#House Connington of Griffin's Roost

[tronodiferro]

House Connington of Griffin's Roost

GameOfThronesFanatic-Knjiga

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: wedded to cregan stark, a man you’ve never met , in an arrangement of convenience, you come to learn that even a wolf’s stoicism is rather deceiving.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cregan stark x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), arranged marriage, reader & cregan are strangers, virgin!cregan and virgin!reader, cregan is really sweet in this, mutual loss of virginity, talk of insecurities relating to appearance, heavy kissing, size kink / size difference, brief handjob & fingering (fem!rec), groping, unprotected p in v sex, descriptions of cum, creampie, obligatory stark breeding kink, missionary position, soft ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was so so so fun to write, it’s a different take on cregan from how I usually write him as experienced, and lowkey loved this! I really hope that you all love this as much as I loved writing it! thank you for any support, much love! 🫶

DUTY — THE BANE OF LOVE, THE FOUNDATION OF ALL HONORABLE MEN, THE SPINE OF THE REALM; A SACRIFICE. A NECESSARY SACRIFICE, THE PLEDGE OF A MAN GROWN, OF A FLEDGLING LORD NOW COMING INTO HIS OWN POWER AND CERTAINTY.

Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was to be wed beneath the Weirwood Tree, boughs of an ancient crimson serving as the canopy to his newly-forged union with you.

A man of nine-and-ten, it was expected of him — unions with advantageous houses, married to a woman in exchange for something he did not have. It was not in his nature to be fraught with nerves in the face of uncertainty; as he grew into his role as Lord, so too did his confidence grow.

Not only was the growing wolf deemed a strong man, he was adept with a longsword and a proficient fighter. Cregan had excelled at his duties as Lord of Winterfell — however, marriage is where he assumed he’d falter.

Inevitably, he knew that he would find himself in this predicament, sworn to marry a suitable prospect from a noble house. His advisors had arranged a rather promising match to a maiden of House Connington, an exceedingly wealthy name, well-known in the Stormlands.

Northern alliances were already strong, built upon blood, steel, and an unyielding winter — it would be useful to have an ally further South.

He did not know what you looked like; your temperament, moral character, or if you would even find him favorable. It was not often that Cregan allowed himself to be plagued by lingering insecurities, but they seemed to weigh heavy within his mind.

Fortunately, such sentiments were shared by you, unbeknownst to him.

Griffin’s Roost was all you’d known, a lifetime spent in the Stormlands until you had reached maturity, now pledged to the Warden of the North. It pained you to leave what life you knew before, surrounded by family and the comforts of home.

The North was often regarded as a harsh and unyielding environment, with bitter, stinging winds and snowfalls that could bury men alive beneath their might. Ice-laden gales sang from beyond the Wall, bringing with it their callousness, whispers from savage lands.

Accustomed to the temperate forests and raging deluges of the Stormlands, the North’s biting chill would take plenty of adaptation on your end. The host of House Connington had arrived in all of their glory and bravado, bearing the twin griffin sigil, white upon crimson, crimson upon white.

From what little you gleaned of Cregan Stark, he was already a talented fighter, as thick as the trunk of an elder pine, and somewhat rugged around the edges. Roughness did not trouble you as it had other women — perhaps, it would give him character.

Part of you counted yourself fortunate to marry someone close to you in age, only one nameday your senior — plenty of women did not have such luck. Even then, you were frightened and nervous, hoping to make a lasting impression upon your new husband.

Much to your dismay, everyone seemed so eager to marry you off — to seal whatever pact had been struck, for you to begin your new life here, in the North. You hoped that you would find new companionship and comfort in your new home, but you neglected to get your hopes up.

The Old Gods were prevalent in Northern culture — the Faith of the Seven was nearly nonexistent here, a practice that your family had staunchly followed since your infancy. There were plenty of adjustments you would need to make in order to assimilate.

Sequestered within the guest chambers of your Northern host, handmaidens whose faces were unfamiliar to you helped dress you in your wedding gowns. It was a sentimental piece, handcrafted by your Mother before you departed from the Roost, a gown of crimson and silver.

Northern ceremonies were said to be much shorter, a tryst of few words outside of sacred vows. Your cloak hung heavy upon your shoulders, velvet encased by a line of fur, bearing the sigil of your House.

A lengthy, tarnished mirror sat before you, crystalline enough for you to admire your appearance, tresses pinned in intricate braids, visage dabbled with little cosmetics. You were to be given away by your uncle, journeying in the stead of your ailing father, Gods bless him.

With no facet of your appearance misplaced, you were prepared to make the journey to the Godswood, with your uncle upon your arm. As you stepped through ancient stone and over frozen ground, your heart hammered beneath your breast, like the beating of a bird's wings.

Anxiousness gnawed away at your fragile bones throughout your trek, mind continuing to race with a great many thoughts. What if he thought you ugly, or boorish? What if he was unkind or uncouth? What if the consummation was not satisfactory enough?

These were all feckless inquiries, born of your own insecurities and desire to make your new husband happy, make the most of your new life. Despite the biting chill that clung to your visage, perspiration slicked your palms, teeth absentmindedly gnashing against the inside of your cheek.

The dusky skies were blanketed by a penumbra of endless stars, as if the celestials themselves had gathered to witness your sacred union. Wisps of gray clouds scattered overhead, but soon dissipated in the wake of the moon’s glow.

Silvery rays touched a light snowfall, now muddled with hints of broken earth. There was no deluge to cast doubt upon your wedding — it was all endlessly clear, and the ice ceaselessly continued to stab at your exposed flesh.

The Godswood lay silent, surrounded by only a handful of Lord Stark’s closest advisors and kin, braziers lighting the way forward. Your grip upon your uncle’s arm became ironclad, as if you were attempting to hold on with every shred of strength in your bones.

Beneath vermillion leaves and pale bark, stood Lord Cregan Stark, with eyes as gray as winter’s shadow, chestnut tresses halfway pulled into a bun, the rest slicked with oils. He was nearly twice your size, frame clad in the taupe pelt of a wolf, countenance indiscernible from afar.

He was handsome, thank the Seven; and the closer you stepped, the more you realized that he possessed the same nervousness as you. One wouldn’t expect a man of his caliber to show it, but he did, the sentiment reaching his gaze.

As you reached the end, given to Cregan by your uncle, your stomach tumbled with butterflies, blood singed with anxiety. Cregan’s nervousness was far more subdued, though it lingered even still, especially as his large hand closed around yours.

Much to your surprise, the embrace of your Lord-husband was disarmingly gentle, coarse leather folding over your delicate palm. Storm-laden hues briefly fluttered toward you, as if searching for any scrap of discomfort caused by his own hand.

Vows were exchanged between strangers — and soon, in hours, you would not be so strange anymore.

“Will you take this man?”

It was your uncle’s voice, as spoken in Northern customs to give you away. He seemed uncertain as his inquiry filled the space around you, and yet you answered with a startling clarity.

“I take this man.”

In this close proximity, it allowed Cregan ample time to absorb you; a comely, beautiful stranger, soon to be the new Lady of Winterfell. It was your very presence that intimidated even the likes of him, enchanted by your delicate voice and beguiling appearance, features akin to the very image of perfection.

Admittedly, you stole every wisp of air from his burning lungs, something that he would not dare confess to — not here, at least. Fortunately, you did not seem terrified; nervous, perhaps, but that was to be expected.

Kneeling before the shadow of the Weirwood, Cregan uttered a brief prayer — he did not expect you to do the same. These traditions were likely a stark contrast to your own, something that perplexed him to no end.

In the recesses of your mind, you wondered what his heart was like — his interests, passions, the essence of his character. He seemed stalwart and rugged, as you’d been told, but he did not seem cruel nor callous, much to your relief.

He stood, unclasping your maiden’s cloak from your shoulders, presenting you with one crafted of elk’s hide and the tawny, dappled coat of a doe. It bore the sigil of House Stark, a direwolf embroidered onto thicker material, now swaddling your form in all of its warmth.

With your former House now by the wayside, the wedding feast was set to begin.

“My Lady,” As his husky, Northern timbre spilled forth from his mouth, hand outstretched, you took it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Those onlookers who surrounded you in the Godswood looked on with subtle admiration for their young Lord. “It is tradition that I carry you to the feast.”

Cregan would not dare abandon the formalities of his countrymen, knowing full well that many eyes were upon him to uphold tradition. He sensed your twinge of hesitation, followed by a wave of embarrassment, however, you did not recoil from his gallant advances.

Knowing that he had an appearance to maintain, you nodded, both smitten and shy as thick, leather-clad arms hooked beneath your legs and back. It was effortless, the way he had hoisted you into his grasp, carrying you close to his chest as he began to make his way from the Godswood.

“I apologize if this is not comfortable, my Lady,” Even he found some wry amusement in this, all in a valiant attempt to ease the tension between you. “Once we arrive in the Great Hall, I shall put you down.” He assured, though your expression said otherwise.

“I insist upon you carrying me throughout the evening,” A playful lilt clung to your tone, and it seemed to ease Cregan’s nerves — at least you had a sense of humor about you. “I jest, my Lord. I must admit that I am a stranger to journeying through snow and ice.”

A brief huff escaped him, and the idle conversation slowly dissolved the foreign barrier between the both of you. Truthfully, he did not want his marriage to you to be distant, or icy. Northern superstitions dictated that snow during a wedding meant a cold union — fortunately, the skies were clear.

“You will grow accustomed to it soon enough.” Solemn, the young Lord ascended stone steps, making his way into the courtyard. The Great Hall would be full of people, most of them his own kin and denizens, as well as your host from the Stormlands.

A bout of silence occupied the space between you, your form lodged firmly against his chest, laden with muscle beneath his leather garb. Admittedly, you found a sliver of comfort within his hold, one that screamed with protection and a sense of security. It made you feel less unnerved.

In such close proximity, Cregan caught a gust of your scent; saccharine, bringing with it the warmth of the South, a touch of rainfall from the Stormlands. You did not seem perturbed by him carrying you — you fit within the crook of his arms rather perfectly.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, stricken with an ethereal glow from the face of the moon, glistening down to light your path. Smitten, your gaze briefly darted to admire his countenance — youthful yet worn, the bridge of his nose slightly crooked, a faint scar upon his chin.

Wisps of warmth emerged from between your lips, acclimating to the chill as best as you could. As you neared Winterfell’s Great Hall, rancor and excitement spilled from inside, orange light pooling from beneath the doors.

Cregan ascended another flight of stone steps, seemingly unbothered by cradling you, and once you reached the end, he gently deposited you onto solid ground. “Here we are.” Offering you his arm, you took it, led into the warmth of the castle’s archaic interior.

Met with the gleeful cheers of those in attendance, your host and his own, you narrowly avoided being pelted with flying deluges of ale. It was a merry hall, filled with immeasurable joyousness and laughter, which eased your anxiousness quite a bit.

Sentiments might shift once many of them sobered up, you imagined, but for now, you were delighted to enjoy your wedding feast. Your staunch husband led you through the commotion and gathering crowds with ease until you reached your table.

Situated at the helm of the hall, he politely moved your chair for you, allowing you to be seated before himself as he took his place by your side. A scarlet flush clung to his features, wisps of chestnut strands framing his strong visage.

The feast held in honor of your blossoming union was one of merriment, the mood lighthearted and blissful. You sat beside your husband, stomach pulled taut, a coil of nerves. Everyone seemed foreign to you, unfamiliar faces with their northern attitudes and thinly-veiled curiosity.

Following the exchange of toasts and presentation of foodstuffs, you became lost within contemplation, dreading the bedding ceremony that was sure to follow. You hoped that, if you closed your eyes, it would simply pass you by.

Cregan’s gaze remained transfixed upon you whenever you weren’t looking, blissfully oblivious to your husband’s ogling. He found you to be perfectly beautiful in all senses of the word — vexing, truly. Even he was not immune to the heated, carnal thoughts drifting within his mind.

Though, he was a touch nervous — unexpectedly so.

Carnal escapades were often packed into the richly-woven tales of his fellow advisors and compatriots, and it all seemed self-centered when they spoke of consummation. Cregan worried that he would fumble over himself, not know where to put his hands, let alone touch you.

As you prodded your fork into the seared haunch of meat, you happened to steal a glance at Cregan, and to your surprise, he’d already been staring at you. Warmth permeated your features, lashes fluttering as you cleared your throat.

Caught, he decided to be forthcoming in the matter. “Forgive me for staring, my Lady — you are rather beautiful,” He spoke plainly, blunt as he ensured you let his words sink in. Flattered, your lips quirked into a jubilant smile. “Is it all to your liking?”

A buzz of exhilaration bubbled within your belly, prompting you to sit a little straighter. “You flatter me, my Lord,” As you began to chew, a myriad of spices and flavors invaded your maw, sitting heavy upon your tongue. “It is — I must thank you for your hospitality.”

“This is your home now, as it is mine. You are deserving of such cordiality,” Cregan’s timbre had dissolved into a pleasant rumble, the cadence of it scratching at the back of your mind. You quite enjoyed his gruff nature, more than most. “I wish for you to be happy.”

The softness of his words made your stomach lurch with butterflies, lips parting in mild surprise. Admittedly, you had grown accustomed to the husbands commonplace within your life — they rarely took interest in their wives, especially with regard to their happiness.

“I … You have my gratitude, my Lord. I wish for you to be happy, in-turn,” Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you continued. “I know that we are somewhat foreign to one another, but I do not prefer it to stay that way.” You confessed.

Perplexed, Cregan’s brow furrowed momentarily, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Even for his youth, he was a stoic man — he had endured plenty, hardening him to the outside world. However, he found it within himself to treat you gently, perhaps surrender a sliver of gentleness to you.

“I would not prefer it, either,” Cregan replied, an amiable shimmer dancing within his wintry-gray hues. Delighted, you reached for his hand, much larger than your own, his skin calloused. He allowed you to hold it, reveling in your velveteen flesh. “Perhaps, we can tour the Wolfswood on the morrow — how are your riding skills?”

Perhaps it was the twinge of wine invading your bloodstream, but your thoughts had strayed on the side of perversion. A brief hitch formed within your throat before you hummed. “They are better than some,” You mused. “I’ve a great passion for horses, and for the outdoors.”

Making note of your interests, he knew precisely what to give you, a forlorn warmth stirring within his chest. Whatever impact you had on him, it was beginning to take some effect, reducing him to naught but boyish nerves.

Admittedly, Cregan hadn’t expected you to be this lively and jubilant — he expected terror and indifference, but this was a welcome change. It dissolved some of his initial reservations, but it was still too early to make any hasty judgments.

It had melted the ice somewhat, conversing about menial topics, allowing himself to grow accustomed to your presence. It would take plenty of work — fortitude, determination, kindness. Cregan did not want to sow any discord in your budding union.

“Tell me of Griffin’s Roost,” Cregan murmured, intrigued by your place of birth. The castle itself was said to be humble yet resolute, using the surrounding countryside to its advantage. “I’ve heard it sits upon some crag.”

A comely smile fluttered across your features, grasp beginning to loosen upon his hand. Returning to your hearty meal, you chewed, throat bubbling with a gentle hum. “It overlooks Cape Wrath, surrounded by red stone cliffsides — the view from the East Tower is wonderful.”

With a low grunt, your Lord-husband proved most attentive, posture beginning to slump into some relaxation within his seat. “Should my duties not become insurmountable, perhaps we could visit in a few moons time.”

Despite his desire to heed to the North, to remain planted, safeguard his lands, Cregan understood the importance of home. He did not want you to completely abandon your roots in exchange for Northern traditions.

Touched by such a proposition, you nodded in agreement, thankful that he’d suggested it. It meant more to you than he might’ve realized. “I would deeply appreciate such a journey, my Lord. I am certainly looking forward to learning of your home and its people.”

Loyalty seemed a core value amongst Northerners, their bond ironclad, a pact of ice. Such devotion amongst kin was comforting to witness, a web that you desired to be part of, with time. Duties of a lady were not lost upon you, but anxiousness stirred whenever you contemplated the future.

The Lady of Winterfell — the title itself was daunting, something you never imagined for yourself, foreign upon your tongue. The weight of it was a crushing one, but you hoped to soar beneath the pressure, impress both the people and your Lord-husband.

The sincerity of your answer had certainly beguiled Cregan, whose hardened visage seemed to soften. Admiration glittered within glacial hues as he attempted to clean his plate.

Before he could properly pose another inquiry into your morality and history, he noticed the flock of men and women beginning to swarm the terrace’s base. The bedding ceremony — he’d nearly forgotten about it, lost within the pleasantries he exchanged with you.

The thought of some drunken bannerman laying his hands upon you seemed to incite a flicker of fury within his chest; he feared breaking a nose at his own wedding. Even through the growing commotion, Cregan had made a rather hasty and disrespectful move.

“Come.” Low and brazen, his large hand gingerly closed around your elbow. To your startlement, your gaze flickered in the direction of the merry masses, continuing to clash their steins together, the rancor merely increasing.

Perplexed, you slyly crept from your chair, following Cregan into a rather slim corridor that stretched behind your seat. A glacial chill permeated ancient stone, and your brow remained furrowed with confusion.

“Won’t this upset your subjects?” Despite the innocuous nature of your inquiry, you were eternally grateful to avoid a bedding ceremony altogether. It felt wicked and crass, too irreverent as a precursor to consummation.

“Perhaps, but I wish to spare you such humiliation,” He sighed, guiding you onward until the two of you stood within an empty stairwell, torchlight encapsulating the walls. “That is worth their momentary disappointment.”

This was one tradition that he could live without, much to the chagrin of his advisors and the numerous wedding patrons. Admittedly, it was the thought of putting up some performance whilst strangers gathered outside of his door, all to see if he’d put a babe in you.

The more he thought of consummation, the more wracked with nerves he became, a festering anxiety gnawing away at his hardened bones. His chest heaved with a heavier exhale — at least this way, he would be afforded some privacy, away from any potential embarrassment.

Here, sequestered within the hush of the corridor, Cregan fully admired you, bathed in the glow of flickering firelight, wedding dress spiraling against the ground. Even still, you held his arm, delicate fingers folded atop his leather vambrace, absorbing his heat in the face of winter’s breath.

“I do not wish to make a foul impression upon your people with this,” Concerned that it would tarnish your image, Cregan dismissed your worries with a mere grunt. “Even if I truly do appreciate your kindness and understanding in the matter.”

“If this tarnishes your reputation, I will deal with it myself,” Stoic assurances were uttered from his lips, Northern timbre deliciously husky, like the tremble of thunder. “Come, before we are apprehended.” A twinge of humor sank into his stalwart tone.

Ascending spiraling steps that led to his lordly chambers, some nervousness had been alleviated by his grand gesture. Having beared witness to your own kin’s bedding ceremony, you did not wish such shame and discomfort upon anyone else.

Silence had blanketed the both of you, two anxious youth, navigating your newfound marriage. Butterflies danced within the pit of your stomach, as if reminding you of what was to come. Fortunately, it wouldn’t be in the company of others — only his, and that was intimidating enough.

As you approached a wide, mahogany door, wrought with careworn iron, Cregan gave it a brusque shove, the hinges groaning in protest. A wave of warmth greeted you, hearth simmering with a cluster of waning embers, nearly reduced to mere wisps of smoke.

His chambers were rather sizeable, a footlocker at the foot of his bed, draped in the impressive hide of a bear. Pelts adorned the feathered mattress in patchwork patterns of taupe, fawn-brown, and black. Before the hearth, a direwolf hide served as a rug above the cold stone.

Its appeal was rustic, rugged — it certainly followed the Northern motif. Even then, you found it pleasing and cozy, warm enough to shield you from the bitter brunt of a glacial tempest. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind you both, moving to rekindle the flames.

Stirring the dried twigs atop hunks of log, your Lord-husband quietly resigned himself to his menial task, brows furrowing together in concentration. It gave you a moment to steel yourself, awkwardly shifting to admire the humble fixtures of his bedchambers.

Part of you pondered what your own quarters might look like — lined in furs, bearing no trace of your own home. It was commonplace for noble marriages to remain in separate chambers, even if the thought happened to irk you.

As the hearth began to roar to life once more, bringing with it a wave of warmth, you shivered even still, likely out of anxiousness. Nerves seemed to bundle within your belly, a tight coil that had been pulled as tight as a bowstring, threatening to snap at any moment.

Admittedly, Cregan had needed a distraction — the reality of what was to come had dawned on him, and he feared making a fool of himself. Standing upright once more, he happened to catch a glimpse of your doe-eyed countenance, just as disquieted; outwardly so.

“Should — Shall I remove this?”

In accompaniment to your sudden inquiry, your digits had clumsily found the clasps of your bridegroom’s cloak, along the collar of your wedding gown. Numerous tales of consummation often held a similar pattern — remove your clothing, let him climb atop you, and put a babe in you.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, storm-laden hues swirling with a palpable trepidation. For a man so stalwart and intimidating, his own vulnerability was laid bare for you to witness, gaze averting your own as he collected his thoughts.

It had become painfully obvious that neither of you were well-equipped to deal with the pang of awkwardness that had settled in. His hand clenched into a fist, attempting to relieve a sliver of bodily tension as he cleared his throat.

His stoic silence had only furthered your unease, as if you’d behaved in a manner most untoward. A lump formed within your throat, with Cregan seemingly gathering his composure as he stepped closer, gait measured and purposeful.

Sword-hewn palms gently grasped your upper arms, brushing over the delicate silks of your gown. A brief shudder passed through you, heat warming your features as his proximity from you had all but dissipated. His stature had become glaringly apparent, looming well above you.

Thumbs gently traced circles into your clothed flesh, the gesture disarmingly tender as he cleared his throat with a low hum. “I do not wish for any of this to be uncomfortable, and yet,” Cregan hesitated, a flicker of worry passing through him. “This is all unfamiliar.” He confessed.

Sharing in his sentiments, you began to relax beneath his comforting embrace, hands twisting themselves together. “I … It is just as unfamiliar for me as it is for you. I do not know where to begin.” You murmured, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

The first song of fervor sang within his blood, running hot with a spark of carnality. Despite his lack of knowing, it was instinct that drove him now as he attempted to discern where to begin with you. Gray hues fluttered toward your lips, visage warming with a flush of scarlet.

“I suppose the only way forward is to learn together.” Cregan proposed, his brows knitting together as he allowed himself to absorb your appearance. A slight lump began to coagulate within his throat, prompting him to hastily swallow it down for the sake of his nerves.

With a brief nod, you let yourself abandon this fear that had gripped you so tightly, knowing that he was a stranger to the act, just as you were. A tenuous silence filled in the crevices, invading the slight space between you both.

This was your duty — it was best to honor it.

Strong, calloused hands sluggishly slid down the length of your arms until he found your hands, delicate and velvety within his hold. His thumb traced over your knuckles, reveling in the sensation of your flesh against his, as downy as feathers, as soft as a wolf’s pelt.

Bending to reach you, Cregan stooped, looming closer, mead-tinged breath fanning across your visage. The rough pillars of his lips hovered above yours, gaze one of admiration as he allowed himself to absorb your beauty, akin to a kiss of summertime.

Wisps of chestnut framed his hardened countenance, which seemed to soften in your presence, losing its stony exterior. A brief hitch formed within your throat, accompanied by a slight noise of exhilaration as his mouth ghosted over yours in a fleeting kiss.

It was agonizingly slow, intended to be exploratory, test the waters. He did not think it as strange as he thought it’d be, the action initially stiff and rigid, attempting to grow accustomed to you.

A volatile churning of heat swirled within your belly, nerves set ablaze by mere friction of mouths. It was exhilarating yet frightening, knowing that this was merely the beginning of it all. Nevertheless, you let yourself relax as much as you could, a sharp inhale puncturing your lungs as he let the kiss linger.

Withdrawing after a few moments, you stared at Cregan, counting yourself deeply fortunate that he wasn’t uncouth nor cruel. He did not seem after his own self-gratification, hands untangling themselves from yours as he cleared his throat.

“Not so terrifying.” Nothing more than a mere lull, your voice was saccharine, endlessly tender as you spoke with a touch of assurance. The stiffness between you both seemed to gradually melt away, and you hoped it would diminish entirely.

A threadbare smile crossed Cregan’s countenance, a fleeting gesture that made your bones sing. One palm moved to cup your cheek, his stare incendiary as he studied you, committing every detail to memory. You were nothing short of mesmerizing, a beauty only sung about in ancient hymns.

“May I?” He gestured to your cloak, the swaddling fabric proving more of a hindrance. As you nodded, the young Lord calmly stepped around you, coming to stand behind you, now eclipsed within the might of his silhouette. Rough digits found their way to the clasps, unfastening the garment altogether.

Cregan draped your cloak over the foot of the bed, gaze exposed to a rather intricate line of ties that held your wedding gown together. He dared not touch them yet, chest nearly brushing against your spine as he bent to press a kiss against your shoulder.

It was so simple, so innocuous — and yet the gesture made you ache with desire’s heavy sting, unfurling within your heart. A soft gasp tore past your parted lips, craving his embrace as you would a gust of crisp air or the glittering rays of a warm sunshine.

The hollow between your throat and shoulder had tempted him, bare flesh ripe for the grace of his mouth. Wordlessly, he continued upon his own whims, planting a string of reverent kisses there, prickling when he heard the sweetness of your moan.

The noise did not seem anguished, and instead, one someone would make when satisfied. “You are beautiful.” Cregan’s Northern baritone had rattled your bones, set you aflame, all of you — the tension had climbed to a searing broil. Absentmindedly, you began to lean backwards into his embrace.

Desire seemed so foreign to you, a concept that transcended comprehension. Yet, as your new Lord-husband began to dote upon you, you felt it twist within your heart, unfurling from within.

He did not know where to put his hands, what to do with them — instead, they remained firmly by his sides, stationary until he asked for your consent. With a final kiss, he lifted his head, chest blossoming with tendrils of warmth as he looked to the laces of your gown.

Gooseflesh raked over your spine, prickling with a sharp jab of exhilaration as it warmed your insides. Similar to Cregan, your hands remained twisted together, anxiously plucking at the front of your wedding gown, nails picking at a swath of velvet.

“Does my Lady give me permission to remove her gown?”

Cregan swallowed his nerves, attempting to suppress any unease, letting it simmer down within his stomach. He had not seen a woman bare before — he’d imagined it on occasion, through heated dreams of a spirited youth, but you were flesh and blood made reality.

A twinge of hesitation clung to his Northern timbre, hands momentarily clenching together as he patiently awaited your consent. The silence lasted longer than he expected, and he wondered if he had brought about some discomfort.

Truthfully, it was your insecurities that began to fester like some creeping plague, a clutch of poison ivy coming to cling to your heart. “What if you do not find me favorable?” As your inquiry floated into the open air, you knew you had made a grave error in vocalizing it.

Through furrowed brows, Cregan’s nervousness had melded into bewilderment, and he seemed to freeze behind you. “Why would you think that?” His question, though sharp, lacked any lilt of malice or callousness. Instead, he was perplexed why he would find you anything other than beautiful.

“I … I do not know,” Twisting your fingers together, your confession seemed to weigh upon your shoulders, more than you revealed. “I often worried that my appearance might become a detriment, or worse, something boorish.”

Cregan’s chest stirred with a low rumble, contemplative of your words. He thought little of his own physicality, a youthful man built of stony muscle and fortitude, a hardened warrior. However, he imagined how it might be different for you.

He would be the envy of all men with you by his side; men that he hoped to ward away from you. Im truth, if it weren’t for his desire to seem stoic in the face of disquiet, he would’ve fallen to his knees at the sight of you beneath the Weirwood Tree.

“Boorish,” Cregan repeated, voice a sonorous hum as he stepped around you, facing you once more. His hands found yours, satin flesh and delicate, your grasp oozing with tenderness. “When I saw you beneath the Weirwood, my heart fell still for the very first time.” He murmured.

A hitch formed within your throat, coupled with a startled gasp of surprise, his words moving you in a way you didn’t think possible. “My Lord …” As your heart began to gallop like hoofbeats beneath your breast, he stepped closer, chest brushing against yours.

“Cregan,” His gentle correction had warmed your features, voice scratching the deeper parts of your very being. One hand relocated, roughened palm shifting to gingerly cup your jaw, thumb stroking over the silky skin there. “You are beautiful — you needn’t worry.” He reassured you.

Mesmerized by him, you rocked up upon your toes, mouth seeking his own as your lips collided in a seamless fervor. The kiss was far more passionate than the first, though still echoed with inexperience, ministrations somewhat erratic.

Flustered and charmed, your hands decided to abandon their position, finding the wide expanse of his leather-clad chest. Beneath your palms, it was all staunch muscle, hardened like that of indomitable stone, shielded by the rough veil of his tunic and cloak.

Returning your kiss, Cregan exhaled, the noise steady and resolute, hand shifting to perch atop the small of your back. Silken laces teasingly danced over his fingertips, as if attempting to rouse him to action — still, he did not bend to baser instincts.

Failing to part, the kiss continued, mouths beginning to find something of a rhythm, however unsteady it might’ve been. A surge of heat washed over you, the first wave of desire — at least, that’s what you assumed it was.

Cregan held you close, cradling you to his chest, grasp inherently protective and laced with gentleness. It was only when you drew away that he allowed it to slack, his features blanketed with a faint flush of scarlet, wintry-gray hues fluttering over your countenance.

“You may remove it.” The softness of your murmur was unmistakable, a sweet lull that had sunk its talons into the far recesses of his mind. Slowly, you turned, allowing him unobstructed access to the plane of tethered silk that clung to you.

With a brief exhale, Cregan steeled himself, ogling the back of your head — your tresses were braided and styled so intricately, the scent of a regal perfume wafting from you. Calloused digits found the column of laces along your spine, giving the very first a tug, making his way upwards.

The moment itself stewed with a searing tension, his body nearly snug against yours, the fabric beginning to loosen upon your body. Crimson and silvery silks gave way to the simple shift beneath, as pure as a newborn snowfall, its material tantalizingly sheer.

A stirring formed within his chest, exposed to your near-naked frame as you calmly stepped from your wedding gown. With respect to your garment, Cregan gathered it within his arms, placing it aside atop the footlocker.

As you turned to face him once more, instilled with a flicker of newfound confidence, you swore you heard his breath become heavy. The pliant peaks of your breasts prodded beneath the fabric, tresses spilling across your collarbone.

Nearly translucent, your shift left little to the imagination, material clinging to your form, as if tempting Cregan with what lay beneath. In a wordless rapture, he admired you — your beauty, the sparkling gleam within your eyes.

It was then that your attention had shifted to evening the score, gaze flickering toward the mantle of furs that still sat upon his shoulders, the studded leather jerkin. “I wish to see you, too.” Your confession was devastatingly tender, enough to make Cregan become a touch smitten.

“As you wish.” Cregan rumbled, lacking any qualms in regards to his own physicality. He was impressive for a man his age — nine-and-ten, and bigger than most. He watched as you quietly reached for the clasps of his cloak, easing it from him to join your wedding gown.

The assistance you provided in removing his own garb had made his heart fester with want, the proximity between bodies now incredibly thin. As your slender fingers went about unfastening the buckles of his vambraces, he gazed at you, as if you were the sun itself.

There was nothing boorish about you — the very air you exhaled was tinged with sweetness, air that he coveted. If Cregan did not know any better, he would believe you to be the goddess of beauty, made flesh incarnate before his very eyes. You drew him in so completely, making him burn.

As his vambraces joined the growing heap of clothing, both your attention and his had turned to his tabard and coarse tunic beneath. Leather slipped into your palms and his, fiddling with straps and buckles as he maneuvered it over his head.

His musculature was rather impressive, almost intimidating — Cregan took great care of himself, training daily and without rest. The dark, slate-hues tunic that clung to him came off next, as he pulled it over his chestnut mane until it fluttered atop the pile of garments.

Molten heat swirled within your belly as you marveled at the sight of him, statuesque and handsome, built to withstand even the hardiest of winters. You were nervous to touch him, just as he was with you — the hesitation was palpable, lingering between bodies.

The both of you stood with trembling hands and tremulous eyes, mere wisps apart, attempting to navigate through the first inklings of desire. To his surprise, it was you who had made the first move, hand slowly crossing the distance until it fell atop his chest.

A shudder gripped him, slithering along his spine, your embrace so very warm, a lick of fire piercing through his glacial gale of ice. “Is this alright?” You inquired, noting his nod of approval as he openly invited you to continue, pressing closer.

“May I?” Cregan returned the favor as his palms snaked toward the swell of your hips, and once you vocalized your consent, he let them sink into your pliant flesh. Despite the obstruction of fabric, he kneaded you even still, hands smoothing over your sides.

With a dip of his head, his lips danced over yours, a ghost of hot breath fanning over your features. He quietly awaited your consent, allowing you to bridge the gap, lips molding themselves to one another. The kiss made him dizzy, feeling your hands glide to perch atop his collarbone.

The hot, youthful surge of carnality came crashing down upon him like that of a tidal wave shattering upon the rocks. Cregan fought against his own instincts, what he’d been told to do, maintaining all sense of gallantry for your comfort.

This softness that he shared with you — it felt special, sacred; it was something that he envisioned himself growing accustomed to, with time. He felt you shiver within his grasp as his palm gently caressed along your spine, feeling your curves through your thin shift.

Each kiss seemed to sink into a gradual sense of comfort, shedding the initial awkwardness that had lingered at the start. Gods, you enjoyed his mouth quite a bit — more than what was deemed appropriate.

“You are wonderfully handsome,” As you murmured your praises against his lips, Cregan let the warmth of your words wrap around him. He became entangled in you, his mouth suddenly veering off-course, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Oh.”

A bewildered gasp tore past your mouth as he began to litter your throat in kisses, grunting when he felt your hand reach for the nape of his neck. This newfound sensation, however foreign, felt incredible to you — you wanted more.

Caging you in against his musculature, you felt the heat that wafted from him, as hot-blooded as the roar of the hearth. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, a pooling nectar that made you shift together.

His name emerged as a wanton whine from beneath your breath, enough to send a surge of desire throughout his bones, as sharp as a blade’s edge. Cregan’s jaw tensed, feeling his cock begin to twitch within his leather trousers.

Steady hands worshiped your body with reverent touches, fisting at the fabric that clung to you with a twinge of desperation. The young wolf continued to kiss his way across your neck until he found your collar, visage pressed into the soft canvas of your flesh.

“C—Cregan,” An unchaste moan floated from betwixt your lips, a song of mounting pleasure as he showered your skin in kisses. Gripping the chestnut tresses at his nape, your other palm slid around his torso, splayed atop his spine. “By the Seven.” You exhaled desire; exhilarated.

Biting back a threadbare smirk, his ministrations were ceaseless, wanting you to know just how flawless he found you, how beguiling. Muscles flexed around you, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, keeping you close to him.

Whatever chill had gripped his heart had all been melted away — fear of duty, fear of marriage, fear of sacrifice; it had all dissipated in your wake, leaving naught but ash.

Perhaps it was simply too early to feel such things, the imperviousness of youth, but for now, he cared very little for it. If Cregan was certain of one thing, it was that he wanted you, wanted your heart, to be your shield, a steady hand.

As he pressed a lingering kiss just above your sternum, a shiver passed through you, the shuffling of fabric becoming audible. He hadn’t fully realized that your hands had recoiled, now gathering against your ruffled shift. A flicker of surprise settled into his features, intermingled with a peculiar thrill.

Silence settled between, taut with want, the budding ecstasy of a new and promiscuous experience. Swallowing the slight lump that had coagulated within his throat, Cregan observed in hushed gaiety as you shakily fumbled to remove your shift.

Translucent material soared effortlessly over your flesh, pooling in a silvery heap at your feet. Tendrils of heat licked over your flesh, emanating from the hearth as your body revealed itself to your Lord-husband.

He seemed more a doe now than a wolf, visibly mesmerized by the sight of you, painfully beautiful, and he felt rather unworthy of it all. His heart galloped beneath his chest, storm-laden hues ogling every inch of you.

Standing rigidly still, more akin to a statue, you felt your words turn to ash upon your tongue, melting beneath Cregan’s incendiary stare. It was easy to discern the vermillion flush that had gripped his features, which happened to make you so very warm, hands awkwardly dangling at your sides.

“It feels untoward to touch you like this,” Cregan confessed, hardened countenance beginning to soften. “As if I might tarnish your perfection.”

The fondness laced throughout his cadence only stoked the volatile flame within your belly, thighs absentmindedly shifting together. A smitten smile permeated your features, eyelashes fluttering in rapid succession as you shyly reached for his hand.

“There is nothing to tarnish,” Gently, you set his large hand atop your hip, able to hear the sharp inhale of glee from the young wolf. “I — I want you, Cregan. I want you to touch me.” Tapering off into a hoarse utterance, you looked to him with pleading eyes; it was so easy for him to submit.

Steeling himself, Cregan allowed his confidence to flourish, then and there. You wanted him, craved his embrace — there was nothing to fear, no reason to believe that he’d disappoint you. Bending to kiss you, he let his digits flex over your flesh, as downy as a bed of feathers.

No satin or silk compared to that of you, perfection incarnate, living and breathing within his grasp. Permitting the kiss to linger, deepen, he only withdrew to ask a very important question. “Where, wife?” Such an innocent word threaded with a blistering desire — your knees shook.

A hitch formed within your throat, and Cregan was desperate to please you, even if it did not outwardly display itself. Excitable, you reached for his other hand, fingers barely able to encircle his wrist, guiding it towards the oozing heat between your legs.

Through furrowed brows and bated breath, he exhaled when his calloused digits met the damp heat of your nethers, jaw beginning to pull taut. The sensation was a foreign one, and he coaxed you closer, muscled arm keeping you aloft as his thigh gently pushed your legs apart.

He watched you closely, to see what you enjoyed and what you disliked, digits beginning to push past your petals. Met with the rushing warmth of your arousal, Cregan touched you with exploratory caresses, fingers gently gliding over your cunt.

Eliciting a moan from your mouth, he let his lips dip to your throat once more, sluggishly allowing his digits to slide along your slit. You gripped his biceps, anchoring yourself there as he warmed you in ways you didn’t think possible, head clouded by the haze of desire.

His lips returned to the bend of your shoulder, the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit. This rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy.

As his digits brushed over the pearl of your cunt, you immediately tensed, gripping him like a vice as you released a shaky sigh. “There.” You encouraged, feeling his mouth begin to still, focused upon his new charge.

Quietly, Cregan looked to you, hues a glacial storm, glittering with affection as he circled back to your clit, fingers brushing over the bundle of nerves once more. The way your hips had jolted forward, nails digging crescents into his biceps — he reveled in your reaction.

Acting upon instinct, your hand had dropped, traveling to the laces of his trousers, earning you an exhilarated look. He did not protest in the slightest, hand stilling enough as you began to sheepishly tug at the leather ties, a shiver icing your spine.

“To bed.” He uttered, preferring if you were comfortable and situated for all of this, and you nodded in agreement. Even as you shyly crept toward his bed, you didn’t want to stop your previous ministrations.

Slipping onto the impressive expanse of furs, you sank into pelts of bears and wolves alike, gaze expectantly finding his own as he paused, finishing with his breeches. Sluggishly, he stepped from his clothing, which had all felt rather cumbersome, restrictive.

The sudden flurry of nervousness flooded your countenance when you saw all of him; butterflies erupted within your belly, gooseflesh crawling over your frame. There was nothing small about him, from his indomitable stature and bulk of muscle to his cock, now fully erect.

Choking at the sight, you began to wonder how it would all fit, how it worked — though, you trusted in him, trusted that he would be gentle. It was to be expected — a man of his impenetrable stature likely had the assets to accompany it.

As Cregan joined you, the frame of the bed rustling in protest to the newfound weight, you swallowed the growing lump within your throat. His bulky physique had swallowed you whole as he moved to lay over you, blanketing you in his warmth.

It was his turn to become shy, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he deliberated on what to do next, palms firmly planting themselves on either side of your head. His cock twitched at the sight of you, beautiful beyond compare, resting beneath him with a sense of uncertainty.

Able to hold himself aloft well enough with one forearm, the other returned to previous ministrations, fingers finding the warm slick between your legs. He inhaled at the sensation, brows creased in concentration.

As your visage blossomed with an obvious delight, you wanted to even the score, reaching for his cock as it prodded against your belly. He grit his teeth together when you first touched him, initially shy as could be, nearly hiding behind your lashes.

The softness of your delicate digits wrapping around the girth of his cock made him swear beneath his breath, forehead resting against yours. In a pleasurable tandem, you exchanged caresses, his fingers languidly circling around your clit, burly physique spreading your legs apart.

Gazes met, a fire ignited — he was quiet, but the rapture within his eyes was unmistakable. Lips clamored for one another, a hushed moan floating from your mouth, hand continuing to stroke in rhythmic motions along his length.

The weight of disappointing you had withered away entirely, leaving only a sense of newfound devotion, desiring to please you in the way that you deserved. Cregan’s chest reverberated with a low grunt as the pad of your thumb circled over the swollen head of his cock, eliciting a sonorous groan from him.

He feared that if he carried on, he might not have been able to hold himself together. As his mouth claimed yours once more, the kiss disarmingly tender, infused with passion, he felt your body arch into the friction of his hand.

Waning embers pooled over your flesh, turning it to some incandescent shade, captivating him completely. The heat from the hearth mattered little to you, replaced by the comforting warmth of your new husband, whose body bent to you just as yours did him.

“I will be gentle, I swear this to you.” Cregan swore, tone resolute and laced with want, baritone rattling your insides with a flush of bliss. His cock pulsed within your palm, and he nearly bit at your lip, resisting the wolfish urge to do so.

Between sweeter kisses, he let his fingers toy with the pearl of your cunt a moment longer, wanting to bring you such bliss before the act itself. Nervousness continued to swirl within him, a fear of hurting you still lingering as he planted a kiss to your brow.

“I need you,” You hadn’t expected the words to float so effortlessly from your lips, and yet, it felt right to say it. Cregan’s countenance bristled with yearning, carnal fantasies taking root as he imagined filling you with a babe. “Cregan, please.”

Smitten and endlessly flustered, you nearly shrank beneath the intensity of his gray-hued stare, throat bobbing as he swallowed. His roughened palm stroked along your thigh, and he knew where to insert himself, but what came after?

It was easy to envision you swollen with his child, his new Lady of Winterfell, carrying his heirs, a maiden worthy of his worship. Cregan settled between your legs, adjusting his position, the head of his cock brushing against your slick petals.

A sharp gasp punctured your lungs, hands holding onto his biceps. Both his virtue and yours dangled by a mere thread, tantalizing as he angled himself to the best of his ability, reeling at the sensation of your legs squeezing at his hips.

“Are you certain?” Despite the breathy cadence of his inquiry, he wanted you to be well-prepared before he continued. Fingers twisted into the thick furs beside your head, forehead ghosting above yours, wisps of chestnut framing his countenance.

With a nod, you prepared yourself for what would likely be discomfort, hopeful that it would devolve into bliss after some time. “Yes.” You sighed, gaze innocuous, completely and utterly charmed by his gallantry as he eased his hips forward.

Cregan carefully watched your face, searching for signs of discomfort as his cock began to push into your tight cunt, which clenched around him already. A low cry of pain tore past your lips, attempting to suppress it for his sake — he was so very well-endowed.

“We do not have to continue.” His response was instantaneous and apologetic, brows furrowed together as his hips stilled, and you shook your head. Cregan deliberated, wrestling with himself as you encouraged him through wanton moans, knees squeezing at his waist.

“N—No,” Whilst your protest seemed weak, you meant it entirely. The stretch was certainly discomforting, but it wasn’t agonizing — you hoped to grow accustomed to it. “I wish to continue — please, Cregan.” Your pleas to keep going were reluctantly answered.

Admittedly, he felt overwhelmed by you — the tightness, the sensation of your cunt around his cock, the feeling of your body nestled against his own. He exhaled, hot breath fanning over your countenance, his expression just as doelike as your own.

Your neediness made his blood run hot, and he nodded, sluggishly resuming his pace. He continued to tilt his hips forward, cock feeding into you, inch by inch. Cregan felt the desperate bite of your nails clutching into muscle, leaving behind angry crescents.

A trembling breath escaped him, muscles flexing around you, caging you in against him. His stalwart nature had crumbled completely, lips gently pressing against your jaw in an attempt to soothe you, hips slotting forward until he had sheathed himself within you.

He did not move, allowing you time to adjust, content to lay there and pepper your flesh in plentiful kisses. One hand clamored to the nape of his neck, fisting at his chestnut tresses as you eased out a shaky exhale.

“Are you alright, wife?” Gods, the title — it made your belly churn with liquid heat, coalescing as arousal, heavy between your thighs. If it weren’t for Cregan’s reassurance and caution, this might’ve been rather distasteful.

Fortunately, he was perfect in all ways imaginable, crooked bridge of his nose inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent. You made sure to nod, his stillness becoming more of a hindrance than assistance. “Mm,” You moaned. “I am.”

The more time he gave you to grow accustomed to his girth, the more relaxed you became, no longer coiled like some furled lioness. As you let yourself become light, floating, the sensation gradually became pleasurable for you.

Cregan’s lips twitched into a threadbare smile; you took him so well, enough that it made his heart swell with ardor. Coaxing him in for a kiss, your lips met with a startling fervor, and he began to move, hips sluggishly rolling forward, ensuring that he was exceedingly gentle.

His cock filled you completely, a stretch that would take you more than just one night to adjust to. Your maidenhead was gone, your cunt tight around his length, pulling him in again and again. He took care of you, soothingly caressing your thigh as he held it within one palm.

Gods help him — he began to understand why so many men had talked of this carnal bliss, and it only made him ache for you all the more. Sharp grunts accentuated each of his thrusts, ensuring that his pace was careful, letting the pleasure build.

Cregan’s breathing became heavier, somewhat labored as he consummated your union. Each roll of his hips held meaning, beyond the creation of an heir. It was tenuous with newfound feelings, a burning sentiment he felt for you, ardor that had grown into a fire.

It was you that had reached for his hand, fingers interlocking above your head, pressed into the downy pillows there. It filled you with molten heat, slick cunt aiding in his ministrations, hips urging into yours with a simmering friction.

His name fell from your lips like some sacred prayer, whispered into the heat between bodies, distance nonexistent. The pliant peaks of your breasts had brushed against his muscled chest, your other hand gripping his bicep like a vice.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest brushing against his. Cregan grunted, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension.

He was so burly, a thick wall of impenetrable muscle that seemed to envelop you entirely, shield you from everything else, from all harm. It made you feel protected, comfortable — as if you had nothing to fear.

Strands of chestnut stuck to his temples, flesh glittering with perspiration from the exertion of lovemaking, coupled with the heat of your chambers. Clinging to him like a drowning woman, you savored the slow, sharp snaps of his hips, urging into you.

Cregan’s cock throbbed within you as he sought to spill his seed, face against yours, lips occasionally connecting in a series of passionate kisses. Everything felt incredible, in ways that you couldn’t comprehend — it was ecstasy, it was pure bliss.

The pinnacle of your pleasure was dancing upon the precipice, feeling his thrusts become a touch invigorated. Even still, he never once devolved to roughness, never strayed from his sluggish pace, made to feel all of you.

Wanton moans and low, thunderous groans echoed between you, inhabiting the warmth that crackled there, foreheads nestled together. Perspiration licked across your frame, permeating against your spine as your legs squeezed him like a vice.

As you called his name, Cregan grunted, the sound sudden and intense, attempting to restrain himself for just a moment long — and he was exceedingly unlucky. His hips urged forward once more, cock pulsing with an incessant ache as he spilled himself inside of you.

There was certainly intent behind it, filling your womb with his seed, desiring to see you round, lovely and full. Even if it did not take, he suspected that the opportunities would present themselves in the future. A shudder passed through his spine, feeling your cunt clench around him.

It was your release that followed suit, a white-hot tidal wave of ecstasy that made you see stars, moaning against his mouth as he cradled you close. Your interlocked fingers had tightened, bodies still craving one another, insurmountable heat making you delirious.

Seed oozed from your cunt, a sticky smattering that painted both your womb and inner thighs, your own nectar intermingled. Cregan heaved an exhale, letting his brow press snug to yours, mouth connecting in a tender kiss.

As his gaze found yours, you felt your features simmer with warmth, breath beginning to still as you regained your composure. The moment had stretched for an eternity, content to bask within his presence, lips curling into a demure smile.

The young wolf was wholly enamored, furrowed brows beginning to slack as he turned, bringing you with him. As he laid down, he let you rest atop him, bodies molding together as if they were two puzzle pieces, intended to fit.

Cregan himself seemed caught in the afterglow, dazzled by you, by all of this — unexpectedly so. A thick, muscled arm wrapped around you, palm splayed across the small of your back as he felt you shift, head nestled atop his chest.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He uttered, his worry thinly-veiled as he cradled you close, concerned that he’d caused you harm. “I apologize if I did — I did not realize …” Cregan trailed off, features painted with a scarlet pallor.

Admittedly, you would be sore — with your maidenhead surrendered, the ache between your legs was both pleasant and painful. “You did not,” You assured, letting out an awkward clearing of your throat. “Do you wish for me to go to my own chambers, now?”

Bewildered, Cregan’s head perked up just enough, head canting to one side. “Why would I have you leave?” He questioned, noticing the way you became embarrassed, as if you had said something completely foul.

“My own mother never shared chambers with my father,” You prompted, flustered as Cregan shook his head, bringing you closer, as if that were even a possibility. Already flush together, flesh to flesh, heart to heart, there was not a sliver of space to be found. “I only thought …”

“I understand,” His Northern timbre was soothing, reassuring as he caressed along your spine, pressing a chaste kiss to your crown. “I would prefer it if you stayed here — though, should you tire of me, I will accommodate you.” Cregan rumbled, nearly smirking at your fit of giggles.

“I do not think I will tire of you — not anytime soon, as it stands.” You mused, and that seemed to amuse your Lord-husband, who let out a brief huff as he soon swaddled you both within the furs.

No longer did you fear the Northern chill.

[doc42]

"The dragon is too far away to save you."

The fandom misunderstands the sad, wistful tragedy of Jon Connington chasing the dream of placing Rhaegar's son upon the Iron Throne when it considers only ever that its end must be to have big bad woman who is Rhaegar reborn fly down and burn him and the lad.

Seventeen years had come and gone since the Battle of the Bells, yet the sound of bells ringing still tied a knot in his guts. Others might claim that the realm was lost when Prince Rhaegar fell to Robert's warhammer on the Trident, but the Battle of the Trident would never have been fought if the griffin had only slain the stag there in Stoney Sept. The bells tolled for all of us that day. For Aerys and his queen, for Elia of Dorne and her little daughter, for every true man and honest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. And for my silver prince. "The plan was to reveal Prince Aegon only when we reached Queen Daenerys," Lemore was saying.

King Stannis is Jon Connington's kin from the "slayer of lies" sequence of visions from the House of the Undying and his foreshadowing for choosing to burn a kid to save the realm is he literally talks of burning a kid to save the realm:

"I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning . . . burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?" The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King's Landing. "If Joffrey should die . . . what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?" "Everything," said Davos, softly.

Jon Connington's foreshadowing with the backstory of the Battle of the Bells is equally straightforward: he's thinking he's willing to burn down a town if it means getting rid of the Usurper's line. Because he missed his chance getting rid of Robert Baratheon in Stoney Sept, so he won't miss it again.

Others might claim that the realm was lost when Prince Rhaegar fell to Robert's warhammer on the Trident, but the Battle of the Trident would never have been fought if the griffin had only slain the stag there in Stoney Sept.

For years afterward, Jon Connington told himself that he was not to blame, that he had done all that any man could do. His soldiers searched every hole and hovel, he offered pardons and rewards, he took hostages and hung them in crow cages and swore that they would have neither food nor drink until Robert was delivered to him. All to no avail. “Tywin Lannister himself could have done no more,” he had insisted one night to Blackheart, during his first year of exile. “There is where you’re wrong,” Myles Toyne had replied. “Lord Tywin would not have bothered with a search. He would have burned that town and every living creature in it.

The road ahead was full of perils, he knew, but what of it? All men must die. All he asked was time. He had waited so long, surely the gods would grant him a few more years, enough time to see the boy he’d called a son seated on the Iron Throne. To reclaim his lands, his name, his honor. To still the bells that rang so loudly in his dreams whenever he closed his eyes to sleep.

Death, he knew, but slow. I still have time. A year. Two years. Five. Some stone men live for ten. Time enough to cross the sea, to see Griffin’s Roost again. To end the Usurper’s line for good and all, and put Rhaegar’s son upon the Iron Throne.

Connington cares much and more about how he's going to be remembered. This is the reason he tried to face Robert honorably in single combat and this is why he promises doom to Lord Varys:

The shame of the lie still stuck in his craw, but Varys had insisted it was necessary. “We want no songs about the gallant exile,” the eunuch had tittered, in that mincing voice of his. “Those who die heroic deaths are long remembered, thieves and drunks and cravens soon forgotten.”

Death had robbed him of his ears, his nose, and all his warmth. The smile remained, transformed into a glittering golden grin. All the skulls were grinning, even Bittersteel’s on the tall pike in the center. What does he have to grin about? He died defeated and alone, a broken man in an alien land. On his deathbed, Ser Aegor Rivers had famously commanded his men to boil the flesh from his skull, dip it in gold, and carry it before them when they crossed the sea to retake Westeros. His successors had followed his example. Jon Connington might have been one of those successors if his exile had gone otherwise. He had spent five years with the company, rising from the ranks to a place of honor at Toyne’s right hand. Had he stayed, it might well have been him the men turned to after Myles died, instead of Harry Strickland. But Griff did not regret the path he’d chosen. When I return to Westeros, it will not be as a skull atop a pole.

A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd . . . mother of dragons, slayer of lies . . .

What does a eunuch know of a man’s honor? Griff had gone along with the Spider’s scheme for the boy’s sake, but that did not mean he liked it any better. Let me live long enough to see the boy sit the Iron Throne, and Varys will pay for that slight and so much more. Then we’ll see who’s soon forgotten.

Because Varys the Spider dared to decide how Jon Connington must be remembered. But now Lord Jon Connington is ready to be remembered as a butcher if he must:

Men and boys, babes at the breast, noble knights and holy septons, pigs and whores, rats and rebels, he would have burned them all. When the fires guttered out and only ash and cinders remained, he would have sent his men in to find the bones of Robert Baratheon. Later, when Stark and Tully turned up with their host, he would have offered pardons to the both of them, and they would have accepted and turned for home with their tails between their legs.” He was not wrong, Jon Connington reflected, leaning on the battlements of his forebears. I wanted the glory of slaying Robert in single combat, and I did not want the name of butcher. So Robert escaped me and cut down Rhaegar on the Trident. “I failed the father,” he said, “but I will not fail the son.”

The tragedy isn't that their choice to go to Westeros alone have turned Daenerys against them as the second dance of the dragons, the Blacks versus the Greens reborn and the final Blackfyre rebellion. The tragedy is they were so close. History does not repeat itself exactly.

Despite what the fandom says about Quaithe of the Shadow prompting Daenerys to go against the mummer's dragon with prophecy, Daenerys literally forgets all about the kid and confuses the mummer's dragon with herself, which is the most funny and charming thing you could find her thinking in the spot in the narrative the fandom designated as "Daenerys is up in arms ready to go to war with the mummer's dragon." But she thinks to herself she might have married Aegon VI had he lived just as these guys choose to stop chasing the dragon's tail and decide to go to Westeros alone.

There would have been a sixth, but the Usurper's dogs had murdered her brother's son when he was still a babe at the breast. If he had lived, I might have married him. Aegon would have been closer to my age than Viserys. Dany had only been conceived when Aegon and his sister were murdered.

That's the tragedy, the road not taken. They were so close. She would have come to them in Volantis had they waited.

"As you say." Tyrion grinned. "If I were Volantene, and free, and had the blood, you'd have my vote for triarch, my lady." "I am no lady," the widow replied, "just Vogarro's whore. You want to be gone from here before the tigers come. Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis." She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. "Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon."

Farther on she came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Severed hands clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter, and his eyes followed Dany with mute appeal.

Smiling, he seized his dragon, flew it across the board. "I hope Your Grace will pardon me. Your king is trapped. Death in four." The prince stared at the playing board. "My dragon—" "—is too far away to save you. You should have moved her to the center of the battle." "But you said—" "I lied. Trust no one. And keep your dragon close."

What Tyrion says with the cyvasse game is Aegon is going to lose if he does not move Daenerys to "the center of the battle."

King's Landing is called "the center" by GRRM himself when describing the designs of his world:

Well, of course, the two outlying ones — the things going on north of the Wall, and then there is Targaryen on the other continent with her dragons — are of course the ice and fire of the title, “A Song of Ice and Fire.” The central stuff — the stuff that’s happening in the middle, in King’s Landing, the capital of the seven kingdoms — is much more based on historical events, historical fiction.

Aegon is moving to King's Landing without the dragon piece.

“The demon road is death. We will lose half the company to desertion if we attempt that march, and bury half of those who remain beside the road. It grieves me to say it, but Magister Illyrio and his friends may have been unwise to put so much hope on this child queen.” No, thought Griff, but they were most unwise to put their hopes on you. And then Prince Aegon spoke. “Then put your hopes on me,” he said. “Daenerys is Prince Rhaegar’s sister, but I am Rhaegar’s son. I am the only dragon that you need.” Griff put a black-gloved hand upon Prince Aegon’s shoulder. “Spoken boldly,” he said, “but think what you are saying.” “I have,” the lad insisted. “Why should I go running to my aunt as if I were a beggar? My claim is better than her own. Let her come to me … in Westeros.”

Note how Griff here puts his black-gloved hand upon his purported son's shoulder just as Prince Aegon chooses the most unwise course of action. This is an omen of doom.

"Your death is with us now, my lord. Give me your hand." "My hand. What do you know of my hand?"

Jon Connington signs his letter to Dorne as "Hand of the True King", and Death spreads through his hand. His hand, and greyscale spreading through it, the very reason that made him accept this course, because time's running out for him to reclaim the dream. He is trying to reach the star he once failed to grasp, his green light, but what he brings to Westeros is death.

“Pirates and adventurers, we heard at first,” said Valena. “Then it was supposed to be the Golden Company. Now it’s said to be Jon Connington, the Mad King’s Hand, come back from the grave to reclaim his birthright. Whoever it is, Griffin’s Roost has fallen to them. Rain House, Crow’s Nest, Mistwood, even Greenstone on its island. All taken.”

And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night. Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further… And one fine morning— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Prince Aegon Targaryen was not near as biddable as the boy Young Griff had been, however. The better part of an hour had passed before he finally turned up in the solar, with Duck at his side. “Lord Connington,” he said, “I like your castle.” “Your father’s lands are beautiful,” he said. His silvery hair was blowing in the wind, and his eyes were a deep purple, darker than this boy’s. “As do I, Your Grace. Please, be seated. Ser Rolly, we’ll have no further need of you for now.”

The foreshadowing of their defeat due to the dragon being too far away to save them is no different than the foreshadowing of King Stannis' defeat to Renly's ghost at Blackwater, doom equally straightforward and for a very precisely written reason:

Melisandre saw another day in her flames as well. A morrow where Renly rode out of the south in his green armor to smash my host beneath the walls of King's Landing. Had I met my brother there, it might have been me who died in place of him.

It is binding. King Stannis is indeed defeated by Lord Renly riding out of the south in his green armor to smash his host beneath the walls of King's Landing, or so it seemed.

They plunged through Stannis like a lance through a pumpkin, every man of them howling like some demon in steel. And do you know who led the vanguard? Do you? Do you? Do you?” “Robb?” It was too much to be hoped, but… “It was Lord Renly! Lord Renly in his green armor, with the fires shimmering off his golden antlers! Lord Renly with his tall spear in his hand! They say he killed Ser Guyard Morrigen himself in single combat, and a dozen other great knights as well. It was Renly, it was Renly, it was Renly! Oh! the banners, darling Sansa! Oh! to be a knight!”

Aegon's defeat shall be because he did not keep his dragon close, leaving Daenerys behind him in Essos, the girl thinking she might have married Aegon VI had he lived. Of course, Stannis did not die at Blackwater, so while the boy king may be doomed, the fake Rhaegar's son that he is, the young dragon, Jon Connington ironically despite his greyscale may still live long enough to meet the true Rhaegar reborn of the tale, his silver prince shining from afar.

Alone in the tent, as the gold and scarlet rays of the setting sun shone through the open flap, Jon Connington shrugged off his wolfskin cloak, slipped his mail shirt off over his head, settled on a camp stool, and peeled the glove from his right hand. The nail on his middle finger had turned as black as jet, he saw, and the grey had crept up almost to the first knuckle. The tip of his ring finger had begun to darken too, and when he touched it with the point of his dagger, he felt nothing. Death, he knew, but slow. I still have time. A year. Two years. Five. Some stone men live for ten. Time enough to cross the sea, to see Griffin's Roost again. To end the Usurper's line for good and all, and put Rhaegar's son upon the Iron Throne. Then Lord Jon Connington could die content.

She could smell home, she could see it, there, just beyond that door, green fields and great stone houses and arms to keep her warm, there. She threw open the door. "… the dragon …" And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. "The last dragon," Ser Jorah's voice whispered faintly. "The last, the last." Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own.

[asongofgoldenfireandblackblood]

Players Wanted:

House Connington ❖❖❖ We Guard Our Fortunes

The sovereigns of Griffin’s Roost, the Conningtons are a noble, powerful, rich and influential family from the Stormlands. House Connington is said to have lands so breathtaking, none can compare in throughout Stormlands, and have even made those who exalt the beauty of The Reach most firmly concede its charm is near peerless. The current lord of Griffin’s Roost is well respected amongst his peers, though, the situation in their home and lands regarding the inheritance is somewhat delicate due to the sudden passing during a hunting accident of the former heir. The duty that now falls on the shoulders of his son at times overwhelming for a thirteen year old boy and his Lady-Mother already entrenched in her own tumultuous political machinations to bear.

A Song of Golden Fire and Black Blood is especially seeking Lady Daisy Connington, as well as the heir to their House, Lucas Connington, the Lady of Griffon's Roost, Lucinda Connington, and her younger son, Ser Galladon Connington.

Learn more about House Connington HERE, send us a raven with any questions and when you're ready to apply, join our Discord to chat with our players who want to see more from House Connington, and reach out to our only active member of their house so far, Lady Daisy's younger child and only daughter, Lady Jocelyn "Jocie" Connington (Favi) on @little-griffin-jocie-connington

home — navigate — wanted — discord — apply — directory — faq

[blackcat419]

I’m playing the recent update to the A Game of thrones and one of the start dates is 86 AC. And I realized that Lyman Beesbury’s first born son was the same Beesbury killed by Jaehaerys for sleeping with Saera.

How cool would it be to see Lyman struggle with staying loyal to the grandson of the man who killed his son? Being asked if he’ll stand with Rhaenyra, a woman so much like Saera. And him saying that he won’t let his son’s shame be used to make him a traitor/bend his honor.

Also bringing up that House Mooton and Connington were involved with the Jonah Mooton marrying Perianne Moore and ‘Red’ Roy Connington being exiled and later killed while in Essos. (Side note, Roy has such a cute model and I love playing as him and making griffin roost a place to fear. Marry him to Viserra after she claims Dreamfyre)

Just think how interesting the green council could be with the added debate on which houses will

[isefyres-archive]

𝔑𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔡:

Lord Quenton Qoherys: was the first Lord of Harrenhal and the head of House Qoherys Ser Quenton was the master-at-arms at Dragonstone during Aegon's Conquest. He was named Lord of Harrenhal by King Aegon I Targaryen after Aegon had extinguished House Hoare during his conquest. Lord Quenton had two strong sons and a plump grandson to continue the family line, but as his first wife had died from spotted fever in 1 BC, he agreed to wed a daughter of his liege lord, Edmyn Tully of Riverrun. In 9 AC, he died from a fall from his horse and was succeeded by his grandson, Gargon. Conquest Era.

Prince Aemon Targaryen: was a member of House Targaryen. He was the third born child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Aemon was married to Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. Together, they had a daughter, Princess Rhaenys. Aemon was a dragonrider whose mount was Caraxes. His mother Alysanne would often say, while laughing, that Aemon's first word had been, "Why?". In 62 AC, King Jaehaerys formally granted the seven-year-old Aemon the title of Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the throne. At the feast that followed Aemon's appointment, Queen Alysanne sat Aemon beside Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. The two children spent the entire evening talking and laughing together. He is the father of Princess Rhaenys. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Saera Targaryen: the ninthborn child and fifthborn daughter of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Saera was a courageous and clever, girl, in her own way as clever as her brother Vaegon. She was just as strong, quick and spirited as her sister Alyssa. Saera was tempestuous, demanding, and disobedient. Her first word was "no", which she said often and loudly. She quickly had three favorites of all the men who attended her: Jonah Mooton, the heir to Maidenpool, Roy Connington, the Lord of Griffin's Roost, and Ser Braxton Beesbury, the heir to Honeyholt. Instead of hiding within the Seven Kingdoms, however, Saera had found passage on a ship at Oldtown, which had brought her to Lys. Saera, infamous but wealthy, left Lys for Volantis a few years before 99 AC. In Volantis, she became the proprietor of a famous pleasure house. She had at least three bastard sons, who would be the dragonseeds of House Blackfyre in Essos. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Gael Targaryen: was the thirteenth and last child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Born during winter, Gael was also called the Winter Child. After her sisters Alyssa, Daella, and Viserra had died within the span of five years (82–87 AC), Gael became a comfort for her mother Queen Alysanne, along with her older sister Maegelle. Gael became Alysanne's constant shadow, and even slept with her in her bed. In 99 AC, Gael disappeared from court. It was announced that she had died of a summer fever. After the deaths of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, it was revealed that Gael had been seduced and impregnated by a traveling singer. Gael had given birth to a stillborn son. Jaeherys Era.

Princess Viserra Targaryen: was the tenth-born child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Viserra was the most beautiful of Queen Alysanne Targaryen's daughters. She had deep purple eyes and silver-gold hair, flawless white skin, and fine features. serra was a vain girl. Once, when a young squire called her a goddess, she simply agreed with him. The attention of great lords, famous knights, and callow boys fed her vanity until it "became a raging fire". Viserra delighted in playing one boy off against another and setting them on foolish quests or having them perform contests. According to Alysanne, Viserra desired to become a queen, and therefore aimed to marry her brother Baelon, not for love but for ambition. Viserra then turned to Baelon, hoping for him to rescue her according to court gossip. One night, she slipped past Baelon's guards and climbed naked into his bed. Jaeherys Era.

Lady Alarra Stark: Alarra Stark was the daughter of Lord Alaric Stark and his wife from House Mormont. According to her father, Lord Alaric Stark, Alarra was "as sweet to look upon as any southron lady. Despite her father's initial dislike for Queen Alysanne, Alarra had been kind and gentle to the queen, often reminding the Queen of her own daughters. Alarra did became aware of the affair of her father and the queen but kept the secret. When Queen Alysanne Targaryen visited Winterfell in 58 AC, Alarra and Alysanne became particularly close. Near the end of 58 AC, Alarra came to King's Landing with her two brothers to attend the tourney celebrating the tenth anniversary of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen's coronation. At this time, Alarra also became a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Jaeherys Era.

Lady Megga Tyrell: is a member of a junior branch of House Tyrell. She is the granddaughter of Ser Quentin Tyrell, a cousin of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, and is the only daughter of Ser Olymer Tyrell and his wife, Lysa Meadows. Megga has two older brothers: Raymund and Rickard Tyrell. Megga likes to play kissing games with boys and sometimes her cousins. While not a great singer, Megga plays the lyra and piano wonderfully. Megga is one of Queen Margaery Tyrell's ladies-in-waiting. Almost all of the men named as Margaery's lovers have denied the accusation or recanted, so she and her cousins, including Megga, are handed over by the High Septon to the custody of Lord Randyll Tarly. Tarly swears a holy oath to return them for their trial. Song Era.

Sera Flowers: Sera tends to take things less seriously than Mira does, like casually playing with Margaery's seating plan for the Purple Wedding and stealing Queen Cersei's wine. Mira can confide in her, though Margaery seems to be in Sera's best interest rather than House Forrester's. Sera is revealed to be a bastard, she is Mance's bastard but the Tyrell covered that with the surname Durwell. She confesses that she is attracted to both Jaime Lannister and Oberyn Martell, and Mira has the option to agree, though she sounds unsure. Sera escaped before the cousins and Margaery ladies were taken and ran to the Reach, her biological father is unknown to everyone but Lady Olenna. Song Era.

King Stannis Baratheon: Stannis Baratheon was the younger brother of King Robert Baratheon and older brother of Renly Baratheon. On account of the revelation of Robert's supposed children's true parentage, Stannis declares himself the rightful king after Robert's death as his rightful heir, and begins a campaign to take the Iron Throne. After assassinating his younger brother Renly using bloodmagic, due to Renly also having claimed the throne despite being the youngest brother, Stannis almost succeeds in taking King's Landing at the Battle of the Blackwater, but is ultimately repelled by the armies of Tywin Lannister and House Tyrell. As his wars drag on, Stannis falls further and further under the sway of the red priestess Melisandre. After saving the Night's Watch from Mance Rayder's wildling army in the battle for the Wall, Stannis marches on Winterfell. Song Era.

Lady Shyra Errol: is the Lady of Haystack Hall and the head of House Errol, her unlike stormlander looks come from her father marrying a woman from the westerlands. Because of this, she sees no proof in the rumors regarding Princess Myrcella rumors, as she is a stormlander with unlike features, and golden hair. Lady Shyra supports Renly Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings. She has one son who she acts as Regent as well and after the death of Renly, she remains on the Stormlands. Currently, her castle is under the attack of the Golden Company. Song Era.

Lady Liane Vance: Liane Vance is a noblewoman of House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest. She is the eldest daughter of the heir of Wayfarer's Rest, Ser Karyl Vance. Liane's grandfather, Lord Vance, dies at the battle below the Golden Tooth. Ser Karyl Vance becomes the new Lord of Wayfarer's Rest, and Liane the heir of her house. Liane becomes a field nurse for everyone after the red wedding and travels to House Bracken and House Blackwood to tend to the injured, she is said to have magic in her as she carries a piece of weirwood tree in her, always. Song Era.

Laena Longwaters: Laena is the recognized bastard daughter of Thena Celtigar and Rennifer Longwaters, marking one of the few times Velaryon blood and Celtigar mix. Due to this, Laena has dragonrider blood as well access to the Celtigar cell with the secrets of Valyria and the keys of the long night as well the coming battle of the dawn. OC. Song Era.

Lord Kaento Qoehrys: The remains of House Qoehrys from Harrenhal, they had been in Lys and Volantis gathering their own forces and money and they are travelling with Prince Aegon and the Golden Company to reclaim Harrenhal as their ancestral home. Despite his refusal, his daughter would be travelling in the second command of the ships, however, she is delayed with the arrival of Queen Daenerys Targaryen in Lys. Kaento is known to be able to use a flaming sword and has stock of dragonglass. OC. Song Era.

Lady Merea Qoehrys: Daughter of Kaento. She wants to travel with her father in the Golden Company, which he promises he will send word once Aegon takes House Connington and a few Stormlanders Houses. When news arrives, it marks the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen to Lys and intrigued, Merea wants to talk to the woman, without her father's approval as she always had her doubts of Prince Aegon's real heritage. Merea only wishes for their family to return home. She takes kindly to sing some old Valyrian songs to Dany's dragons. OC. Song Era.

[princess-dirt]

Excerpt from Arianne’s Second Winds of Winter sample chapter:

Arianne’s company was met by a column of sellswords down from Griffin’s Roost, led by the most exotic creature that the princess had ever laid her eyes on, with painted fingernails and gemstones sparkling in his ears.

Lysono Maar spoke the Common Tongue very well. “I have the honor to be the eyes and ears of the Golden Company, princess.”

“You look…” She hesitated.

“…like a woman?” He laughed. “That I am not.”

“…like a Targaryen,” Arianne insisted. His eyes were a pale lilac, his hair a waterfall of white and gold. All the same, something about him made her skin crawl. Was this what Viserys looked like? she found herself wondering. If so perhaps it is a good thing he is dead.

“I am flattered. The women of House Targaryen are said to be without peer in all the world.”

“And the men of House Targaryen?”

“Oh, even prettier. Though if truth be told, I have only seen the one.” Maar took her hand in his own, and kissed her lightly on the wrist. “Mistwood sent word of your coming, sweet princess. We will be honored to escort you to the Roost, but I fear you have missed Lord Connington and our young prince.”

Something about this interaction is just so incredible. There is so much depth in something as superficial as appearance. We also learn Young Griff/ Aegon VI is really pretty, which makes my pansexual self happy lmao

[aeg3n]

𝕴𝖒𝖕𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝕱𝖎𝖌𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝕬𝖊𝖌𝖔𝖓'𝖘 𝕷𝖎𝖋𝖊

𝐉𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐤𝐚 ❛ 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐟 ❜

Jon Connington has been a father figure to Aegon for most of his life. Cold and stern, Connington is a man hardened by war. He is the prince's firm defender, and is willing to trade his life to protect the son of Rhaegar, the dear friend whom he once loved. Posing as "Old Griff", Connington passed Aegon off as his own son, dubbed "Young Griff", until the time was right for the prince to reveal himself to the world. Now he serves as Aegon's de facto Hand of the King, but disagreements since arriving in Westeros have caused some tensions between the two. Nonetheless, he is still Aegon's most trusted confidante.

𝐑𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝, 𝐚𝐤𝐚 ❛ 𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤 ❜

Rolly's father was a smith in service to House Caswell of the Reach, but an incident between him and Lorent Caswell led to him fleeing Westeros and joining the Golden Company, where he eventually became a squire of Ser Harry Strickland. When "Griff" asked Strickland for someone to train his son "Young Griff", he sent Rolly for the task. A year later, Aegon knighted him, and Rolly took the new surname Duckfield, finding humor in being knighted in a field of ducks. Everyone else simply calls him "Duck". When Aegon revealed himself and began his campaign to reclaim the Iron Throne, Rolly was the first person he named to his Kingsguard, confidant that his loyal knight and friend would never betray him.

𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

Haldon is Aegon's primary tutor. He is a patient teacher, able to deal with the prince's bouts of disinterest, and a shrewd man who loves to trade in secrets and knowledge. Haldon studied at the Citadel for a time, but did not earn enough links to officially become a maester, thus earning him the nickname "Halfmaester". When Griffin's Roost is taken by the Golden Company, Haldon takes the role as maester there upon the death of the previous one, later doing the same at Storm's End.

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐚 𝐋𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞

Little is known of Septa Lemore, a woman travelling with the young prince as part of his broader education. Her views and behaviors seem rather contrary to what one would expect of a Septa, and her body shows signs of childbirth, though she has revealed no other such hints to her past before she dedicated herself to the Faith of the Seven. She is a dedicated mentor to Aegon nonetheless.

𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐬

Varys is an enigmatic yet important figure to most of Westeros, an unmatched spymaster with a network that stretches into Essos. He is supposedly the one who smuggled the infant Aegon to safety, and he has pledged his support to him from the shadows, but to what end, the prince does not yet understand. His aid and the information he provides has proven invaluable, however, thus Aegon is not so quick to cast aside this mysterious spider that whispers over his shoulder.

𝐈𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐌𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬

An ambitious magister from Pentos, Illyrio and Varys are old friends, and have worked closely for the past two decades to protect Aegon while hiding in Essos. Aegon is aware that Illyrio's interest in seating him on the Iron Throne likely lies solely with the man's want for power for himself, but his aid is too invaluable to be denied. The man may very well be a snake, but the snake and the spider are both on his side. For now.

[imaginarianisms]

plotted thread with @velcryons.

The torrential rains haven't ceased since Arianne and her entourage crossed into the Stormlands. From her room in the inn she and her party had been staying in for the night it looked utterly miserable outside. It seems like this country is always weeping, the heiress of Dorne thinks as she rises and leaves from her place on her windowsill and treads downstairs. All of it made her miss Dorne. The food, the stormy seas and skies, the dark caves, the weather... all so painfully dull. Her men had been instructed to scour the nearby seedy brothels and two local inns for anymore information while she remains in place awaiting anything they may tell her so she can send ravens back to her father in Sunspear. Already there were reports of the great septry in the Holf of Men's had been burned and looted by raiders from the sea and a hundred young novices from the motherhouse on Maiden Isle carried off into slavery, while half a hundred men and boys from the Weeping Town were marching north to support Jon Connington's cause at Griffin's Roost. That made her bones chill, not from the rain.

We have come to a dangerous place. I pray to the Seven, the gods of my people, to Nymeria Herself and to Mother Rhoyne that I will never step foot here again once this mission is over. Her fingers twirl against the sun and spear clasp at her cloak as she sits at a table in the corner furthest away from the entrance awaiting her food so she can break her fast: slices of apple, chicken, bacon, sausage, an average size block of cheese and a glass of milk. A blur of silver-gold hair catches her attention, though. Dark skin, sea green eyes, silver-gold hair. There was no mistaking a member of House Velaryon when you saw one. Curiosity and confusion lace her thoughts. The Velaryons support Stannis. Why is this man so far away from his liege lord?

Something crosses her mind, trekking back to her old friend at court who seemed to know so many secrets. Laena has told me about her cousin... could this be Aurane?

❝It cannot be...❞ her whisper is soft and quiet to herself.

It would explain why he seemed to be here alone. Her uncle Oberyn's party had reported back to her father saying that several men of Stannis' forces had bent the knee to Joffrey before he died. With reports of Cersei losing her sanity, many had abandoned her. As she eats a slice of cheese, her fingertips grace her chin momentarily as she thinks. It is a bold move coming here when the banner of Houses Baratheon and Lannister may still hold sway. A slice of apple down. Remember Ghost Hill. Remember Greenstone, Rain House, Crow's Nest, the Mistwood, Cape Wrath, Shipbreaker Bay and the isle of Tarth. Anything can happen. I must be on my guard.

Arianne chooses to not say anything for the time being unless he approaches her first. Perhaps this man knew of her through his niece. She will not test that. It would be most unwise. Anything she may say can be potentially used against her in these turbulent times. Besides, it was more appropriate to approach a lady first.

A sip of milk. This should be interesting.

[yourstruly-sephie]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

𝐃 𝐫 𝐚 𝐠 𝐨 𝐧 𝐃 𝐫 𝐞 𝐚 𝐦 𝐬

𝟐𝟕𝟖 𝐀𝐂 | 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧’𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭

Air. Air. I need to breathe. Were the words that ran through Nyrella's mind as she hit the surface of the stagnant lake. The impact was painful–burned even, despite her entire body fully submerged in the cool waters. Her breath ripped from her lungs, and quickly swelled up with a choke full of the bitter liquid. She tried her best to hold the remaining air in her mouth, but it was close to nothing. Her eyes jutted open to see the surface feets away from her, reflecting the world she was desperate to breathe again.

She clawed her hands through the water, using her legs to kick herself up to the illuminating light, but she only found herself sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness. Her eyes burned with no choice but to close them. Her ears popped at the pressure of the depth causing them to ring painfully in irritation. She was desperate, desperate for the surface.

It was this desperation that made her panic boil over. With everything she's got, she frantically pushes and kicks  through the water, reaching her hands as far as they can reach. The remaining air in her mouth slowly escaped through the corners of her lips with every stroke. As if the lake were alive, it did not want to let her go. The water grew heavier with every resistance she made. The water gripped around her limbs, pulling her into the confines of the deep.

Her chest felt like caving-in, pulsating painfully with the rhythm of her heartbeat, that seemed only to get louder and louder as she sank. She wanted to scream. Do anything to get out. But as she opened her eyes again, she was farther away from the surface than when she first opened them. The hope in her mind of escape dwindled like the breath in her lungs.

Then, she thought about them. The people she cared about, who were waiting at the surface of the lake. She wondered if they knew she was drowning, and fighting to resurface and be with them once again. She wanted to feel their warmth, not the cold embrace of the desolate lake. She prayed with every being of her soul that they realized something was wrong. But, they could not see her, hear her, or anything else. She was in too deep.

There was only one thing she could do...wait.

Nyrella instinctively wrapped her hands around her throat, trying desperately to hold her breath for longer. Her body craved the sweet savor of oxygen. It was enticing, alluring like the song of sirens in fairytales and myths. She knew better not to listen to her grieving mind, denying the prospects, but she was hanging on a loose thread. She wanted a breath, to taste her own version of ambrosia, the nectar of the gods.

And she did. Her hands became limp as she took a deep, deep breath. Yet, there was no satisfaction. The hunger for oxygen did not curb as she continued to inhale large amounts of water. She felt the liquid burn her throat all the way to her lungs. The feeling of water filling her lungs was a heavy pain like pushing a rock up a steep mountain. In the end, the weight of water pressed inside her hurt badly.

As she inhaled more and more, her mind became muddled with vertigo. Her senses could not tell the difference between the feeling of the slow moving water or the freeness of the surface. Slowly, her mind became less of her own and leaned more to the darkness. She soon became calm—mind and body. She was cathartic, an out of body experience as she felt her soul slowly ascend her body, all in the while she sank to the depths of the lake's darkness.

She was too weak to fight anymore, opting to take comfort with the calm of her mind. With the little strength she had, she tilted her head back to the surface above. She felt her tears mold with the water and the pit of her stomach was deeper than this hole she was in. Hope made everything worse. She took another inhale of water to drown the worst of her thoughts. She welcomed the calmness because it was a step before death.

Her vision started to spot with black dots, then she started to hear them. Voices were calling out to her. It was soothing, their voices gentle and captivating. They were telling her to sleep, to close her eyes and find them in the comfort of darkness. And if she listened closely, she could hear the voices of the people she loved most, the ones above the surface.

Nyrella took another inhale, blacking out. Her body floated through the water, her limbs at a natural rest, and her face at peace. Yet, she was not entirely gone. In her mind, she was still alive, barely holding on to a strip of consciousness. She had found herself locked in a dream.

She stood at the shores of her birth place, Dragonstone. Dark clouds surrounded the island, the noise of thunder ringing throughout with a loud clash. She willed herself to move forward, feeling the crunch of sand underneath her boots. As she walked further and further, she could smell something burning, smoke and ash filled her nostrils. Fire, she said to herself. She walked a little fast, a jog in her steps. As she turned the corner of the beach, she found herself stopping abruptly. Her mouth gaped open, eyes bulging open, and breathlessly in shock.

Standing in the middle of the beach was a dragon, a dragon with three heads. The huge beast was staying still, its three heads looking down at a woman in front of them. A woman shared the same silver-blonde hair of the Valyrians. Nyrella took meek steps towards the figures. She observed as the woman reached her hand out to affectionately caress the heads of the frightening creature. A dragon rider, Nyrella whispered to herself but it reached the ears of the Valyrian woman and her dragon. The figures turned towards Nyrella, their demeanors changed to expressions that told her to come no further, a warning. Nyrella froze, holding her breath.

The heads of the dragon rose higher, their nostrils flaring and their sharp teeth making an appearance. The woman walked in front of the dragon, standing tall and mighty, she walked a couple of feet towards Nyrella. She stopped a good distance away, leaving enough buffer for the women to see and hear one another.

"Where am I?" Nyrella asked the woman.

The dragon rider scoffed, "you know where you are."

"Dragonstone, but why?" Nyrella furrowed her brows together.

The woman took another step forward. She extended her closed hands forward. Nyrella focused her attention on the woman's hand, curious of what she was to reveal. "Be careful what you wish for," she wanted Nyrella.

As she lifted her top hand, Nyrella was hit with disgust. In the woman's hand, she held glittering rubies swimming a puddle of melted gold and the deepest shade of red blood. The molten gold and blood dripped through the gaps of the woman's hand, landing on the dry sand. "The dragon must have three heads," the woman told her.

Nyrella took a step back as the items in the woman's hand turned into a black goo. Her head snapped towards the three-head dragon, their heads leaning forward as their mouths opened wide. Then, she looked back at the woman, who wore sad eyes like she was mourning someone's death. Her lips parted, "Dracarys."

.・゜゜・♛・゜゜・.

"Come on, Nyrella," Arthur gritted his teeth as his arms pushed down on her chest. He had lost track of time as he pressed her chest, praying to the Seven for her to awake from the slumber of darkness. A few seconds felt like an eternity.

"Arthur..." Richard reached out to touch the Kingsguard's shoulder, but Arthur turned his body away from his friend.

"Don't you say it Richard!" he yelled at his friend as he stayed in tune, compressing Nyrella's chest.

"She's gone, Arthur, stop it now," Richard told his friend. "It's been minutes, there is no–"

"No! She's still here, she is still–"

Rhaegar laid his hand on Arthur's hands, stopping his friend, "Arthur. She's gone. She does not have a heartbeat anymore."

Arthur looked into the Prince's eyes, finding truth in his friend's gaze. It was everything Arthur was afraid of. At that moment, he felt the string holding his hope snap apart. Arthur fell back on the ball of his feet, a stream of hot tears escaped his violet eyes. He scanned over Nyrella's still cold body. There was no life in her, no rising chest nor heartbeat. He hated the silence. He wanted nothing more than to fill the void with the sound of her laughter. He wanted to hear her sing songs and lullabies. He wanted to hear her say his name. He wanted her back.

She took her limp hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her skin. "I'm so sorry Nyrella," his voice meek and his words wavered, "I failed you." His tears fell on her cold skin, sliding down to the stony pebbles that she laid on. He held onto her tightly, not having the will, the strength to let go. Not yet.

Suddenly, Arthur felt a squeeze from her hand. Then, a gasp.

"Nyrella! She's awake! Help her! Nyrella!" Everyone was shouting over each other.

Nyrella snapped open, a heap of water escaped her mouth. "Nyrella! You're okay! Cough it all up!" Arthur assured her as he continued to hold her to her side. Arthur quickly turned her to her side, patting her back with his open palm. She was coughing the water from her lungs along with the bits of contents from her stomach.

Nyrella took a long deep breath of air, she laid back on the pebbled shore. Rhaegar rushed to embrace his sister, holding her close to his chest. He found himself sobbing again. Nyrella was disoriented, lost in the situation. Arthur observed as she blinked her eyes a few times, adjusting to the brightness of the surface. She then found his gaze, "Arthur, I'm cold."

Immediately hearing Nyrella's words, Rhaegar let go of his embrace. He looked towards the other people in his company, giving them commands and directions to get help. In the meanwhile, Arthur grabbed a blanket close by, laying it on top of Nyrella's shivering body.

"You're going to be okay," Arthur told her as he cupped her face. "I've got you," he squeezed her hand.

.・゜゜・♛・゜゜・.

Days had passed since the day Nyrella almost drowned at the lake. Everyone was not the same ever since, filling the castle of Griffin's Roost with guilt, sorrow, and regret. There was not anything anyone could do to remedy the awful feeling that loomed over them. The thought of losing the Princess, their friend, was a dreadful thought that had a heart wrenching feeling in the chest. Everyone present at the lake that day felt responsible for causing such a disaster to happen in the first place.

Rhaegar, Jon, and Arthur were spending their time in one of the many drawing rooms of the castle. There was a silence among the three men as they did their best to fill the void conversation with tasks. The Dragon Prince has his head in an old book, so old that the binding threatened to come apart with every page turn. Arthur was attending to his great sword, Dawn, polishing the milky blade with a cloth, keeping the beautiful steel shining brighter than the stars at night. Jon stood in front of the glass window, looking out into the distance of the ocean, his mind spacing out as he thought of nothing yet everything. The three men were like this for sometime now.

Then, a young servant boy came into the room, striding over to the light-haired Prince. He handed Rhaegar a wrapped scroll that had a wax sigil of a stag. Rhaegar thanked the servant boy as he quickly departed. The Prince opened the letter, reading over the fine print of the contents inside.

"What does it say?" Jon questioned as he turned around to face the Dragon Prince.

Rhaegar shook his head, letting out a deep sigh, "It is from Robert Baratheon."

"What does he want?" The taste of disgust is ever so present on Jon's tongue.

"He asks for Nyrella's health on behalf of his father. He wishes to know if there are any accommodations needed for when we arrive at Storm's End in a fortnight. He hopes for a fast recovery for my sister," he explained the contents of the scroll.

Arthur sheathed Dawn away, striding over to Rhaegar's side and snatching the parchment for himself. "Dearest cousin?" The Kingsguard read with confusion.

"He called you 'dearest cousin?'" Jon turned around to show the nasty expression molded on his handsome features.

"You are related to the Baratheons?" Arthur asked Rhaegar.

"Through Rhaelle Targaryen. My grandfather, Jaehaerys' younger sister. Don't let the affectionate title fool you, Robert is only taunting," Rhaegar got up from his seat, walking towards the table of wine. "I was never fond of him and his lifestyle," he added on as he gripped the handle of the flask.

"I heard he fathered a bastard up in the Vale with a common woman, and now that he has eyes to betrothed himself to a northern lady. If I was one of the Seven, I would not have him reproduce offspring. Having one Robert Baratheon is toture enough," Jon crossed his arms over his chest.

"Must be death for you then when you stay at Storm's End," Rhaegar told the redhead, pointing his chalice at him before drinking the sweet wine.

Arthur set the parchment down, "why wouldn't Lord Steffon write himself?"

"Because Lord Steffon wants a betrothal between Robert and Nyrella," Jon responded.

"What?" Arthur turned to Rhaegar with confusion, "you never told me this?"

The Heir of Dragonstone set his chalice down on the table, he shrugged his shoulders, "It's never going to happen. Lord Steffon could try as he might, I am not letting a man like Robert near my sister."

"And is there anyone else that has been trying for her hand," Arthur blurted out.

"Of course," Rhaegar answered. "It won't stop until she is married or at least betrothed, but it seems difficult to wish for something to come hastily. My sister has not expressed any interest in who she wants to marry."

Arthur tilted his head slightly at Rhaegar. "What about Myles?"

"What about Myles?" Rhaegar questioned.

"What about me?" Myles said as he heard his name almost immediately when he walked into the room. The three men turned to the knight with wide eyes, surprised at him in the drawing room.

Rhaegar smiled at his former squire, "Good to see you, Myles. How is Nyrella? Is she faring well with her fever?"

Myles made his way to a nearby chair, "The maester said that her fever is going down, and predicts in a few days she will be let out of bed. But other than that, Nyrella is asking for you three. She wants you all to visit her."

Jon pursed his lips, "Are you sure she said all three of us? She must've only said Rhaegar and Arthur."

The Knight of Maidenpool shook his head in disagreement, "she said to all three, and she wants the visit now if it is possible."

"She is not angry with you Jon," Arthur spoke directly to the redhead, his tone gentle and assuring. "She does not hold what happened against you."

"I think I shall pass the opportunity," Jon sighed, swiping his hand over his hand. "I need to meet up with my steward to talk about the budgetary." With that, Jon nodded towards his friend, striding across the room and out into the hallway of the castle.

Rhaegar watched the lord go, knowing that feeling he must be going through. It would be a lie if Rhaegar said he did not feel the same. There were moments during his days and nights, thinking about what he could have done differently on that fateful day at the lake. It was a guilt that twisted and turned deep inside his stomach, aching terribly.

"Now you two must go," Myles licked his dry lips, he tried wearing a light smile to the duo, "her only request is that she is not left alone."

.・゜゜・♛・゜゜・.

The atmosphere inside Nyrella's temporary compartments was a dull one. The curtains were drawn closed, emitting little sparse light that managed to pierce through the fabric. There were many concoctions and medical instruments laying around the room, sitting on chairs or nearby the vanity and nightstand. And at the center of all was a sickly Nyrella, buried under large amounts of blankets and a wet cloth over her forehead.

Rhaegar slipped to her side, intertwining his hands with her's. A ghostly tight lipped smile formed as he tried to find the strength to speak, "You look better than the other day."

Nyrella smiled back weakly, but a series of coughs trailed after. She covered her mouth with her arm, coughing out the contents in her lungs. Rhaegar grabbed the nearby bucket, pushing it towards his sister's side. Nyrella mumbled her gratitude, spitting the greenish yellow phlegm into the bottom of the container. Once she was done, Rhaegar returned the bucket to its original place.

"That is what the Maester said," she coughed into her arm again. "But I still have a fever and the occasional shivers."

"You will get better," Rhaegar tightened his hold on her hand. "You have the blood of the dragon in you," he told her as he rubbed his thumb over her hand.

"They say that us Targaryens do not get sick," Nyrella piqued into a teasing grin, "but I could count on my finger the Targaryens that have."

"That is because they did not have dragons," Rhaegar explained.

Nyrella hummed, "does that mean my fate is sealed?"

"No, it is not sweet sister," Rhaegar extended his hand to stroke the side of her face, "you are strong, and you will not be a name etched on a stone. I won't allow it."

Nyrella found comfort in her brother's words. She turned her head to the right, where a silent Kingsguard stood. "Why are you so far away, ser? Are you afraid I'll get you sick?"

Arthur bowed his head at Nyrella, taking a step forward, "I do not want to intrude your conversation with your brother."

"Intruding? Never. If I wanted to talk to Rhaegar alone, I would have only asked for him, but I asked for you and..."

"Jon extends his apologies," Arthur spoke, "He had other engagements to attend to."

The princess hummed, turning her head back to look at her brother, "that is not the only reason he did not come is it? I have not seen him since we came back to Griffin's Roost, and I do not blame him for what happened, all I want is—"

"Take a breath, Ny," Rhaegar interrupted. "You might not blame him, but he blames himself." Rhaegar took another deep exhale, "you really scared us. We thought...we thought you were gone. I saw you take your last breath, and ..."

Nyrella squeezed Rhaegar's hand, forcing him to look into her eyes, "I thought so too, but... I—not until I— I had a dream, Rhaegar. A dragon dream."

Dragon dreams were not an uncommon thing for members with the blood of the dragon. Many Targaryens and some Blackfyres alike were given this gift, or some would say, curse, through generations and generations. It is their blood, their ties to Old Valyria, and bond to their dragons that gave them the ability to have prophetic dreams that were known for their vibrancy, violence, and dragons. These dreams were not like other dreams. Dragon dreams foretold the future and destiny. Daenys the Dreamer was the most famous Targaryen for her dreams. She foretold the doom of Valyria through her powerful prophetic dreams of dragons falling from the sky and the fourteen volcanoes erupting lava and smoke. It was through her dreams that saved the Targaryens and gave them a new purpose in the far lands of Westeros. Many Targaryens seeked their dreams to imitate the same glory as Daenys, but dreams are never a straight answer. Many Targaryens are struck with misfortune and tragedy with their dreams, more than glory.

"Tell me about it," Rhaegar urged, eager to hear the dream. From a young age, Rhaegar had frequent dragon dreams that often led him to his fascination with reading and spending time alone with books. He never had guessed Nyrella would have the ability to dream.

"I was on the shores of Dragonstone. I saw this woman with a three-headed dragon by her side. She had hair like ours and she was a dragon rider because I felt her connection to the dragon. Then, she turned to me, showing me her palm..." Nyrella swallowed the stone in her throat, she cannot forget the gory imagine of the woman's hand.

"What was on the palm of her hand?" Rhaegar snapped Nyrella out of her spacing stare.

"Rubies swimming in a puddle of molten gold and blood," she told him. She flicked her eyes deep into Rhaegar's indigo irises, "'The dragon must have three heads,' she warned me."

Rhaegar came to a halting quiet.

"Then, the dragon burned me with its fire. That is when I woke up," she told him. "I haven't been able to keep it out of my mind. The fire, the items in her hand, the woman... it all felt so real. Do you think...it is possible that dragons could exist again?"

"Dragons have not existed for years, Ny. It is not possible they could exist now," Rhaegar answered.

"But our great grandfather had a dream about dragons—"

"And Aegon died, along with his heir and his Lord Commander in Summerhall," Rhaegar blurted out. "Dreams are not easy to foretell."

"Then what does it tell, brother," she responded with a steady expression, no joy present on her face. She could not help but feel slighted by her brother. He treats her like a child and she hates it.

Rhaegar let go of Nyrella's hand, standing up from the bed. "You should not worry about your dream. We shall not speak of it again," said with a forceful tone. He turned around to leave the room, but Nyrella was not done with him.

"I forgot to tell you," Nyrella spoke up, "before I felt the flames, I saw a red star paint the sky."

Rhaegar stopped, processing the new information. Nyrella desperately wanted him to turn around and face her. She knew he was hiding something from her, and all she wanted was for him to tell her. She needed the answer to the dreams that had been on her mind for days since she woke from the lake's slumber. But, Rhaegar continued towards the exit and his figure disappeared behind the door.

Nyrella buried her head deeper into the feather pillows, she felt a surge of insignificant cover her mind. Her chest was heavy, and a round of coughs escaped her throat, meekly covering her mouth with the back of her hand. She also felt weak. The remnants of the lake were still with her, affecting her health and relationships with the people around her. She could not stand up without vomiting blood and her food, and she could not have a decent conversation with someone without them looking at her as if she was a fragile little thing and them having to walk around with eggshells. She wanted what she had before her drowning.

"Are you okay princess?" Arthur took a step forward, his voice filled with concern as he noticed Nyrella's coughing episode took longer to decline.

Nyrella extended her other hand, shaking it towards the Kingsguard, a signal for him not to come closer. Then, she grabbed the bucket next to her bedside, turning her body to spit the nasty contents from her coughing. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, taking a desperate breath.

"I should call the maester to—"

"No, please. I don't need any more coddling from the maester. I am very well, ser," she told him as she laid back on bed.

Arthur nodded. He could tell by the tone of Nyrella's voice that she was frustrated, and he did not want to add on to her mood or worse be at the end of it.

Nyrella shifted her focus to Arthur again, "why didn't you leave with Rhaegar?"

"Because I heard you didn't like being alone," Arthur responded truthfully. He knew he could have followed Rhaegar out of the room, but even before coming to see Nyrella, he knew he could not leave her so easily. The words that Myles said earlier about how Nyrella did not want to be alone, striked something in Arthur. He understood why.

For the first time in a long while, Nyrella smiled for real. "Thank you, Arthur," she told him. Staring into his violet eyes, she understood that he knew her reason. Being alone in the middle of the lake drowning, unlocked a fear she never had before, a fear of being alone in death. She never wanted to feel that again.

"Thank you for everything," she continued. "I never thanked you for saving my life. If it weren't for you, I would be as good as dead. I owe you a debt for which I cannot pay even with how much gold dragons I can offer. Thank you for not giving up on me, I-I—"

"You are welcome Nyrella," Arthur assured. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. Nyrella extended her hand towards him, which Arthur gladly took in his.

Arthur fought the emotions that dared to escape his well-crafted facade. The last time he touched her hand, she was cold like ice, a mark of someone who has passed. But now, feeling her warmth against his skin, it overwhelmed him with relief.

"Are you okay Arthur?" Nyrella questioned, pulling her hand away from him. Arthur exhaled, cherishing her touch for a second more. "You seem sadder most days," Nyrella tried to find his eyes, but he kept his gaze averted.

"I am all right, just tired," he lied through his teeth, an aching smile forming on his bow-shaped lips.

Nyrella hummed, burying her head deeper into the comfort of her pillows, the sleep was creeping onto her eyes, "Maybe when I am recovered we can spend the day at the gardens, just us two, like old times—happier times."

Arthur nodded, "I look forward to that day. I will have to ask your brother's permission."

"Nonsense," declared Nyrella. Her eyes flickered with playfulness, "you could always go secretly to meet me."

He chuckled at the proposition, "like old times? I don't think I can, that is more your play."

"It does not hurt to try, ser," Nyrella jested.

"Nyrella," Arthur started, "do you believe in what you saw in your dream?" He questioned, changing back to the topic that made Rhaegar leave.

The princess thought for a second before nodding slowly. She still did not know how to interrupt her dragon dreams, but it felt too important to plainly ignore it like her brother had told her. She knew he had dragon dreams as well, especially when they were younger. Yet, he never told her what they were. "Truly. Do you know anything about it?" Nyrella cleared her parched throat.

"This is the first time I've heard such a dream and I am not suitable to give my judgement...but the maesters might," he offered. "They have documents about your family and maybe about their dreams."

"A maester's retelling can never be the whole truth," Nyrella remarked.

"But it can help you to the truth," Arthur shined an optimistic light, "you must try."

Nyrella licked her lips, pondering at Arthur's words. She weighed her choices. It would be a long journey to find the answers she was looking for and there is a certainty that she might not even come to a conclusion, but she could never know unless she tried. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because..." Arthur paused, hesitating on the words he would say next. "Because it's my duty." Another lie straight from his noble mouth. He did not have the strength to say what he truly wanted to say to her.

Nyrella slightly nodded her head, trying hard for the smile on her face to not falter. She should have known it would be his answer. It was never her expectation to hear anything more than that, but it felt like a stab in her chest and she did not understand why.

.・゜゜・♛・゜゜・.

Arthur's index slid on the spines of the old worn-out covers that belonged to the tattered books. He quickly read each name quickly as he went, in search of something that he needed. It has been quite awhile since he found himself in the company of so many books surrounded with dust and the smell of aging parchment. In his hands, he carried a few books that weighed heavier than he expected and some of them looked to have never been touched since their creation.

"Arthur, the maester gave me all the scrolls in the archive that mentions the Targaryens," Jon said as he approached his Dornish friend with a handful of browning parchment. Arthur turned towards the lord, extending his hand out to read what he found.

"I wouldn't read about that one," Jon tried to warn Arthur, but the Kingsguard already was reading the contents inside the scroll.

"This is a receipt of how many barrels of summer wine Prince Daeron bought," Arthur turned to Jon with a raised brow.

Jon shrugged, "I warned you. Not all of these scrolls are as important as some."

Arthur shook his head, giving the scroll back into Jon's hands, "a hundred barrels for one person." He walked past the redhead towards a nearby table.

"But he didn't die from alcoholism which is a feat I dare say so," Jon grinned as he turned to see Arthur place the books he carried on the wooden surface. Jon followed after him, taking a seat on the chair and spreading the scrolls around.

"You don't think of doing the same, do you?" Arthur raised a brow at Jon, who was grinning like a madman. He fully knew the answer to his own question which made him shake his head in disappointment.

Jon rolled his eyes, spreading his arm wide, "Come on Arthur, life is too short to only have a small amount of wine. Live a little, I know you didn't spend the golden dragons you won. Might as well treat yourself now before we depart back to King's Landing soon."

"There are better things spent than wine," Arthur told his friend.

"Whatever you say but my opinion stays the same," Jon responded, taking the nearest scroll in front of him and reading the contents.

Arthur chuckled lightly. There were moments when Jon could be irritating, annoying, and plainly a handful to be around, but other than that Jon was a good honest person, loyal to his friends. Arthur appreciates that Jon accompanied him to the library to help his search to uncover the answers to Nyrella's dragon dreams. The lord did not hesitate in his answer. Even though he does not have the will to visit Nyrella, there is no doubt he will do anything to help or support her. He cares very much about her.

"You know..." Jon interrupted the quiet that had befallen them. Arthur hummed, signaling that he was listening. "Prophetic dreams are rare. Only a few Targaryens are gifted with premonition. I find it interesting that Rhaegar and Nyrella have it."

Arthur looked at Jon with furrowed brows, "Rhaegar and Nyrella?"

"Yes, they both have these so-called dragon dreams. Well, Rhaegar has them more than Nyrella," Jon stated, unscrolling another piece of old parchment.

"Rhaegar, also, has these dreams?" Arthur was careful to ask. He closed the book he was reading to listen to what Jon had to say.

Jon hummed, "Obviously. I am surprised you didn't ask him. He mentioned once that he read about this prophecy about a prince that was promised."

"The Prince that was promised," Arthur repeated the words.

"That is all I know. I didn't care to listen more, I figured it was some Targaryen nonsense," Jon shrugged and discarded the parchment in his hands.

Arthur's mind started to turn. He had no idea Rhaegar had these dreams, and from his understanding, Rhaegar has been exposed to prophecies earlier than Nyrella. It made sense to Arthur why he asked why he did yesterday towards hearing Nyrella's retelling what she experienced in her dream. But, he still did not have the answer as to why he told Nyrella that her dreams were insignificant. Arthur would think Rhaegar would be supportive...unless he was hiding something.

"What are you two doing here?" The familiar rich tones of Rhaegar's voice echoed through the room, every syllable bouncing off the walls.

Arthur and Jon stopped what they were doing, snapping their attention to the Dragon Prince, who was approaching them with a curious expression. There was no time for the duo to hide their findings. Arthur would need to confront him directly.

When Rhaegar reached his friends, his gaze was immediately scanning over the text of leather bound covers and the scattered parchment all over the table. "Studying my family history? I hope it is not about Nyrella's dream," Rhaegar asked as he picked up one of the many scrolls. He looked over between his two friends, wanting his question to be answered.

Arthur clenched his hand, "It is. We are helping her find answers to what she saw—"

"You heard me clearly, Arthur," Rhaegar interrupted, setting the scroll down, "There is a reason why I told her to never speak of it. It is for her own good."

"Yes but—"

"There are no buts," Rhaegar sternly said. "You are doing a chivalrous action to help, but I feel you are letting your affection for my sister lead your decisions."

Arthur tightened his fist, "you are wrong about that. I am not making decisions based on my affections for your sister."

"Then what is it? Duty?" The Dragon Prince challenged. "We both know duty is not your answer. I know it is difficult to let go of your feelings to my sister, but —"

"I am well aware of what you are going to say. You do not have to repeat them to me for they live in my mind always," Arthur told him.

Rhaegar nodded, swallowing the dryness in his throat. He could see the torture in Arthur's eyes and the built up pain he has from hiding away his feelings. But there was nothing Rhaegar could do. "As a friend, I cannot tell you about what I know about dragon dreams, but I will tell you that it would be better for Nyrella not to know. She has duties as a princess to fulfill."

"Like marrying her off," Arthur answered bitterly.

"As I said before. She has not shown interest in anyone during her tour, so I decided to arrange a gathering of suitor's for her when we arrive at Storm's End," Rhaegar announced.

"What about Myles," the Kingsguard blurted out. There was a mild snap when Myles' name came out of his mouth that did not go unnoticed by his friends.

Jon tilted his head, "Myles Mooton?"

"And what about him?" Rhaegar questioned.

"She has shown interest in him," Arthur answered, clutching his jaw.

Rhaegar hummed before letting out an exhausting sigh, "and if she did. I would not allow it."

"What?" Arthur was taken aback by Rhaegar's directness. This was not the answer he expected from Rhaegar, clearly the opposite of what he thought. "Why? Myles is a strong candidate for your sister's hand."

Rhaegar licked his chapped lips, "do you remember when Nyrella and I had an argument a few years ago during Viserys' name day?"

The Kingsguard nodded slowly, not entirely sure of where this conversation was heading.

"I was angry and I said a horrible thing to her," Rhaegar recounted the day they stood on the beach and saw her tear-stained cheeks, "I hurt her most by telling her who in their right minds would marry her if they knew she cannot provide an heir. She is..." Arthur did not connect what Rhaegar was implying.

"She is infertile. The very reason my father did not wed us and the reason I cannot marry her to Myles. Myles wants a family, and I would be taking that choice from him if I allowed it," Rhaegar spoke solemnly.

Arthur could not believe what he was hearing. "So you would let her marry someone else? Do you know the consequences of what would happen if they found out? What would they do to your sister?"

"They won't find out," Rhaegar assured. "I will make sure of it."

"This is unfair to Nyrella," Arthur said. He felt bad for being bitter towards Myles and Nyrella. He wanted nothing more than to unhear the information Rhaegar gave to him because witnessing someone tearing two people apart without their knowledge felt painful to witness. Myles and Nyrella never had a chance in the beginning because their lives were already set up for them without their consent.

"It is, but this is how the game is played."

[agentrouka-blog]

Do you think Aegon VI is Rhaegar-critical? Joncon must be a biased source of information, and there's no way he hasn't been at least attempting to poison his mind against Lyanna and his mother.

Hi there! (And sorry for the delay.)

JonCon may personally have been horribly biased against the legally wedded wife of his life-long crush.

Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar's wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon's birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward. (ADWD, The Griffin Reborn)

But neither has he been raising Aegon by himself, unencumbered by anyone else's input (which is especially relevant if you consider that Lemore may well be her former lady-in-waiting Ashara Dayne). He is also not so stupid as to discount the value that Elia's name adds to Aegon's cause.

 My lords, I give you Aegon Targaryen, firstborn son of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, by Princess Elia of Dorne … soon, with your help, to be Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, King of Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms." (...)

Griff had heard enough of the captain-general’s cowardice. “We will not be alone. Dorne will join us, must join us. Prince Aegon is Elia’s son as well as Rhaegar’s.” “That’s so,” the boy said, “and who is there left in Westeros to oppose us? A woman.” (ADWD, The Lost Lord)

And he is quick to make use of it, personal feelings aside.

To Prince Doran of House Martell, You will remember me, I pray. I knew your sister well, and was a leal servant of your good-brother. I grieve for them as you do. I did not die, no more than did your sister's son. To save his life we kept him hidden, but the time for hiding is done. A dragon has returned to Westeros to claim his birthright and seek vengeance for his father, and for the princess Elia, his mother. In her name I turn to Dorne. Do not forsake us. Jon Connington Lord of Griffin's Roost Hand of the True King (TWOW, Arianne I)

I sincerely doubt that JonCon would have felt it in his interest to try and turn Aegon against his own mother. Even if he had, we know that Aegon is very well capable of forming his own opinions and making his own decisions.

We have no information about what Aegon thinks of his father, let alone Lyanna. But I find this passage particularly telling:

"You look a proper prince," he told the boy. "Your father would be proud if he could see you." Young Griff ran his fingers through his hair. "I am sick of this blue dye. We should have washed it out." (ADWD, The Lost Lord)

JonCon gives him a very heart-felt compliment that could mean the world to a son trying to live up to the legacy stolen from his family, to his revered late father. But Aegon doesn't react at all. He voices a dismissive opinion, changes the subject to something else, instead. There is no warmth at all in response to these words.

He's interested in his "true father", he reacts to Tyrion's prompt about him, but I doubt that he feels the kind of connection to Rhaegar that would be resistant to questioning his actions.

We already know he is prickly about the events of the Rebellion.

"Elsewise Prince Rhaegar’s friend might have been on hand when my father sacked King’s Landing, to save Prince Rhaegar’s precious little son from getting his royal brains dashed out against a wall.” The lad flushed. “That was not me. I told you. That was some tanner’s son from Pisswater Bend whose mother died birthing him. His father sold him to Lord Varys for a jug of Arbor gold. He had other sons but had never tasted Arbor gold. Varys gave the Pisswater boy to my lady mother and carried me away.” (ADWD, Tyrion VI)

Why the anger, unless the story is one that doesn't sit right with him? He's overtly dismissive of the child that died in his place, emphasizes the depravity of the father. (The inclusion of the mother's death in childbirth is more than likely an invocation of Lyanna's fate by GRRM.) The worthless tanner abandoned his child for a taste of something new. Sound like anyone we may have heard of before?

I'd say GRRM is preparing a confrontation with his "true father" for Aegon, in terms of examining how he and his mother and sister were equally abandoned. This is a mental place where his immersion in his Dornish family and his probable confrontation with Jon Snow, whose own mother was also a victim of Rhaegar, can all connect and lead to an examination of what Targaryen kingship is all about. (Hint: it's dragon-based oppression.)

From that place, Aegon can become Dany's antagonist in a role beyond mere rivalry over the metal chair but in terms of a larger conflict: fighting Dany becomes about preventing her from taking absolute and unaccountable power in the name of House Targaryen once more. Instead of fighting for his father's side, he would be fighting for everything informed by his mother's side: Westeros, Dorne, the Rhoynar. People, not dragons.

I'd say everything points to GRRM setting up events to go that way.

[my-watch-begins]

A match for love. Part XVII

Pairing: Harwin Strong x Female!OC.

Words: 5 k

Warnings: things get spicy again, and also a little angsty.

MASTERLIST.

4 years later.

Ayla scribbled on a piece of parchment. Her eyes landed briefly at the Lord sitting in front of her.

"I'm afraid if you don't agree to these terms, you will be sanctioned, Lord Rogers. The blockade you've established to House Wylde can no longer stand"

"I wish to speak to the Hand about this. His sons killed my only one in a jousting competition in a heavy unsportsmanlike manner"

Ayla left the feather in the ink and moved from her seat to one of the drawers.

"The Hand has already sanctioned and signed your efforts in this blockade. You are to replenish the loss of stock the Wylde suffered and the food that went to waste because you blocked their path from the rest of the Stormlands. I thought you had come to see me to even further your generosity over House Wylde and offer a marriage between one of your daughters and one of his sons. For peace keeping sake"

Ayla had left a parchment signed and marked with the Hand's sigil, Lord Rogers had read it as she spoke.

"You do, after all, need a new heir to your House"

The Lord pondered, then folded the parchment on itself and placed it back on the desk.

"Do try to arrange this as soon as possible, the sanction is affected by interests if you stall"

The Lord didn't seemed convinced, but he would also never speak with the Hand. He accepted his rendition and left the office, albeit a little angry.

"Next" Ayla called, looking at the front door of the office of the Hand. Her jaw tightened when she saw Lord Everan walk in.

"Lady Ayla" he saluted, his hand took the chair and pulled it back to sit in front of her.

"Lord Connington" she addressed, eager to find out why would he need to speak with the Hand.

"I hear you are the one that needs to be addressed these days"

"The Hand is much too busy with other matters and leaves these ones to me" she explained shortly. "I hope I can be of service"

"I have no doubt you will be My Lady" Ayla stared shortly at his face. Even after all those years, seeing Lord Everan too much might confirm the suspicions she had from day one, the ones that the Princess Rhaenyra, despite their continued and growing close friendship, had never confirmed nor denied "I would like to arrange travel security, the lootings are becoming more and more common these days"

Ayla grabbed a clean piece of parchment and got ready to write.

"We are aware, where to?"

"The Stormlands, to my seat in Griffin's Roost, my entire party will be leaving, total of six" as Ayla wrote down the destination and her mind quickly began to swirl with questions. 

"It can be arranged from the Red Keep until the Fellwood, I believe Baratheon forces could take the rest of the detail the rest of the way. I'll send a raven right away"

"I don't believe that would be necessary, I am in quite a hurry to leave on the morrow"

"Oh" she muttered "very well then, I'll arrange this with my husband as soon as possible"

"Ah yes, the Lord Commander" both Ayla and Lord Everan stood from their seats, Ayla held the piece of parchment she had just written "I believe I am in good hands then" she somehow didn't like the way Lord Everan pronounced the words. She smiled and motioned at the door.

"We will have to trust your past judgment Lord Everan, you did vouch for him when it was time to name a Lord Commander"

They smiled at each other, Ayla with a more condescending undertone and Lord Everan out of a little embarrassment.

After Ayla saw that there was no one outside the office of the Hand, she closed and locked it before heading to the office of the Lord Commander, an office she argued was more fit to the post rather than a desk in the barracks.

When she reached the office, she knocked and entered, her eyes meeting the broad of his back as he stored things away.

"You can leave it on the desk" he said, not turning to address her.

She left the folded parchment in his desk as she spoke "that's no way to talk to your Lady wife" she teased. Harwin spun on his heels and instantly gave her an apologetic twist of his eyebrows as he walked to her.

"I was expecting someone else, apologies my love" he kissed her on the forehead and rounded her waist with one of his arms, instantly trapping her "that is absolutely no way to speak to my bountiful lady wife" his large hand cupped fully one of her ass cheeks and he leaned in for a hungry kiss. Ayla chuckled and rounded his neck, pulling herself up on her tiptoes to kiss him properly. The door knocked again and Harwin replied over her lips.

"I'm busy"

"No he's not, come in" she countered, her hands now pushing his hand away from her ass and slipping from his grip.

One of the captains entered and without other words other than acknowledging the two of them by their tittles, left more parchments on the table.

Ayla waited until the captain left and closed the door behind him.

"This is of a bigger priority I'm afraid" she pointed at her piece of parchment and left it on top of the others

"I will get to it right away" his hand found hers and led it to his lips for a quick kiss "the Princess wishes to see us tonight" he said in a low voice.

Unwillingly Ayla connected the dots. Her mind wandered around with what the missing information could be until mid-day, at which point her thoughts switched quickly to wonder why were her children being scolded by the Septa.

She quickened her steps and when she neared them she called for their attention.

"Septa Noelle" the first ones to react to the words were her children, who quickly left the Septa's side and rushed over to hide behind her "what would be the matter?"

The Septa sighed in exasperation and held her hands together at her front.

"Lady Ayla, as you are aware, there's a new curricula supported by the Queen to teach the children the Faith of the Seven"

"I am aware"

"Your children I'm afraid do not posses the base knowledge to be with the other children in the lessons and will need to reinforce their knowledge with extra classes"

"I will see to that personally" she concluded, her hands searched and found her sons clammy and sweaty ones, specially Kiran's who was not used to being scolded so harshly.

"I'm afraid that the knowledge you might be able to teach them will not be enough, your children repeat words and sayings I'm certain they haven't heard from anywhere else but you, as I have often personally hear you curse at the Gods and besmirch their miracles and good graces"

"My dislike for the Gods is not unwarranted"

"Still, I believe that as a mother, you should-"

"Sadly I'm not taking any comments or suggestions about my parenting at this time Septa Noelle. With your permission"

Ayla turned on her heels and pressed a hand to each of her sons' shoulders, leading them away from the teaching room and from the Septa. The Strong boys ushered words to each other and Ayla kept a close eye on them until they reached the Tower of the Hand.

"I'm going to see if your aunt Grayce needs anything, you can either come with me or head down to the baracks, your uncle might be there finishing with his training" she offered. The boys didn't look up at her to reply or gave her any of their words. She crouched to meet their gaze and placed her hands at either side of their cheeks. "What is it my boys?"

"Are we in trouble?"

"Will you tell father?"

They asked, Ayla pulled their faces up by their chins and held their gaze to hers.

"You are not in trouble, and I will tell your father about this but not to scold you, but to protect you, as it is our job"

"Kylian said you hated the Gods" Kiran explained in a accusatorial tone.

"I do not care who did what, Kiran. But maybe next time we don't repeat things we hear at home, I have my reasons for having spoken those words, and most people often judge unknowingly. That's why we always hold out judgement until we have all the information, right my boys?"

Both of them nodded dutifully and somewhat remorseful, she kissed them each on the forehead, moving their curls away and then ordered them to the barracks.

In the Tower of the Hand now only one family resided. Ayla and Harwin had given their large quarters and adjacent room to Grayce after her marriage. Grayce's husband was a rather charming second son of the Lord of House Rykker who had attended the name day celebration of one of the Targaryen Princes. Far from being a good swordsman, Terren Rykker appeared to be the exact opposite of Ayla's brother Adrian. Leaning more to books, organization, straying from taverns and most importantly being a gentleman, Terren had approached Grayce and Adrian as they danced in the celebration for Prince Aegon's name day and asked to dance with Grayce.

That was the first time Terren had showed and proved his courage to win Grayce's favor. The second time was when he personally headed to the office of the Hand to ask for Grayce's hand.

Since their marriage, Grayce and Terren had welcomed two little girls, one of now two years old and the other one of three months old. Despite having interrupted their dance, Terren was blissfully unaware of the past that Adrian and Grayce shared. Ayla tried to make deaf ears and blind eyes to the fact that two dark haired parents had dark brown hair children that could either be attributed to their grand sire's heritage or...

Ayla tried not to think about the other option. Adrian did not show exceptional interest on the girls other than the occasional praise on their beauty and even then it wasn't enough of a reason for Ayla to doubt them.

Ayla made time almost every day to visit her nieces in the Tower of the Hand either to help with the girls or to talk with Grayce about the tribulations of being a mother, not to mention the two little girls had drawn Ayla and she very much enjoyed holding them, soothing them, feeding them and seeing them grow.

At night, when Ayla put her sons to bed, Ayla and Harwin walked to their bedroom and opened the side door behind a painting, entering the hidden passages and closing the entrance behind them.

Harwin knew the path like the back of his hand, so he just held Ayla's hand and guided her in the dark as they spoke.

"I'm sure tomorrow you will hear a thing or two about my insolence with the Septa and the words we said to each other today"

"What about?"

"About how my words affect the children's willingness to learn about the Gods. I can only imagine the things Kylian repeats. I got angry at her judgment of my work as a mother"

"As you should my love. I'll make deaf ears to any complaint"

"Perhaps you should look stunned-"

"I will not" Harwin interrupted, then held her hand tighter and pulled her to his side, their bodies meeting in the dark "we are a united front, you and I. I will never undermine you because you have never undermined me" Ayla felt a kiss at the top of her head and Harwin's steps came to a halt, making her stop as well "or do I have to remind you that I married you to always defend you in your insolences?"

Light peaked from the little creak between the wall and the hidden door long enough for Harwin to see Ayla's pleased smirk, then Harwin pushed and moved to let Ayla in first. She squinted her eyes at the harsh light from many candlelights lit all over the room. Ayla noticed the back of the Princess' head and how it moved before she stood up.

Ayla had gotten to know the Princess over their years of acquaintance and realized instantly that she had been crying and attempted to compose herself before turning to meet the couple. Ayla gave her a smile and extended her hands to her. The Princess quickly took them and hardened her features.

"Princess" she saluted. Rhaenyra nodded in their direction and headed to the table on the other side of the room. Ayla and the Princess sat across each other with the table to the side of them, Harwin had to stand behind Ayla pacing out of nervousness.

"As our lives have been linked through the years for some regrettable reasons, I wanted to speak with you before the morning" Ayla's back unconsciously straightened at the direction of the conversation "I am with child"

The only thing in Ayla's mind from that moment until she found herself laying in bed was just one phrase.

What a cunt.

From what she suspected; Lord Everan had been told the news of the Princess' state and had proceeded to pack his things and leave King's Landing before the announcement and posterior birth, that was presumably the reason why she had been crying before they entered the room.

Ayla had assured the Princess that, as always, they would disparage the rumors, deny them, and defend their honor as they had done the two previous times. The Princess seemed relieved and thankful for their words.

Upon looking at her husband as awake as her next to him. She turned to her side and sighed to call for his attention, even though she already had it.

"What do you think?" Harwin asked, his eyes not leaving the ceiling above them.

"I think of the children. They're definitely old enough now to make sense of words"

"Do you think we should prepare them?" He turned his head to her, Ayla gave him a twist of her lips.

"I believe we should, love"

Harwin sighed and pressed a hand to his eyes in frustration.

"What do you think they'll think of me?" Ayla moved to lean over him, one of her hands came to his neck and she kissed his forehead. Harwin's hand rounded her back and landed in between her shoulder blades, keeping her secured over him

"They'll think of you what they already think of you. That you are a dedicated father and a good man, and you saw two little boys and cared for them in the distance. That is the truth, anything else they should disregard"

Harwin squeezed Ayla's shoulder and she leaned back to look at him.

"When Grayce fell with child, both times, you were a little sensitive after the news, how are you about these ones?"

Ayla appreciated that Harwin still threaded carefully about the subject of children. After they had agreed to wait, even though Harwin had followed the advice and lately he rarely spilled inside of her, the fewer times he did had never resulted in not even a scare of being pregnant too early.

"I'm strangely hopeful" she admitted "the Princess said it herself, our lives have been linked over the years. The last time the Princess fell with child so did I shortly after" Ayla saw no ready reply on his part, he just stared at her "it's also been five years" she excused.

"You only need to ask"

"Do I now?" She teased, her body inching more and more until she laid on top of him with her legs at either side of him. Her mouth descended to his for a hot kiss, his big hands landed at her waist and inched lower and lower to her glutes. His fingers worked the fabric of her nightgown to scrunch it over her waist, slowly unveiling her long legs and quickly pulsating sex.

"What does my Lady wife want from me?" He teased. Ayla smiled over his lips and nipped at his lower lip with her teeth.

"I want you to put a babe in me" her teeth nipped at his lips again and Harwin's hand left Ayla's glutes momentarily "I want you to fill me with your seed and-" her sentence got caught in her throat and replaced with a gasp and a moan. Her hands fisted Harwin's shirt as Harwin's thick and hard cock slipped inside of her in a quick thrust.

Ayla's hips rocked back and Harwin's rocked upwards, their efforts meeting and resulting in heavy breaths and restraining grunts from Harwin and free and long moans of pleasure from Ayla. The sight of her full breasts bouncing under the soft silks of her nightgown and her head falling back at the pleasure drove Harwin mad.

His feet made leverage and he pounded upwards to Ayla's needy sex rapidly, as Ayla's hands left bruising scratches on his chest as she held on to whatever she could, Harwin's fingers dug into her waist pushing her down as he thrusted upwards.

Ayla's body trembled and she barely held herself up as the orgasm ripped through her, long and leaving her legs numb at the effort of keeping them bent at either side of her husband's unforgiving hips.

She felt her world turn as Harwin flipped her to the bed, now kneeling in between her legs and positioning his member to her pulsating middle. Without waiting for her to come down from her high, he slipped into her again and grabbed one of her legs, hooking his arm beneath it and pulling her leg up to meet his shoulder.

She felt the most open she'd ever felt, every inch of his cock touched a perfect spot, his soft grunts and sighs were music to her ears as much as her string of moans and wantonly mentions of his name. She felt free and relaxed on the bed and under the arms of her lover.

Under the spell of the peace and pleasure she felt in his arms and as her hands held onto his forearms as some kind of support she blurted out an I love you. The response from Harwin was to crash his lips with hers and make his hips snap faster, Ayla screamed in pleasure drowned by his lips, her back arched to meet his still clothed chest and Harwin's last efforts to make her wife reach other orgasm were quickly achieved when he kneeled back on his heels, placed both hands at her waist and pulled her off the bed, snapping his hips faster and faster until Ayla lost control of her body and Harwin of his, spilling his seed inside of her and her hips moving up and down on his cock, milking every last bit of him.

Ayla sat at the maester's chair as he poured his thoughts over the numbered days. She glanced at Harwin standing in the archway of the door with his arms crossed at his chest, his leg bounced in nervousness as he stared at the Maester.

"Today, you are four moons with child, my Lady"

Ayla wanted to reply with an angry 'I know', she didn't not need a reminder that it had taken her four months to conceive another child and then another four worrying and praying over it's health to see the pregnancy through. She held her tongue to allow the Maester to continue with his thoughts.

"In my experience and most recorded evidence over the years, there should not be a reason for this pregnancy to not come to full term after this month, the only reasons why it would be possible for you to loose the child would be of a physical nature" at the sight of Ayla's frown in wonder the Maester kept talking "direct hits to the midsection and back, a fall, horse riding. I beg for you carefulness"

"Of course" Ayla nodded, Harwin extended his hand to Ayla and she took it as she stood up.

"We will still have visits every two weeks, otherwise put a smile on your face, it'll do the babe well"

Ayla left the pleasantry of thanking the Maester to Harwin, she slipped past him and out the door, being met with Harwin later in a few strides to catch up with her.

"Put a smile on your face he says, luckily for him he'll never know what it's like to be ripped from the inside at the loss of a child" she spat angrily, her hand pressing at the base of her slowly rounding stomach "as if it were that easy"

When they reached the path that led to the office of the Hand at one side and the office of the Lord Commander in the opposite direction, only then Ayla stopped and looked up at Harwin.

"Oh, Harwin" she sighed, tendered at the sight of her husband running a hand over his eyes. She reached for him and rounded his shoulders with her arms. Harwin hugged her, his arms reached around her whole back and landed on her ribs, his face hid in her neck. Ayla rubbed his neck soothingly "I apologize if I'm a little pessimistic. I don't mean to bring you down with it" she pulled back and cupped his cheek, their foreheads meeting "you can be as happy and overjoyed and show it as much as you want"

"I want you to be it too"

Ayla kissed him tenderly.

"When we have our little one at arms I will be"

They shared another kiss, then before parting Harwin took Ayla's hands and kissed them.

As she walked to the office of the Hand, both kinds of thoughts battled in her mind. Ones about worried about seeing the pregnancy to it's end battled with the implications not seeing it to it's end knowing that she would never welcome another child if she did.

At the sight of her, Lord Lyonel asked firstly about their visit with the Maester. Ayla related that it seemed to be coming along well.

"Harwin was moved by the news, I'm still more on the frightful side"

"It's normal after what you've been through. But you should trust the words of the maesters"

Ayla kept her thoughts about the maesters to herself and changed the subject "how is the King?"

"Better, by the grace of the Gods. Though his health is on a spinning wheel, sometimes at the highest and sometimes at the lowest. For now I will not absent myself from the office of the Hand, but I will let you know when I would need you to take over" 

Ayla nodded and stared at Lord Lyonel, writing and signing things over his desk.

"I'm afraid I won't be of much help today after the visit, but I'll be better tomorrow" Ayla confessed, she could hardly think if anything else other than her babe.

"Understandable. You should go and rest" Ayla took the dismissal with a nod and walked from the office of the hand.

Instead of going to the quarters of the Lord Commander where they now resided, she headed to the gardens.

At the sight of her, the Princess walked briskly, as if she wasn't carrying the extra weight of her big stomach with her child threatening to be born at any moment.

"I'll have a table set up for us and you can tell me everything" she said, holding Ayla's hands in hers.

Once they were sitting, Ayla barely touched any of the food, she just drank tea and watched the Princess eat to it's entirely a bowl of candied lemons.

"I just can't bring myself to be happy about it. I'm fearful that one of this days I will wake up and loose it" the Princess gave her a sympathetic twist of her eyebrows "and this time will be worst than the last because I am farther along and will be damaged irreversibly"

"It will not be, it's not a certainty and you shouldn't speak as if it's something that will happen inevitably" Rhaenyra's hands search for Ayla's as she spoke. "The Gods wouldn't be so cruel"

"They can and they have been with me. Otherwise I wouldn't have had to wait five years to conceive a child knowing how much I want it, how much we want it" Ayla stared at their held hands "truth be told, the news about your child gave me strength enough to ask Harwin to try again"

The Princess smiled widely tendered at Ayla's words. She reached for her and her hand landed on her stomach.

"I, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, first of my name will personally seek the Gods in the clouds and far beyond and set them aflame with my dragon if they dare to take this child from you" she declared.

At night, as Ayla laid on the bed with a little more carefulness than she usually did, she was quickly enveloped by Harwin's arm around her middle and his lips came to her bump.

"How have you felt today?" He asked.

"Normal, thoughtful, though lacking appetite"

Harwin twisted his mouth in a scolding matter.

"I did eat, just haven't indulged much other than what was necessary"

Harwin pressed his hand over her bump and then a slow kiss, leaving his forehead on it.

Even over Ayla's distaste for the Gods, Harwin often prayed for the health of the babe to the Mother before going to bed. When he finished with his prayer he kissed her stomach again and lifted his eyes to hers.

"The Princess' labors are nearing. I do not wish for you to get into fights with people who speak ill of us"

"If they say them to my face I will" she quickly defended.

"Ayla, I'm begging you" she couldn't stand her husband's big and pleading eyes on her. She gave a defeated sigh and pressed her hand on top of his "If anything, point a finger at someone and I'll deal with it"

"You drain the fun out of everything" she complained.

"Just after the birth" he negotiated, his hand took hers and gave her a kiss "I'd missed seeing you like this" he admitted, his hand laying again on top of her stomach, his fingers rubbing lightly.

"I'd missed being like this" she followed "despite the pains that come with it, I very much like bearing your children"

"They are ours"

"Those two boys we have do not have a drop of my blood in them, your seed is much too strong"

"This one will"

Ayla turned her lips in a little scowl.

"I'd like my own personal army of Strong boys" Harwin smiled and kissed her stomach again.

The Princess closed her eyes and held both of her hands to the sides of her stomach, the chairs of the garden arrangements definitely did not help to make her comfortable during her pains.

"The pains have already started" she commented to Ayla. " The maesters predict the birth will happen this week"

"You will do well in it, Rhaenyra, it's nothing you haven't done two times before"

"That's not what I'm worried about, its the implications of the birth, they will show themselves even quicker than before"

"The Queen is surely going to bring up the matter to the King again" Ayla commented.

"She surely will" she lamented "and two times... It was excusable. Not it's undeniable"

Ayla pressed her lips tightly.

"What do think I should do to mitigate them?" the Princess asked, tilting her head to the side.

Ayla stared blankly at the Princess, her words stunned her and she didn't give her an answer quick enough making the Princess justify her request.

"My father has the Hand to advise him, by your own words the Queen has Larys Strong to advise her, who do I have? My husband is woefully blind to our troubles, the only other person whose advise I would trust I haven't seen in ten years" she complained "and you have been under the tutoring of the Hand for years as well, you must have learned"

"I have" Ayla wearily began. His hands held each other tightly "though I feel like I don't have all the information to properly advise you" Ayla saw the initial glint of disappointment in Rhaenyra's eyes, but she spoke quickly to revert it "the only advise I could give you would be to propose a marriage between your oldest, Prince Jacaerys, and your sister Haelena"

"They would never agree to such a thing"

"I beg to differ, out of his own accord the King will agree. The Queen might disagree at first, and the betrothal should be made official before the Queen's father becomes aware of it and he tries to dissuade her. I also believe that it's a good exit for your sister. Based on what you've told me, she's the only one of your half siblings with who you have a good relationship with. I believe she'll be better with your side of the family"

Rhaenyra pondered. It was expected of her to start making alliances with her sons, the boys had Targaryen blood and their options were limited to keep the bloodline pure.

She closed her eyes and pressed her hands at the base of her stomach.

"Perhaps we should head to your bedroom to rest" Ayla offered, seeing that the Princess was much too uncomfortable. As soon as her pains stopped, they walked arms linked to the Princess' quarters.

Harwin was walking down the corridor of the Keep when he saw the two Princes. He doubled back to double check if they were in fact Jace and Luke. He then rounded the castle figuring what their destination was and luckily came up in front of them. The boys halted at the interruption of their walk but relaxed when they realize it was only him.

"Where are you two headed without supervision?" He said sternly, the boys were far too familiarized with the Lord Commander to feel intimidated by him.

"Our mother is in labor"

taglist: @her-fandom-sanctum @evyiione @stitchattacks @grimistangel @mostlyskateboarding @mostclevermiss @agentstarkid @throughgoeshamilton

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Griffin Reborn (Jon Connington II) [Chapter 61]

"They will try to send out ravens," he told Black Balaq. "Watch the maester's tower. Here." He pointed to the map he had drawn in the mud of their campsite. "Bring down every bird that leaves the castle [Griffin's Roost]."

"This we do," replied the Summer Islander.

A third of Balaq's men used crossbows, another third the double-curved horn-and-sinew bows of the east. Better than these were the big yew longbows borne by the archers of Westerosi blood, and best of all were the great bows of goldenheart treasured by Black Balaq himself and his fifty Summer Islanders. Only a dragonbone bow could outrange one made of goldenheart.

There's no way all this goldenheart and dragonbone bow stuff is going nowhere.

+.+.+

It was over within minutes. Griff rode up the throat on a white courser beside Homeless Harry Strickland. As they neared the castle, he saw a third raven flap from the maester's tower, only to be feathered by Black Balaq himself. "No more messages," he told Ser Franklyn Flowers in the yard. The next thing to come flying from the maester's tower was the maester. The way his arms were flapping, he might have been mistaken for another bird.

They killed a maester! How dare they! Rude.

A man flying from a tower looking like a bird is very Bran.

+.+.+

And quick as that, Griffin's Roost was his again, and Jon Connington was once more a lord.

This is about to rival Janos Slynt for shortest reign ever.

Okay, maybe not that short.

+.+.+

But Connington had no intention of "letting them come." Griffin's Roost was strong but small, and so long as they sat here they would seem small as well. But there was another castle nearby, vastly larger and impregnable. Take that, and the realm will shake. 

Spoiler alert.

"Has no one told you?" Halden Halfmaester favored her with a smile thin and hard as a dagger cut. "Storm's End is ours. The Hand awaits you there." - Arianne II, TWOW

Stannis lost the Baratheon ancestral home. Beggar king!

+.+.+

Instead his steps led him up to the roof of the east tower, the tallest at Griffin's Roost. As he climbed he remembered past ascents—a hundred with his lord father, who liked to stand and look out over woods and crags and sea and know that all he saw belonged to House Connington, and one (only one!) with Rhaegar Targaryen. 

That's his writing, not mine.

I feel like I stepped into a fanfic.

+.+.+

Prince Rhaegar was returning from Dorne, and he and his escort had lingered here a fortnight. He was so young then, and I was younger. Boys, the both of us. At the welcoming feast, the prince had taken up his silver-stringed harp and played for them. A song of love and doom, Jon Connington recalled, and every woman in the hall was weeping when he put down the harp. Not the men, of course.

+.+.+

"Your father's lands are beautiful," Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he'd been had replied, "One day they will all be mine." As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.

Aww, and then Robert Baratheon came along and ruined it. ❤️

+.+.+

Griffin's Roost had been his, eventually, if only for a few short years. From here, Jon Connington had ruled broad lands extending many leagues to the west, north, and south, just as his father and his father's father had before him. But his father and his father's father had never lost their lands. He had. I rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell.

I can see I'm going to need a lot of these.

+.+.+

After the Battle of the Bells, when Aerys Targaryen had stripped him of his titles and sent him into exile in a mad fit of ingratitude and suspicion, the lands and lordship had remained within House Connington, passing to his cousin Ser Ronald, the man whom Jon had made his castellan when he went to King's Landing to attend Prince Rhaegar. Robert Baratheon had completed the destruction of the griffins after the war. Cousin Ronald was permitted to retain his castle and his head, but he lost his lordship, thereafter being merely the Knight of Griffin's Roost, and nine-tenths of his lands were taken from him and parceled out to neighbor lords who had supported Robert's claim.

Ronald Connington had died years before. The present Knight of Griffin's Roost, his son Ronnet, was said to be off at war in the riverlands. That was for the best. In Jon Connington's experience, men would fight for things they felt were theirs, even things they'd gained by theft.

Theft? A bit of a stretch there, buddy.

+.+.+

He did not relish the notion of celebrating his return by killing one of his own kin. Red Ronnet's sire had been quick to take advantage of his lord cousin's downfall, true, but his son had been a child at the time. Jon Connington did not even hate the late Ser Ronald as much as he might have. The fault was his.

I'm not understanding what Red Ronnet was supposed to do. Shouldn't Jon be happy the castle remained with House Connington?

Anyway, is he saying he would have killed his kin if Ronnet was there? Dang.

+.+.+

He had lost it all at Stoney Sept, in his arrogance.

Robert Baratheon had been hiding somewhere in the town, wounded and alone. Jon Connington had known that, and he had also known that Robert's head upon a spear would have put an end to the rebellion, then and there. 

This feels like revisionist history to me.

The full depth of King Aerys's madness was subsequently revealed in his depraved actions against Lord Stark, his heir, and their supporters after they demanded redress for Rhaegar's wrongs. Instead of granting them fair hearing, King Aerys had them brutally slain, then followed these murders by demanding that Lord Jon Arryn execute his former wards, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. Many now agree that the true start of Robert's Rebellion began with Lord Arryn's refusal and his courageous calling of his banners in the defense of justice. - The World of Ice and Fire

+.+.+

King Aerys had named him Hand and given him an army, and he meant to prove himself worthy of that trust, of Rhaegar's love. He would slay the rebel lord himself and carve a place out for himself in all the histories of the Seven Kingdoms.

+.+.+

And so he swept down on Stoney Sept, closed off the town, and began a search. His knights went house to house, smashed in every door, peered into every cellar. He had even sent men crawling through the sewers, yet somehow Robert still eluded him. 

Good job, always got to check the sewers in this story.

+.+.+

The townsfolk were hiding him. They moved him from one secret bolt-hole to the next, always one step ahead of the king's men. The whole town was a nest of traitors. At the end they had the usurper hidden in a brothel. What sort of king was that, who would hide behind the skirts of women?

Cry more.

+.+.+

For years afterward, Jon Connington told himself that he was not to blame, that he had done all that any man could do. His soldiers searched every hole and hovel, he offered pardons and rewards, he took hostages and hung them in crow cages and swore that they would have neither food nor drink until Robert was delivered to him. All to no avail. "Tywin Lannister himself could have done no more," he had insisted one night to Blackheart, during his first year of exile.

"There is where you're wrong," Myles Toyne had replied. "Lord Tywin would not have bothered with a search. He would have burned that town and every living creature in it. Men and boys, babes at the breast, noble knights and holy septons, pigs and whores, rats and rebels, he would have burned them all. When the fires guttered out and only ash and cinders remained, he would have sent his men in to find the bones of Robert Baratheon. Later, when Stark and Tully turned up with their host, he would have offered pardons to the both of them, and they would have accepted and turned for home with their tails between their legs."

And just like that, one of the dumbest theories to ever hit this fandom is born.

Jon Connington will not be burning down King's Landing, and anyone who believes he will needs a parent or guardian to get them through life.

Later, when Stark and Tully turned up with their host, he would have offered pardons to the both of them, and they would have accepted and turned for home with their tails between their legs.

I don't know about that.

+.+.+

He was not wrong, Jon Connington reflected, leaning on the battlements of his forebears. I wanted the glory of slaying Robert in single combat, and I did not want the name of butcher. So Robert escaped me and cut down Rhaegar on the Trident. "I failed the father," he said, "but I will not fail the son."

Oh, but you will.

+.+.+

Though Ser Ronnet was indeed off north somewhere with Jaime Lannister, Griffin's Roost was not quite bereft of griffins. Amongst the prisoners were Ronnet's younger brother Raymund, his sister Alynne, and his natural son, a fierce red-haired boy they called Ronald Storm. All would make for useful hostages if and when Red Ronnet should return to try and take back the castle that his father had stolen. Connington ordered them confined to the west tower, under guard. The girl began to cry at that, and the bastard boy tried to bite the spearman closest to him. "Stop it, the both of you," he snapped at them. "No harm will come to any of you unless Red Ronnet proves an utter fool."

Using your own family as hostages feels pretty sinister to me.

+.+.+

He brought them forward one by one, asked each man his name, then bid them kneel and swear him their allegiance. It all went swiftly. The soldiers of the garrison—only four had survived the attack, the old serjeant and three boys—laid their swords at his feet. No one balked. No one died.

Seems to me many have died.

+.+.+

The chaos that would inevitably have delayed such a march with a hastily assembled host of household knights and local levies had been nowhere in evidence. These were the heirs of Bittersteel, and discipline was mother's milk to them.

"By this time on the morrow we ought to hold three castles," he said. The force that had taken Griffin's Roost represented a quarter of their available strength; Ser Tristan Rivers had set off simultaneously for the seat of House Morrigen at Crow's Nest, and Laswell Peake for Rain House, the stronghold of the Wyldes, each with a force of comparable size. 

Sorry, I'm slow. It just occurred to me that Davos Seaworth's family is surrounded.

Davos had fathered seven sons himself, and lost four on the Blackwater. He knew he would do whatever gods or men required of him to protect the other three. Steffon and Stannis were thousands of leagues from the fighting and safe from harm, but Devan was at Castle Black, a squire to the king. - Davos II, ADWD

Oopsies. 

(Yay, map!) Yellow means the Golden Company holds it.

I don't know where House Seaworth's seat is, but I'm going to guess it's currently occupied.

+.+.+

"We still have too few horses."

"And no elephants," the Halfmaester reminded him. Not one of the great cogs carrying the elephants had turned up yet. They had last seen them at Lys, before the storm that had scattered half the fleet. "Horses can be found in Westeros. Elephants—"

"—do not matter." The great beasts would be useful in a pitched battle, no doubt, but it would be some time before they had the strength to face their foes in the field. 

+.+.+

"The Lannisters make enemies easily but seem to have a harder time keeping friends. Their alliance with the Tyrells is fraying, to judge from what I read here. Queen Cersei and Queen Margaery are fighting over the little king like two bitches with a chicken bone, and both have been accused of treason and debauchery. Mace Tyrell has abandoned his siege of Storm's End to march back to King's Landing and save his daughter, leaving only a token force behind to keep Stannis's men penned up inside the castle."

Connington sat. "Tell me more."

"In the north the Lannisters are relying on the Boltons and in the riverlands upon the Freys, both houses long renowned for treachery and cruelty. Lord Stannis Baratheon remains in open rebellion and the ironborn of the islands have raised up a king as well. No one ever seems to mention the Vale, which suggests to me that the Arryns have taken no part in any of this."

Almost feels like we're saving them for something big!

+.+.+

"And Dorne?" The Vale was far away; Dorne was close.

"Prince Doran's younger son has been betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon, which would suggest that the Dornishmen have thrown in with House Lannister, but they have an army in the Boneway and another in the Prince's Pass, just waiting …"

"Waiting." He frowned. "For what?" Without Daenerys and her dragons, Dorne was central to their hopes. "Write Sunspear. Doran Martell must know that his sister's son is still alive and has come home to claim his father's throne."

For Myrcella to be killed.

He's right, the Vale is far away. It's right beside the north, sitting there being idle, while we all wait for a Baratheon to win back Winterfell.

+.+.+

"But no dragons," said Jon Connington, "so to win these allies to our cause, we must needs have something to offer them."

"Gold and land are the traditional incentives."

"Would that we had either. Promises of land and promises of gold may suffice for some, but Strickland and his men will expect first claim on the choicest fields and castles, those that were taken from their forebears when they fled into exile. No."

"My lord does have one prize to offer," Haldon Halfmaester pointed out. "Prince Aegon's hand. A marriage alliance, to bring some great House to our banners."

One might ask themselves why the author is suddenly opening the door to the possibility of Aegon marrying someone other than Daenerys. That wasn't the plan when they came to Westeros.

Do you see how marriage alliance is an important component in war? (Unless you are Jon Snow or Sansa Stark in S6 - then it's unnecessary.)

+.+.+

A bride for our bright prince. Jon Connington remembered Prince Rhaegar's wedding all too well. Elia was never worthy of him. She was frail and sickly from the first, and childbirth only left her weaker. After the birth of Princess Rhaenys, her mother had been bedridden for half a year, and Prince Aegon's birth had almost been the death of her. She would bear no more children, the maesters told Prince Rhaegar afterward.

"Daenerys Targaryen may yet come home one day," Connington told the Halfmaester. "Aegon must be free to marry her."

Shut the fuck up, pebble.

+.+.+

"My lord knows best," said Haldon. "In that case, we might consider offering potential friends a lesser prize."

"What would you suggest?"

"You. You are unwed. A great lord, still virile, with no heirs except these cousins we have just now dispossessed, the scion of an ancient House with a fine stout castle and wide, rich lands that will no doubt be restored and perhaps expanded by a grateful king, once we have triumphed. You have a name as a warrior, and as King Aegon's Hand you will speak with his voice and rule this realm in all but name. I would think that many an ambitious lord might be eager to wed his daughter to such a man. Even, perhaps, the prince of Dorne."

Isn't it fun how we're talking about Arianne Martell marrying Jon Connington right after we touched on potential marriage alliances for Aegon VI Targaryen.

+.+.+

Jon Connington's answer was a long cold stare. There were times when the Halfmaester vexed him almost as much as that dwarf had. "I think not." Death is creeping up my arm. No man must ever know, nor any wife.

Yeah, it's definitely the greyscale, and not the fact that you're

+.+.+

When the food and wine had been brought up, he barred the door, emptied the jug into a bowl, and soaked his hand in it. Vinegar soaks and vinegar baths were the treatment Lady Lemore had prescribed for the dwarf, when she feared he might have greyscale, but asking for a jug of vinegar each morning would give the game away. Wine would need to serve, though he saw no sense in wasting a good vintage. The nails on all four fingers were black now, though not yet on his thumb. On the middle finger, the grey had crept up past the second knuckle. I should hack them off, he thought, but how would I explain two missing fingers? He dare not let the greyscale become known. Queer as it seemed, men who would cheerfully face battle and risk death to rescue a companion would abandon that same companion in a heartbeat if he were known to have greyscale. I should have let the damned dwarf drown.

Is this guy serious? No shit they prefer battle over sharing breakfast with patient zero.

Stormlander Hand of the King, chopping off his fingers. Davos things.

+.+.+

"Word's reached the camp from Marq Mandrake. The Volantenes put him ashore on what turned out to be Estermont, with close to five hundred men. He's taken Greenstone."

You might remember Sylva Santagar, friend of Arianne Martell, was sent to Estermont to marry Lord Eldon as punishment for the queenmaker plot.

Connections!

+.+.+

"I'll wager you that we've got lads scattered all over half the bloody Stepstones too."

"With my elephants," Harry Strickland said, in a mournful tone. He missed his elephants, did Homeless Harry.

+.+.+

Even before they had sailed from Volon Therys, he had instructed his captains to show no banners during these first attacks—not Prince Aegon's three-headed dragon, nor his own griffins, nor the skulls and golden battle standards of the company. Let the Lannisters suspect Stannis Baratheon, pirates from the Stepstones, outlaws out of the woods, or whoever else they cared to blame. If the reports that reached King's Landing were confused and contradictory, so much the better. 

Banner Watch 2023 starts now.

A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. - Daenerys IV, ACOK

+.+.+

"As you command, my lord. House Estermont has blood ties to both kings, as it happens. Good hostages."

"Good ransoms," said Homeless Harry, happily.

Have they not heard about Tommen?

Laughing at the thought of Stannis Baratheon caring about the Estermonts.

+.+.+

"It is time we sent for Prince Aegon as well," Lord Jon announced. "He will be safer here behind the walls of Griffin's Roost than back at camp." "I'll send a rider," said Franklyn Flowers, "but the lad won't much like the idea of staying safe, I tell you that. He wants to be in the thick o' things."

So did we all at his age, Lord Jon thought, remembering.

For sure, Aegon thrives in the thick of the action.

The broken bone was speckled with brown blood, but still he lurched forward, reaching for Young Griff. His hand was grey and stiff, but blood oozed between his knuckles as he tried to close his fingers to grasp. The boy stood staring, as still as if he too were made of stone. His hand was on his sword hilt, but he seemed to have forgotten why. - Tyrion V, ADWD

+.+.+

"Has the time come to raise his banner?" asked Pease.

Banner Watch 2023 continues.

I'm sorry, I have a difficult time envisioning the smallfolk flocking to Aegon and his dragon banners. That goes against everything I've learned about the smallfolk.

"Still," she said, "the common people are waiting for him. Magister Illyrio says they are sewing dragon banners and praying for Viserys to return from across the narrow sea to free them."

"The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends," Ser Jorah told her. "It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace." He gave a shrug. "They never are." - Daenerys III, AGOT

Not only that, we get a preview of how Aegon and the Golden Company are being received in the stormlands.

"No one's been doing any raping," insisted Young John Mudd. "Connington won’t have that. We follow orders."

Chain nodded. "Some girls was persuaded, might be."

"The same way our smallfolk were persuaded to give you all their crops. Melons or maidenheads, it's all the same to your sort. If you want it, you take it." Lady Mertyns turned to Arianne. "If you should see this Lord Connington, you tell him that I knew his mother, and she would be ashamed." - Arianne II, TWOW

That's what I would expect.

+.+.+

"Above all else, we must have Doran Martell."

"Small chance of that," said Strickland. "The Dornishman is scared of his own shadow. Not what you call daring."

No more than you. "Prince Doran is a cautious man, that's true. He will never join us unless he is convinced that we will win. So to persuade him we must show our strength."

You're in luck, he's going to be desperate. Or dead.

+.+.+

The prince arrived to join them four days later, riding at the head of a column of a hundred horse, with three elephants lumbering in his rear. Lady Lemore was with him, garbed once more in the white robes of a septa. Before them went Ser Rolly Duckfield, a snow-white cloak streaming from his shoulders.

A solid man, and true, Connington thought as he watched Duck dismount, but not worthy of the Kingsguard. He had tried his best to dissuade the prince from giving Duckfield that cloak, pointing out that the honor might best be held in reserve for warriors of greater renown whose fealty would add luster to their cause, and the younger sons of great lords whose support they would need in the coming struggle, but the boy would not be moved. "Duck will die for me if need be," he had said, "and that's all I require in my Kingsguard. The Kingslayer was a warrior of great renown, and the son of a great lord as well."

At least I convinced him to leave the other six slots open, else Duck might have six ducklings trailing after him, each more blindingly adequate than the last.

You're the most mid Hand of the King ever, sit down.

We've hit a big obstacle with the 'Ashara Dayne is Septa Lemore' theory. Jon Connington continues to refer to her as Lemore in his internal monologue, despite everyone shedding their secret identities.

Connington has met Ashara Dayne.

The crannogman saw a maid with laughing purple eyes dance with a white sword, a red snake, and the lord of griffins, and lastly with the quiet wolf . . . but only after the wild wolf spoke to her on behalf of a brother too shy to leave his bench. - Bran II, ASOS

+.+.+

Prince Aegon Targaryen was not near as biddable as the boy Young Griff had been, however. The better part of an hour had passed before he finally turned up in the solar, with Duck at his side. "Lord Connington," he said, "I like your castle."

"Your father's lands are beautiful," he said. His silvery hair was blowing in the wind, and his eyes were a deep purple, darker than this boy's.

+.+.+

"We've been talking with Strickland and Flowers. They told us about this attack on Storm's End that you're planning."

Jon Connington did not let his fury show. "And did Homeless Harry try to persuade you to delay it?"

"He did, actually," the prince said, "but I won't. Harry's an old maid, isn't he? You have the right of it, my lord. I want the attack to go ahead … with one change. I mean to lead it."

He's like Robb Stark, only not as fearless, cunning, or as good of a swordsman or battle commander.

At least this is better than him hanging back in camp while his sellsword army takes the stormlands.

Final thoughts:

There goes another POV. Nothing of value was lost.

George is such a troll, I have a feeling 'JON' will appear towards the beginning of TWOW, but it will be Connington instead of Snow.

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[isefyres-archive]

𝕹𝖊𝖜 𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖘 𝕬𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖉:

Princess Viserra Targaryen was the tenth-born child of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen. Viserra was a vain girl. Once, when a young squire called her a goddess, she simply agreed with him. According to Alysanne, Viserra desired to become a queen, and therefore aimed to marry her brother Baelon, not for love but for ambition. After the death of their sister Alyssa, one night, she slipped past Baelon's guards and climbed naked into his bed, but Baelon sent the drunk girl away when he arrived. Jaehaerys Era.

Princess Daenerys Targaryen was the daughter of Aegon IV Targaryen and Naerys Targaryen, and the younger sister of King Daeron II Targaryen. Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aerys II Targaryen and Rhaella Targaryen, was named after her. It was said that Daenerys loved her half-brother Daemon Blackfyre, and that the main reason Daemon rose in rebellion against Daeron was that Daenerys was denied to him. Blackfyre era.

Daemon I Blackfyre, born Daemon Waters, was the bastard son of Princess Daena Targaryen and King Aegon IV Targaryen. Daemon founded House Blackfyre, named after the Targaryen Valyrian steel sword. He fought against his trueborn half-brother, King Daeron II Targaryen, for the Iron Throne in the First Blackfyre Rebellion. Daemon's supporters would later claim that Daemon had desired to marry his younger half-sister, Daenerys, instead and that King Aegon, who desired the marriage alliance to Tyrosh, had promised Daemon that he could have more than one wife. Blackfyre Era.

Shiera Seastar was the last of the Great Bastards of King Aegon IV Targaryen, born to his last mistress, Serenei of Lys. The known lover of Brynden Rivers, she is said to have been the most beautiful woman of the Seven Kingdoms. Shiera was renowned as a beauty and seductress. Shiera was a great reader, even at an early age, spoke many languages, and maintained a large and arcane library. She also was reputed to share her mother Serenei's skill in the dark arts. There were rumors she bathed in blood to retain her beauty. Blackfyre Era.

Lady Ryla Ryswell, niece of Rodrick Ryswell, head of House Ryswell. The Ryswells rule the Rills, the extensive area between the barrowlands, the Stony Shore, and Blazewater Bay in the north. With all of Rodrick's sons quarring between each other, some claim the rumor Ryla is actually a secret daughter of Rodrick and remains loyal of House Stark. She flee to Bear Island with their best horses and aided in the Battle of the Bastards. OC. Song Era.

Lord Durran Wensington. House Wensington is a noble house from the stormlands, they are a cadet house of House Baratheon foundeed by a bastard during the Age of Heroes. Durran remains in the Stormlands upong the danger of hearing the news Griffin's Roost had been taken by Lord Connington and a Targaryen "impostor". By law of succession, unlike Stannis, he believes the throne should go to Myrcella if Stannis were to die and if all Baratheons perished, it would go to the Wensington. OC, Song Era.

Lord Garth Oldflowers, House Oldflowers is a noble house from the Reach. Their sigil - and the "Flowers" part of their name - hint that the Oldflowers may descend from a bastard of House Gardener. The House holds resentment toward house Tyrell for sieging power upon the Conquest and allying themselves with the Conqueror. Garth now travels to meet with either the Dragon Queen or Aegon Targaryen, promising their armies and secrets of Highgarden if the castle and lands are returned to them. OC, Song Era.

Lady Gyllian Oldflowers, Garth's younger sister, she was send to Highgarden to assist Margaery Tyrell but was left to return to Old Reach, their seat after she left for King's Landing. Gyllian was once promised to Prince Trystanne when she was a child, however, the match was dismissed once Princess Myrcella was send to Dorne. Gyllian does not hold as much of a grudge against the Tyrells but does agree that they present themselves to be one way when their past reveal others. Gyllian admires Florys the Fox and her sensuality and freedom and aims to be like her. OC, Song Era.

[anepotter]

“Proud, for a certainty. Even arrogant. A faithful friend to Rhaegar, but prickly with others.”

ASOIAF characters: Jon Connington, Griff

[goodqueenaly]

When exactly do you think Tyrion made his decision to try and separate Aegon VI and Daenerys, rather than trying to gain the dragons through Aegon's potential marriage? And why? After all, Illyrio and Varys seem to have (however foolishly) made a role for him in their conspiracy. Even if he doesn't believe Aegon's legitimate, why throw away his spot there to go for something completely uncertain with Daenerys? ...All Tyrion wants at this point is vengeance, and maybe Casterly Rock. Doesn't he stand a better chance of getting both by allying with Aegon, helping him either woo Daenerys or take the throne with sage advice, and then betraying him later if need be? If Aegon the VI "took the bait" like he hoped, how was he planning to get to Daenerys and prove his worth to her? What would he do if Ser Jorah hadn't abducted him

A couple things.

Number one, Tyrion was not trying to leave Aegon immediately after giving this advice. Indeed, in "Tyrion VII" ADWD Tyrion specifically approves of Jorah's lodging at the Merchant's House (following his capture by Jorah) because “[s]oon or late the Shy Maid must reach Volantis. This was the city’s biggest inn, first choice for shippers, captains, and merchantmen ... Let Griff turn up here with Duck and Haldon, and he would be free again soon enough”, while in “Tyrion XI” he thinks that “[b]y now Griff and Duck and Haldon Halfmaester should be in Westeros with their young prince” and ruefully reminds himself that “I should be with them … [sic] but no, I had to have a whore”. Tyrion also didn't necessarily expect his advice to be taken; in fact, when he hears from Jorah that Connington has hired the Golden Company to sail west immediately, he's frankly shocked, wondering if "the pretty princeling [had] swallowed the bait ... [t] urned them west instead of east, abandoning his hopes of wedding Queen Daenerys" and thinks "[a]bandoning the dragons … [sic] would Griff allow that?". So far from "throw[ing] away his spot" with Aegon to "go for something completely uncertain with Daenerys", Tyrion was fully expecting to stay with Aegon and was giving advice that at the same time he suspected might not be followed, at least if Connington had anything to say a.

Which is not to say that Tyrion's advice was completely illogical - bad in the long run for Aegon, certainly, but not illogical. Tyrion's not wrong that the Baratheon-Lannister regime is little loved outside those who specifically benefit from it being in power, and he's certainly not wrong that Cersei is doing just about everything to undermine what small portion of loyalty remains (especially concerning "all of the alliances that my lord father built so carefully" - Tyrion would howl with laughter to see how right he was about Cersei's paranoia regarding the Tyrells). Moreover, "Arianne II" TWOW has proven Tyrion right that if Aegon were to "[l]and and raise [his] banners ... men [would] flock to [his] cause. Lords great and small, and smallfolk too"; Arianne hears via Joss Hood that "half a hundred men and boys from the Weeping Town had set off north to join Jon Connington at Griffin’s Roost, including young Ser Addam, old Lord Whitehead’s son and heir" (and of course, Arianne is likely soon to throw Dorne's lot in with him). It's not that Tyrion's advice was designed to sabotage Aegon at the outset - merely to steer him away from Daenerys and to Westeros.

More to the point, this was good advice for Tyrion's goals. Tyrion wanted (and wants) to destroy the family that so badly hurt him, and Aegon going west immediately would have both toppled the Baratheon-Lannister (emphasis on Lannister) regime and guaranteed the new, Targaryen regime's gratitude toward him, Tyrion, with the promise of being Lord of Casterly Rock in truth as well as name and claim. The last thing Tyrion needed in that moment was weeks or months of negotiations between Aegon's faction and Daenerys' about the possibility of marriage between the two (especially if, as a student of history, Tyrion might have doubted Daenerys' willingness to accept a marriage to a boy with purportedly a far better claim to a throne that had never fully accepted a ruling woman). And if Daenerys happened to show up later? Well, his own ancestor Loren Lannister had successfully kept his castle and holdings after bending the knee to a Targaryen monarch three centuries prior; if once Visenya had "thanked the gods that King Loren rode forth to face her brother Aegon on the Field of Fire, for if he had remained within the Rock, even dragonflame would not have daunted him", perhaps Tyrion was hoping that, once ensconced in Casterly Rock, he could negotiate an amicable surrender from a position of strength. So sad if Aegon should fall before Daenerys, Alexa play Despacito, but he, Tyrion, would rest inside the Rock until the winner came to demand his fealty.

If Tyrion is now trying to prove his worth to Daenerys - and I think he will, and indeed will have to - it's because he doesn't have another option. As of “Tyrion II” TWOW, the Second Sons have switched alliances (again) and now support Daenerys once more; his informal position of authority among the company's officers I think gives him good odds to meet Daenerys after the dust has settled (and she returns, of course). Daenerys now represents Tyrion's best chance to go back to Westeros and topple the Lannisters there (f Aegon hasn't already helpfully done the latter for him, and Daenerys), so this is the path I think he's going to take.