause he still doesn’t get it. She tears herself away from him to look at his face, her eyes stinging from salt so much that she’s barely seeing anything at all. ‘’I felt it die inside me, spilling out of me! You don’t understand – you don’t understand.’’

‘’You’re right.’’ He leans his forehead against her. ‘’I don’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Arya, I’m sorry.’’

She thinks he must be crying almost as hard as she is, for how many times he apologizes to her, their noses bumping and breaths shaking, until she buries her face in the crook of his neck and he embraces her again; they’re rock back-and-forth together like that for what seems like hours until her sobs turn into hiccups and he starts to speak again.

‘’But you didn’t give me a chance, Arya. You took it all and locked inside and – how do you expect me to compete with your stubbornness, huh? You cannot.’’

And it’s a testament of how much she loves him and how well he knows her, that, against everything, she quietly chuckles at those words.

‘’I’m sorry too.’’ Her voice sounds small and teary, but also like hers and it’s something that she hasn’t experienced for far longer than she realized.

There’s liberation in how they’re sitting, wrapped up in each other on the floor, faces wet and clothes disheveled. He breathes in; she breathes out. She can even feel his heart beating so steady and strong next to hers. She cannot remember ever feeling closer to him than in this moment, pouring all this pain and suffering she’s been feeling onto him and only getting love back.

‘’I- I should’ve talked to you.’’

‘’You should’ve. Or I should’ve never let you get so far. I will never make this mistake again.’’ He rubs her back in circles, his lips pressing to her exposed shoulder blade the sweetest of kisses. ‘’Please, don’t leave me alone. You promised you’ll be with me, you remember?’’

‘’Of course. We are family, right? Even if-even if I-‘’ she cannot force herself to finish this sentence, no matter that the words already hang in-between them heavily. Even if we won’t have children.

‘’Don’t think like that.’’ His arms tighten around her. ‘’We’ll get another shot. And yes, even if we won’t .. you’re all the family I need. Now and always. You are enough. More than enough.’’

She loops her arm around his neck, pressing his face closer to her body until he rests it on her shoulder. Her fingers tangle in the shorter hair at the back of his head and there are fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, but she’ll let them flow. It’s about time for them.

‘’You are enough for me too.’’  

***

This evening, the lady of the castle walks down the stairs in black-and-golden dress, hand in hand with her husband, and sits down by his side in the Round Hall of Storm’s End without any big ceremonies. Her eyes are a little red and she’s still too pale… but it’s nothing that good stew and a little bit of sunshine won’t fix, the cook reasons, peaking at the table from the kitchens and barking at the servers to bring some of those lemon cakes she likes so much to Lady Arya, gods, cannot they think about such things for themselves, must she tell them everything?

Arya’s not laughing, but she smiles and eats, and, when they pour wine into her goblet, she accepts. There is a traveling bard dining with them tonight; when asked, he sings some song about Nymeria of Rhyone and the corners of Arya’s lips rise up slowly, almost shyly, as she rests her head on Gendry’s shoulder and listens.

Some keener-eyed servants notice that Lord Gendry is holding her hand under the table through the whole meal and of course, every maid in the castle starts swooning, because how romantic is that? How lovely?

Stable boys, stewards or guards don’t care much about all this nonsense, or at least they claim so – even if they are quietly wondering how much time will pass since a certain short figure will appear on the courtyard again to order them around. Regardless of them, one thing remains true; all of the residents of Storm’s End, the oldest and the youngest alike, stare at Arya and Gendry this night and let out a collective breath of relief.

Arya would have to be blind not to notice that.  And she won’t be lying; it makes her feel a little bit soft inside.

***

Gendry turned out to be right in the end, as he as an infuriating tendency to be – they do get another shot.

At the height of the blooming spring, little Ned is born, piercing the ears of everyone at Storm End’s with his cries ever since his first breath.

Arya’s heart sings when they lay him down on her bare chest and he looks up at her – her boy, her sweet little boy who blinks his gray eyes at her and seems to know exactly who she is – and she caresses his chubby cheeks with her finger.

‘’Oh, hello, darling.’’ She must sound ridiculous, but it does not feel ridiculous at all. Not when Gendry first holds their son in his arms and stares at him with this pure adoration written in every line on his face and then doesn’t change the expression at all when he raises his eyes to her.

Not when she breaths in Ned’s perfect baby scent and then breathes out and realizes it’s the end of walking on eggshells and acting as if she was made of glass like they did throughout her whole pregnancy. Their babe is with them and he’s just – he’s just theirs to keep and to have and to love.

Not when Ned falls asleep on her breast while nursing and a drip of milk escapes from in-between his tiny lips and Arya notices he clutches a strand of her hair in his fist.

And definitely not when she wakes up in the middle of the night because it’s so hot and finds Gendry walking around the room shirtless, rocking Ned gently and singing to him lullabies quietly, his eyes shining in the darkness and the sound of summer storm outside.

It does not feel ridiculous.

It feels like she can finally stop searching for some unknown things; it feels like a cue to stop where she’s standing and let her roots grow deep.

Gendry snoring, his face so soft and smooth when he’s dreaming. Ned napping, his tiny head pillowed on her clavicle. Storm’s End; strong and ancient and hers and home, the sea always humming outside its walls.

All my summers and winters are yours. She makes her vow silently and lets her lids drop.

[malereader-inserts]

Of Fire and Ice

Fandom: Game of Thrones Pairing: Sansa Stark x Male!Targaryen!Reader Summary: You had a Silver Crown. She had a mind like fire. Word Count: 2,036 Request: “I'd like to send in a Sansa Stark request where she's the Lady of Winterfell and he's Daenerys younger brother, the pair have a connection and Jon sees this and suggests they marry in order for the bond between the family's to be stronger.” A/n: Still fucking fuming about how the season eight has turned out, everyone deserves so much better write off. So, I’m ignoring virtually canon from season seven :)

You had a Silver Crown.

Too much like how it was snow in Winterfell.

She told herself she doesn’t need a knight or a prince to sweep her off her feet, and yet her you were flying a fucking dragon. You hadn’t met her in the lineup when your sister and Jon came riding in, but she had seen you from the battlements. Watching in awe to see three magnificent dragons flying in Westeros. She heard tales about them and they hadn’t seen them for forever.

She could see you grinning as the air hits you, you could fly for forever, you felt free. She saw you riding the white and gold one, and even a mere second she could hear the wild scream of a man who truly enjoyed life. 

Then a bitter thought came to her mind, you were happy, a happy man and she was not. She did not know what to expect when she saw you stride into her home, you had Daenerys by your side, and you had taken her breath away. Sansa tries to ignore how the icy breath appeared upon your appearance.

She could believe that Rheagar was the most looked upon man of Westeros when he was alive, Daenerys’ beauty was unspeakable but you were, in all of your glory, positively something else. Breathtaking, glorifying, majestic. You and your silver crown, braided flawlessly, and your penetrating purple eyes.

You were a foreigner to the North, to Westeros. Born a few minutes later after your twin sister and shipped off on a boat to Esso, you had never got to know what home was to you. But, the Winter was beautiful and it was the first time you’ve seen snow. Winterfell was something you weren’t used to. 

The people of the North were cold and abrasive but you figured that they move with the season. But, what had grasped your attention was the wild red hair, her hair was a fire within the coldest parts of the realm. You slowly blink as you take in her beauty, no man nor woman of Essos has captured you in a way like she has. 

She had a mind like fire.

You could tell, the way she had ignored the pressing looks of the Unsullied and the Dothraki. You could tell her mind was raged with the blazing heat in the way she had stared, full of concern, it draws you closer than ever before.

“Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell,” Daenerys spoke, noticing your stare, “Jon’s sister, she is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Truly,” You breathed out, “Do you think striking a conversation is too much? Too cutting?”

“You think too much into this, dearest valonqar,” Daenerys had wrapped her arms around your right arm, leaning her head against your shoulder, “You are sweet, just and magnanimous.”

“Those won’t mean anything to her, mandia,” You hummed, sighing, “If only I had Vis’ narcissism.”

“You already ride his namesake dragon, god forbid you’d be anything like him,” Dany scowls at you as you lowly chuckles, gazing upon her, “Our brother is not a joking matter.”

“Forgive me in my bad taste of humour, Dany,” You say, as you look at her, “But, I am not a suitor for her.”

But, you were.

You had run into her when you were looking for your sister, you had literally crashed into her. As you were standing up, you were red with embarrassment as you offer your hand to her.

“I’m terribly sorry,” You apologised as you gently pulled her up, not noticing her face slowly matching her hair, “You wouldn’t know where my sister could be?”

“No, I wouldn’t, sorry,” Sansa couldn’t help but feel hot under your attention.

She noticed when you stare at her they were gentle, not glaring and no lust within your stare, a stare she was belittled to get used to by Joffery and Ramsey. And yet, a lord of the most feared house stares at her as if she was a baby.

She wants to believe those terrible rumours, you were horrible. You would kill and rape any who stands in your way to the Iron Throne, the rumours that you were just as mad as the rest of your family. The rumours that say you were even worst than Joffery and Ramsey combined.

“You’re Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” You commented, an inviting smile had captivated her.

Sansa tries to keep a stoic look however that stupid boyish smile had got her huffing an amused smile, “Yes, I am, and you’re Lord (Y/n) Targaryen of Dragonstone.”

You shrugged, “Not officially yet, my sister hasn’t got the Iron Throne, nor yet a Lord.”

“No,” Sansa falls for your purple eyes, you frowned when she turns away, “Not yet.”

She watches how you charged into the Battle with Viserion, you looked as magnificent as your sister would claim. Before she had gone to the crypts she had witnessed you slide of Viserion and whip out your sword, shouting in Valyerian to the Unsullied. 

When the dawn began, coming out of the crypts she was mortified to see the pile of the dead. However, she had noticed you stroking Viserion and Rhaegal. You were trying to calm them down, especially Rhaegal, who was injured in the battle.

Your silver crown ruined, stained with blood and dirt. 

Your ice hair matted compared to her flawless fire hair.

You managed to look over your shoulder and meet her eyes. You sighed, but there was still a sparkle in your eyes. You smile at her and she returns it back. She watches in amusement when she sees Viserion nudged his head into you, causing you to stumble back and fall into your back. She laughs even more when she witnessed the two dragons huff smoke out of their nose - almost as if they were laughing at you.

Throughout the day she and you had been exchanging looks across the way that even the most oblivious, Jon Snow, had noticed. He and Dany were standing in the middle of Winterfell discussing important matters.

“We could rule together,” Daenerys hums, stroking his hair, “King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys knitted her eyebrows together as she noticed her love not responding, following his eyes she had noticed that he was staring at her brother, who was tending to the injuries of your Unsullied men but soon got distracted with a smitten smile as you stare at Sansa.

“They’ve been like this for a few days,” Daenerys mentions as Jon hardens his eyes.

Watching you leave your men but not taking your eyes off Sansa, running into a wooden pole before Sansa burst out into laughter - though if no one had witnessed what had happened they would think that Sansa was going mad. 

“You’re an idiot.” Sansa had mouthed to you when you grin up at her.

She grabs a handful of the snow from the railing and threw it towards you, hitting you in the face. You let out a chuckle before hoping to get her with snow.

“They work well together,” Dany commented, “Sansa has even warmed up with me, I think it’s in hopes to grab (Y/n) attention, it is certainly working.”

“They make a handsome couple.”

So, when the two were caught out upstairs before a meeting in order to take over the Iron Throne. You had stumbled in and Sansa quickly followed, in hopes to catch you and speak. To get to know you more.

“Sansa, (Y/n) just the two we’ve meaning to talk to,” Jon announced, as you shifted uncomfortably as Sansa stands up straight. 

“Jon wants to talk to you, I have no idea what he’s thinking,” Dany amends as you and she looked at each other. 

“You’re getting married?” You suggested as you smile encouragingly.

“No,” Jon shakes his head, as Dany’s smile dropped, “Marriage is involved but not ours.”

The message sinks in and Sansa’s eyes widen. She will not be given away like a rag doll. She’s been in unhappy marriages before, god forbid if she’s tied to another, but she had witnessed how you looked down to your feet, you became small. Not the man she had been overly fond of. What she observes is a man who is tied to his feelings, a man who would not disagree unless someone does.

“Cersei’s two biggest enemies are our two houses. Having us two reconcile together means a bigger threat to her and The North will support Dany.”

“Why can’t you two marry?” You asked whilst Sansa was taken back to the resentment in your voice, “You’re of blood Stark, Snow.”

It was the first time Jon had you call him by his bastard name, but Dany had known you. You were twins, after all, she had listened to you wanting a quiet life back at home. You want to be loved and have a family you found on your own. A forced marriage is nothing in your plans of love.

“I’m not a Stark,” Jon responded as you looked at him, watching him turn to look at Dany who hesitantly nods, “I’m the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen, they had secretly married each other and had a child. I was never a bastard, I am Aegon Targaryen.”

Your eyes widen at the news, in front of you was your nephew, in front of you was your sister’s lover - who loved her as much as she did. You blinked a few times before leaning against the table and sitting down to process the information, staring at your fingers as Sansa blinks. 

Sansa understood that Jon had a better claim to the Iron Throne.

“Northern men support you, Jon,” You explains softly, almost defeat within your tone, “And you’re still a Stark, by Lyanna’s blood.”

“They’ll see more dragon than a wolf, a better unifying would be between you and Sansa, this-”

“No,” Sansa draws her eyes towards you, noticing how your hand was clenched into a fist, you narrow your eyes and abruptly standing up, “I won’t marry Sansa unless she agrees. If not, find yourself another to bring the houses together because I will not live in a loveless forced marriage.”

“It won’t be loveless,” Dany drawls out, “If anything, valonqar, you stare at Sansa almost the same way I stare at Jon.”

You looked over to Sansa, her vibrant fire hair burns out your snow-like hair. Together by house personality, by house location. You were of fire, you were a force to be reckoned with, you knew only heat. You knew how to be harsh and terrifying. You had the nature of a dragon.

But, Sansa was of ice. Cold and calculating much like a wolf hunting for their prey. Sansa takes harsh temperatures to harden, takes harsh reality by its neck to control what goes with her. But, like ice, it can be so easy to break and get in. Fire melts Ice, you had melted your way to her heart.

Anyone with half a brain could tell that there was something between you two.

However, she was fire. She will not be burnt again by men, she will not be burnt by women again. She will be the one to make people tremble her wrath. She was of fire, as her hair marked vibrant as the orange hue flames. You were ice, smart and calculating, god forbid if you were to put in battle as you will never back down until a victory was brought on a spike. And let the gods punish those who think they can trick your smart mind. You were of ice, how your hair was silver like and matched the wintery scene, inviting and friendly.

“I accept,” Sansa whispers as you looked at her with shock, “I want to settle down, if it were to be with (Y/n), then I wouldn’t mind.”

Your harden stare softens immensely as one side of your lip curved upwards.

“Okay...” You murmured, your shoulders relaxing, “I hope you learn to love me.”

“There’s not much to learn when I’m already in love.”

They say ice and fire were terrible together, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too bad.

[julibf]

THE VERY LAST SCENE OF THE STORY……

So, for people who dont know about this. George spoke in the past about the very last scene of the story and mentioned that it was a scene that happened on season 1, book 1, but that the show runners changed the dialogue of the scene from the books. 

Daniel Abraham is the man responsible for converting the Game of Thrones book into a comic, mentioned that there is a particular line of dialog in the game of thrones book, which is very important for the last scene of "A Dream of Spring".

Have you collaborated at all with George R.R. Martin in the process of adapting the novel to comics? If so, what’s the creative process there?

I’ve spoken to George a lot in the process.  The biggest issues we have are continuity questions.  There are things about this story that only he knows, and they aren’t all obvious. There was one scene I had to rework because there’s a particular line of dialog – and you wouldn’t know it to look at – that’s important in the last scene of “A Dream of Spring.”- Daniel Abraham

On episode 1, when King Robert goes to visit Winterfell, he and Ned go down in the crypts to pay their respects to Lyanna Stark, the wolf girl he lost to Rheagar Targeryen. In that scene, the dialogue is different from what we have in the books.

ROBERT: Did you have to bury her in a place like this? She should be on a hill somewhere with the sun and the clouds above her.

NED: She was my sister. This is where she belongs. 

GAME OF THRONES PILOT EPISODE

In the books, this conversation is different:

"Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?" His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. "She deserved more than darkness …"

"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "This is her place."

A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

I think this is the scene. I believe we will end this story with King Jon visiting his late wife Sansa Stark in the crypts of Winterfell and someone will ask him why did he buried her there, why not building a monument for her, so that she could be on display and that’s how he will reply:

She was a Stark of Winterfell, this is where she belongs….

What made me believe this, were two momments of the story:

First of all, Lady’s death. After Sansa direwolf is killed on her way to the south, Ned Stark makes sure to send a group of men back to the North and Winterfell, so that she can be buried in Northerner soil. Lady represented a little bit of Sansa, who died on that day and I dont think it was a silly detail George rrmartin make sure that her direwolf body was buried on Winterfell, I think that this scene, was much more important than most people think about it.

When it was over, he said, "Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell." "All that way?" Jory said, astonished."All that way," Ned affirmed. "The Lannister woman shall never have this skin."

A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

Then later in the story, we have another Stark man, making sure to bury a Northerner where she belongs.....

In season 5, we will have Jon Snow, going North of the wall to burn Ygritte’s body (Sansa’s foil in this story) after her death in the Battle of the Wall. Because THATS WHERE SHE BELONGED. 

Tormund: Did you love her? She loved you. 

Jon: She told you? 

Tormund: No. All she ever talked about was killing you. That's how I know. She belongs in the North. The real North. You understand me? 

Look at the excuse Tormund gives Jon to why Ygritte needs to be buried North of the Wall, its the same Ned Stark used to explain to King Robert why Lyanna had to be buried in the Crypts of Winterfell. Because thats where she belongs.......

I also believe this ending could bring the story to a full circle, because there is also the theme of the audience never really thinking as Sansa as a TRUE STARK. I still am forced to read people’s comments in the forums and how she is not really a Stark like Jon or Arya. 

Sansa Starkiness was always a topic of contention among fans of the books and series. Many like to refer to Sansa as Lady Lannister or Lady Bolton, so to have Sansa finally resting in the Winterfell crypts, by the end of this story, as a Stark, would be a very satisfying ending. Her hair maybe red and some of her manners may be more southern like, but Sansa IS A STARK. 

And in fact, she is the Stark who took back the North and Winterfell, she is the Stark who made possible for the family to reunite and be safe; she is the Stark who stood by Jon side when he was made King in the North and supported his claim; she was the Stark who prepared the North for the wars and the winter and she will be the Stark who will rule the 7 Kingdoms together with her husband. 

She was always, a Stark of Winterfell. 

EDIT_ I do want to make sure to express in this post, that I believe this scene would be in a far far away future scene, Both Jon and Sansa are foreshadowed to have long lives  and I expect their ruling period to be veryyyy long. They will be the ones restoring and rebuilding the realm after the wars of Ice and Fire. But I do believe Jon will live longer based on a quote from the books. 

Tyrion shared around his skin of wine until even Yoren grew mellow. One by one the company drifted off to their shelters and to sleep, all but Jon Snow, who had drawn the night’s first watch. Tyrion was the last to retire, as always. As he stepped into the shelter his men had built for him, he paused and looked back at Jon Snow. The boy stood near the fire, his face still and hard, looking deep into the flames. Tyrion Lannister smiled sadly and went to bed. - 

AGOT Tyrion II

So, this was always the book scene that made me believe Jon will be the last one to die.

[ruffiorocks]

Anyone remember Ser Barristan Selmy? He was a Kings Guard to Aerys Targaryen, he watched Aerys go bonkers and burn everyone but he believed a knight must keep his oath even if he was serving a drunk king or a lunatic.

Do you also remember the moment he was dismissed from Joffreys service he ran off to join Daenerys? He declared her the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms and could he serve her. He felt pretty shit about letting down her fam in the rebellion.

Selmy counselled her and he usually had an influence over her.

Selmy wanted to spend the remainder of his life fighting for someone he believed in.

Selmy encouraged Dany to attack Westeros with her dragons and not with Unsullied.

What do people think he would say now if he knew what she had done?

What would he do if he knew about Jon? Would he be torn between which Targaryen to serve? Jon is the legitimate son of the prince Selmy protected and the legitimate heir to the throne.

Would Selmy of encouraged Dany and her total destruction of Kings Landing? Or would he have her tempered her?

Selmy spent a great deal of time telling Dany all about Rheagar and how he got people to fight for him because they loved him and they weren't forced to fight. It was their choice to believe in him. These are lessons Dany should have heeded. As soon as she arrived in Westeros she demanded everyone drop everything and bend the knee to her , a complete foreign entity that had done nothing note worthy to the people other than have three dragons.

Dany didn't earn anyone's love, she had to be talked into helping with the white walkers. That was something she should have just helped with to begin with, it shouldn't have even been a conversation. Dany claimed to be Queen of Westeros? Well then Westeros's problems instantly become her problems. Dany helped in the fight against the White Walkers but to be fair the only note worthy things she (and Jon for that matter) did were fly about on the dragons, miss their cue to light the trench and knock the Night King off his dragon. But it was Arya that killed him. Dany did her part but she didn't do anything more note worthy than anyone else did. Lyanna Mormont did more than Dany did! Everyone had a part to play and the did it.

So because Dany decided to help fight a problem that was absolutely her problem to, or it would have been her problem to deal with if the North had fallen everyone should proclaim her their queen? Jon should never have bent the knee to her.

Dany may have been hot shit accoss the Narrow Sea but in Westeros she is just the girl with the dragons who wants to be queen. Another person who thinks they should rule over everyone just 'because'. At least with Jon and Robb they were declared Kings in the North by their own people. They never demanded it as their due.

Selmy told her that people fought for Rheagar because they had a choice. Dany didn't give people a choice, not a real one. It was fight for me or I'll burn you alive like i did to all those other Innocent soldiers I didn't bother giving a choice to. (Lannister Army). Heck everyone told her that was a dumb idea, but she didn't listen. She should have remembered what Selmy told her. She arrived threatening people, that doesn't earn you love and respect. It doesn't make people want to fight for you. The Greyjoys only sided with her because they needed her help and she was the best or rather only option.

So what would Ser Barristan the Bold of said about his rightful queen completely destroying Kings Landing and murdering millions of Innocent people? Becoming almost exactly what her father was? It's even more frightening because I don't believe Dany is Mad, she's doing the same crap her father did but she's sane! You can make excuses for an insane person but a sane one? Would he have declared for Jon? Or would he have finally understood why a 16 year old Jaime Lannister stabbed the mad king screaming 'burn them all?' I wish Selmy was still here, it would be poetic for him to become a Queen Slayer.

[hatsoff-forgandalf]

A Hero’s Journey to the Block

Eddard Stark and the Hero’s Journey

 Eddard Stark’s travels south and experiences in Kings Landing take him through the hero’s journey but lead to a darker end. Eddard (Ned) began our story as the Warden of the North, living in his ancestral home, Winterfell, with his wife, Catelyn, their five legitimate children, and Jon Snow, the boy Ned says is his bastard son. His life is happy but he is still haunted by his past losses. Everything changes when Ned receives word that Jon Arryn, the  Hand of the King, has died. Both Ned and the King, Robert Baratheon, spent their formative years being fostered by Jon Arryn. Ned and Robert grew to be close friends during this time and regarded each other as brothers. Both Ned and Jon Arryn had helped Robert overthrow the previous King, Aerys Targaryen, who killed Ned’s father, brother, and many others, and kill Prince Rheagar Targaryen. Soon after he received the news of Jon Arryn’s death Ned learned that Robert, who he had not seen for nine long years, and his whole royal entourage were taking the long journey from the capital, King’s Landing, north, to Winterfell. This timing was not a coincidence and signals the beginning of Ned’s journey in A Game of Thrones.

Ned remembers Robert as being “muscled like a maiden’s fantasy”(A Game of Thrones, Eddard I 0:1:24-27), with thick dark hair, heroic, and perhaps a bit too fond of women. The King who arrived at Winterfell was not the same, Robert had changed. He had gained 8 stone, a beard, and a vicious case of alcoholism. His fondness for many women never left him, even after his marriage to golden-haired Cersei Lannister and the birth of their three children. The whole royal family arrived with Robert, Queen Cersei, her twin brother Jaime, her younger brother Tyrion, and the three children, Joffrey Myrcella and Tommen, that all resembled their mother, beautiful and blonde. Immediately after arriving, Robert asks Ned to be his new Hand, to travel south where nearly all of Ned’s family died, to leave behind his wife, and leave Winterfell, his home and his people. But Robert is King, Ned cannot immediately refuse, he really cannot refuse at all, so while Ned does say yes, he still tries to think of a way to escape this. This is Ned’s attempt to deny the call to adventure, in his mind, he’s already had one journey he doesn’t need another. 

When Ned tells his wife, Catelyn, of Robert’s offer she is completely in favor of him becoming the Hand and bringing their two daughters, Sansa and Arya so that they can learn how to be proper ladies and so Sansa can marry Prince Joffrey. Ned remains unconvinced until Catelyn receives a letter from her sister Lysa, the wife of Jon Arryn. Lysa tells Catelyn that Jon did not die of natural causes like everyone assumed and was actually poisoned by the Queen’s family, the Lannisters. Upon learning this Ned decides he has to learn the truth of this and protect Robert by accepting the position as Hand of the King and traveling south with his two daughters. He planned to take his young son Bran with him as well, but when Bran fell from an abandoned tower he had been climbing and became comatose, Ned had to leave him in Winterfell. Ned accepted the call.

During the long journey south, Ned faced some ordeals. He tried to convince Robert not to send assassins after the last two Targaryens, a twenty-two-year-old boy and his fourteen-year-old sister, who were in hiding far away. When Arya and Joffrey got into a fight and Arya’s pet wolf bit Joffrey, Arya made her wolf run away by throwing rocks at it, so Robert commanded Ned to execute Sansa’s pet wolf in place of Arya’s, at Queen Cersei’s insistence, despite the poor beast not having been guilty of anything. This alienated Sansa from him. Then when Ned arrived in King’s Landing he met the man who was to be one of the greatest challenges in his life, Petyr Baelish. Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish grew up with Catelyn and Lysa. He was deeply in love with Catelyn, and he once fought a duel for her hand, which he promptly lost. Baelish climbed the social ladder of the Seven Kingdoms, rising from his position as a minor lord to become the Master of Coin and a member of King Robert’s council. When Ned met all of the members of the council, Petyr made sure to subtly let Ned know that he was out of his depth and emphasize the fact that he, Petyr, is the person who knows the true way of things in King’s Landing. Petyr also constantly mentions Catelyn, in a very sly and almost sleazy manner. He tells Ned that distrusting him was the wisest move he has made. Petyr Baelish sets himself up to be Ned’s mentor while in King’s Landing, but he does not have Ned’s best interests at heart.

Ned must balance ruling the 7 kingdoms for Robert, his investigation of Jon Arryn’s death, and the mounting evidence that he and his daughters are not safe in the south. Petyr Baelish told Ned there is someone he must see and led him on a long complicated journey to a brothel when they arrive Petyr told Ned that Catelyn is inside. Ned, believing this to be an insult to him and his wife, nearly kills Petyr but stopped when a member of the Winterfell guard stepped out of the brothel confirming the truth of Petyr’s statements. Inside the brothel, Petyr tells Ned this is a safe location to meet because this brothel is owned by Petyr himself. Then Ned saw Catelyn who delivered more news against the Lannisters. An assassin had come, one night, to kill Bran while he was still lying comatose in his bed. Catelyn herself managed to fend off the man by holding the blade of his dagger until Bran’s pet wolf arrived and killed the assassin. Catelyn shows Ned the knife and they both agree it was too expensive for a simple assassin when Petyr slithered his way into the conversation saying that this used to be his knife, but he lost it in a bet with Tyrion Lannister, Queen Cersei’s youngest brother. Ned and Catelyn realized that Bran must have seen something the Lannisters did not want him to see and so they tried to silence him. Catelyn then left King’s landing to go and see her sister Lysa. In his investigations about Jon Arryn Ned learns that leading up to his death Jon started acting strangely. He visited a specific brothel, which was nothing like Jon, and a blacksmith’s shop, he was apparently making strange inquiries around town and had taken an old large tome, that was a history of the houses of Westeros, from the Library. Robert and Ned again discussed the last Targaryens, or rather Targaryen, the young man had just died, but the girl was pregnant, and fearing her child’s claim to his throne, Robert ordered her assassinated and Ned resigned in protest. Ned then visited the brothel to find a poor young blonde girl Robert had gotten pregnant and her infant black-haired daughter. He visited the blacksmith and saw a boy, the spitting image of Robert working in the forge. He then read the book of the history and learned that every child born of Baratheon/Lannister marriages was black of hair. Ned realized the horrible truth, The children of Cersei Lannister are not Robert’s but are in fact bastards born of incest between her and her twin brother Jaime. All of this came to a head when Jaime Lannister and his men attacked Ned and his men in the streets of King’s Landing in retribution for actions Catelyn took on her journey to see Lysa, killing many and injuring Ned’s leg badly. When Ned awoke in his bed days later, Robert forced him to take back his position by threatening to make Jaime Lannister the Hand if Ned refused him or gave up the position again. Then while bedridden Ned witnessed an argument between Robert and Cersei in which Robert hit her. Ned thought, not for the first time, that Robert truly was not the same man he once was. Robert then said that he was leaving for a hunting trip for a few days, and brought his young squire Lancel Lannister. Ned knew this was the time to do what was right. he confronted Cersei Lannister, he told her that he knew of her relationship with her brother, that he knew her childrens’ true parentage, and that he knew Jon Arryn had been killed to cover up the truth. Cersei did not deny it. She attempted to seduce Ned to keep him quiet, but he was unmoved. Ned told her to take the children and flee before Robert returned. Ned told her, and he knew, that Robert would not hesitate to have them killed once the truth came to light. Cersei refused, telling Ned that she would either win the throne or die, there was no third option. What Ned did not realize was that this action had just sealed the fate of his friend Robert.

Robert had been gored by a boar on his hunt because he got horribly drunk off the wine given to him by his squire Lancel Lannister, on Cersei’s orders no doubt, and was lying on his deathbed. He asked Ned to write his will and named Ned Lord Protector of the realm until Prince Joffrey could take the throne, but when he wrote it Ned wrote until his rightful heir could take the throne. Ned then wrote a letter to Robert’s younger brother Stannis, telling him that he was the rightful king as Robert’s true heir. He asked Petyr Baelish to get the guards on Ned’s side and Petyr agreed. Ned then told his daughters they had to leave King’s Landing almost immediately but He did not tell them why, both girls were upset, but Sansa was much more upset. Not knowing it would be disastrous Sansa went to Cersei and told her about Ned’s plans to make them leave and break off Sansa’s engagement to Joffrey, and she begged Cersei not to let either of those happen. The next day when Ned arrived in court Cersei sat upon the throne with her son Joffrey and told Ned that Robert’s will meant nothing, when Ned said Stannis was the true King Joffrey ordered Ned to be thrown in the dungeon and Ned felt the cold press of a blade against his neck as Petyr said That he warned Ned not to trust him.

And so Ned enters his ordeal, the time he spent in the dungeons broke him, he could not tell day from night he was plagued by horrible dreams from his past, and guilt over all he left undone. After several days Ned had a visitor, a member of Joffrey’s council, Varys. Varys told Ned that if he falsely confessed to lying and treason Joffrey would let him live in exile. Ned refused, but then Varys reminded him that Sansa and Arya were prisoners of the crown he agreed. Ned confessed on the steps of the church of Baelor, and just as Cersei said to exile him, Joffrey commanded Ned be executed.

Eddard Stark of Winterfell believed in honor and loyalty, his path from Robert calling him to adventure to the trials and challenges he faced in King’s Landing to his transformation enacted by Joffrey follows the path of the hero perfectly, but his journey ends before he can return.

[damn-stark]

Lost dragon pt.6

Episode- 5x05 , 5x06

Pairing- none at the moment.

Warning- language and violence.

-

All I could feel was the throbbing pain on the side of head and the muffling of what I persume is Tyrion making my headache worse. The sunlight blinded me as I opened my eyes. When I tried covering it I could barely move my hands. When I could finally see I turned around and I saw a strange man sitting while guiding the boat. I touched my mouth realizing I didn’t have one on. I looked over at Tyrion and smirked at my upper hand and all he did was muffle louder while he pointed at me. Realization then hit me. I was tied up heading somewhere unknown with an unknown man. So without putting much attention to myself I tried reaching for my dagger that was under my dress. It took me a little while since I had little range with my tied up hands. But once I did I put in position and jumped up and tried attacking him. He moved to the side avoiding my swing. In the back all I could hear was Tyrion trying to say something. The strange man managed to unarm me ans threw my dagger across the boat and then tried to grab my arms but I swung at him and smacked him in the jaw. He touched his jaw feeling the pain and then tried to grab me once more but I moved to the side. As I moved to the side avoiding his grasp I lost my balance and almost fell back into the water but he manged to grab me in time. He then wrapped his arm around my neck and tightened his grip.

“I’m not going to hurt you.....now calm down before I tie you to the sail.” He hissed. I struggled on his grip but he was stronger so it was difficult.

“Then why am I tied up.” I said back. He didn’t say anything instead he pushed me lightly forward. I wanted to fight back but I instead sat down knowing I wasn’t going anywhere with him. I huffed out annoyed at this situation. A grin on my face as I saw my dagger in the ground. I bent down grabbed and started cutting the rope as quiet as I could.

“Who are you?” I heard Tyrion ask the strange man. He finally managed to get his gag off. I just ignored their conversation as I continued cutting off my rope. When I finally managed to cut them off I grabbed my wrist feeling the soreness from the tight rope that was around my wrist. I decided to stay crouched as I faced my back to them. That is until they caught my attention.

“So happens we were going there ourselves.” Tyrion said. I straightened my back and turned to face them.

“What business do you have with the Queen?” The Strange man asked.

“Gold and glory oh and her.” Tyrion said motioning his head to me.

“Who is she your wife?” The Strange man scoffed. Making me laugh.

“No.....but you don’t know who she is I presume... or else she wouldn’t be like this all tied up....if the queen did find out how you treated her niece. Will she kill you?” Tyrion said an eyebrow raised. The man looked over at me confused.

“Who are you then?” He questioned not moving from his spot.

“I thought it was obvious guess not though...I’m Visenya Targaryen daughter to Rheagar Targaryen and Elia Martell.” That manged to make him stand up as he narrowed his look at me.

“Not possible they all died back in Kingslanding.”

“Is it that hard to believe that I managed live.” I nodded my head letting my shoulders drop acting like it hurt.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know.” He walked towards me about untie my rope but stopped once he saw I was no longer restrained

“No worries how could you.”

I turned over and looked over at the view as we moved along overhearing as Tyrion annoyed who I know is Jorah Mormont. And then the punch in the face which made Tyrion shut up for a some while. Which was a pleasing sound to my ears. Silence.

-

I sat there admiring the destroyed towers of what once was my ancestral home Valyria. Even if it was destroyed it still looked beautful. How can something so beautiful have been destroyed. Now it’s just a graveyard and home to the doom.

“I suppose this it then. This is what remains of your ancestral home.”

“It’s beautiful.” I murmured barely audible as I was still focused on the passing view.

When I’m looking I look towards the sky and see something flying our way. At first it seems like just the clouds but it gets bigger as it get closer. I couldn’t believe it at first I blinked a couple times trying to see if I was just dreaming it. But i wasn’t. It was true. A dragon. I stood up a gasp leaving my lips as I saw it fly past us. Chills going down my spine and a smile spreading across my face. They are real. The moment didn’t last long. When I heard a big splash in the water I whipped my head towards the noise.

“What was that?” Tyrion asked beating me at asking the same question. I grabbed my sword that was on the boat and my dagger. I got startled when I saw a Stomeman jump onto the boat.

Jorah struggled to keep the stoneman off of him. So I cautiously got closer stabbing in the head and then he managed to push it off with the paddle. He then pushed me and pulled Tyrion behind him when another got on.

“Visenya cut me free!” Tyrion yelled sticking his arms out. I moved quickly down to him glancning over my shoulder every second to see if any would jump down. I finally cut him free and then spun around when hearing one climb on. I backed away a step getting some distance from it so it wouldn’t touch me. I got my sword and then swung at him and then kicked it off the boat.

“Mormont! Visenya!” I looked over and saw Tyrion crawl on the edge of the boat avoiding to get touched by one of them. Before I could go help him another jumped down so I stabbed and then pushed it off with my sword. After that I looked over and saw that Tyrion was gone. I looked overboard and saw him sinking down.

-

I was sitting down on the sand catching my breath. Still a little shocked at what had just happened. I ran my hands through my wet hair and pulled the strands that were in my face back.

“ did any of them touch you?” Jorah asked me I just nodded ‘no’. We were all catching our breath tired from the recent awful events.

“Thank you for saving me. Both of you. Of course I wouldn’t have needed saving you hasn’t kidnapped me in the first place.” Tyrion said the last bit in a teasing tone. At least he could tease around after this.

“So what now?” I finally managed to say.

“We walk up the coast with luck we’ll find a fishing village. Maybe another boat.”

“Without at luck?”

“Got a long walk ahead of us.” I let my head hang loose at the sound of those words.

“I’ll get some wood for a fire. Try to get some rest then.”Jorah said to the both of us.

“ best idea you’ve had all day.” Tyrion said I simply nodded in agreement.

-

We had managed to walk some way. Eating the berries and roots we would manage to find. This is a pain but I’d rather be doing this then being dead as much as I did hate this. And as much I hated the bickering between the two men.

“The Targaryens are famously insane.” Tyrion said as he started walking. I turned my head and glared at him. I knew he wasn’t meaning me but he was still talking about my family. “What if she conquers the world then what? A thousand years of peace and prosperity.”

“ first we have to conquer the world.” Jorah said.

“We? Alright let’s assume your dreams come true. She’s ecstatic when you bring her this enemy dwarf and her niece. She hacks off my head and restores your position. You command her armies sail to Westeros and defeat all your enemies and watch climb those steps and sit on the iron throne hurrah. Long live the queen then what?”

“ then she rules.” I say back.

“Then a women who has not spent a single day In her adult life In Westeros becomes the ruler of Westeros that’s justice?”

“She’s the rightful heir.” Jorah responded.

“Why? She has as much claim to that throne and on the other hand she was raised in Westeros.” Tyrion said motioning to me.

“Don’t look at me I don’t plan to sit on the Iron throne. I’m here to help her—“ I was Inturrpted by a sudden pull. We all poked our heads out of the rock and saw a slave ship in the ocean.

“Why are they anchored?”

“They probably came ashore for—“

“For water.”

We slowly turned our heads my lips curling into a deep frown when I saw all of the Men beside us pulling out their swords . I pulled mine out slowly but Jorah pushed it back in motioning me not try nothing.

They pulled us and took to shore. A man held my arm tightly probably causing me a bruise. Instead of throwing to the floor like the other two he held on to me. I could feel as his other hand began to get lower down my body. So I threw my head backwards hitting him in the nose. He grunted and grabbed onto his now bloody and broken nose. I spun around kicking him in the face once more. In a quick movement I grabbed my hidden dagger and stabbed his neck. Another man tried coming to me to get put me down but I elbowed him and then I spun kicking him making him fumble backwards I then stabbed him too.I didn’t see the guy that seems to be leader come to my side. I tried stabbing him but he grabbed my other arm and twisted it until I let my dagger go. I was going to knee him but he threw his head forward hitting mine and then slapped me hard across the face causing me to hit the ground. I grabbed my now throbbing cheek. I winced when I touched it after He then moved onto Jorah and punched him in the face.

“Brothel?”

“I don’t know to much of a fighter to be in a brothel...maybe I’ll just keep you for myself.” The leader said caressing my cheek. I immidiatly pulled away and spit on his face just causing him to laugh.

“ don’t you dare.” I hissed glaring at him. He grabbed onto my cheeks causing me to wince when he touched my cheek. He examined my face and then let me go roughly.

“We’ll sell her to a brothel. It’s a rare thing to see a dornish women with purple eyes. She’ll be worth a lot.” He said with smirk on his face then turning his gaze toward Jorah.

“Salt mines?”

“Yeah yep or galley slaves he looks strong enough.”

“What about the dwarf?”

“Worthless cut his throat and just for fun use her dagger.”

Not seconds later Tyrion was already yelling at them to wait. He somehow managed to convince them not cut his throat. I got to give it to this man he’s got his way with words even if they are annoying. After they took us on to the boat to take us to get sold. We’ll see how that goes.

.

.

.

[frostbitepandaaaaa]

I know the reveal was rough and very painful to Dany (of course to Jon too) but how would you write it or want to see it continue? They love each other like crazy and I hope (know) they fill fight through the complications together but this is a conflict very difficult to tackle just right.

anon, is this a not so subtle nudge to get me to write a one-shot filling in the gaps from the first two episodes? because i don’t need that nope not at all.

first off, i want to say that i don’t think Jon made a douche decision telling Dany when he did. he loves Dany and wanted her to know the truth about her brother before they both went out and potentially died. do i think he intended to tell her? yeah, i do, but his delivery may have changed a bit when she started talking about Rheagar. 

overall, i think it was a well done scene and both of them were so soft, and Emilia did an absolute STELLAR fucking job acting that scene. i’ve said it once and i’ll say it again: when Jon turns away at the sound of horns, the look Dany gives him in that moment says it all. she’s terrified she’s going to lose him. 

BUT! i do hate this ‘let’s not have the characters have a real conversation and amp the drama up via INTERRUPTION so they can’t communicate like normal people’. i totally get that we need drama, but i’m a dialogue slut, and also a fan of my babies hashing shit out like adults. HOWEVER, that doesn’t mean that i am under the impression that our two idiots would resolve everything right then in there, just that would be able to dig a bit deeper and come to a better understanding of each other but idk. 

but you are so right, anon. it is a very, very delicate conflict to tackle. in Ozymandian, the reveal was my longest chapter. so, yeah. it was a big task and overall i think it was done well, but could have been better. 

[joanna-lannister]

Meta: Will the Lannisters end like the Targaryens?

WARNING: possible mentions of spoilers/leaks

@fcrncody Thank you Ana, my partner in crime, for being my beta reader! 💖

First of all, this theory is purely for the show, not the books (even if I'm gonna use some quotes from it). I do believe the fate of some characters will be different, I could be wrong tho.

"History is a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will perforce happen again." I'm quoting G.R.R.M here but as a big History nerd, I always say that History repeat itself and I think that what's going to happen with the Lannisters : their downfall will be a parallel to the Targaryens one at the end of Robert's rebellion. I have this theory in mind for almost 2 years now and since I keep thinking about it, I needed somewhere to write it down.

During the rebellion, we had 4 Targaryens still alive : Aerys, Rhaella, Rhaegar and Viserys (plus Dany and Jon on the way). I'm not sure if I should count Maester Aemon since he took the black and I don't count Elia and Rheagar's children since he disinherited them. Now for the Lannisters, we have Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion still alive, plus baby!Lannister on the way. I think their deaths or possible survival will be a mix of how these last Targaryens died or survived.

First, the Lannisters have always been connected with the Targaryens one way or another:

Tywin wanted Cersei to marry Rhaegar and she wanted it to

Tyrion and his obsession with the dragons

Jaime killed Aerys

Tywin used to be friend with Aerys and his Hand

Cersei and Tyrion both used wildfire

Joanna was harassed by Aerys

And I could go on...

But one of the biggest connection we can make between the two houses is the incest. The perpetual incestuous marriage between the Targaryens slowly brought their house to the extinction and Cersei and Jaime's relationship caused the war of the five Kings and thus, their own downfall. They have been compared to the Targaryens more than once, by themselves or by other characters.

The Targaryens wed brothers and sisters for 300 years to keep bloodlines pure. Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We shared a womb. We came into this world together. We belong together. - Cersei, S01E07 You Win or You Die

Tyrion: Sins? The Targaryens... Cersei: Wed brother and sister for hundreds of years, I know. That's what Jaime and I would say to each other in our moments of doubt. It's what I told Ned Stark when he was stupid enough to confront me. Half the Targaryens went mad, didn't they? What's the saying? Every time a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin. Tyrion: You've beaten the odds. Tommen and Myrcella are good, decent children, both of them. - S02E07 A Man Without Honor

You think I disapprove? Why? Because people disapprove of that sort of thing where you are from? They disapproved of Oberyn and me where you are from. Here no one blinked an eye. 100 years ago, no one would have blinked an eye at you if you'd been named Targaryen. - Ellaria, S05E09 The Dance of Dragons

We could marry him to Myrcella, once we've sent Sansa Stark back to her mother. That would show the realm that the Lannisters are above their laws, like gods and Targaryens. - Jaime, ASOS

"I am sick of being careful. The Targaryens wed brother to sister, why shouldn't we do the same? Marry me, Cersei. Stand up before the realm and say it's me you want. We'll have our own wedding feast, and make another son in place of Joffrey." She drew back. "That's not funny." - Jaime, ASOS

Then, we have Tywin and his ambition. He wants to outshine the Targaryens and build a dynasty that could last 1000 years.

The future of our family will be determined in these next few months. We could establish a dynasty that will last a thousand years. Or we could collapse into nothing, as the Targaryens did. - Tywin, S01E07 You Win or You Die

Cersei wants to emulate her father.

I understand we're in a war for survival. I understand whoever loses dies. I understand whoever wins could launch a dynasty that lasts a thousand years. - Cersei, S07E01 Dragonstone

The parallel is clear here, I have even made a gifset. The funny thing in that conversation between Tywin and Jaime is the fact that Tywin points out they could collapse into nothing when it's already happening, because of his own children. And again, he compares himself to the Targaryens. Foreshadowing?

Before talking about each characters, I want to say that if this theory is correct, I don't think Jaime and Cersei will die together. This show is full of plot twists, irony, parallels and yet, anti-parallels and the characters don't get what they want, this is not a Disney fairytale. And dying together is something they both want, they expressed it numerous times, in the show and in the books, maybe too much?

Bronn: How do you want to go? Jaime: In the arms of the woman I love. - S05E04 The Sons of The Harpy

We've always been together. We'll always be together. We're the only two people in the world. - Cersei, S06E06 Blood of My Blood

I cannot die while Cersei lives, he told himself. We will die together as we were born together. - Jaime, ASOS

We will leave this world together, as we once came into it. - Cersei, AFFC

If he were dead, I would know it. We came into this world together, Uncle. He would not go without me. - Cersei, ADWD

It's so obvious, as viewers (and also readers sometimes), we expect it to happen. The cast keep telling us how unpredictable the end is, I honestly take everything they say with a grain of salt but I think I'll make an exception for this time. Also, the writers omitted the Valonqar part in Cersei's prophecy. On purpose? So we are going to be surprised if Jaime is indeed the Valonqar? I find it weird when it's already obvious like I said and when they dropped clues back in S7.

Cersei:You murdered your own brother. Euron:You should try it. Feels wonderful. - S07E01, Dragonstone

Olenna: She'll be the end of you. Jaime: Possibly. - S07E03, The Queen's Justice

But I could be wrong and the writers will choose the easy path... However, while it's tragic for Jaime and Cersei to die together, killed by each others, I think it would be even more painful for their characters to die apart. Like us, they expect to die together. They are twins, they spent their whole life together and they think it will always be that way, Cersei only feels complete with him... and ripping Jaime away from her? Yeah, sadly poetic.

And now for the characters...

JAIME: ↳ Rhaegar / Aerys

I start with Jaime first since I think he's going to die first.

Source: (x), (x)

In the first still (from the 8x02?), he's wearing a Northern regular armor, similar to the one Robb used to wear. In the EW promo, the armor is almost the same but more more redish, more Lannister, and looks a little like bit the one Podrick used to wear back in the previous seasons.

I presume the costume change will happen after the battle in 7x03. My guess is that battle will not be the last. Wrapping the White Walkers storyline in 1 episode? No, impossible. The war will happen in two times: first that battle, Winterfell is destroyed and the White Walkers are still a threat, Jaime comes back to King's Landing (with the Starks?) [if I remember Nik was spotted on the King's Landing set, could be for this or something else] and then another battle and Jaime dies during this one by the hand of Night King.

Why the Night King? Simple. One of the most important moment in Jaime's life was when he killed the Mad King, a man obsessed with fire. He was mocked all his life for breaking his vows, nicknamed Kingslayer, when he took the right decision.

And then when the king turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. "Burn them all," he kept saying. "Burn them all." I don't think he expected to die. He ... he meant to... burn with the rest of us and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies to ash. - Jaime, S03E05 Kissed by Fire

Most people in the fandom think he will kill either the Night King or the Mad Queen, I bet on the other way. I admit I also thought about Dany becoming the Night Queen and killing him, a nice parallel since he killed her father but I don't see her branding a sword even if she becomes the Night Queen so I stand with the idea of the Night King, a creature made a ice. Honestly, a Kingslayer murdered by a king? What an irony... And, A Lannister always pays his debts.

That was for the Aerys part, now for the Rhaegar part. They are both warriors and if Jaime dies in a battle, it will already be a parallel with Rhaegar dying at the the Trident. Nik also said that Jaime's obsessive love for Cersei "follows him until his very last scene of the show". At first, I was; okay my theory is wrong but then I remembered that quote about Rhaegar:

Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman's name. - Daenerys, ACOK

We don't know for sure who was the woman Rhaegar mentioned but Jaime murmuring Cersei's name would completely fulfill the parallel with him. And again, a bit ironic here since Cersei wanted to marry Rhaegar.

CERSEI: ↳ Rhaella / Aerys

Now, Cersei, the next who's going to die, in my opinion. I think she will behave somehow like Aerys at the beginning of the season but her death will be a total parallel to Rhaella, and by extent, Joanna and possibly Lyanna.

Source: (x), (x)

Like Jaime, with the costume change, Cersei is wearing the Lannisters colors again. Someone on tumblr (I don't remember who, I'm sorry) said that her grief is over and it could mean she will subvert the villain trope or something along the line. I do agree with the grief part, that's why I don't think she will lose baby!Lannister. Why would she wear her house colors if she had lost her child?

Source: (x), (x), (x), (x), (x), (x)

Notice she has the Lannister sigil back too, as a necklace. It was a link with Myrcella and after Tommen's death, she never wore it again. Only as embroidery on her gowns. The pendant is strategically placed on her "bump", it fits her character; she's (was) a mother, she's pregnant and that child is the future of her house. Also, some people said we can see a baby bump. I personally disagree, I believe it's only the dress.

I know part of the fandom will scream at me that she's not pregnant or she will have a miscarriage because of the prophecy. First of all, I do believe she's pregnant (or at least she thinks she is) and of course, a miscarriage is still a possibility. Second of all, prophecies are tricky, ask Melisandre. The prophecy was already debunked back in S1 when Cersei told Catelyn about the black haired boy she had with Robert.

I lost my first boy, a little black-haired beauty. He was a fighter too... Tried to beat the fever that took him. - Cersei, S01E02 The Kingsroad

Yet, Maggy still mentioned 3 children:

Maggy: The king will have 20 children and you will have three. Cersei: That doesn't make sense. Maggy: Gold will be their crowns. Gold their shrouds. - S05E01 The Wars to Come

Since she was also pregnant with Robert's child in the books, we know pregnancy doesn't count for that prophecy to work. Now, in the show, she gave birth to that boy. He was sick, or got sick, but was alive. My conclusion is that the birth doesn't count either. The only fact that matter is if she raises the child. So Cersei could carry her pregnancy to term and give birth to an healthly, surviving child if she dies in in childbirth or soon after. Which brings the Rhaella parallel.

And again, I know most Cersei stans (and JxC shippers) hate that idea. I confess I wasn't pleased at first but now, the more I thought about it the more it feels like a full circle. Motherhood has always been an important theme in Cersei's journey.

First, her mother: Cersei was a little girl when Joanna died in the most gendered way. She was traumatized by her death and she grew up resenting her little brother for this.

Second, her love for her children: one of the main reason that drives her to do some... things. She repeated countless times how much she loves/loved them and tried to protect them and yet, they all die. Cersei "sacrificing" her life for her last child and giving him a chance to survive is not so far stretched.

Now, how it's going to happen... Maisie said :

After reading the scripts I went back and watched season 1 again, because so much of it refers back to that season. There are so many scenes that will look similar. And also I watched just to remind myself of the arc I've taken already. I wanted Arya to go full circle and try for some kind of normalcy like when she was younger.

I'm not sure if Maisie is only talking about Arya here, however we already know we are going to have a parallel with Jon and Daenerys arriving at Winterfell like Cersei and Robert back in the season 1. Then, if the leaks are proven to be true (Euron forcing Cersei to have sex with him and her saying she "enjoyed" it as much as she did with Robert), we can assume their relationship will be similar to the one she had with her previous husband. I think Cersei will lie and pretend that baby!Lannister is Euron's child just like she did with Robert and Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen.

Jaime: Who will you say is the father? Cersei: You. - S07E05 Eastwatch

Remember that? I'm pretty sure it was a red herring for Cersei playing Euron in the season 8. Now, we all know what happened to Robert before he had the chance to learn the truth so I bet on Cersei killing Euron in the middle of the season, maybe during the 8x04? Or maybe Jaime. Could be another parallel with:

Ned: Has he done this before? Cersei: Jaime would have killed him. - S01E07 You Win or You Die

After Euron's death (or shortly before), I predict the Starks (moslty Jon) coming to King's Landing to seek refuge or an alliance because Winterfell is destroyed and they have no other choice. Lena and Kit were spotted on set (and I think Sophie too). It could be a decoy but let's say it's a real scene. Jon looked like he bent the knee to Cersei, I believe we will have a replay of the famous scene with Ned in S01E07.

You must be gone by then ... you and your children. I will not have their blood on my hands. Go as far away as you can, with as many men as you can. Because wherever you go, Robert's wrath will follow you. - Ned, S01E07 You Win or You Die

I think Jon will propose the same deal to Cersei : giving mercy to her and her child (and maybe Jaime and Tyrion) if she leaves King's Landing/Westeros after the end of the war if she accepts to help them (bet we'll see Qyburn's scorpion again). I see her somehow accepting it unlike the first time and maybe that person who said she will subvert the villain trope was right, after all we have that quote:

You love your children. It's your one redeeming quality. That and your cheekbones. - Tyrion, S02E01 The North Remembers

Once the war is won, and Jaime probably dead, the Starks break their promise and want to judge the Lannisters for their crimes, which would be a little parallel with Aerys, when he opened the gates of King's Landing and let Tywin take the city. And like Rhaella, she will escape to her ancestral home, maybe with Tyrion and the help of Qyburn.

You'll be queen. For a time. Then comes another, younger, more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear. - Maggy, S05E01 The Wars to Come

It would fit the prophecy. She has nothing left, no power, no crown, her brother/lover is dead... She loses the throne and survives the game. Again, a bit ironic since she's one of the biggest player since the beginning and the one who instaured the famous:

When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground. - S01E07 You Win or You Die

And then, she dies tragically giving birth... Yeah, full circle.

TYRION: ↳ Viserys / Maester Aemon?

Tyrion... Oh Tyrion... He's the one I'm on the fence, for every theory that I have, honestly. He escaped deaths numerous times but all good things come to an end. I feel we don't have enough clues about his future death or his possible survival. Of course we have that famous quote:

In my own bed, with a belly full of wine and a maiden's mouth around my cock, at the age of eighty," he replied. - Tyrion, AGOT

Or that one:

One day, after our queen has taken the Seven Kingdoms... I'd like to have my own vineyard. Make my own wine. The Imp's Delight. Only my close friends could drink it. - Tyrion, S06E08 No One

I don't think that's gonna happen but if my theory is right, I assume he will take Viserys place, mixed maybe with Maester Aemon, but like I said, I'm not sure if I should count him as a Targaryen. We still have moment that tho:

Jaime: Tell me you're not thinking of taking the black. Tyrion: And go celibate ? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world. - S01E02 The Kingsroad

If the White Walkers are defeated, I see no reason to build another Wall and no reason to have another Night's Watch, I think it's more like a metaphor for Tyrion being casted away from Westeros and going in exil, and raising his nephew/niece.

Source: (x), (x)

Unlike his siblings, Tyrion's new costume is more subtle. He doesn't seem to wear the Lannister colors and yet... In the first still we got for the S8, he is wearing the usual outfit he has since he joined Dany Team: same shape, same colors... and in the EW promo, his clothes doesn't look really different at first because they are still black and he still has the Hand of the Queen's pin but they are! The shape of the jacket is similar to the one he used to wear in the first seasons, the clips are back and golden and the sleeves have hints of gold.

Source: (x), (x)

The patterns aren't the same tho but we can guess the connection with his family will be back once he comes back to King's Landing after the destruction of Winterfell.

Like I said for Cersei, once the war is over, I believe the Starks will want to judge him for his family's crime. Not sure if he's going to escape with his sister, it would fufill Viserys parallel but I think he will be captured/imprisoned for some time like he was during the S1. Then, he either escapes or the Starks send him in exil with baby!Lannister.

Now, why would he raise baby!Lannister? I think the clues are in the S7 finale. When Tyrion learned Cersei was pregnant during that emotional scene, they made a secret pact. No one know what is it about, neither the viewers or the characters (including Jaime). The only thing we can speculate is that this pact will ensure the safety of the child. And maybe the throne.

You say you can't have children, but there are other ways of choosing a successor. The Night's Watch has one method. The ironborn, for all their many flaws, have another. - Tyrion, S07E06 Beyond The Wall

Our child will rule Westeros. - Cersei, S07E07 The Dragon and the Wolf

During the S7, Tyrion was concerned by the possible lack of heir after Dany's death, now he has a potential one. The fandom think Cersei betrayed the pact by not sending her troups in the North and that Tyrion is too naive for believing her but... is it true? Yeah, Cersei said to Jaime she didn't trust their brother and she was lying the whole time but nowhere she informed him about the pact and the fact she broke her promise... Why? I always wondered if Tyrion wasn't the one behind the idea to not send the soldiers North. And from the leaks, it looks like he's trying to buy some time. And honestly, look at his costume in that episode:

Source: (x), (x)

Like for EW promo and the previous seasons, the jacket have the Lannister shape and the pattern, while slightly different, looks similar to Tywin's jacket. Everyone always screamed how Cersei's gowns was inspired by Tywin but here...

That pact is gonna bite him in the ass, but maybe not the way we can imagine. I mentioned above a possible parallel between Cersei and Lyanna and it wasn't only about the "dying in childbirth" trope; it was about Cersei asking Tyrion to take care of her child, like Lyanna did with Ned. Unlike Lyanna and Ned, Cersei and Tyrion have a complicated relionship; they hate each others but yet, I think deep down they somehow "love" each others. And Cersei knows her brother loves(d) her children (except Joffrey but that's another story).

I loved them. You know I did. You know it in your heart if there's anything left of it. - Tyrion, S07E07 The Dragon and the Wolf

I don't want to destroy our family. I never have. - Tyrion, S07E07 The Dragon and the Wolf

Cersei: I only care what it cost us. It cost us our future. Cersei: If there's no future, then why are we here? Why did you allow me to come? - S07E07 The Dragon and the Wolf

She knows her child will be safe with him. Add the fact: Cersei asking the man; she blamed her whole life for the death of her mother and dying the same way, to take care of her child and Tyrion, who was considered like the black sheep of his family, raising the future of his house: again full circle.

BABY!LANNISTER : ↳ Daenerys / Jon?

I'll be quick here. While I do think in the books that child will never exist, if this theory is correct, in the show, I believe he will survives and take either Daenerys or Jon role, but mostly Dany. If Tyrion dies, then I assume the Starks will raise him and he will not know who are his real parents like Jon but seriously, a blond baby? LOL. If Tyrion survives, then Dany.

We already have a little parallel with Dany and her conception during the 7x03, even if the circumstance are a little bit different. And if Cersei dies like Rhaella, it would be a complete replay of Dany's birth.

Then, Tyrion raises him like Viserys, but in better way, you know. I don't remember if D&D spoke about a flashforward for the end of the show but I could see that happening: the Starks living happily and the last scene is baby!Lannister being introduced and saying he wants to avenge his family/take what should be is. What goes around, comes around... for the Lannisters, for the show.

TIMELINE :

I have made a little timeline of how I think these events are going to happen but some of them can switch, I guess?

Great battle in 7x03, Winterfell is destroyed

Jaime comes back to King's Landing

Euron dies

The Starks seek refuge/an alliance with Tyrion

End of the war - Jaime dies

The Starks betray the alliance

Cersei escapes to Casterly Rock and die giving birth

Tyrion takes care of baby!Lannister

I'm not sure if my post makes sense, it feels more clear in my mind to be honest and I feel like I forgot a bunch of stuff but I really wanted to post it before the premiere. Now, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who have that theory in mind and if you have read all of this, first thank you and second, you probably think I'm crazy so I'm gonna hide under a rock...

[thenoblehouseofdayne]

Champagne and Cracked Mirrors {Viserys x Reader}

@reblovesdoom requested; “what if Y/N was meant to marry rheagar, but viserys is like so jealous of him, he puts horrible ideas in her head, but rhaegar really loves her?” 

AND

(this is more of a self indulgence, but, humor me) 1920s au

Warnings; manipulative behavior, mentions of adultery 

{This author’s note can also serve as a little bit of an introduction. The Targaryens are Old Money, built on the foundations of the 19th century and strengthened during the Great War. Composed of patriarch Aegon, and his two sons, and infant daughter, Daenerys.}

~

The Targaryen household was something of an enigma to you. They’d always been very welcoming, offering a warm bed and fine food, and plenty of galas to entertain you during your short engagement to Rhaegar, but, resentment and inter-familial rows lurked just beneath the beauty, like a coiled viper. 

You’d heard too many hushed whispers, and seen too many plaster smiles to believe a word of the excuses. 

Something was wrong. 

Whenever you mentioned such suspicions to Rhaegar, he’d always give you a tight-lipped smile, and wind an arm around your waist, telling you to pay it no mind. 

So, you diverted your eyes, unsatisfied, but dutiful, to a degree. The curiosity remained, the fire behind it flickering like a small hearth. You’d put the matter to rest, for now, but soon enough, it would resurface unexpectedly. 

Rhaegar’s younger brother, Viserys, had ambitions of his own. 

Viserys met you like a dagger meets a heart, with anguish as its goal. 

Two hands reached your waist, and you felt warm breaths tickle your spine.

You tensed and released a quiet gasp, your own hands moving to pry off the stranger’s- to no avail.

“Relax. It’s only me.” Viserys breathed, though his hands remained where they were. “Your prince has finally released you from his dungeon?” He teased, now allowing you to face him, his mood unusually jovial.

You frowned at the implication, but did not correct him, instead, greeting him as cordially as you would any other member of his family. 

“I want to show you something.” His tone was hushed, manic as he took your hand. “But I need you alone before I do. Come with me.”

You glanced over at your fiancee, noting how entangled he seemed to be the business affairs his father’s staff had laid out before him. “I suppose I have a few minutes-” you replied, a little hesitantly. Viserys had done you no harm, despite an apparent mean-streak that you’d heard whispers of but had yet to witness.

He took a steady grip of your wrist, suddenly, and pulled you out of the parlor, down the halls of the enormous home you’d only seen bits of- in passing. Despite your lengthy engagement to Rhaegar, you’d spent most of your time in two rooms, the parlor and the dining room, all conversation, all analysis of you, and why the oldest Targaryen son would choose you for his bride and-

The two of you quickly rounded the corner and Viserys came to a sudden halt, holding a finger to his lips and quietly continuing to slide down the hall, silent in his motions. 

The whole situation struck you as odd. Why would he be sneaking about in his own home, acting as though he was doing something worth scrutiny? “Viserys, what are we-”

He held a finger to his lips more insistently, his fingers closing over the knob of the first door on the left, and slowly cracking it open, peering inside before his posture relaxed. He ushered you inside with a quickness. 

It was a smaller room, the walls painted a warm orange, sunlight streaming through the curtains, illuminating the abandoned bedroom. Dust had settled over the desktop, and a series of books laid dormant and untarnished on the shelf above the desk. You saw a basket of children’s toys in the corner, and frowned. “Viserys-”

“You know I care for you, yes?”

He was erratic, and his mood swings were beginning to raise concern. “Yes, I’m aware, but-”

“This is Rhaegar’s bedroom, from when he was a child.” He ran a finger along the desk, lifting dust nonchalantly. “Everything you’d ever want to know about him, it’s in here.” 

You paused, alarmed. This felt strange, like spying on a loved one, or reading your sister’s diary... it felt out of place, and unhealthy. 

Viserys moved to open the desk drawer, the only thing perfectly clean in the room of abandon. Inside was a small box, mundane looking, a simple lid, painted with yellow flowers around the edges. “It’s where he hides things,” he continued. “I didn’t notice until a few weeks ago, but then I found these.” He trailed off, opening the box and glancing over his shoulder at you. 

You froze, willing yourself to bury the curiosity, to turn away. You found yourself moving towards the box just as quickly, lifting the first paper. 

It had been folded, like a letter, and reeked of expensive perfume. Stunning calligraphy adorned each line, and after reading a few, you began to really understand the words on the page. 

“... dearest, it’s been so long since you’ve come to the city, everyone’s begun to mourn your passing! As such, we’ve sent a funeral bouquet,  filled with all those summer daisies you-” 

You stopped reading, lowering the letter and scanning the date. It was a few years ago, and you sighed with relief. Angrily, you turned to Viserys, ready to crumple the letter, when you saw his expression. 

Not sadistic, not falsely caring, just pensive. 

“Why would you show me this?” You asked him, hostility seeping into your tone. 

Viserys didn’t speak, approaching the box and carefully rearranging the letters, standing them on their sides so you could see the volume of the lovelorn notes. As you processed this sight, he spoke. “Because they’re dated from oldest to newest.” He drew the last letter, handing it over. 

You glanced at the date and felt nausea rise. Barely two weeks ago. Ironing your will, you read the first few lines. 

“... and I’ve just received the invitation to your wedding! I can’t say I won’t weep in attendance, but I owe you the courtesy of attending. Besides, you and I could perhaps find a moment to-”

Your heart clenched, and you felt a sudden rain begin to tumble down your cheeks. Tears splashed onto the paper and you felt it tear in your hands, chest heaving as you felt your heart rend. You hadn’t expected him to love you, but to make such a mockery of you and your marriage-

Viserys’ hands found your waist, pulling you tightly against him. His breath was a torrid warmth, and his soft whispers found your ear yet again. “I have one more thing to show you, if you’re up for it.”

Heartbroken and hurting, you conceded in a second, first reflecting that often it took two to destroy a marriage. 

{OO! Part Two? Feedback? More historical au’s? Shoot me a message!}