#A Song Of Ice and Fire
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irlplasticlamb · 2 days ago
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dust and stardust. (house bolton oc!)
prints + merch + c0mmission info pinned to profile!
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wintywriter · 10 hours ago
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Every time I’m showing my notes about baelicent to other people and they catch the main parallel I feel just like this
It's such an amazing feeling when someone picks up on something in your writing that you 100% intended but didn't think people would notice. Like, YES!! My writing properly conveyed the thing it was supposed to!!! You are so awesome for noticing that!!! I am so awesome for writing that!!! I feel so good about my story now!!!!
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moon-cvlt · 3 days ago
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Barbrey Dustin 🙏🏻 if you hear us obliterate the rats.
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@mothers-mercy
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vintrage · 2 days ago
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in my heart and in my soul all of the starks are safe in winterfell
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violetberryyy · 2 days ago
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what’s the best ASOIAF book?
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todearme · 12 hours ago
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I’m GAGGED this is gorgeous
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The moon floated on the still black waters, shattering and re-forming as her ripples washed over it.
Daenerys in the Womb of the World
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rogueandflame · 2 days ago
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The Twins and One
So here is an idea for a fic that I shared with an incredible writer and mutual, @aeralux. (She will be waking up to 100 notifications but oh well.) I wanted to share it with you, and get your opinion on whether I should start writing. Please know that I have not written in years, and that this is a very, very rough draft. This dialogue came to me while I was driving. This is not done, and will be expanded on either by me or Aera.
Update (1/8/2025): Check out the final version HERE!
cregan stark x wife!reader x FraternalTwin!jace
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Warnings: A little more than suggestive, targcest, cuckholding, impending threesome.
MDNI!!!
🤍
it was the hour of the wolf. Jace walks the cold halls of winterfell, missing the warmth of the south, and the warmth of his family. he is wrapped in a borrowed wolf fur coat, from cregan, and it is about two sizes too large for him. his sword rests at his hip, and he holds the hilt as a sort of reassurance.
his mind is racing with thoughts of war and thoughts of you. for the first time in his life, he has spent more than a moon's turn from his beloved twin sister. it had been six months since jace had escorted you north for your wedding to cregan. he knew this day would come someday, but he did not think it would be so shortly after your twentieth nameday. cregan stark is a good man, and is one of the crown's closest allies. jace and cregan were like brothers, but he could not help to think that he should have been your husband instead.
growing up, you always explored each other's bodies. you came into the world as one, and were practically attached at the hip. "one soul, two bodies," became a pointed remark at the red keep, meant to call out how often you were found at each other's side, but you and jace embraced it. it was true. you were his confidant, his sister, the more brazen flame compared to his tempered one. you were his lover.
as he walks, his thoughts run wild over the last time he saw you in front of him. the curve of your breasts complimenting the curve of your waist. your hair not a rich brown like his, but the same as your mother's - as pale as the moon on its fullest night. your eyes the palest purple seen in the family, reflecting your undeniable heritage.
you were his and he was yours.
he is snapped back into reality as he passes your chambers, noises coming from within them. weary and restless, jace pushes the thick door swiftly open, fully expecting you to be struggling with a dangerous man for your life. without a second thought, and before the situation is fully realized, he unsheaths his sword, ready to defend you from whoever could be harming you. and then there you are. while you are admist a struggle with a dangerous man, it is not for your life.
cregan looks up at the interruption, but seems unphased. his large body is over yours, his palms next to your head as he prepares to thrust into you. you tilt your head back towards the door, the world upside down.
"Jace?" you murmur. Cregan sits back on his knees, not bothering to cover you or himself up.
"Are you going to stand there like a frail pup or are you going to join us?" Cregan asked, and your eyes shot up to him. before you could say anything, cregan continued. "Your dear sister told me about what it was like growing up with you." You blush heavily. "Targaryens and their queer customs. But tradition is tradition. And us northmen are big on tradition."
Jace stands there, mouth wide open, not sure what to say.
"Jace, if you are going to stand and watch, could you at least shut the door?" Jace scurries to shut the door and put his sword back, clearly still shocked at the situation he has found himself in.
"Come, my young prince," cregan says as he gets up, "i want to see how you pleasured her in the south. She is always saying how much she misses you."
You roll over to your stomach as Cregan walks over to clap a hand on Jace's shoulder.
"My dear brother, I do not think I have ever seen you so speechless." you tease.
Jace looks at you, and then Cregan, and then back to you.
"Are you sure?" he looks more nervous than he did the day he claimed Vermax.
"It'll be just like old times, brother. You always did have your way with me, it will just include my other favorite man this time." you purr.
You push yourself off the bed, and walk over to where Cregan and Jace are standing. You are just as naked as you were the day you were born, and you know this is his favorite way to see you. You stroke his cheek and breathily kiss his neck. Your hands roam, pushing off his cloak in one motion and beginning to unbutton his tunic. Cregan retreats to the foot of the bed to watch. You smile against Jace's neck as he begins to relax, and you move his hands to the small of your back.
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novaursa · 2 days ago
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A Lion's Folly (sins)
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- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.
- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister
- Note: Be aware of time jumps and how some events may not match the canon or its timeline.
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Previous part: 1
- Next part: the brave
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround
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The cold bites harder now, even in the Riverlands. Autumn is creeping closer, and Jaime Lannister feels every inch of it in the damp, miserable confines of the Stark camp. He sits on the rough wooden bench of his prison tent, his armor stripped, his hands bound by iron chains that rattle with every movement. The once-golden lion is tarnished now, his pride battered by weeks of captivity.
But it isn’t the cold or the humiliation that gnaws at him the most.
It’s you.
The thought of you lingers, unbidden, no matter how hard he tries to banish it. You’ve haunted his dreams since Winterfell—the way you stood by Bran’s bedside, the sorrow etched into your face. He’d told himself that time and distance would fade those feelings, that the guilt and longing would wither away like a flame denied air. Instead, they’ve grown, consuming him from within.
And now, as he sits in the heart of his enemy’s camp, surrounded by wolves, he swears he saw you earlier. It was just a fleeting glimpse—someone passing by the edge of the campfires, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak—but his heart had leapt at the sight. His mind betrayed him, conjuring the image of your face beneath the hood. He told himself it couldn’t be you. You would be in Winterfell, or wherever the Starks had scattered in their grief. You wouldn’t be here, amidst soldiers and war.
Yet, he couldn’t shake the thought.
The tent flap rustles, and Jaime looks up to see Robb Stark stride in, Grey Wind at his side. The direwolf’s presence is a constant reminder of his vulnerability; the beast’s yellow eyes seem to pierce through him, a predator sizing up its prey.
“Kingslayer,” Robb greets coldly, his voice steady and sharp. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t offer even the pretense of civility. He stands tall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his youth masked by the steel resolve in his eyes.
Jaime leans back against the post, smirking despite himself. “Your Grace,” he replies, his tone mocking as he inclines his head slightly. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Robb ignores the jibe, his expression unyielding. “How many men does your father have? Where will he strike next?”
Jaime lets out a short, derisive laugh. “Straight to business, I see. I’d hoped for at least a proper interrogation—some chains, perhaps a few bruises.”
Robb doesn’t rise to the bait, his gaze steady. “I don’t need chains to make you talk, Lannister. The fact that you’re here, bound and defeated, is enough proof of that.”
Jaime’s smirk falters for a moment. He shifts, the chains rattling, before leaning forward slightly. “You’re wasting your time, boy. Do you think I’d betray my father? My family? You’re a Stark; you should know better than that.”
Robb steps closer, his jaw tightening. “You call yourself a knight, yet you killed your king. You’re no man of honor. You’re a coward hiding behind a lion’s shield.”
The words hit their mark, but Jaime doesn’t let it show. Instead, he tilts his head, studying Robb. “Honor’s overrated,” he says lightly, though the edge in his voice betrays his inner turmoil. “It won’t bring your father back, will it?”
The animosity in the air thickens, Grey Wind letting out a low growl at Jaime’s words. Robb’s hand grips the hilt of his sword tighter, his eyes flashing with anger.
“Careful, Lannister,” Robb warns, his voice a low growl of its own.
Jaime meets his gaze, unflinching, though his mind is already elsewhere. He debates for a moment whether to ask, whether it will make him seem weak, but the words slip out before he can stop them.
“I saw her,” he says quietly, his tone lacking the usual mockery.
Robb’s brows furrow. “Who?”
“Your sister,” Jaime replies, his voice tightening. “Y/N.”
The name feels foreign on his tongue, too precious for someone like him to speak aloud.
Robb stiffens, his blue eyes narrowing. “You dare speak her name?”
Jaime doesn’t back down. “Is she here?”
Robb doesn’t answer immediately, his silence speaking volumes. Jaime’s chest tightens, the faint flicker of hope igniting despite himself.
“I thought I saw her,” Jaime continues, his voice softer now, the chains clinking faintly as he shifts forward. “In the camp. Tell me—was it her?”
Robb’s expression hardens. “What business do you have with my sister?”
“None,” Jaime admits, though the lie is bitter in his mouth. “I just… wondered.”
Robb steps closer, his voice dropping. “You don’t have the right to wonder, Kingslayer. My sister is none of your concern. She stays far away from men like you.”
Jaime doesn’t flinch, though the words sting more than he cares to admit. He forces a smirk onto his face, leaning back against the post once more. “Good. She’s better off that way.”
Robb watches him for a long moment, as if searching for some hidden motive. Finally, he turns, calling Grey Wind to his side.
“You’ll rot in this cage, Lannister,” Robb says over his shoulder as he strides toward the tent’s entrance. “And when the time comes, you’ll answer for everything you’ve done.”
The tent flap falls closed behind him, leaving Jaime alone with his thoughts once more. He exhales slowly, the weight of the chains pressing into his wrists.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter if it was you or not. That he’s a fool for even caring.
But deep down, he knows the truth. Even in this cage, even in the shadow of death, his thoughts remain bound to you. A silent torment, far worse than the chains that bind him.
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Jaime’s wrists ache from the constant pull of chains as he’s dragged along by Robb’s men. His boots sink into the damp earth with every step, the heavy mud clinging to him as if the North itself wants to swallow him whole. After weeks of captivity he feels more like a tethered dog than a lion, yanked along as the wolves move their camp to higher ground.
His head is lowered, his hair now dulled and dirtied, but a low growl makes him glance up. His heart stutters in his chest.
It’s him.
Winter, the pale direwolf, stands motionless at the edge of the camp, his silver-white coat shimmering in the faint sunlight. His icy blue eyes bore into him, unblinking, filled with a quiet menace. Jaime halts for a moment, his breath catching. He’d only seen him briefly at Winterfell, always at your side, a specter of your presence.
If Winter is here, then so are you.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a familiar figure emerges behind the wolf. His chest tightens at the sight of you—wrapped in a dark cloak, your hair loose, untouched by the grime of war that clings to everyone else. Your face is pale but calm, a stark contrast to the storm Jaime feels rising within himself.
And then Catelyn Stark appears.
She strides forward with purpose, her eyes blazing with fury as she spots him. You follow behind her, hesitant but present, and Jaime feels the weight of your gaze even if it doesn’t meet his directly.
The men dragging him stop as Lady Stark approaches, her voice sharp as the northern wind. “Hold him,” she orders, her tone brooking no argument. The guards immediately comply, gripping Jaime by the arms and halting his progress.
Catelyn steps closer, her jaw tight with barely-contained anger. “So,” she says, her voice low but seething, “this is where the Kingslayer finds himself. Dragged through the mud like the filth he is.”
Jaime lifts his head, forcing a smirk onto his face despite the anxiety coiling in his chest. “Lady Stark,” he greets, his tone mocking but hollow. “A pleasure, as always.”
Her hand twitches as if she’s tempted to strike him, but she holds back, her fury starting to resurfice. “You dare speak to me after all you’ve done?” she snaps. “After my son lies broken because of you?”
His smirk falters, the weight of her words settling over him like a shroud. He forces himself to hold her gaze, though his voice comes quieter this time. “I’ve already answered for that to your son. What more would you have me say?”
Catelyn takes another step forward, her expression hardening. “You could start by begging for your life, though even that wouldn’t be enough.”
Jaime shifts, the chains clinking faintly. “Begging doesn’t suit me. But if it would ease your grief, strike me down now.”
For a moment, her hand moves to her dagger, her knuckles white with tension. Jaime doesn’t flinch, meeting her glare with steady defiance. The silence between them stretches, thick and suffocating, until a soft voice breaks it.
“Mother.”
Your tone is quiet but firm, and it’s enough to make Catelyn pause. She turns her head slightly to look at you, her grip on her dagger loosening. Jaime’s eyes dart to you, his chest tightening as he takes in your expression—calm but guarded, your gaze flickering briefly to his before dropping away.
“He’s not worth it,” you say softly, though there’s an edge to your voice that Jaime doesn’t miss. “Let him rot in the cage he’s made for himself.”
The words cut deeper than any blade. Jaime swallows hard, forcing his expression into something unreadable. He should be grateful for your intervention, but your dismissal stings in a way he can’t quite explain.
Catelyn hesitates, her fury tempered by your presence. Finally, she exhales sharply, stepping back. “You’re right,” she says, though her voice is still tight with anger. “He isn’t worth it.”
She turns to the guards, her tone curt. “Take him away. Make sure he’s secure.”
The men nod, yanking Jaime forward once more. As he’s dragged past you, he risks a glance in your direction. You’re watching him now, your expression unreadable, though there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—disdain, perhaps, or pity.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. What could he possibly say? That he thinks of you more than he should? That your wolf haunts his dreams as much as you do? That he still carries the weight of Bran’s fall, that the deed has begun to feel like a noose around his neck?
Instead, he says nothing, allowing himself to be pulled back into the camp, his chains rattling against the ground.
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That night, as he sits alone in his makeshift cage, Jaime’s thoughts refuse to quiet. Your voice echoes in his mind, soft but cutting: Let him rot in the cage he’s made for himself.
And maybe you’re right.
He presses his hands to his face, the cool iron of the shackles biting into his skin. For all his arrogance, for all his bravado, Jaime Lannister feels the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.
And through it all, he can’t stop thinking about you. About the way you looked at him—not with fear, not with anger, but with something far worse. Indifference.
For the first time, Jaime wonders if the cage he’s trapped in isn’t one of iron and chains but one of his own making—woven from lies, guilt, and the ghosts of what might have been.
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The week crawls by in the cold, damp cage Jaime Lannister has come to know as his new home. Each day feels heavier than the last, the chains at his wrists a constant reminder of how far he has fallen: a prisoner of war, kept alive for reasons he can only guess.
He leans back against the wooden post, his head tilted upward as he watches the stars through a small gap in the tent’s fabric. It’s one of the few comforts he has—staring at the sky and pretending, for a moment, that he isn’t shackled like an animal.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. They’re too quiet to belong to one of Robb’s guards. Jaime sits up straighter, his senses sharpening as the tent flap is pulled aside.
Lady Catelyn Stark steps inside, her face set in grim determination. The flickering torchlight casts shadows across her features, making her look even more formidable than usual. Behind her stands a tall, broad-shouldered woman clad in armor—her presence impossible to miss. Jaime recognizes her instantly: Brienne of Tarth.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Jaime says, his voice dry as he sits forward, his chains clinking faintly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night visit, Lady Stark?”
Catelyn doesn’t respond immediately. She steps closer, her piercing blue eyes locking onto his. Brienne remains just inside the entrance, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, watching him like a hawk.
“I’ve come to make a bargain,” Catelyn says finally, her tone low but firm.
Jaime raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “A bargain? How intriguing. And here I thought you only kept me alive so your son could parade me through the Riverlands like a prize stag.”
Catelyn’s lips tighten, but she doesn’t rise to his bait. Instead, she steps even closer, standing just out of his reach. “My daughters,” she says, her voice heavy with emotion. “Sansa and Arya. They’re in King’s Landing, held by your family.”
Jaime leans back slightly, his smirk faltering. “Ah, so this is about them. And here I thought you’d come to finally finish me off.”
“I’ll do what I must to protect my children,” Catelyn snaps, her voice cutting through the cold air. “Even if it means dealing with you.”
Jaime studies her for a moment, his gaze flicking to Brienne before returning to Catelyn. “And what exactly do you propose, my lady?”
Catelyn straightens, her expression hardening. “You will go to King’s Landing. Brienne will escort you there. In exchange, you will ensure the safe return of my daughters.”
For a moment, there is only silence. Then Jaime chuckles, the sound low and humorless. “You’re asking me to trust you? To believe that I’ll make it to King’s Landing in one piece with your she-knight as my escort?”
Brienne bristles at the insult, stepping forward, but Catelyn holds up a hand to stop her.
“I’m not asking,” Catelyn says coldly. “This is not a negotiation. I will not sit idly by while my daughters remain hostages to your family’s schemes. You’re going, Lannister—whether you like it or not.”
Jaime tilts his head, considering her words. “And what does your son, the King in the North, think of this… arrangement?”
Catelyn’s expression darkens. “Robb doesn’t know. And he won’t know.”
At that, Jaime’s smirk returns, though there’s a sharpness to it now. “Ah, so this is treason. How delightfully unexpected from the honorable Lady Stark.”
Catelyn steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “If you ever speak of this to anyone, I will have you hunted down and killed before you can utter a single word. Do you understand me, Lannister?”
Jaime meets her gaze, his smirk fading as the weight of her words sinks in. He can see the desperation in her eyes, the fierce determination of a mother willing to risk everything for her children. It’s a look he knows well—he’s seen it in Cersei’s eyes more times than he can count.
“Fine,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to play the dutiful knight. I’m not doing this for you, Lady Stark.”
“I don’t care why you do it,” Catelyn replies sharply. She turns to Brienne, nodding. “Release him.”
Brienne steps forward, her movements deliberate as she unlocks the chains binding Jaime’s wrists. He rubs them absently, the cool air biting at the raw skin beneath.
“Be warned, Lannister,” Brienne says, her voice steady but firm. “If you so much as think of trying to escape, I will kill you.”
Jaime smirks, his gaze flicking to her. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, my lady. I’ve heard you’re quite the swordswoman. It would be a shame to miss the opportunity to see that skill firsthand.”
Brienne doesn’t rise to his bait, stepping back as Catelyn moves toward the tent’s entrance. She glances back at Jaime, her expression unreadable.
“Pray that my daughters return safely,” she says quietly. “For your sake.”
With that, she leaves the tent, Brienne following close behind. Jaime watches them go, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The chains may be gone, but the weight of what lies ahead feels heavier than ever.
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The night is dark, the moon hidden behind thick clouds as Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth slip through the edges of the Stark camp. The cold air bites at Jaime’s skin, but he keeps his discomfort to himself, his smirk firmly in place despite the ache in his muscles. The rattling of his chains has been replaced by the quiet shuffle of his boots on the damp earth, a small mercy he’s too proud to admit he appreciates.
Brienne leads the way, her broad shoulders hunched and her hand never far from the hilt of her sword. Jaime follows reluctantly, his steps slower than hers as if dragging his feet might somehow delay the inevitable.
“You’re remarkably quiet, Ser Brienne,” Jaime says after a while, his tone light but laced with mockery. “I’d almost forgotten you could speak. Do the Maiden herself guide your steps in this noble act of treason?”
Brienne doesn’t respond, her jaw tightening as she presses forward.
“Come now,” Jaime continues, his smirk widening. “We’re far enough from the camp. Surely you can share a word or two with your prisoner. Or do you fear the wolves might overhear us?”
She glances back at him briefly, her blue eyes cold. “You’d do well to keep your voice down, Kingslayer.”
“Oh, I see,” Jaime drawls, feigning understanding. “You’re brooding, aren’t you? Thinking of how your honor is tarnished, sneaking me away like a thief in the night. Do you think your dear Lady Stark would weep for you if she knew the shame you bear?”
“I’m doing this for her daughters,” Brienne snaps, her voice low but fierce. “Not for you. Don’t mistake my duty and oath for anything else.”
Jaime chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Duty. Oath. Such a fine excuse for treachery.”
Before Brienne can respond, a low growl pierces the air, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Jaime freezes, his smirk slipping as he looks ahead.
From the shadows, Winter emerges, his pale fur gleaming faintly in the moonlight. The massive direwolf stands rigid, his icy blue eyes locked on Jaime with unmistakable menace. Behind him, a figure steps into view, cloaked and armed—a bow drawn and an arrow pointed directly at Jaime’s chest.
It’s you.
Jaime’s heart stutters in his chest, though he forces his expression to remain neutral. The sight of you, standing there with unwavering determination, is both captivating and terrifying.
“What are you doing, Brienne?” you ask, your voice calm but firm, cutting through the air like a northern wind. Your gaze flicks briefly to Jaime before returning to the woman beside him.
Brienne hesitates, her hand instinctively moving to her sword. “Lady Y/N… this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Oh, it looks exactly as it is,” you say coldly, your bow steady. “You’re sneaking him out of the camp. You’re committing treason against Robb.”
Brienne’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “I’m following Lady Stark’s orders. She believes this man’s life can buy the safe return of your sisters.”
For a moment, the silence is deafening. Jaime shifts slightly, opening his mouth to speak, but Winter’s growl deepens, silencing him instantly.
“Stay silent,” you say sharply, your eyes locking onto his. The force of your words, the raw authority in your tone, sends a shiver down his spine.
Jaime swallows hard, his usual bravado slipping as he watches the scene unfold. Brienne steps forward slightly, her hands raised in a gesture of peace.
“I understand your loyalty to your brother,” Brienne says carefully. “But this is about Sansa and Arya. Lady Stark gave me her trust, and I intend to fulfill her wishes. Let me pass.”
You don’t lower your bow, your gaze unwavering. “And if you fail? If this man escapes? What then? Do you think Robb will forgive you for putting his sisters’ lives in the hands of a Kingslayer?”
“He won’t escape,” Brienne says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“You’ll make sure of nothing,” you reply, your voice hard. “You might trust him to play along, but I don’t. I won’t risk it.”
The words sting more than Jaime expects, though he knows you’re right. If given the chance, he would run. He would escape this madness and return to his family, to the war he knows how to fight. But something about your gaze, the sheer intensity of it, roots him in place.
“I’m going with you,” you say finally, lowering your bow but keeping the arrow nocked. “It’s a long way to the capital, and I won’t trust a prisoner like him in the hands of one person. If he tries to escape, I’ll be there to stop him.”
Brienne hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Lady Y/N, you can’t—”
“I can,” you interrupt, your tone leaving no room for argument. “And I will. If my sisters’ lives depend on this, then I’ll see it through myself.”
Jaime exhales softly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “A family reunion on the road. How quaint.”
Winter growls again, silencing him once more. You glance at him, your expression colder than the northern winds.
“You’ll speak when spoken to, Lannister,” you say, your voice sharp. “If you even think of trying to escape, I’ll put an arrow through your knee and let the wolves finish the rest.”
Jaime raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning faintly despite himself. “Charming.”
You don’t respond, turning to Brienne instead. “Lead the way. I’ll follow.”
Brienne hesitates for a moment longer before nodding, her expression grim. The three of you begin to move, the sound of boots crunching against the frozen ground breaking the silence. Winter pads silently at your side, his presence a constant reminder of the line Jaime dares not cross.
As they walk, Jaime glances at you from the corner of his eye, his thoughts a chaotic mess. You’re closer now than you’ve been in months, but the gulf between you feels wider than ever.
And yet, he can’t deny the spark of something he doesn’t fully understand—something that terrifies him more than chains or swords ever could.
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The night air clings to Jaime’s skin as they travel under the faint light of the moon, their footsteps muffled by the soft crunch of the dirt road. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees and the steady padding of Winter, your ever-present shadow. Jaime walks between you and Brienne, his hands bound once more, though the chains are lighter than before.
He knows he should keep his mouth shut. Your warning earlier was clear enough, and Winter’s growls had been more than persuasive. But silence has never been Jaime’s strength, and the anxiety pressing down on him feels unbearable.
“So, Ser Brienne,” Jaime begins, his voice light, “how long have you been in Lady Stark’s service? Or are you simply a sword for hire with an impressive knack for loyalty?”
Brienne’s shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t answer.
“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?” Jaime presses, smirking faintly. “I suppose that’s fitting for a lady knight. Though I must admit, your… femininity is rather understated. Do the men in Tarth prefer their women to be more—what’s the word—formidable?”
Brienne halts abruptly, turning to face him. Her glare is as cutting as any blade, but before she can speak, you cut her off.
“Enough,” you say suddenly. You don’t look at him, your eyes fixed ahead, but the authority in your tone leaves no room for argument. “Keep walking, Lannister. And keep your mouth shut.”
Jaime raises his bound hands slightly in mock surrender. “As you wish, my lady,” he replies, though the grin tugging at his lips suggests otherwise.
The group resumes their journey, the silence settling in again like an unwelcome guest. Jaime bites his tongue for a few minutes, but the words bubbling inside him refuse to stay contained. He’s not even sure why he does it—whether it’s the need to distract himself, the desire to provoke a reaction from you, or some desperate attempt to find absolution for the weight he carries.
“So, Lady Y/N,” he begins, his tone softer now but still laced with mockery, “do you often accompany prisoners on secret midnight journeys? Or is this a special occasion?”
You don’t respond, your gaze fixed ahead as Winter moves silently at your side.
“I suppose it’s for your sisters,” Jaime continues, his smirk faltering slightly. “A noble cause, to be sure. Though I wonder, do you trust her?” He gestures toward Brienne with a tilt of his head. “Or are you here to make sure she doesn’t fail?”
Still, you remain silent, your steps steady and deliberate.
“I must admit,” Jaime says, his voice growing more pensive, “it’s strange, isn’t it? Traveling with someone like me after everything that’s happened. I wonder—do you think of him? Your brother? Of what happened to him?”
At that, you stop. Jaime nearly stumbles to a halt behind you, his breath catching as you turn to face him. Your eyes, so cold and unreadable, burn into him now with an intensity that makes even the lion feel small.
“Do I think of my brother?” you repeat, your voice low and steady, though there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “Every single day, Lannister. I think of how he fell, of how he might never wake because of you.”
Jaime swallows hard, his smirk finally slipping entirely.
“And do you know what I think of you?” you continue, stepping closer, your voice cutting through the night like a blade. “I think of how pathetic you are. A man who threw a child from a window to cover up his sins. A man so desperate to hide what he is that he nearly destroyed my family to do it.”
Your words strike harder than any blow ever could, and for once, Jaime is left speechless.
“You disgust me,” you say coldly, your voice shaking slightly with restrained fury. “And if you speak again, I’ll make sure Winter tears out your tongue. Do you understand me?”
Jaime forces himself to nod, though the weight of your words presses down on him like a mountain.
“Good,” you say simply, turning away from him and resuming your pace.
Winter lingers for a moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto Jaime as if daring him to try something. Then the direwolf follows you, his steps silent and deliberate.
Jaime exhales shakily, his thoughts spiraling as he begins walking again. Your words echo in his mind, each one carving deeper into the guilt he’s tried so hard to bury. He doesn’t know why he provoked you, why he pushed you to the point of breaking. Perhaps it was to feel something—anything—other than the crushing weight of his own failures.
But now, as the silence stretches on and your words linger like a brand, Jaime wonders if he’ll ever be free of the choices that brought him here.
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The small camp is quiet, save for the crackling of the fire Brienne has managed to coax to life. The days of travel have been grueling, and Jaime feels every ache in his body, though he’d never admit it aloud. He sits with his back against a tree, his hands still bound but resting in his lap, the chains digging faintly into his wrists. Brienne sits across from him, her eyes never leaving him for more than a moment.
The air smells of pine and damp earth, the kind of crispness that can only be found far from the corruption of cities. It would be almost peaceful if it weren’t for the weight of his own thoughts and the absence of you. You’d disappeared into the woods not long ago, your bow slung over your shoulder and Winter trotting at your side, leaving Jaime and Brienne behind to stew in the silence.
Jaime shifts slightly, his gaze flicking to the direction you’d gone, though the trees obscure any sign of you. He tells himself it’s simple curiosity, nothing more. Yet, even as he tries to convince himself, he knows it’s a lie. There’s something about you that pulls at him, an invisible tether he can’t sever no matter how much he tries.
“Stop it,” Brienne says abruptly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Jaime turns to her, raising an eyebrow. “Stop what?”
“You know what,” she replies, her tone firm but not unkind. She leans forward slightly, her hands resting on her knees as the firelight flickers across her face. “Stop watching her.”
Jaime smirks faintly, though there’s no real humor in it. “Am I not allowed to look at the person who’s been kind enough to threaten me with death every few hours?”
Brienne’s expression hardens. “It’s not just a look. You’ve been watching her since we left the Stark camp. Whatever you’re thinking—whatever you’re feeling—stop it. She deserves better than someone like you.”
The words sting, though Jaime doesn’t let it show. He tilts his head, his smirk deepening slightly. “Oh, I see. You’re her protector now, are you? The honorable Lady Brienne, guardian of Northern virtue.”
“I’m protecting her from you,” Brienne says, her voice low but cutting. “I’ve seen men like you before, Kingslayer. You think you can charm your way into anyone’s favor, but it won’t work here. Not with her.”
Jaime’s smirk falters, and for a moment, the weight of her words settles over him. He exhales softly, leaning his head back against the tree trunk.
“She hates me,” he says after a long pause, his voice quieter now.
Brienne doesn’t respond immediately, her gaze steady as she studies him. “She has every reason to,” she says finally.
“I know,” Jaime replies, his tone almost bitter. He looks at the fire, the flickering flames reflecting in his eyes. “But I can’t seem to stop myself. Every time I look at her, I see… I don’t know what I see. Something I’ll never have. Something I don’t deserve.”
Brienne’s expression softens slightly, though her resolve doesn’t waver. “Then leave her alone,” she says firmly. “She’s already lost enough because of you. Don’t make it worse.”
Jaime chuckles dryly, though the sound lacks any real mirth. “As if I could. She barely acknowledges my existence unless it’s to remind me of what I’ve done.”
“Good,” Brienne says simply. “Maybe that’s the only way you’ll understand the weight of your actions.”
The silence stretches between them again, heavy with unspoken truths. Jaime shifts uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to his bound hands.
“She reminds me of someone,” he says suddenly, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost in the crackling of the fire.
Brienne raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.
“My sister,” Jaime continues, his tone distant. “Not in looks, of course. They couldn’t be more different. But in… strength. That fire in her eyes, the way she carries herself. It’s maddening, really. It makes me want to—”
“To what?” Brienne presses, her voice sharp.
Jaime shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “To believe I could be better. But we both know that’s not true.”
Brienne watches him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You’re not better. Not yet.”
Jaime doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire as your footsteps approach from the trees. Winter trots ahead of you, his silver coat gleaming in the firelight as he pads over to sit beside you. You carry two rabbits in one hand, your bow slung over your shoulder, your face unreadable as you step into the clearing.
“Talking about me?” you ask, your voice calm but with a curious undertone.
“Nothing flattering, I assure you,” Jaime replies, his smirk returning faintly.
You glance at him briefly, your expression as cold as ever, before turning to Brienne. “Let’s get these rabbits cooking. We’ll need the strength for tomorrow.”
As you and Brienne begin preparing the meal, Jaime leans back against the tree again, his thoughts a tangled mess. He knows he should stop. Stop watching you, stop thinking about you, stop searching for something he’ll never find.
But as the firelight dances across your face, illuminating the resolve in your eyes, Jaime knows he’s already lost that battle.
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prettycoolforaperson · 2 days ago
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Sansa Stark
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domoron · 3 days ago
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🤍💙
⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴅ ʀ ᴀ ɢ ᴏ ɴ ᴋ ɴ ɪ ɢ ʜ ᴛ ⸻
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Pairing: Dark Aemon Targaryen x Fem Reader
Summary: Aemon was sworn to the Kingsguard, bound by vows to serve the realm. But his heart, his mind, and his soul belonged to one person: You.
Warning: Obsession, Targcest, Abuse.
Notes: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
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Y/N was born screaming, a tiny bundle with silver-gold hair and violet eyes, so much like his own. Aemon had stood by the door of their mother's chambers, watching through the crack as maesters and midwives bustled around. When the first wails reached his ears, a peculiar emotion lodged itself in his chest—something fierce and consuming.
As they grew, Aemon shadowed her every step. In the gardens, he held her hand to keep her from tripping over roots. In the halls, he stood between her and the brash court boys who sought her attention. When she cried, he was the one who wiped her tears and whispered soft promises of safety.
He was her knight, even before he swore the oaths.
“Stay with me,” she’d whisper during storms, her tiny fingers clutching his. “Don’t leave me alone.”
And he never did. Not when their father looked to wed her off, not when their elder brother Aegon sneered at her defiance.
When Y/N fell from a tree at the age of six, breaking her arm, it was Aemon who carried her all the way back to the Red Keep, tears streaming down his face as he whispered over and over, "I’ll never let you get hurt again."
While their elder brother, Aegon, taunted her and treated her with disdain, Aemon stood by her side, always her shield. To him, she was the only thing in the world worth protecting, the only light in the grim reality of court life.
But with time, his devotion deepened into something darker. Aemon began to watch her in ways he shouldn’t. When she laughed with other boys, his hands clenched into fists. When she danced in the Great Hall, her skirts spinning, he felt a possessive pang in his chest. He told himself it was just brotherly love, but in the quiet hours of the night, he couldn’t lie.
When Aemon took his Kingsguard vows, Y/N thought it would grant her some freedom. Surely now, as a sworn brother, he would focus on his duty and leave her be. But instead, his obsession deepened.
She could have ignored it, chalked it up to his overbearing nature, but a part of her—curious, wicked, and far too aware of her own power—began to toy with him.
At first, it was subtle: a brush of her hand against his arm, a smile that lingered a moment too long. But as the years passed, she pushed further. She let her gowns dip lower, allowed her laughter to ring louder, and relished the way his fists clenched and his jaw tightened.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that, Aemon,” she whispered once, leaning closer than propriety allowed. “It’s unbecoming of a knight.”
He stiffened, his cheeks coloring, but his voice was firm. “You’re my sister. My duty.”
“And yet,” she murmured, her lips grazing his ear, “you burn for me, don’t you?”
Aemon rationalized it as chivalry. He wasn’t breaking his vows, he told himself. He was merely protecting her virtue, her honor. When men looked at her too long, he would make them regret it. Sometimes with a glare. Other times with blood.
He began to visit her chambers late at night, his armor clinking softly in the darkness. He never touched her—not at first. He simply sat by her bedside, watching her sleep.
One night, when she was fast asleep, her lips slightly parted, Aemon found himself by her bedside. The moonlight spilled over her face, highlighting her beauty, her perfection. His heart thudded painfully as he leaned closer, so close he could feel the faint warmth of her breath. He lowered his lips to hers in a featherlight kiss. It was fleeting, but the taste of her lingered, burning into his soul.
“You’re too beautiful for this world,” he would murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “The gods made you to torment me.”
Y/N was sixteen when her marriage was announced—a political alliance to a powerful lord with no love for the Targaryens.
He stormed into the royal solar, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and demanded the match be annulled.
“She belongs here, with her family, your grace.” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Aegon laughed cruelly, mocking him for his attachment. “Perhaps you’d like to take her to your bed instead, little brother? The Kingsguard vows be damned?”
The words hung heavy in the air. Aemon’s knuckles turned white around his sword hilt, but he said nothing.
On the eve of her wedding, Aemon found Y/N in her chambers, staring at the gown laid out for her. She turned to him, tears glistening in her violet eyes.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered. “But what choice do I have?”
Aemon stepped closer, his gloved hands trembling as he reached for her. “You always have a choice,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Come with me. We can leave this place. We can ran away and never look back.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she shook her head. “You know we can’t...”
And then he left without another word. Because she was right. They couldn't.
He watched her walk down the aisle in a gown of silver and gold, her face pale but resolute. Her new husband was tall, brutish, and unkind.
Aemon stood by as they exchanged vows, his chest tight with rage and despair. When her husband kissed her, Aemon turned his head away, his fists trembling.
The first time he saw her bruises was a week after the wedding. She wore long sleeves to hide them, but Aemon caught a glimpse when she reached for her goblet at dinner. His stomach churned. That night, he cried silently, helplessness consuming him.
When the tournament was announced, Aemon saw his chance. Disguised as the Knight of Tears, he won every bout with ferocious determination. When the time came to crown the queen of love and beauty, he rode to Y/N and placed the crown of winter roses in her lap, their eyes met, and for a moment, the world stood still. It was a silent promise—a vow unspoken but understood.
“You shouldn’t have,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the roses as she tear up.
“I would do it a thousand times,” he replied.
Her husband was furious, but Aemon didn’t care. In that moment, she was his.
“He is not worthy of you,” he said once, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “He don’t see you as I do. He never will.”
She laughed sadly. “And what do you see, brother?”
“My world.” he answered, his tone so soft it made her heart skip.
One night, Y/N came to him, her face streaked with tears. Her husband had accused her of barrenness, blaming her for their lack of an heir, though she confided in Aemon that he had been unable to perform most nights. He had beaten her so badly she could hardly stand.
Aemon held her with trembling hands, his tears falling silently onto her blood-matted hair as she wept. “He said it’s my fault,” she whispered. “That I’m barren.”
Aemon’s jaw clenched, the flames of rage barely contained within him. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he simply wiped her tears away, his touch as gentle as a prayer.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Make me feel something other than this pain.”
That night, his vows shattered like glass. He touched her with reverence, his hands tracing every bruise, every scar, as though he could erase them. Her moans were soft, broken things, and tears streaked his face as he worshipped her. “Forgive me,” he whispered over and over, though he wasn’t sure if he was begging her or the gods.
After that night, there was no going back. They met in secret, stealing moments between court duties and battles. Aemon would ride to her chambers under the cover of darkness, shedding his white cloak at her feet as he sank to his knees before her.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmured one night, his forehead pressed against her stomach as she ran her fingers through his hair.
“Then die for me,” she replied.
And he would have. Without hesitation.
When Y/N bore a son, his son, Aemon’s heart swelled with a mixture of pride and sorrow. The boy looked so much like him that it was impossible to deny the truth, though no one dared to speak it. Aemon spent every possible moment with them, pretending they were a family. He taught his son to wield a wooden sword, read him tales of noble knights, and watched as Y/N smiled at the boy with a love so pure it made his heart ache.
But their happiness was fleeting.
Her husband found out. The confrontation was brutal. Aemon returned from a ride to find the halls silent, too silent. Servants cowered as he passed, their eyes avoiding his.
He arrived just in time to see the man toss something onto the cold stone floor—a child’s head, small and unmistakable.
“He cried for you,” the man spat, smirking. “Just like his whore of a mother.”
The world turned red.
Aemon didn’t remember unsheathing his sword. He didn’t remember the screams or the sickening crunch of bone as he hacked the man to pieces. When it was over, he stood in a pool of blood, his chest heaving, his vision blurred by rage and tears.
He ran to Y/N’s chamber, desperate to find her alive, to cling to the hope that she had survived. “She’s alive,” he muttered to himself as he stumbled toward her chambers. “He was lying.” But when he found her, he fell to his knees. Her body was unrecognizable, broken beyond repair. The monster had robbed her of her beauty, her light, and her life.
“No,” Aemon whispered, his voice cracking as he crawled to her. “It’s not you. It can’t be you.” He cradled her lifeless body, rocking back and forth as the weight of his grief crushed him.
“This isn’t real,” he whispered. “It’s a trick. You’ll wake up.”
But she didn’t.
He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t live in a world where she no longer was alive.
Aemon pressed a final kiss to her cold lips, his tears falling onto her bruised skin. “Wait for me,” he whispered. “In the next life, wait for me.”
He drew his dagger and plunged it into his chest, collapsing beside her. His last breath escaped in a whisper of her name, and when the servants found them the next morning, they were entwined in death, their silver hair mingling like threads of moonlight.
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@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ
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polysucks · 16 hours ago
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Your art is so incredibly good! Indigenous northmen is my favorite interpretation of asoiaf. (It really does make so much sense.) Request if you want to draw it; I love Jeyne Poole & would really like to see her in your style. ❤
Oh boyyy I really struggled w this one so I went a little overboard. When I think of jeyne Poole I either think of how sad it was that sansa was annoyed with jeyne after Ned and jeyne’s father got yeeted, or how boy crazy jeyne was. So for a happier piece, I couldn’t help but to think of the two girls being teenage girls at Winterfell, watching the older boys practice in the yard. Jeyne could egg the boys on and sansa would laugh and half-heartedly beg her friend to remember her propriety, but treasures jeyne’s humor all the same
Hold on this made me so emotional hol on I jus need a minute hold on wait—
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salialenart · 3 days ago
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“Gods be good, why would any man ever want to be king?”
Robb Stark, The Young Wolf
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dreamfyre-beautiful · 3 days ago
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I think doing the spinoff after Game of Thrones about the Dance of the Dragons was one of the worst decisions. Trying to tell the story of the Targs from a random point just doesn’t make sense, show viewers have no idea of what caused the dance up until this point.
If I was given the choice I would have started at Aegon I childhood, have him being told the fall of Valyria. Show how he was show to treat his sister as his lover and the damage it does to his mental psyche. Show the abuse cycle that he was born into and that he would be helping to continue.
I think starting at Aegon I would be better as it would be the beginning of how many know the Targs and would lead to better understanding of both the entire world of ASOIAF but the family dynamics as well.
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cheryroseart · 1 day ago
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Margaery and Sansa in Highgarden🌷
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Please don’t repost without credit
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danyseastar · 3 days ago
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‘i like morally grey female characters’ but actually you can’t even handle a teenage slavery abolitionist who dreams of a home with a big red door and a lemon tree outside her window in hopes of receiving the childhood she never got to experience
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