#Tyrell Belle

[amoratearte]

🏵️Tyrell Week Day 3— relationships

snowrose for @highgardenart #HouseTyrellWeek2024

beauty and the beast 🥀

[pulpsandcomics2]

Disney princesses as Game of Thrones characters

[spurstwt]

[partydown]

Cast of Party Down at the season 3 premiere

[novaursa]

Chasing the Inferno

- Summary:  It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand. 

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you. 

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part two

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 8k

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Cregan Stark finds himself with much waiting to be done. Waiting for different ravens to be sent, and then for the replies to return. Waiting for the arrival of lords whom had been summoned to King’s Landing, and for the answer of whether or not the war will continue. He seeks justice to be distributed to all those whom it should fall upon: whether they had been allies of Rhaenyra or Aegon, all parties who acted dishonorably within the conflict ought to face their rightful punishment. But what the Lord of Winterfell does not find himself waiting upon is the Lady Tyrell.

The very morning after their conversation in the gardens, Cregan pushes open the door of what had once been the small council’s meeting chambers. It has been turned into a temporary headquarters for the Northern lords who are holding court, and for the additional powers at play. While the other lords file out, discussing in hushed and heavy whispers amongst themselves about the political matters that weighed their minds, Cregan pauses.

He is the last to leave the room, pulling the heavy wooden door behind him, and his eyes drift to the girl lingering in the corner of the hall. She curtsies to a pair of lords who look up to see her, and the two men pause their conversation briefly as their eyes rest upon her, hastily bowing in return. But when her eyes meet Cregan’s, they remind him more of a hawk’s than a girl’s. As if they have landed on a mouse she intends to hunt for supper.

But just as it had been the day before, Cregan wonders if he imagined it. As she walks up to him, the expression on her face is nothing short of saccharine. She folds her hands delicately across the front of her gown – today she wears a shade of blue similar to the sky on the clearest day, with white lace at her collar and around her sleeves. There is gold silk embroidered about her waist in twisting florals, with small pink rosettes weaved in between. The dress is reminiscent of others Cregan has seen her wear, but perhaps he thinks so because of its signature plunging neckline.

“A moment of your time, Lord Stark?” Lady Tyrell’s voice floats in the air between them as clear and bright as a morning bell as she approaches. Birds can be heard chirping from a nearby open window. The sun has only just settled in the sky, hanging lazily after its absence the day before due to the storm that had washed in overnight.

Cregan is in a rather poor mood after the lack of developments from the morning meeting, but offers her a dip of his head. He stands before her, chin downturned to look her in the eyes, his own eyes narrowing a moment.

“Of course, my lady.” His tone is gruff yet not altogether unfriendly. It has that detached Northern politeness that she has come to associate with him. There is the ghost of tension about his shoulders, but she cannot discern whether it is from the conversation Cregan had just taken part in, or if he simply lived his entire life like there were rocks upon him.

“It is the court, my lord,” Lady Tyrell begins, sighing quite deeply in a breath that uses her entire upper body. She clasps her hands together tighter, shaking her head gingerly. A few of her loose curls bounce at the movement, and Cregan’s eyes drift to the sides of her face as they do. She takes a step forward softly, clearing intending Cregan to begin walking alongside her.

Cregan has been starving for the last hour. He wants to return to his chambers to break his fast with sausage and poached eggs and whatever else could be found.

He follows her.

The castle is alive and bustling at the early hour, maids rushing about with baskets of fresh linen and pages scurrying off with errands from their lords. A few of them cast their eyes to Lady Tyrell, who smiles at them sweetly. Most return the look with soft smiles of their own. Cregan wonders how many of them she knows personally.

“As I was saying, the state of the court has been weighing heavily upon my thoughts,” She continues, a look of concern once again settling upon her features. Her skirts rustle softly as she walks, and her heels click on the cold stone floor of the hall. Daylight streams in through the open courtyard that they walk past. “You see, the lords and ladies grow restless. What with their being confined to the capital.”

The girl presents the matter of concern slowly, tenderly. As if she wishes to plead her case yet not offend. She gazes up at Cregan after she speaks, meeting his stern look with a flutter of her wispy lashes. Her lips seem to form the perfect subtle pout as she finishes her sentence, and her eyebrows have knitted together to express gentle worry.

Cregan’s jaw tenses the tiniest bit as he hears her words. He is not ignorant enough to think that the nobles enjoy being forced to remain at King’s Landing, but there is not that he can do to remedy it until it is decided whether or not the war will continue, and justice is dispensed.

“Until the investigations and trials are concluded, no one can be permitted to leave.” There is a sense of stoic absoluteness to his tone, as if the matter being up for debate is not even a fathomable thought. His eyes narrow as he peers into hers, searching for a hint of annoyance or frustration. Cregan finds only a gentle amiableness that he believes better suits a deer than a girl.

“A prudent choice, my lord,” Lady Tyrell acquiesces with a dip of her head, her eyes falling to the floor in front of her demurely. Her hands are still folded over top of her lower stomach as the two make their way through the castle. “It is only…discontent often takes root in the gardens of boredom.”

Her eyebrows raise as the words float between them, remaining higher as she casts her gaze still to the stone floor beneath them. To make her words seem like a sad yet true observation. Cregan’s eyebrows draw lower, twitching a bit at her resigned wisdom.

The Lord of Winterfell stops, the last of his heavy steps echoing in the hall. The girl turns around after a moment, facing him. When her eyes lift to meet his, they hold that same softness she has been offering him since she arrived. They observe each other for a moment, before Cregan opens his lips to speak. Warning is dense in his tone as his gaze darkens, the serious look on his face becoming impossibly sterner.

“You take issue with the way I hold this court, then?” It is a quiet phrase yet so heavy when wrapped in his thick Northern pronunciation. Cregan does not need this girl commenting upon the way he has taken and managed the court since arriving; he has more important matters to worry about than a few discontent lords and ladies who whisper scathing things behind open fans and palms.

With the grace of a dancer, she takes the sides of her skirts in between her forefingers and thumbs and draws them upward. Her chin lowers gently, her gaze dropping so Cregan can only see her lashes. She lowers herself into a curtsy, her center of balance remaining perfectly overtop her left leg as her right one slides outward elegantly. Her back is as straight and tight as a drawn bow. 

“I would never presume to, Lord Stark,” Mellifluous and humble, the words drip from her lips as drops of honey from a hive. “I would only suggest, as someone who believes in your cause, that there might be a better alternative that would keep them amused and lift some of the weight from your shoulders.” 

As Lady Tyrell draws herself upright, Cregan feels a dry swallow in his throat at the slow, sensual motion. She does not miss it. Her humble expression melts into a candied smile.

“Of course, should my lord not wish to hear it, I will hardly take offense.” The girl tells him with a sheepish, almost embarrassed cadence, her head tilting down as her shoulders lower. She releases her skirts, the embroidered fabrics flowing down to the floor in waves of silks and satins.

Cregan looks to the side for a moment, his eyes falling to the open courtyard next to the hall. When he turns his head back to face her, his eyes downcast as he finds the words, the softest sound of breath can be heard before he speaks and raises his gaze.

“You have spent much time here at court, Lady Tyrell. You understand it much better than I. I will not be too prideful to hear your counsel.” Cregan retains the gruff quality of his speech, but there is a note of wary respect in the words. He lowers his chin to look at her directly, his head moving slightly as he speaks.

She does her best to not glow with the amusement of such a small yet important victory. Instead, she lowers her gaze again, nodding elegantly. 

“I am honored by your ear, my lord.” There is a pleased rhythm to her words. She does, however, make the mistake of looking up again to note the way the sunlight from the open courtyard next to the grey hall has filtered in just enough that the edges of Cregan’s red hair have caught the light and appear as gold as the embroidery on her dress. It additionally falls upon his broad shoulders and his left arm, which her eyes do, regrettably, land upon for a heartbeat.

One of the maids hurries by, giving both Cregan and Lady Tyrell a rushed curtsy. As the maid’s steps echo down the hall, she gestures for Cregan to continue to walk with her. They maintain a distance of expected propriety between them as they continue, making it rather hard to communicate in a softer tone.

“You have a great many problems that have fallen into your lap, Lord Stark,” She points out with a languid gesture of her arm, her hand hanging elegantly before them for a brief moment. “Least important of all the boredom of the nobles. And yet,” A deep breath is taken from her chest. “It is still an issue, no matter how miniscule.” Her head moves with each fragment of her words, indicating how seriously she takes the problem.

Cregan’s strides beside her are long and heavy, but slower than they had been the day before, in the garden. As if he had noticed that she had been taking larger steps to try and match him. 

Lady Tyrell’s hair bounces enticingly with each phrase and movement, the loose curls and waves that had escaped being swept up into the pinned arrangement that adorned the top of her head free to move about as they pleased. Cregan’s eyes have once again begun wandering. 

“But you are quite fortunate in that it is rather easy to provide them with entertainment.” Her reassurance is offered quite gently, with a sage nod. “Why, anything as simple as a feast serves the purpose quite well. Give them an opportunity to bring out their finest silks and jewels, with the promise of wine and meats and what they crave most: gossip.” 

They turn a corner, Cregan nearly running into a squire who is unable to see due to the amount of armor he is carrying in his arms. He wonders with a flash of irritation just how many people are employed in the castle; there is no shortage of servants running about even at this early hour of the day.

At Lady Tyrell’s words, a dry look wrenches its way onto Cregan’s face while he considers her proposal. The last thing he wants to do at this moment is to oversee the planning of any sort of event, nor did he have the time to spare for it. With a heavy sigh, his brows draw closer.

“I haven’t the time to spare for organizing a feast, my lady.” His words are curt, but he does attempt to soften them, not wanting to offend her.

Lady Tyrell is not offended by him. She simply thinks him rather foolish. There is not a hint of this on her face as she quickly gazes up at him with shock, her loose curls flying as she shakes her head with quick worry.

“Oh, no, my lord, that was not the implication at all,” The correction comes with a soft, apologetic smile and lift of her shoulders, causing her collarbone to catch the light from a nearby window. She holds his gaze steadily. “It was an offer of my services. I have seen many a feast organized here; I could have it arranged by nightfall this very evening.”

When they reach the large main staircase of the castle, they come to another pause. Cregan looks down at her with thinly veiled disbelief as she blinks up at him.

“You would do that?” He cannot help the suspicion sneaking into the corners of his voice. She is volunteering her time to assist Cregan with an issue that did not truly concern her, no matter how worriedly she had acted when she’d raised the matter to his attention. Yet he could not discern any malicious intent, save for her using this an as opportunity to vie for his favor. This, she seems to want greatly, yet Cregan still does not know to what end.

“If it should be of assistance to you, it would be my honor.” Lady Tyrell speaks with gracious acceptance, delicate and poised as she stands before him. Closer, this time, than she had been when they’d stopped before. Cregan can smell the lingering of rose water and some other floral oils. He considers her words, thoughts rolling over them like marbles in a hand.

“Do as you wish, Lady Tyrell. If you can ease the daggers in their eyes, I will be all the more grateful for it.” Cregan’s sigh is weary with exhaustion, and the pressures that only seemed to be added each and every day that is spent at King’s Landing. 

A sparkle glimmers in her eyes.

“I will see to it at once then.” She bids him farewell with a soft smile, and the scent of her perfume drifts over to him as her hair and skirts fan out in a delicate cloud with her turn when she hurries off. His eyes close briefly as he inhales it.

It is with great haste that Lady Tyrell begins her planning for the feast that evening. She gathers all her handmaidens and maids to assist with various messages she needs sent to those who are to be involved in the preparations, as well as to contact other staff to invite all of the lords and ladies who ought to be there. The information mill that is comprised of servants proves quite useful in this instance, and while she would usually take it upon herself to handwrite every invitation, the girl wishes her involvement in this endeavor to be kept quiet yet not secret for now. 

House Tyrell had not spent too much gold during the war, which resulted in her having quite a large resource pool to dip into to convince florists and musicians to cancel their previously scheduled arrangements for that evening and offer their presence in The Queen's Ballroom. Although smaller in size than the two large halls, the room need only host the nobles currently being restricted to the castle. She prefers it, anyhow; the way the candlelight catches against the large mirrors that comprise the walls of the room provides a magical quality to the ambience of any gathering. It makes the overseeing of the decoration a much more manageable task, which would reflect positively on her in the end.

She begins with a visit to the Kitchen Keep, discussing with the chefs and pâtissiers as to what dishes could be made and served on such short notice. They whisper in low, worried tones amongst each other, deep frowns and nods as they page through thick tomes of recipes. Lady Tyrell waits with her hands folded in front of her and a pleasant smile on her face, willing her eye not to twitch at the irritation of having to stand so long in the kitchens when there are other matters to be attending to.

The kitchen staff propose a few different options to her, and after providing a gentle suggestion of her own and more gold to run to the markets with, a menu is agreed upon for the night. When the kitchen door swings closed behind her, she pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a sharp sigh that she has been holding back for some time.

Her next stop is to ensure that the correct dinnerware is being brought out to the ballroom – her head whips around with an unladylike speed as she watches in horror as a maid begins bringing the plateware with the green decorative motifs down the hall. As Lady Tyrell rushes back down the hall to catch the girl, another brief flash of frustration at the foolishness of the choice flits through her mind but there is nothing but sweet concern in her eyes as she recommends gingerly that the plates of a more well-associated color are brought out. 

The maid gasps and nods quickly, as Lady Tyrell squeezes her arm comfortingly and rushes off to find the florists. This she would have to stay and observe during the entirety of the arrangements. Her mother would be beside herself if a daughter of House Tyrell allowed for flowers of improper meaning to be presented at an event she hosted. Even if her mother will not be present that night, the girl smiles with exasperated fondness as her mother’s words ring bright and clear in her head, no different than if the woman was standing right in front of her. 

She guides the florists about the hall, nodding with a pleased glint in her eyes as the flowers stream in through the doors in the arms of boys and girls. Her decision has come together nicely; the apple blossoms, honeysuckles, and white lilies form a delicate and demure profession of innocent devotion and pure intent. Still, she must have her fun.

As a page rushes by with a bouquet of flowers in his arms, she plucks a single snapdragon and inhales the scent gently with softly closed eyes. They would be placed throughout the hall scarcely, likely not to be noticed by too many of the guests. 

It is a lovely flower, brought into the ballroom in colors that reflected those around it. Their heavy association with the concept of truth often leads many to interpret their presence as a promise of honesty. 

Those from House Tyrell recognize the bundles of fragile petals as a warning of deceit.

Her eyes open as she runs the stem between her fingers delicately, gazing down it at fondly. Lady Tyrell presses it to her chest as she leaves the ballroom, her shoes echoing amongst the voices of those finishing up the floral and plateware arrangements. There is still much to be done.

Despite the chaos that stems from such late preparations, the Lady Tyrell manages to both finish the arrangements and ready herself for the feast that evening. The Lord of Winterfell had not been expecting much when she had offered to organize an event that night, but the opulence on display within the hall is nothing short of wonderous. Decadent, but not obnoxiously so, and a clear testament to an effective and practiced hostess despite her young age.

As she glides into the Queen’s Ballroom, Cregan’s eyes land upon her.

She has entered the room slightly later than most of the guests, leading to the turning of many a head as the doors are opened for her. The blue gown she had been wearing that morning has been discarded in favor of a dress of baby pink, with a neckline reminiscent of a heart that plunges low as the two curves meet in the center. There is her signature golden embroidery at the top of the bodice, as well as up the side of the puffs at the top of her sleeves and down her corset. Stitched roses and vines snake down her arms, overtop of fabric of that same pastel color. There are more layers beneath the gown, fanning out in an elegant circle about her when she walks.

Cregan hears the whispers and sighs from some of his men around him as they shake their heads at her beauty, but he can scarcely judge them in good faith when finds his eyes are drawn to her and cannot be torn away. He has never noticed so much about a gown before; he takes note of the thorn detailing amongst the vines at the cuffs, of the pearls stitched into the bottom of the skirt that brushes against the floor, of the way the fabric creases at her elbows when she curtsies to one of the ladies she greets. 

So little of her figure can be seen and yet Cregan is left with a slow inhaling of breath and the flicker of the low candlelight dancing in his half-lidded eyes, his tongue briefly wetting his drying lips.

Lady Tyrell does her utmost to not look too self-pleased as she surveys the room. It is a beautiful, elegant scene. The musicians play string instruments in bright yet slow melodies from the gallery above the ballroom, and the expansive trestle tables have been covered in delicate fabrics. Upon their surfaces rest heaps and piles of meats, fruits, and pies. Their scents waft deliciously though the air, and vases overflowing with flowers are nestled in between the mountains of food. The warm candlelight from the candelabras reflects in the mirrors of the walls in the dreamy way that she loves so.

She makes her way about the room, making polite conversation with various lords and ladies. Asking after their children, husbands, wives, and siblings. The nobles light up and rest a hand on her shoulder gently when she recalls little details they had mentioned when last they spoke, of various illnesses or injuries or marriages or pregnancies.

Many of the guests have already sat down, reaching for thick cuts of meat and having their cups filled with the finest Arbor reds as hearty, half-drunken laughter echoes through the hall. She turns her head the slightest bit, intending to scan the room for the Lord of Winterfell, but discovers his eyes are already on her when she spots him.

His gaze is intense and does not waver when she catches him staring. He is leaning forward in his chair, his heavy brows low, his jaw tight, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Lady Tyrell feels the remainder of the room dim for a moment, the voices and laughter and candlelight fading slightly in her senses.

She does her best to not show any surprise on her face: she has been seeking to capture his attention after all. It is only that she did not realize how heavily that attention would be placed upon her. It makes her eyes narrow a moment, her nature to challenge such a forceful look. 

Her hand closes into a ginger fist, the pressure of her fingertips in the soft skin of her palm drawing her mind back to civility. She blinks, her eyes soft and wide again, and she offers Cregan a smile before she turns back to greet others. 

One such conversation with one of the Northern lords leads Lady Tyrell to the head of the table, nearer to where Cregan is sat. He watches with an unreadable expression as the lord pulls out her chair, and she thanks him sweetly with the utmost grace and gratitude. Wine is immediately poured into her cup, and the golden goblet is raised to her lips as the lord speaks animatedly in regards to their conversation topic, to which she leans over to whisper something that sets the lord off with a hearty laugh.

The man leans over to Cregan, eyes drooping slightly with the effects of drink, and Cregan lends his ear a moment, watching the Lady Tyrell raise the glass to her rosy lips yet again.

“Here my lord,” The Northern man speaks to Cregan with a deep nod, swaying slightly in his ornate wooden chair. “Lady Tyrell was just telling me of this incident with the –“ His eyebrows knit together with confusion as he loses his train of thought. He gazes down into his goblet, as if to find the answer floating about in his burgundy liquid. When the glass fails to produce the response to his pondering, he turns his head to her.

“The boar, my lord.” Lady Tyrell supplies gently, raising her glass a little, swishing the contents around with a languid motion of her wrist.

“Yes, the boar!” The lord repeats with great enthusiasm, looking to Cregan as he laughs once more. The girl’s gaze settles upon Cregan, and there is a sparkle of knowing in her eyes as the other man drones on. “We shall have to hunt in the King’s Wood ourselves if the events are as amusing as she says…”

Cregan lets the rest of what the man is talking about fade out to a distant murmur, as well as much of the additional conversation in the bustling ballroom. The musicians have switched to a slower piece that floats elegantly throughout the room, and the laughter has grown loud. One can spot ladies cooling their flushed faces with their fans, and swaying lords eyeing the serving girls who rush to refill their quickly draining cups. The candlelight seems to have grown warmer and lower, flickering delicately throughout the ambient room. The wine has been flowing for quite some time, and the effects are evident in abundance.

But when he steals a glimpse of Lady Tyrell’s glass, he pauses as small flecks of golden light swim in the red liquor. Despite having witnessed her lift the goblet to her mouth a few times, the wine is no lower than when she had sat down. 

She has turned to participate in yet another animated conversation with a Northern lord seated to her right, and Cregan cannot help but observe the ease at which she slides from one topic to the next, even with his bannermen. He thought her to be skilled at engaging with Southerners, but her charms do not seem to be hindered by differences in homeland. A soft exhale of breath leaves his mouth as he returns to eating the food on his plate. The edges of the plates are decorated with tiny red flowers.

Later in the evening, the high sound of a fork tapping a metal glass can be heard echoing tinnily throughout the hall. One of the lords stands up from his seat, red-cheeked and grinning, to offer a toast to the Lord of Winterfell for his kind hospitality and planning of the event. Cregan pauses as many sets of eyes find their way to him, and he realizes there is an expectation that he say something in kind.

He rises, dropping his heavy shoulders and lifting his glass. It is a duty he is used to completing at the head of the hall in Winterfell, and it feels odd to do so in this foreign ballroom, with these strange faces staring back at him. Many of whom dislike him, or at least the way he is demanding they remain in King’s Landing until justice has been carried out. They watch like vultures, the easy and amiable air from earlier all but gone as they remember the presence of the Northern lord. But fortunately, Cregan need not keep the attention on himself for long.

“Your kind words are appreciated, my lord,” Cregan begins, his voice low and gruff. His eyes flicker to Lady Tyrell for a moment, perhaps to give her a second of warning with which she can prepare herself. But when their eyes meet, she is already gazing up at him as if she knows what he is going to say. Her hand resting gently on her goblet of wine, ready to lift it. He should not be surprised. “But in truth, I cannot take any credit. It was only thanks to the efforts of Lady Tyrell that this came to be.”

As the pairs of beady eyes drift over to Lady Tyrell, she rises up with a poised posture. Her chin is lowered, her eyes wide and almost shy as she holds the stem of her golden goblet between her fingers. The pairs of eyes that had beheld Cregan so coldly, soften. Here is one of their own, someone they know and can truthfully give gratitude to. She gives a soft dip of her head, the golden jewelry at her collarbones shining when it draws the glint of firelight.

“It is the least I can do, and hardly enough still,” The words ring out softly through the ballroom with the bright clarity of one used to speaking to a crowd. A girlish smile splashes to her lips and brings rosy color to her cheeks as she lifts her glass with her right hand, her left hand resting gently overtop the lacing of her corset. “So here is to you, for gracing my little party with your presence. It is with your laughter that these halls feel like home again, and I am ever so grateful to you for it.”

The hall erupts with whistles and clapping and cheers. Sounds of glasses clashing together in hearty toasts and the bringing out of the dessert at that very moment makes the scene bright and jovial, so much so that an outsider who had no knowledge of what had occurred in the recent past could not guess that the capital had just been plagued with a bloody succession war.

And in the center of it all, akin to the sun in the sky and glowing as such, is the Lady Tyrell. Cregan can bring no glass to his mouth as he watches her, coy and sweet as she once again raises her cup. He knows she is not drinking from it. But her face has the softest glow as she stands above the rest of the nobles seated at the long trestle tables, many of whom are still gazing towards her fondly, murmuring their approvals for the young lady and her gift to them this night. The candlelight dances across her figure, illuminating the lace of her gown, the expanse of her skin above her neckline, the pearls that hang from her ears. 

She shines like she is made to. Dazzling as any star in the heavens, radiant as any fire in the night.

If she were any other woman, Cregan might approach her when the moment presented itself, asking her to meet him as he had that time in the gardens. To walk with her, to learn more about her, to know her. To see if her heart is as lovely as her appearance. But he knows well that this would be more difficult than it seemed: perhaps even impossible. Even as she lowers herself back into her chair, smoothing down her skirts as she settles herself to dine on some of the pastries that have been piled onto the table with whipped creams and fresh fruits, he does not believe he is seeing anything of truth.

Lady Tyrell excuses herself as many of the other nobles begin to trickle out the thick oak doors, off to their beds or to some form of intoxicated debauchery. She wishes to avoid the strong yet firm grasp of a few of the elder ladies, who take her hands into their aging ones and remind her poignantly of the eligibility of their bachelor sons. Now that she is not betrothed, she has felt the hungry eyes of nobles as those of carrion birds circling overhead. Eyeing her body and her title and her family’s gold. It makes her blood hot with irritation and her nerves fraught and spiked. 

There are only so many excuses she can offer as she tries to slip out of the conversation topic with an apologetic smile.

And as the night grows to an end, so does her ever-thinning patience. One more ask upon whether or not her mother has read their proposals sent by raven, and she might simply hurl her still-full glass at the wall to cause a scene and be done with it. To the end of being shipped off to live as a Septa, but she doubts she would be graced with that. No, she is too young and too eligible; even in the face of abhorrent behavior she imagines excuses will be made by ambitious lords and ladies to still have her married to their sons.

The reminder fills her throat with a bitter acid that stings. She pushes it from her mind. The show is still ongoing, and there is one last act she must perform in to consider this day a success. And she takes pride in her thoughtful scripting. 

As she begins to walk towards the doors, she hears the scraping of a wooden chair on the cold stone floor as another starts to leave as well. She folds her hands in front of her lower corset, her arms straight and her palms gripping each other only the slightest bit too tightly. The tilting of her chin down allows for the hiding of the small, wry smile that has wrenched its way onto her lips at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her.

Her hand raises gingerly as she catches her handmaiden following her out of the corner of her eye, signaling for her to wait. The girl, Adelin, takes note of the gesture and nods delicately, giving her lady room with which to carry out her schemes. Instead, she slips out the side of the room to prepare Lady Tyrell’s bath for that evening.

The music has faded to a lazily played waltz, bidding farewell to the guests. The tables are covered with the crumbs and other remnants of the feast, and the flowers have sank lower into their vases. She walks gracefully out of the ballroom, leaving the rest of the nobles who remain to the questionable indulgences that are promised by lingering about.

The halls of the Red Keep are lined with the warm glow of torches, and yet they are never overly bright. She passes stone pillars and wooden doors and knights guarding different rooms before she hears the clearing of a throat behind her. 

So he has given them ample space to speak in private, yet he did not choose to follow her to her chambers.

While she would not have allowed him inside, she had been curious as to where he would initiate the conversation. She wishes it to feel like it is on his terms, after all.

Lady Tyrell turns quickly, the baby pink skirt of her gown billowing out around her as she does. She brings a hand to her chest in a rush, fingers pressed to the exposed skin between her collarbone and the neckline of her dress. A quiet inhale of breath hurries past her lips and she lets her eyebrows raise.

“Oh – Lord Stark.” The words have a quality of breathiness to them, as if she had been startled by the noise behind her but is relieved to see it is only him. She gives him a smile, her hand lowering to her side. It smooths over her breasts before it drops to rest elegantly. Her brows furrow slightly, with good-natured expectation, as she waits for him to speak.

Cregan does not know entirely why he followed her. He wishes to speak with her, but upon which manner? To thank her for the effort she had imbued into the feast that evening? To ask if she truly enjoys speaking with his bannermen, or if she hates the Northern presence in the capital as others do?

His stance is solid and heavy, his wideset shoulders lowered as he casts his gaze to the torch nearest to him on the wall, and then down to the grey floor beneath his dark boots. The stern expression on his face does not waver, as he searches with noble patience for the words he wants to say.

She takes the time free of his piercing eyes to observe him with a neutral expression, roaming over the way a few strands of red hair fall across his face when he tilts his chin down. It looks soft, despite the rugged nature of the rest of his figure, even more so as his hair is tinged with orange and gold in the torchlight.

Cregan has felt an indisputable pull towards her since the moment they first saw each other when he had arrived at the Red Keep. But the more he saw of her, the more unsettled he became. Is he so foolish as to lust after a woman whose character is so inclined towards deception and manipulation? It is as if he is a lad, with an inclination to being blinded at the sight of doe-like eyes and soft lips. 

But no, even as he stands there in front of her, her beauty clear as can be, Cregan knows he is not that susceptible to womanly charms. It is that flash of something in her eyes that he has seen that continues to draw him back. The frustration of want in the face of illusion; of yearning for knowledge that is kept purposefully yet barely out of his reach.

He pushes down the flames of frustration deep into his chest and looks up at Lady Tyrell with a serious yet neutral gaze. 

“What game do you play at, Lady Tyrell?”  There is a rumbling quality to his voice, yet it is not unpleasant on her ears. And despite the forward nature of the question, it is not asked roughly, nor brashly. It is posed with a stern politeness, reminding her once again that he has, the few times they have spoken, acted the perfect gentlemen if she could overlook his Northern tendencies. 

She finds herself pleased. It is rare she is met head on, and still with his maintaining all the expectations of civil discussion. Yet, she will not give Cregan Stark what he desires. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Her lashes flutter with gentle confusion when she tilts her head gingerly, as if trying to discern what he is referring to. Cregan beholds her visage, his own features still serious as he studies her.

“If you wish something of me, tell it to me plainly,” Cregan’s frustration is not altogether dispersed, simply pressed down. The low tone of his voice echoes deeply between them. His eyes narrow a fraction. “There is no need to put on any sort of act.”

Lady Tyrell blinks at him again, before she casts her gaze downwards. She reaches up to move a strand of hair from her face daintily, her nails brushing against the skin of her forehead. The sigh that leaves her parted lips is reserved and almost ashamed. When she meets his eyes again, Cregan sees the sweet shine of apologetic embarrassment.

“…I had no intention to be dishonest with you, my lord,” Lady Tyrell lowers her voice to a gentler tone. She draws closer towards him, lessening the distance between them as if she is letting him in on a secret. Her steps are gentle, heels clicking on the floor, the sound muffled beneath the heavy skirts of her gown. Cregan feels himself stiffen as she stops in front of him.

She is close, but not overly so. He can smell warm scents of vanilla and amber drifting up from her soft skin. Cregan holds her gaze steadily but his eyes narrow further, his head drawing back subtlety, involuntarily. It is not the reaction he would normally have to a beautiful woman, but one of wary confusion of her intention.

“And yet I am met with your dishonesty each time I speak with you.” It is not an accusation but an observation, one he offers to her with the expectation of her explaining herself.

It pains her to be this near to a man she does not know, with no one else in sight. She steadies her mind, reminding herself of the unique opportunity that has been presented to her in the form of the Lord of Winterfell. Her mother’s wishes flash before her eyes in the form of a parchment scroll and dried black ink. 

Her lips part before she speaks, a rose opening in the flickering torchlight. The storms of his eyes lower to them, a heavy breath in his lungs. There is a shift in the air, a heavier, charged atmosphere in the empty hall. For all of her acting, all of her schemes: she knows there is no falsehood in the way she reacts to him. It is a maddening truth, one that Lord Stark seems to be wrestling with through equal frustration.

Perhaps it brings her comfort to know that he does not wish for this want either.

“I hope you will not condemn a lady for what she does in the face of interest.” Her eyelashes lower over her eyes, and she swallows softly, her lips rolling over each other. Hands are brought together nervously, pressing together in front of her, her thumbs rubbing apprehensively on her palms. An almost imperceptible inhaling of breath sends Cregan’s stomach twisting into a pulsing knot he wishes to undo. 

It is almost inconceivable to him, how deeply she excels at this.

Still, Cregan has come here with the intention of figuring her out at least partially, and if he has to do so through a twisting forest of more lies and manipulation, so be it.

“Is that what this is?” Cregan asks lowly, eyes heavy and lidded when they fall across her face. Across her demurely lowered eyes and cheeks flushed with faux embarrassment and pink lips. The tug in his chest is low and getting lower, his blood hot. “Interest?”

A thick breath of a question. He steps towards her slowly, trying to gauge her reaction. Her eyes dart up as he brings their bodies closer, the heat from his own nearly perceptible now. The wideness of his shoulders and his imposing height are not lost on her then. If one were to stumble upon Cregan from behind him in the hall, his figure would completely conceal her own. 

Cregan catches it then, while his eyes are searching hers. An emotion, raw and pulsing. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter as her eyes quickly flick up and down his face, and her breath catches rather violently in her chest. Sharp enough that Cregan can hear it and see the way her ribcage stutters with the force of it. Her eyebrows twitch, raising and then lowering at the intrusion to her space.

And there, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell thinks to himself that there is truth in front of him.

Her shoulders pull back, like she means to draw away from him. The left one raises slightly as she angles her torso to at least retreat with her right side, her arms coming together in front of the bodice upon her chest. Cregan looks down in the space between them to see the way the nail of her right thumb has pressed so deeply into her pointer finger that the skin is turning a ghostly white.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Her eyebrows raise upwards as she tries to wrestle with her sweet tone, but it is less sure than it had been before. The smile upon her lips is not as pronounced as is typical of her, but rather tight. “I did not mean to offend, I only…”

Her lips open once more after she trails off, but no sound escapes them. It brings Cregan pause.

“You desire me, that is what you are telling me?” Cregan feels the need to lower his voice, to take some of the gruff edge from it. He does not understand why.

It takes all that Lady Tyrell has to not jerk back. She takes a slow breath, eyes still not able to meet Cregan’s directly as she settles to stare at the dark fabric of his clothing. It takes her a heartbeat to pull the words out. “I only wished to express my favoring of you.”

It is a quiet phrase, and it does not seem to want to come out of her mouth. Like she had reached into her throat and pulled it out reluctantly with her fingers. Finally, her eyes slowly gaze up to meet his again.

“If you do not want it, I will take no offense, Lord Stark.” There is a silence that falls between them, in which Cregan should very well tell her that he wants no part in her scheming and manipulating and court games. But he finds his throat rather dry and instead says nothing. 

Taking this as the end to their exchange, Lady Tyrell presents him a curtsy that is not as precise as her last had been, and takes her leave from his presence. 

She knows that her steps are slightly too fast, echoing in rapid succession of each other as her shoes click down the halls. The fabric of her dress has been gripped in her hands so that she can move with greater ease, her knuckles almost white. 

Cregan stares after her for a moment, left with far too much to think upon. He had seen a fragment of something genuine, although he could not discern its nature, and he imagines she is leading him slowly towards the thing that she wants. And if she is feigning desire, aside from whatever instinctive and primal tension that drips from their every exchange, then Cregan feels with almost certainty that it is marriage she seeks. To be the Lady of Winterfell and secure an alliance between the Reach and the North. 

Ambitious, he can acknowledge that. He turns, retreating back down the hall towards his own chambers. Yet something unnamable tugs at the back of his mind.

As soon as her door closes behind her, Lady Tyrell lets out a strangled gasp, the sound clawing its way up her throat viciously. Her hands bring themselves to push down on her chest, but to her frustration, she finds them trembling. Shaking, her fingers pale, and she balls them into fists before ripping them forcefully through her hair, yanking out some pearls as she does so. They clatter to the floor and roll about beneath her feet.

The pacing that she begins is with the intention of calming her racing heart, and she bites at her lip deeply as she strides back and forth before the fireplace, opening and closing her hands. 

It had been some time since she had needed to charm a man like that alone. It was necessary, she knows this, as she wants his favor and now does not have the added hindrance of her honor and betrothal as a shield. She can no longer murmur reminders of her royal intended when a man draws too close to her space.

It is a shield she misses dearly, guilty at the thought of missing her late betrothed’s imposing shadow more than the boy himself.

And this is a dangerous game. She knows its nature well, which is why she does not like to play it. She has seen many women do it, and the consequences of when it goes awry. Cregan Stark is a stranger to her. 

A stranger of great importance, a stranger she is attracted to, but a stranger nonetheless. Her eyes remain downcast to the fire, lost in the warm depths. There is no light in her eyes.

[xeno1queen]

Growing Strong With The Dragon - Part II

Aemond Targareyen x Tyrell!Reader

Summary: The wedding day has arrived, maybe the princess won't be as lonely anymore.

Warnings: No warnings, just a chill fic. No character description. Afab.

Authors Note: English is not my first language so the grammar might be a bit janked. After a quick search I found out that going from Highgarden to Kings landing by wheelhouse could take more than 2 months, wtf. Part I

After a long and brutal journey, you found yourself in front of the gate of the gods, a magnificent sight that signified the near end of your journey. As you passed through the city, you noticed that it smelled much worse than you imagined; Highgarden had never smelled this bad and was never this dirty. Once you reached the gates of the Red Keep, you sighed with relief; your horrible journey had finally ended. The loyal servants of the crown were quick to bring yours and your family's baggage to your assigned chambers. You had a small bedroom, much smaller than yours at home but comfortable nonetheless. You had arrived late in the day, so your new ladies-in-waiting helped you change into a more comfortable evening gown. You usually read before going to bed, but tonight things felt different. With the next day being your wedding day, you felt the anxiety from the day you met the prince return. Is he also nervous? Could he be thinking about you? Those questions plagued your mind into the late hours of the evening.

The day of the wedding arrived; your dress had been made by the seamstresses of King’s Landing with your exact measurements and it was a perfect fit. Your ladies-in-waiting woke you up early, and you didn't sleep much, but you weren't tired at all. You felt your heartbeat strong, and your palms sweaty as you got dressed and your hair done, it was braided in a lovely way. You wore a beautiful off-the-shoulders white dress with blue floral embroideries, and your favorite piece of jewelry was placed on your neck, a pearled necklace with the biggest sapphire in Westeros. Being pampered this way made you feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. You heard the chime of bells echoing throughout King’s Landing, signifying the wedding was about to begin. The sept was full of lords and ladies that you had never seen but heard much about. Prince Aemond felt nervous but didn't let a bit of that nervousness be shown to those outside his head.

As you entered the sept, everyone got quiet, and you could hear some gasps. It made you feel anxious for being the center of attention, but you also felt powerful. Everyone was there for you and for your prince’s marriage. You were escorted down the aisle by your father, who had a stoic look on his face. Once you reached the end of the aisle and got up the small set of steps, you were given away to your prince with a bow from your father. With you being so close to your soon-to-be husband, he finally noticed the blue stone you had on your neck. It was the same stone that was placed on his missing eye, to him, that felt like a message from the gods that you were meant to be his. Once in front of the Septon, Prince Aemond placed on your shoulders a cloak with the colors of his house and gave you a sincere smile, the first you had seen from him, and you returned his smile with one of your own as you were officially declared husband and wife with a grand applause of all the ladies and lords.

As you arrive in the grand hall for the feasting celebration, you hear drums and your family's name being proclaimed. You move though the filled corridor, everyone has gotten up and looked at you, but the only eye that matters to you is the one from the prince.

Once he saw you enter the throne room, he felt out of breath, almost as if he saw you for the first time again. He never liked the idea of marriage, but seeing you like that made him change his mind. You are going to be his forever.

You climbed the small set of stairs in front of the dining table. Prince Aemond got up and held your hand, softly kissing it as he led you to sit next to him.

As you were eating the appetizers, you felt an immense wave of anxiety as your hand held your dress. "Maybe if I drink more wine, the nervousness will dissipate," you thought to yourself as you emptied your cup. Prince Aemond noticed and he raised his hand asking for more wine for both of you. You looked at him with a soft smile in gratitude and you felt a hand creep under the table to where yours was holding your dress. You felt Prince Aemond's ungloved hand; it was soft, and his fingers were lean. He placed his hand on top of yours as a means to give you comfort in such a stressful moment and you felt your hand ease the pressure on your dress.

After a little while, both of you had to do the bridal dance. You were trained for this dance your whole life and even though you knew you were prepared, you couldn't help but feel nervous. Prince Aemond got up and gave you his hand so you two could go to the middle of the hall and dance. You felt everyone's eyes on you, but dancing made you feel free. You almost felt like you were flying with each spin of your gracious moves. Once the dance was finished, you both bowed, and everyone applauded while joining you in the middle of the room. You both danced together for a while until you were interrupted by another lord asking you for a dance. Seeing you dance with another lord made Aemond's blood boil with rage. Someone else touching what was his by right was not to his liking, so after letting you dance for a while, he swiftly made his return to you with a clenched jaw and grabbed you tightly by the waist. He pressed you against him, you had never experienced such intimacy before, as you were sheltered from men your whole life in means to keep your virtue. This new experience made you feel things you weren't used to; maybe it was the wine doing things to you, but you felt nervous in a different way. Aemond looked into your eyes as you were pressed against him and said, “You look beautiful, my wife.” You felt your whole body get hot. “Thank you, husband.” you answered with a soft smile of gratitude and nervousness on your lips. You couldn't leave each other for the rest of the dance, always making eye contact as if you both were connected. He knew he had made a lasting impression on you.

Taglist: @maddyb-rapps

[turretistrying]

Infected/Zombie Reader helping RE men (Leon K., Carlos O., & Ethan W.)

Somewhat based on that one zombie reader post by @qdbs-writes because honestly it was really cute and this idea has been bouncing in my brain for a bit. I’m going to preface that I’ve only played RE2R, but I have a vague understanding of the RE lore and stories, i’m only doing these three because I know them the best, if I knew chris better I would’ve added him

(this is just a suggestion but here’s what’s damaged on your zombie body: right eye gone, right cheek crewed off, left shoulder nearly gone, and several bites all around)

Leon S. Kennedy (RE2)

You’re one of the many, many, people who fled to the RPD to escape the growing hoards of zombies, unfortunately you were infected early on and hid out in one of the many storage rooms as you succumbed to the virus

…but your conscious stays somewhat intact, sure every thought is slower and less verbose but you still have some of it left, speaking is hard as well but you can speak to some degree

you stay on the third floor, observing Marvin and eventually Leon once he comes in

You’re enamored as soon as you see him, so you decide to try and help him as he goes through the entire RPD, placing some ammo here, some boards there, in general helping out behind the scenes despite how slow you move

This slowness bites you when you go down to the main hall to place a green and red plant you had found next to the typewriter, since Leon had been limping for quite awhile around the RPD

You gently place the two plants (still in the containers, you can’t grind them up due to the shakiness in your zombified hands) but you hear Leon coming down from the second floor library so you try and shuffle back into a room to hide again, until you hear the click of his gun

You turn around and see Leon, gun raised to likely give you a headshot like he’s given to plenty of the other zombies around (you know since you’ve seen plenty bodies with exploded heads..)

So you just, start shuffling backwards with arms raised in peace, mumbling ‘sorry.. sorry.. please, no.. hurt’ as best you can with your undead voice, which comes out pretty rough

Leon was about to shoot you but as soon as he saw you back away and mumble what sounded like human speech and not just growls and rumbles, so he lowers his gun slightly, tilting his head at you

You escape into the west office, and Leon fully lowers his gun and then looks at the plants you left him (he uses them, he’s not an idiot to ignore a healing item when he’s been at ‘danger’ for 2 hours)

When Leon unlocks the Goddess statue you come out from hiding and softly approach, and hand him some ammo and healing items “good.. byye..” you say to him look at him with your singular eye (you lost the other one when you got infected) before starting to walk off

Leon watches you walk away, about to hide again and he hesitates before saying “Wait, would you… like to come with me?”.

He watches you turn slightly and grumble “..you.. sure?”

He nods at you and you walk back up to him, and follow him as he goes down the stairs

Bonus:

During the G-3 fight you help by throwing yourself at him and stab one of the eyes with a knife Leon gave you, smiling in triumph when you stab an eye fully

Ada is very cautious and nearly shoots you several times, she thinks you’re just in the early stages of infection and she doesn’t want you killing her pawn (leon) before he gets the virus for her

When you get on the train Claire and Sherry are a bit wary of you but during the trip they start to like you, Leon’s account helps a lot as well

Carlos Oliveria (RE3)

Similar to Leon’s, you’re one of the people who fled to the RPD and got infected, and hid in a storage room (this storage room was clearly for all the Christmas decor… the bells gave it away)

You picked off the bells and kept them in a small box, as well as stealing post-it notes and a pen from the west office

From the second floor you watch Carlos and Tyrell make their way in, watching them scope out the place

As soon as you saw Carlos, you muttered under your breath “he..h.. scruffy..”

You noticed he was having a hard time with the Lickers, so you decided to make use of the bells you took, throwing them down hallways out of sight of Carlos so the Lickers chased the noise

He heard the chiming, making a remark like “The hell is that coming from?”

After awhile of doing this, you decided to just gift Carlos the bells

You place them on a desk with the brightest sticky note you could find

He finds it, noticing the stark contrast of the gloomy environment of the RPD, and reads the note

‘For the licks! Hold tighy in hnd then throw, it loud so they chse! : )’ was written on the note, it was hard to read being a shaky and messy handwriting but he got the general idea, chuckling at the squiggly smily face on it

He opens and sees 4 tiny golden bells

He looks around, hoping to maybe find who put it there but finds nothing, nothing but a hunched over dead (?) zombie next to the desk “Whoever put this here, Thanks, and thanks for probably being the reason for saving my ass a few times”

He leaves and you say to the air “no.. problemmm..!”

You start following him around and so he eventually notices you, and nearly shoots you on the spot before you move your hand to ring the golden bell you kept and attached to a string as a necklace

He relaxes a bit but keeps his guard up until he realizes that you’re just an innocent smart (questionable) zombie!

Bonus:

Before realizing that you weren’t gonna hurt him, he really thought you were because you kept staring up at his head… In reality you just really wanted to pet his hair, but because words are hard when you’re a zombie and you didn’t wanna get shot you just didn’t say anything

(You eventually did get to touch his hair, muttering a “soooft.. so.. soooft!”)

In that helicopter cutscene when Nicholai is about to shoot Jill, you jump from nowhere and tackle the guy by the neck; Carlos shouts in exclamation “Hell yeah! Get him!” before Nicholai punches your jaw right off (ouch)

Ethan Winters (RE7)

In this case you’re kinda like Ethan if he didn’t get all his memory and body transferred (does.. does that make sense???)

Since the moment Ethan stepped into the Baker House, you’ve been watching him

While you can’t remember most of your past, you know you were human like him, and watching him brings you a sense of… comfort. So you watch as he explores the house, trying to find Mia

Sometimes you forget what you’re doing and make noise, making Ethan more paranoid as he goes through the house (you felt bad every time you accidentally spooked him)

Watching him getting attacked by Mia was a nightmare, and you felt like you shouldn’t intervene… until Mia stabbed him in the hand

You emerged from the shadows (and mold..) and pulled her off of Ethan, giving a soft growl at her before she tried to attack you. You sidestepped and pushed her into the wall, which caused her to knock her head against the wall and faint

You stared down at her before turning to Ethan, who was a bit put off by your appearance

“You’re… hurt. Follow.” and you start walking to where a first aid liquid was hidden away and hand it to him

After patching him up you go over to the boarded up door and started to remove the wood with ease, before Mia got back up and threw Ethan through the nearly open door. You yelp (with some scratchiness) at that before running up to try and help, but then Ethan swung an axe into her neck.

You look at him and see the horror in his eyes at what he’s just done, you reach out to touch his back before slightly withdrawing; “you… oo-kay?” You asked in a low voice, and he shook his head before standing up and making his way deeper into the house, fully ignoring you after that.

So you follow, wanting to make sure he’s okay. He’s the only thing human in this house (for now)

Then Mia comes back again, of course, stabbing Ethan in the hand with a screwdriver this time. You run up and start trying to pry it out of the wall and his hand, before you see Mia coming with a chainsaw. She slashes with the chainsaw, cutting you in half at the shoulder before hitting Ethan’s wrist.

You blackout for awhile, coming to after about an hour as your body of mold stitches itself back together into one solid form again

Submerging into the mold, you reform in the living room adjacent to the nightmare dining room, seeing the back of Ethan tied in one of the chairs

You carefully untie him from the chair, before being noticed Marguerite pulled you up by the hair unto the table

You reach into a clump of mold and pull a smoke bomb before pulling Ethan out of the chair and away

From there on you helped him the best you could

Bonus:

You alway try and take the hits for him, he’s still fleshy and human, you can take it! He’s still worried for you despite the fact you can patch yourself back together.

When Ethan dies and becomes mold, you feel bad for him. You don’t tell him, since if he thinks he’s still human, then he’s still human to you.

After the BSAA comes you don’t know what to do, you assume you’re going to be left there or be experimented on… but Ethan calls your name (that you told him at some point, it’s one of the only things you have left from before being molded) and gestures you to come with him, you come close before fearfully looking at Chris, but he just nods and lets you on the helicopter.

OKAY WOW this is… something. I don’t know. I kinda gave up in that last one despite Ethan being my favorite next to Leon. I really hope, that this is good, im some way, amd i hope i didnt totally screw the canon, ahhh. Hope people like thissss,,, would’ve done art but i’ve got art block

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

56 - Wolves Teeth and Claws

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 16.5k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, character death, blood and disturbing imagery, past traumas and loss, unspecified mental illness/duress, hints of suicidal ideation

Notes: I know the smut has been in a bit of a drought but I promise we're nearing the end of it, just trust me that it has been gone this long for a reason. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

Looking back to the moment everything changed was easier then she would once have thought. Her life so different now, and truly had been for five years, but there were two which stood out. One she preferred not to think of, the memory of watching it followed by the nothing as the utter horror and devastation screaming through her veins forced her to collapse unconscious. If she thought about it too much, she'd feel that ill rising up in her throat and she scarcely wished to think about it anymore.

The other was as much a shocking death as the previous, but the way it changed her life was unusual in contrast to the previous. Much of that day felt a blur by now, much of being forced to endure the normal torment inflicted by the King as for once she was not the immediate target, but now had to sit and watch the torment be endured by, well it was odd to think of him as her husband now, but then she had become used to it in a strange way. Now though, they hadn't spoken nor known the others whereabouts since that moment.

She could hear it so clearly in the silence, the coughing beginning to rise before in a scared panic did Margaery Tyrell shout out to the onlookers, “He's choking,”

Lady Olenna had yelled for them to help the poor boy, before Joffery had dropped the goblet to the ground grasping at his throat, stumbling down into the clearing as he made a strangled wheezing, and then did the woman stand up with an even louder shout of demand.

“Idiots, help your King.”

Sansa had been standing in a sort of shock watching it play out so suddenly when she felt a figure approach her subtly from behind, a voice somewhat familiar in her distant mind telling her, “Come with me.” But she didn't yet move. Joffery had collapsed to the ground almost vomiting up blood in a truly horrible sound as Cersei had run to his side desperately yelling his name in distress. In the back of her head as the voice spoke again, she begun to recognize it as Ser Dontos. “If you want to leave, we have to leave.”

The shock almost split between two sides, one whom understood what he was offering and yearned to turn to go with him but the other froze her feet and eyes to that spot unable to stop watching. Choking horribly as even from where she stood she could see Jofferys skin turn purple, his hand reached out as the crowed turned to look. Picking up the very goblet he dropped in a confused shock of his own was her husband, Tyrion Lannister, before attention drew back to the King just as he stopped moving.

Tears came from Cersei holding her now dead son, before something kicked Sansas senses wake just as Cersei turned to look at Tyrion. Saying that he had done this, he murdered her son. Screaming furiously to the guards to take him and suddenly Sansa felt herself moving backwards.

Just enough that it seemed to indicate to Ser Dontos it was time, grabbing her by both arms he dragged her away before taking her hand as they begun to run from the scene as more yelling by Cersei and then Lord Tywin increased in the background. Giving her a cloak to throw around her to hide what of her appearance she could, Ser Dontos urgently led her through the empty streets of the city as bells begun to toll in the distance. One street then the next, over the rocks and down cut to a set of stairs leading to the water with just a small boat as he told her to get in.

Asking where they were going, Ser Dontos only told her, “Somewhere safe.”

Sansa had turned to look up to the city that had kept her there for over three years and in a sudden moment did she wonder, was this how you felt? Fleeing from the city with your only chance of survival, did you turn to look before leaving for good? Wondering if it was the right choice? Leaving behind who you'd be forced too? She had never once blamed you for leaving, she had watched Joffery order her father beheaded, she was smart enough to know if you had not ran, she'd have watched the same fate fall to you.

But, Sansa didn't think as long as she suspected you did. You were forced to leave three Starks behind but who was she leaving behind? There were people who were kind to her of course. Margaery tried her best to ensure she felt as if she had support and a friend, she cared deeply about her handmaiden Shae who always tried to protect her, and she was now leaving behind Tyrion whom she never before thought she'd care about leaving behind. They were forced into a marriage together, but he had shown her a compassion she didn't expect.

Trying to ensure her this marriage wasn't because he asked for it, and that while he didn't really know how she felt, she didn't know how he felt and in that way they were on a similar level. Even before having to finally walk out of her chambers and make her way to the sept he tried and even succeeded to make her laugh to ease the clear nerves in her. How the dread within her filled as Joffery had begun yelling about the bedding ceremony before it all came to a halt as through his rather drunk state, Tyrion had threatened him in front of the crowd for demanding it. He was still clearly drunk as they stood in his chambers alone, but as nervous as she was, he was just as uncomfortable considering both her age and unwillingness to lay with him.

Saying he would not share her bed until she wished for him to do so, and even a promise that he'd never force her if she never wanted to share it. It was not a marriage either expected nor wanted but after that it got easier to handle. Through the pain of deaths which came next it still was a bit easier, but standing at the boat that afternoon Sansa had realized why you made your choice.

The opportunity was right in her face, if she didn't take it, she may never leave Kings Landing again, or alive. So she got in, and the new chapter of her life had begun. A new name, a new identity, a new family and home. Petyr Baelish had come through on his promise to help her escape Kings Landing, but in turn Sansa knew the second she walked through the Bloody Gate, she was no longer herself.

Hiding her away in the Vale, she was thusly given the name Alyane Stone. Posing as Petyr's bastard daughter, which was nowhere near ideal but it was the only option she had. And in such a short time there, too much had happened which tested her ability to keep up with this new ruse, and it was a test she realized, she had passed.

She and her cousin Robin had gotten into a childish fight, and Sansa had reacted as rotten as he did by slapping the boy. Petyr had come to her as Robin ran away, and if it was Petyrs kiss she thought she did not know how to react to, she was wrong. Her Aunt Lysa had confronted her about it. Something Sansa never asked or wished to happen, and her Aunt Lysa dragged her to hang over the open moondoor yelling such horrible things. And before her eyes, Petyr had convinced her to let her go, and thusly pushed Lysa out of the moondoor himself.

The Lords and Ladies of the Vale had questioned him about what happened, and she was too brought to answer for being a witness. She did not know what he told them, but despite everything, he had kept her safe. Even from her own aunt, he kept her safe. What would he tell them? What story would a man like him spin? It was a blind guess what he would say, and she took it. But Sansa too had one last trick, because even though he kept her safe, his kiss in the courtyard told her that she might never be able to truly trust him. So, she looked to Ser Yohn Royce, whom knew her father, and revealed who she was. In tears not even now did she know were real, she managed to sell the lie Petyr wanted, all the while placed herself in a position where the others too would have reason to want to protect her. Not having to rely on him alone.

And so it all begun. She was Alyane Stone from that moment on, playing her part.

She knew the plan, what to do, how to act, what to say and prepared for the plan he told her of. Until the day he called her into his study, and a new truth was revealed. The things he had been keeping from her was to not overwhelm her as he put proper plans into place, but things had changed he said. Something of an opportunity had arisen, and he could bring her home. Take her safely to Winterfell, where her long passed brothers crown awaited it's proper heir. And with Petyrs help and connection to the Vale, she had more then just the remains of a Northern army at her aid should need be.

But she was so far removed from her previous life, that Sansa had not questioned certain things which in retrospective, she wished she would have before leaving.

Once more she was asked to return to being Sansa Stark, but it had been two years. Alyane was who she was, but now she had to go back to Sansa. But Sansa had not been anywhere near home or family in five years. What was she to expect getting there? Petyr assured her it would be a big day for the North, returning her there. So in that journey, slowly letting the dark coloured dye in her hair finally wash away to the colour which so vividly reminded her of her mother, she grappled with what her life could be being home again.

She never thought she'd see Winterfell again, but he had told her what she thought was the truth. With Robb dead, with you dead, and no son nor heir between you both alive, nor her brothers or sister alive either, she was not only her fathers lawful heir, but Robb’s too. The only trueborn left, he assured the North was hers by right. That wasn't what Sansa had preyed for in the night when thinking of home, but this was the way in which would get her there, so she would take it, and embrace it. The idea of being Queen sounded far better then the two years she had spent posing as nothing but a bastard.

As she laid eyes on her once home, it looked..different. The same, yet different. Parts of it still in ruin, many places once burned down but now being rebuilt. Did it's insides look the same? Was her room still there? So many questions she had with wide eyes looking out of the carriage's translucent window at her home. There were nerves in her like a girl, but also excitement all the same. She knew what to expect, and what to do, Petyr had prepared her for it.

But the guards seemed apprehensive about her presence even when assured it was indeed her, and then they had told them to wait. That before allowing them in, that Lady Stark needed to be informed of their arrival. But her mother was dead. You were dead. Arya was dead. It baffled her who that could mean if not her mother or sisters. She was welcomed home, Petyr told her. They awaited her with Robbs crown he said. So why was the air so fraught with tension?

Then the gates opened, and a crowd had gathered within the courtyard. And three figures stood in the middle to receive them, and suddenly Sansa realized that the truth Petyr told her was not going to play out quite the way he promised it would.

Because Arya was alive, but looked not a single bit happy to see her.

She had prepared for it. What was coming, and what to do. The days before did the council and trusted allies gather in the quiet of a study to discuss what options there were, and to answer the unknown question of intent. What did both parties arriving seek? But Arya had less and less faith that they were arriving with good intentions the more Selyse spoke of what she knew about Littlefinger.

Her brows narrowed with a disdain in her tone as she spoke, “Stannis had to outlaw all forms of prostitution on Dragonstone just to get his spies out of watching his actions.” When questioning gaze arose, she clarified further. “The only person on the small council he knew he could not manipulate was him, knowing were Stannis to take the Iron Throne, Lord Baelish’s head would be on a spike before the night was out. My husband knew not for a moment to trust anything he claims to your face.”

Maege Mormont leaning with her palms braced against the table with her jaw clenched, muttering through her teeth. “Anyone else feel it is a mighty coincidence that the time he finally chooses to come all the way up here, also lines up to where our King and Queen have been gone for months?”

Narrowing his eyes, Theon stood with his arms crossed next to Arya. “You think he would try to take advantage of their absence?”

Eyes somewhat turned more to Selyse, knowing out of them all she was the closest any had to true eyes on what he was like between Stannis and your encounters. “He does not have any claim in the North, but if one who does comes with him on her side, then it would not be unlike how he found control of the Vale. By marrying Jon Arryn's widow, following her death, he becomes the acting Lord of the Vale in practice if not by name.”

Arya felt that feeling arise once more. This wasn't fair, it wasn't right. She did not leave Kings Landing wishing to leave Sansa behind, she had even told Jaqen that she could not yet go to Bravvos with him because on top of you, her mother and brother, Arya needed to find Sansa too. But this was not the way she wanted her older sister to return home.

Would their word enough be convincing to her? Because the truth was right there in Aryas face, she was not a fool in what way it could look. One on hand, Sansa may come home and learning that Jon rules as Robbs successor, she could see that in the eyes of how the Iron Throne would consider such a thing. Little more then a false King, a usurper. But on the other hand, the way those around Arya like Maege Mormont, like Galbert Glover, others who were standing in place of the Lord that did sign off like Smalljon Umber too, they had all agreed and signed off as witnesses that Robb Stark’s decree of inheritance and succession was solid and unanimously approved of.

But they did not have to listen. Robb was dead, you were not a Northerner and since you had not given birth to Robb's heir, your ties to the North could have stopped then and there. They could have ignored your words, your plight and much like how Cersei Lannister refused to honour her dead Kings words, so the North could Robbs. Smalljon Umber had described the day they crowned him to her months previous.

Jon had accepted it much like Robb apparently. Neither said anything, not a yes or no to the words of the Lords around them putting up their support for such a claim. Brothers both, the North had understood their silence and the responsibility of such a weight could be handled. But even moreso then Robb, it was Jon who arguably they would fight for harder, because this time, the war they fought was nothing like the other and only Jon knew it. No one in the North ever had to defend the position of Stark King to their fellow Northmen, but they knew fighting for a Stark Blooded King named Snow would be an inevitable should someone decide he has no right.

They had chosen Robb as the first King in the North since Torrhen Stark, and he led them as their own independent people in a war to free themselves from the yoke of the south. When they crowned him, you as his wife already, was crowned Queen. And from everything Arya understood, you were seen differently as a Queen then many others. Cersei only had her power once Robert was gone, Margaery Tyrell was not a Queen with her own power over the people at King Tommen's side. Even in front of her, Selyse was a Queen at Stannis Baratheon's side but she held little sway in her husbands actions.

As Arya stood as Lady of Winterfell in place of Jon title of King, Selyse was there in place of you only as something like Queen Mother. You had the respect of the North when you were at Robbs side as if you were his equal when your own crowning was only complimentary to the crowning they truly chose in Robb.

But they kept looking to you as Queen even when Robb was gone, it was why the Boltons needed you. The North still respected you as Queen, had Jon refused, they still would have looked to you. And that day, they looked to you as you looked to Jon and Arya knew that it was not honouring law alone that they chose Jon. Robbs will was what convinced Jon to accept this title, but it was the people still who decided for themselves.

You had died and returned to life, Jon had died and you returned him to life and now you both were out there alone to protect the North from a war which would come for everyone should nothing be done about it. Jon had found allies to the North, and he had come from far less privilege then even his own brother. The North would not back down on him now, Arya was certain of it.

Which meant she could not back down either. “If they are coming now beacuse he knows Jon isn't here to stand up for himself, that means we cannot give Littlefinger any reason to think he could sway our opinion. As soon as he finds what he thinks is a weakness, he'll exploit it.”

Someone speaking up to ask about Sansa, and Arya knew she had to stand firm in her choice the way Jon would, the way Robb or their father would. She could still hear her fathers voice.

“Now winter is truly coming. And in the winter, we must protect ourselves, look after one another. Sansa is your sister. We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves.”

Arya didn’t want to fight Sansa on their own family, but she would do what needs to be done to protect the family she returned to Westeros for. She had sat in the inn seeing Hot Pie doing well after all these years, recalling how instantly she called him a liar the moment he said Jon was King in the North. The way which he instantly came back asking why he’d make such a thing up. The way you were dragged before that thing pretending to be her mother and defended with your life at risk, Jons right to hold such a title.

She couldn’t allow that all to be taken away from him now. To return and think everyone had turned their backs on him the moment his sister came home. She wouldn’t allow Sansa to use how much she looked down on Jon for being a bastard to her advantage, not now. So a plan was made, and all they could do from that point on was wait. Only a matter of days before she would arrive. Sansa was welcome in her home, but Littlefinger and his weasely tricks were not.

As the room cleared, Selyse had stopped the silent Gendry, mostly there for Arya’s sake. Turning partway to her saying she needed a word with him in private. Waiting now outside the room, she wracked her brain trying to think what issue needed to be said between the two of them of all people.

By the time he emerged, as they walked down the halls both knew he could sense her questioning stare. Not even looking at her as he asked, “Are you waiting for something?”

Prompting him with a further look she knew he was pretending not to see, Arya now alone felt no shame in pestering him. “What was that about?” Gendry only replies dryly that it was private, an emphasis on what they both heard Selyse say. But Arya narrowed her gaze. “So it’s something so private you can’t tell me about but can talk about it to her?” It was not an offence towards her, but an oddity she did not grasp.

Your name came out of his mouth with an ease, “Maybe it was about her. She’s her mother afterall.”

Arya snapped out with as much quick dryness as he normally could deliver to her. “You have a mysterious friendship with her you won’t tell me about, and now you have a secret, what? Kinship with her mother you won’t tell me about?” His lack of response only made her more annoyed and they both knew it was intentional. “You know I’m in charge right? Which means you shouldn’t be keeping secrets from the person in charge.”

Gendry though was not deterred and once again, Arya knew it was to pester her right back. “So what outranks what? The King in the North’s little sister or the Queen in the North’s mother? Queen sounds like it should outrank Lady of Winterfell.” The smirk across his face when her own fell in annoyance. Multiple times a week she’d tell him to stop calling her that, most people around her addressed her by her name anyways, which is what she repeated then and there. “To other highborns, maybe. How many servants and maids around here don’t call you milady?”

Her glare spoke the answer they both knew and once more she dropped the issue before she shoved him into the wall and walked off. But Gendry pulled the discussion back to the matter at hand bothering her most. “Do you really think your sister is going to try and claim the North for herself?”

“If she’s coming with Littlefinger, then yes. He wouldn’t travel a thousand miles just to deliver her to the gate and then leave.” Your name leaving her mouth again, “He tried to have her killed so she’d be out of his way. He betrayed her and my father in Kings Landing. Tricked my mother into betraying Robb. Sansa is only his newest way to try and destroy my family from the inside all over again.”

But by the time night would come, Arya sat in her chambers once more at her desk. Pulling out a small journal, ready to be opened right near the middle as she added another line to the already filled out two pages. Not needing to even count, she already knew the number as she muttered it aloud to the quiet room in a defeated tone. “One hundred and ninety four.”

That was how many days Jon and you were gone. She tried not to let it bother her, knowing six moons had passed now and Jon had told her he didn’t know when they were coming back. Arya was fairly certain you did not know she was aware you left already pregnant, but how far would that make you? Eight moons? Nine? Would the baby inside you even survive a journey like that?

It was a horrible feeling, that you may one day return with nothing in your arms. Jon would blame himself, for bringing you out there in the first place. But he had no choice, he assured her he had no choice and this was what needed to be done. But the closer she crept up on ticking away two hundred days, the worse she felt about it all. With you both out there, that made four members of her family lost to the far North. Six if she included Ghost and Summer. Seven if she included what was supposed to be her niece or nephew. All for the coming winter storms.

Why did the cost have to be her family? So much of her family when already too much was gone as it was? How was Arya supposed to hold Jons position forever when he deserved it, when she wanted him to come back and have it once more?

Two more days had passed when finally through Nymeria’s eyes did she see them. Her own direwolf leading a pack of her own around the North as if protecting it while the King in the North could not, she saw them. They had yet to reunite together, but Nymeria and Arya still were connected, and they both still protected the ones and places she loved. It would be within the hour she’d arrive at the gates. And Arya went to Selyse, went to Theon, and then as the men all converged on the courtyard for the worst, and the three of them descended out into the cold. Selyse was as stern as she’d ever seen the woman but reminded Arya so much of you.

Theon was nearly unreadable, he was most often these days now. But he stood tall beside Arya in the home he once ruined, now here to defend it with her if need be. Arya stood in the middle between them in the clearing as the gates opened and in came a carriage, and a group of men on horseback, likely guards.

Then he emerged first. No words in the cold air was spoken as he then reached in to assist the other to climb out. The last she had seen of her sister was as she collapsed to the ground after their Illyn Payne took their fathers head, but this was not at all the sister she saw screaming and crying desperately for them to stop.

She was taller then Arya remembered, and even more beautiful as she’d grown into a woman. Her hair still long and an orange tinted red, even moreso then their mother, the rest of her distinguished and developed in a way Arya knew she wasn’t. That was the first thing that came out of Jons mouth when they reunited, only a joke of asking how after all this time was she still so small. Her clothes though, blacks and greys as her cloak matched that of Littlefingers as they came to stand beside one another.

She certainly looked like Sansa, but in another way, it was as if Arya was looking at a complete stranger. A stranger, who looked shocked and confused to see her. “Arya?” Nothing, she said and did nothing yet. Letting Sansa find the greeting on her own. “I thought you were-”

But something impulsive spoke, interrupting Sansa with a shortness. “Well, I’m not.”

Sansa almost looked confused, as if seeing her sister again not being filled with a happiness was something foreign to her. But there was a whirlwind of feelings as the two sisters looked at one another. Arya wanted to be happy, wanted to go to the sister she hadn’t seen in years and hug. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t. Sansa at the least, picked up on it, and the very quiet courtyard of people around as she took a step forward, which Arya matched.

“What’s he doing here?” Eyes flickering to the curiously watching Littlefinger, Sansa followed the glance and then back as he begun to speak. Only for Arya to cut in but with far less patience. “I asked my sister, not you.” The weasel of a man did not look deterred but with a curiosity she hated. Peeling her gaze back to the much more apprehensive Sansa, Arya asked once more. “What is he doing here?”

Her brows furrowing, Sansa struggled it looked, to keep up with the tension. “He brought me here, he’s helping me.”

“The way he helped father?” Arya’s darkening eyes finally met his narrowing ones. If he thought she was just a girl who was in over her head, he was wrong. She never trusted him, and now she trusted him even less. Sansa tried saying she didn’t know what she was talking about. “Don’t you?”

Selyse tried to even the rising tension out, glancing between both girls with a calm, lower tone. “I believe we are getting into matters best discussed inside.” Sansa asked who she was and Arya once again looked even more suspiciously at her when she seemed again, confused by the answer as your name came from her mouth. “She is my daughter.”

Taking control once more, Arya did not allow more questions. “She’s right.” Softening just the smallest bit, hoping Sansa could pick up on it. “You’re home now, you should get settled in before we do this.” Sansa first turned to Littlefinger, and it was his nod that had them both move forward before all attitude returned. “Not him. Winterfell is my sisters home, not yours.”

His voice was exactly as she remembered, and it angered her just as much. Feigning ignorance when they both knew why Arya did not want him near. “The castle too crowded?”

Selyse was the one who offered it, the even third party between them all it felt. “Perhaps it would be wise, my lord, if you allowed the girls their privacy after so many years. There is an inn on the edge of Winter Town I’m sure would be happy to house such a well paying guest.”

The man could at least read the tension in the air. Backing off with a smile she could not trust, but seemed to fool Sansa. “Of course, who am I to get in the way of a happy family reunion?” Sansa turned quickly to look at him, but whatever look he gave her seemed to be of a bit of comfort. “We’ll speak later. Get used to being home first.”

Arya barley glanced to the side, which was enough of a command for Theon to turn to guards under his command. “Lads, escort Lord Baelish into Winter Town. See to it he and his men get to an inn without issue.” Or delay both thought. Of course, the men were under instruction to then stay there, to not let a man like him wander her home on his own, but he could find out that in his own time.

For now, as the nerves eased in the courtyard, Arya rose an eyebrow to Sansa. “I assume you still remember where everything is.”

“Hopefully.” Sansa’s light tone should have been funny, and again Arya thought, they should have hugged. But they didn’t, and neither sister made a move to do anything even close to that.

Most of the crowd was gone when the small few of a group remained as the rest continued about their duties in the grounds. The scoffing sound of Maege filled the air as she came up beside Selyse, gesturing her head tilt towards the woman with your name. “And I thought her reunion with her father was the most loveless thing I’ve ever seen. Made those two look downright affectionate.” Selyse managed to muster part of a laugh in agreement.

Arya though, she looked over to Theon whose expression as a doubtful as her own. His voice low speaking mostly to her alone. “Would be a bad look to have guards following her around. I think that’s more of the duty for someone smaller. Quicker.”

A small smirk finally peeked onto her face. “Stealthier?”

His own grin finally came through to match. “Exactly.” He was not wrong, everyone had their instructions and now was not the time to let it all fall apart. Turning to go inside though, Arya did notice it was odd that for once where he’d be seen working away by the armoury, Gendry was absolutely nowhere to be seen.

In her own way, she shouldn’t have been shocked that she ended up where she did. Most of them it seemed gravitated to the crypts once they were once again within Winterfell. The pull to family lost after so many years all spent apart, the morbid wonder of who was there, and more importantly they wondered, which ones of them weren’t.

For Arya, she knew her sister likely wondered if there would be four of them, but in truth there was only half that and only one statue when there should’ve been two. Seeing her standing still in the distance, her expression was unreadable. Only the two of them had been there that day, and it haunted them both but how much did that matter in the now, Arya didn’t know. Their father would’ve wanted them to come together again, nor did Arya wish to do this in front of him, but they were alone down here.

Sansa no doubt heard her approaching footsteps, but did not turn to look her way. Allowing Arya to come within a few feet as they both stood near one another facing the statue of their father. The crackle of fire the only sound within the vicinity, until her voice spoke out finally in a solemn sort of quiet. “It doesn’t really look like him.”

Arya’s gaze didn’t move, staying on the statue. “I think it does. Whenever he was serious, he always looked stern like that.” Neither sister said anything for a moment, but he knew thoughts were brewing in the head beside her.

When speaking them outloud, she dared not interrupt this part. She let it be about family first, allow her sister to take in the grief as she had when coming down here. “Bran and Robb aren’t here.”

Short Arya’s tone was. “No.” Asking why not, she pushed down that strangling darkness in her throat which she last felt. Seeing you again, the finality knowing Robb would never be brought home and how both refused to let the other go until that pain had come down from something so overwhelming of the matter. Instead, she chose the route of less pain in her heart. “Because Bran isn’t dead.”

From the corner of her eye she could see Sansa turning wide eyed to face her, but Arya once more did not turn away. “Bran’s alive?” Only a slow nod, her jaw a little more clenched as she continued to force herself together. “What happened-”

Cutting her off, she put the details as concise as she could manage. “Bran and Rickon ran away, and Theon never found them. So he had one of his men kill two orphan boys, and burn the bodies so people thought he caught and killed them.” She could her the trailing start of Sansa finding a defence, and yet Arya did what you had done for many months on your own. “Leave it, Sansa. Theon paid for what he did but he never killed them. Never wanted to hurt them. He killed Ser Rodrick because he thought he had to, but he knew Bran and Rickon their whole lives. He’d never actually hurt them on purpose.”

But the weight was heavy between them, and Arya braced herself to tell her sister what had hurt terribly when Jon told her. Sansa’s voice was little more then a held back whisper. “What happened to Rickon?”

Jaw clenched, she felt herself tensing her hands at her sides trying not to let that feeling overwhelm her, and in such a prospect she knew she was leaving details out. If not to pile too much on at once, then to prevent herself from trying to imagine it too much. “The Boltons found him and killed him. I don’t know much about it, Jon saw it happen. Not me.”

Aryas eyes however, did peel to the side to watch her sister now, but she gave nothing away while the topic was still on Rickon. “When was this?” Arya answering that it was around a year ago, but that again she was not there when it happened. Sansa it seemed though, switched to something else rather then address what was going unsaid. “What happened to you, where did you go?”

Turning to face one another, Arya inhaled with her eyes narrowing. As if to figure out once more what details she deserved. Once more, she kept it rather simple. “I was on the run, the whole war and even after, I was out there. Just trying to survive. But then I had no one left, and no way to get to Castle Black on my own, so I left.” Sansa asked to where, and her answer seemed to confuse her. “To Bravvos. I had met someone who was from there, I thought he could help me.”

“Did he?”

Arya didn’t answer. She still did not know that answer. Did seeking out the House of Black and White help her? Or did it make her worse, did it push away what she was trying to hold onto, to a point she still was seeking parts of herself.

Vividly she could recall that evening. Carefully folding away all of her things, and dropping it into the water. But then she stood there. Holding Needle in both hands and every time her fingers asked to open, she clutched it harder as the tears welled up behind her eyes even more. It was all she had left, it was the one thing that was hers and always had been. It was home, but more importantly, it was her brother.

She stood there on the dock, and she could see Jons smile and the feeling as if she’d be a monster came over her should she throw it into the water too. So she buried it. Hid it. And every single night Arya would think of going to seek it out but didn’t, because until she thought becoming Arya Stark once more was safe, she could not cease being nothing but a girl.

But she did leave. She did return home, and brought Needle with her because it was Jon she was coming home for, and Needle was just as much part of her as her memories of her brother was.

Just as her name left Sansa’s mouth, did Arya interrupt now pivoting to face her. “Why did you come here?” Whatever excuse left her mouth came off too much as deflection and Arya stepped closer looking up with much more distrust. “Jons held Winterfell for well over a year, it’s been safe to come home for over a year. Why only come now? Why did you bring him?”

“I told you he was helping me-”

Arya couldn’t help the way her voice raised. “The way he helped father before betraying him?” Sansa claimed almost defensively that he had no choice but it only caused Arya to come off with an even stronger anger. “No choice but to help send out father to his death?”

Sansa rose her voice as well. “Petyr didn’t do that, Joffery did-”

Arya only yelled louder then her. “Because he set father up, he put everything into place for Joffery to kill him. He betrayed him, betrayed our mother, he betrayed Robb,” Finishing as well that he too, had betrayed you as well but Sansa's face twisted into a frown as she turned away. But Arya only moved to follow, forcing her to meet her eyes once more. “How could you ever think he has the right to be here? In our home? What did he tell you?”

Only this time it was Sansa’s turn to switch her own tactics. “You said Jons held Winterfell. He isn’t here.” Arya didn’t say anything, she waited for her sister to get to the point without talking around it. “He’s in the Nights Watch, he can’t just leave to take back a castle.” Arya only said shortly that he did, and pushed her further and further into getting to the root of her point. “Was he only holding it until one of us came back?”

Arya could feel it, what was coming. Despite the beg for it not to, she braced herself regardless as she was honest. “Until I showed up one day, Jon thought I was dead. He didn’t know if Bran was ever coming back, no one knew what happened to you, and Rickon was dead.” But Sansa she realized, picked up on the way she phrased that.

She was very calm as she said it, but with something hiding a confidence she was sure in. “If he thought Bran and I were alive, and then you showed up alive..he was holding it until one of us could come back.” Say it Arya thought, just say what she really came back for. “Robb didn’t have any children when they killed him.”

“No.”

If Sansa picked up on the tight and rigidness of Aryas tone, she said nothing of it as she put it forth as matter of fact as she could. “Which means his crown passes down to us. His oldest living sibling.” Neither said a word, but Arya played this game far better now then Sansa ever could, and remained deathly silent. “If Bran isn’t-”

Arya only then cut her off, she had to get it over with before she left any further ideas get into her head. “It did pass to his oldest living sibling.” Sansa tried interjecting that Arya had just said they thought Bran wasn’t coming back. Arya though, did not even blink. “I wasn’t talking about Bran.”

She knew she had put it together. The referring to Arya as Lady of Winterfell was the biggest clue, she was not ruling as anything more and Sansa’s face only twitched a bit in a disbelief with her doubting tone to match. “Jon’s in the Nights Watch-”

“He isn’t now. Kings can set precedence to pardon men from lifelong vows for urgent royal decrees.”

The two sisters looked to one another, and finally it was said what Arya knew she’d do. “He can’t be a King, he’s a bastard.” It shouldn’t have made Arya as mad as it did, she knew what was coming but it still made her angry. Learning Jon was King in the North, she had never even considered that. He was her brother that was all which mattered. “Bastards can’t inherit-”

“He can if Robb decreed it before he died.” Sansa shortly asked if he did, and Aryas brow raised slightly as if testing her. “Maybe you should ask everyone out there for yourself. He reclaimed Winterfell from the Boltons, he’s the one finishing Robbs work of making the North independent again. No one had to listen, Robb was dead they could’ve ignored his will. But they chose to make Jon the King all on their own.”

Her expression was hard to read, but Arya stood firm as she argued back. “The law has never allowed a bastard to-”

“What law, Sansa? The Iron Throne? He’s not fighting for the Iron Throne, he’s King in the North. He’s following what the last Kings law was, what Robb wanted.”

Sansa was quiet, and Arya hated the next thing she said with a passion. “Robb named him a Stark.”

If she did not grasp the anger on Arya’s face, that was her fault. The anger in her she felt was difficult to keep down. “Jon’s name is still Snow, but he’s always been a Stark. He’s always been one of us, and Robb knew it. Jon has every right to be King.”

The quiet between them was deafening. “If he’s King, why isn’t he here?”

Arya matched the quiet one, not letting her sisters taller stature intimidate her as she stepped into her space looking up at her. “He’s doing what needs to be done.” Sansa only asked what that was, and Arya felt her face harden even more. The feeling petty but unable to be tossed aside that she didn’t deserve a real answer, she wouldn’t even believe it. “Protecting us. All of us.”

Stepping away she had enough, Arya didn’t want to fight more in front of their father, in front of Rickon. “So if you only came here to be Queen, it’s too late. The North already has a King and Queen.”

Turning on the spot, Arya hardly got anywhere away when Sansa had spoke up. “And a Queen?” Turning her body only half way, Aryas brows narrowed at her. “You said a King and a Queen. Wouldn’t that mean Jon got married? To who?”

Arya though, let her head jolt back a bit in confusion. “Littlefinger didn’t tell you as much as he claimed he did, clearly. If you don’t know yet.”

Sansa had yelled an ask of, “Know what?” But Arya left her alone down there. She had told Sansa their brother was King, and all she did was question why he was allowed to be if he was a bastard. She still didn’t get it. At this point, Arya didn’t know if she ever would, and it only made her even more angry.

To say things around Winterfell were tense was an understatement. Both sisters avoided each other, as Arya continued about the duties Jon left for her. The back of her mind she knew it must have stood out that even though her older sister was home, the lords around still spoke to Arya instead. Unsure if it was because now they were simply used to her, or if Sansa had proved herself to be as untrustworthy as Arya feared.

If Sansa had learned where Jon was, she didn’t say anything. If she learned it was you he was married too, she didn’t say anything. If she even learned of both his and your deaths, she didn’t say anything. Arya and Theon barley were around any time Sansa would be for a meal, finding themselves purposely busy elsewhere.

It was all rather uncomfortable, but Arya didn’t know how to approach any of it on her own without accidentally turning the situation into something far closer to a boiling point. A fair number of people stood freely in the meeting hall discussing one thing or another. Arya could see Sansa lingering in the background watchful, but neither sister said any words to each other.

But then they heard a ruckus outside. Muffled as it grew and grew, until it sounded like excitement was found in the courtyard. Looking to the walls as if seeing through it, Arya and Maege traded a glance of question which turned into something brighter and hopeful, certainly on Aryas face as the muffled sounds of what appeared to include the words king and north. The second someone came through the doors it was clear what they were about to say by the level of noise. “My lady, it’s-”

Arya cut him off with wide eyes, seeing no one around her anymore. “My brother?” She did not even hear his next words before her feet begun to move, as did all else in the hall and those still inside slowly making their way out as word spread like a forest fire.

In every truth, it almost was too overwhelming to the point Jon hardly could focus on any of it.

The crowd small, and then more and more people came and then the talking, shouting, and gleeful celebration of their Kings return came which only drew more people. Climbing down from his horse, he was grateful for the small few still rushing through to do their duty as he managed to hand the reigns off to one of the stable boys.

Being who he was had an advantage in the fact that the people moved for him as he could too see the level of people overwhelmed Meera, still atop her own horse. Pushing through, he held an arm out as if to motion for them to move, before grabbing her as she climbed off herself, and brought her back to the side of the cart he had been at with an arm around her shoulders.

They had all spent much time out alone, and Meera even moreso then he and you. It was all loud and overwhelming to the senses but he could hardly focus. The more people came out, the louder it got until they all realized who else was here, which then it fell silent.

Stepping up to the cart, Jon carefully prompted you up with him, guiding you down to the ground as Meera assisted on the other side to ensure the jostle wasn’t too destabilizing for the baby. Pulling you close into his side with one arm wrapped around your back, resting at the upper arm of yours, too keeping the baby close tucked up in your chest, the other at your waist keeping you pressed back into him safely, but there was no denying what they were all now looking at.

His eyes looking over the crowd desperate for someone he could trust without explaining anything when instantly he caught sight of some just emerging with wide eyes. Whispering waved over the people as Jon lifted his head to shout, “Selyse.”

Your mother looked stunned for a moment, but she moved swiftly as Maege beside her acted as the guide for her through the crowd as Jon moved you with him to meet in the middle. Nodding for them to turn around it became a small huddle as Jon spoke lowly for the two women to hear as he guided you to the entrance they came from. “Take her to my chambers, get Maester Wolkan to look at both of them immediately. I’ll be there soon as I can.” Pulling your head just the slightest closer to him, Jon rasped in your ear only for you. “I won’t be long, I promise.” Pressing his lips to your hair, he let Selyse and Maege take over bringing you swiftly out of the noise and into the castle.

As if all understood suddenly, the noise returned in far more yelling. For what they all realized, not only had the King in the North returned after months but he had returned with his Queen and a newborn in your arms. The details would require a proper explanation at a later point, but the laughs and mighty pats and smacks to his arm as he passed, Jon could only return some back with more of a smile gracing his face.

Trying to move back to where Bran and Meera still were, Jon had gotten within a few feet when he heard a voice shouting over the rest. Turning in place in an instant, Jon looked over the crowd knowing damn well she’d see him before he could spot her short stature, but the moment he saw one pushing through the crowds did he shout back. “Arya,”

Not a single moment wasted like the last, neither caring about those watching at all. Jon moved to her as Arya ran to him. And still further not he nor her hesitated as she jumped into him, and Jon caught her. Pulling her tight as she held him tightly back, both relieved beyond anything. Sitting her back to her feet, Jon didn’t hold back in pulling her head close as he leaned down, pressing a firm kiss to his little sister’s forehead. Arya looked up to him with a bright smile. “I missed you.”

Smiling just as much, Jon muttered it right back. “I missed you too. But I wasn’t the only one.” Turning her towards the cart, it was likely, not even half a second before they saw one another.

Bran called to her, Arya called to him, and not wasting any longer did Arya run and practically leap up onto the cart. Were Bran not already sitting she’d have knocked him over, but both wrapped their arms around the other as tight as could be. Jon knew, what he and Arya had were special but Bran and Arya to each other were much like what Robb and Jon were to one another. Close in age, and each others closest companions most of their lives.

The two practically were twins in how much they could once be seen together, always getting into trouble or bickering as if they existed to poke fun at the other. Appearing moreso behind them, Jon braced himself perched by the edge as he smiled brightly at how both were to see each other again after all that time. “I promised you I would bring him home.”

Both laughing but truly refusing to let go yet, it only made sense. Bran was ten and Arya was eleven when they last saw each other, and now at fifteen and sixteen they were so different yet not at all changed. Looking up enough to Jon, his hand running gently down the back of his little brothers head as he joked up to him, “I certainly didn’t make it easy.”

Yet, there were two pairs of eyes in the crowd which did not have anything close to such a reunion. One had watched, but slunk away as if feeling there was not quite the room for how things had been for the days she was there, but as soon as Jon thought he had caught sight of hair he had not seen as long as he had seen Bran, did it disappear.

Arya though, pulled away from Bran. The whispers were unheard by any else, but she knew Jon of all people had to know before walking into the rest of the castle. The other though, is what pulled his attention away from both his siblings or any of the people around to greet them as well. Grey eyes wide as he watched her carefully, it was a pain which she had refused to speak about but it was going to always come out one way or another.

She was still just a girl, and Jon could only wonder if this was the first time Meera had let herself feel the true extent of whatever had happened out there.

Slowly did she start moving through the more parting ways crowd as some returned to what they had been doing or moved into groups, at the same time Howland Reed carved a path through towards her. Meera stood still the moment father and daughter got within a few feet of one another. No words even needed be spoken.

A knowing passed across Howland’s face as he tilted his head in the only question he’d ask about it outright, but the tears on Meera had fallen without her ability to stop them. Slowly she shook her head, but the very second her father stepped into her reach did she break. Not loud enough for any around to notice, and the ones who did recognized it all too knowingly as Jon had.

Howland puled Meera into him, as her arms wrapped desperately around her father. Keeping her tight in his front, he ran a hand over her hair, letting her cry in the safety of his embrace as he briefly glanced up to Jon and Bran. Bran swallowed roughly with something begging to go away washing over his eyes, and Jon nodded one and subtly.

Were Meera not so hidden in her fathers arms, one may have heard her muffled attempt of, “I’m sorry,” through jagged breaths between cries, and the gentle murmuring of her father telling her not to be. In a way, Jon was glad. Well over a week he knew her, and for years to to be keeping that inside and finally letting it out, it was in the arms of her own father to feel that loss.

Watching your brother die in front of you was something not many knew what such agony felt like, nor a parent losing one of their children. But everything she had done for Bran, she was as good as family in Jons eyes. What she wanted next would be up to her, but Jon would ensure she knew just as it was for her father, she too would always have a place in Winterfell for what house Reed has done for Jons family.

There was lots to do, discuss, go over and be brought up to speed on, but right now, the only priority Jon was going to take care of was his family. All of what remained of his was here, or on their way in his uncle’s case. One of which however, Jon did not know what them being here would mean or what it already might mean, but he wouldn’t focus on that now.

She had a place in this reunion, but it was her choice to walk away from being part of it. And whatever way which that would mean for the rest of them going forward, he’d find out in due time. But, Jon had one place to be and much of a crowd to greet in order to make his way there first.

“Would you like to explain how a couple could be that far North for what? A little over six months, and return with a bloody newborn?”

If it were at all possible, which it was, Maege was somehow more irate then your own mother about all of this. Though, you did not yet know if it was being directed at you, or if Jon was going to be on the receiving end of her anger more then you were. It had a chance of going in either direction. Tilting your head, you muttered without much effort, “I presume saying time does not run beyond the Wall the same as here, would not be a believable explanation?” Her eyes narrowed, but yours only softened with a plead. “Jon had no choice-”

“Of course he did-”

Attempting to be firm, but not loud with the baby close to your front you narrowed your eyes at her just as much as she was giving you. “Maege, no one hates that he brought me out there more then Jon himself. If he had a choice, he would never have made one risking any of this, but he did what he needed to do, and so did I.”

The room was quiet, as your mother watched the now silent standoff between yourself and Maege as if the later was the mother you were trying to avoid a lecture from. A small sound though, softened all expressions in an instant as you pulled the still wrapped bundle back from where you held him. Laying him down more comfortably out in your arms, little Eddards eyes started to pry themselves open as his arms now were more free from the fabrics around him.

A gentle shushing came from you, as you moved him in your hold lightly. With all babies it seemed a tender rocking was soothing to them, and the one in your arms was no exception. Selyse and Maege both stepped closer to where you stood holding him but did not invade. The faint trace of a small smile came over you, as he begun to settle before waking up in such a new place with new people could upset him.

It was either you did not notice they could hear you, or part of you simply did not care but not such a soft and loving mutter was ever heard on you from either of them in such a manner as you spoke. “It’s alright, you’re home. We’re finally home, sweet boy. I promise.” The way his eyes shined up at you, it never ceased to strike you thus far the degree to which they looked just like Jon. The green was yours, but even at such a small size and age, you could tell he was going to grow up to look exactly like his father.

Drawing your attention up as Maester Wolkan came in, but unlike either of the two in the room accompanying you, he did not seem surprised at the sight. A small bow before turning to close the door, “My Queen” Turning properly, his calm was somewhat relieving to the nerves running within your blood. “It is truly a relief to find you have returned to us safe and sound.”

That time it was Selyse who spoke up with a slight indigence. “Safe?”

Turning your head barley to the side, you couldn’t even see her but the tone pushed through all the same. “Mother.” No words came back to you as once more you looked to Wolkan as you approached him slowly. Reaching out gently with an ask of permission first, you nodded. Pulling back the covering by the babies head just the slightest to get a first glance at him. Muttering quietly to him in almost a lulling voice, “It’s alright, this is Maester Wolkan. He is here to make sure you’re good and healthy.”

Eyes flickering up to him, the slight worry however was seen painting over your own features. Wolkan asking with a soothing calm, “And does the little one have a name?”

“Eddard.”

You looked not at either womans reaction, not in the right mindset to handle whatever associations in their minds they were making personally. Wolkan though kept his tone soft and even. “A fitting name for a Stark blooded Snow. Would you be comfortable laying him down on the bed, so we could take a closer look at him?”

Nodding, you both moved to the bed, gently holding the back of his head to support him before he lay out comfortably. Undoing the blankets and swaddled shirt keeping him hidden away. Muttering to Wolkan as you sat down on the bed next to the where the baby laid out that you had no clothes to dress him in. “Has be been wrapped up like this the entire time?” Explaining he was more then hidden from the cold even in furs when out beyond, he looked him over with gentle eyes.

Clearly used to interacting with babies, part of you felt nothing but thanks that between all of the maesters you knew, the three most important ones in your life had all been gentle and kind beyond what you knew some were. You dared not imagine how little comfort having your infant tended to by Grandmaester Pycelle would’ve been.

Noting he was rather small, he asked you how long ago was he born. “Over a week. I’m not sure how many days beyond that. Jon would know for certain.” Before he could ask or say anything, you revealed the truth that to a man such as himself he likely already knew. “He was born a month early. I had only reached eight months when he came into this world.”

Whatever shock your mother and Maege had you looked not to such reactions, not now. Telling him of the size the baby was when he was born, and already what of him had grown, Wolkan did not add to the worry you and Jon had felt when seeing for the first time his very small size. “Infants born that early tend to be quite small. Some occasions they will have stunted growth for some time, and others the body compensates too much and they grow too quickly. I presume you have fed him from your own breast?” Nodding yes, Wolkan hummed in thought as he seemed to be almost testing the baby with how he would physically react to certain gentle stimuli. “You have nothing to fear thus far in regards to his size, your grace. Early born infants rely on the nutrients of their mothers milk far more then normal babes. It helps them catch up to the growing they would have done inside you.”

Questions here and there, inspecting parts of him which only a maester would know what it means, he had asked you in passing almost. “What assistance did you have when you laboured him, may I ask?”

You knew your quiet sounded suspicious, but that your answer would catch even more attention from all three parties. “We were a near a week from reaching Castle Black. There was only, Jon, Ghost and I. Jon had to deliver him, himself.”

That time you purposefully were keeping your attention down on the baby, keeping his focus on you to not get upset by still being so exposed to the air around a man he did not know. “The King delivered your son alone?” Biting down on your tongue, you nodded once. You still hated it fell on him, that shouldn’t have been forced to be his responsibility. You couldn’t imagine what you had forced him to feel in those hours practically all alone with how little you could speak through the pain and blood.

By the time Wolkan seemed to come to his assessment, you were nothing but relieved. “He seems, for his size and circumstances to be in extraordinary health. I would suggest we meet every other day to check on his progress until he reaches his proper potential, but otherwise you have nothing to worry about thus far. You and his grace have taken wonderful care of him in such circumstances.”

It was your turn however, and as you wrapped him back up in what you still only had, you felt more nerves then before. Glancing up to the stern silence of both women in the room, you hesitated as you shifted the baby in your arms. Maege found the right words first, passing you by with a comforting hand on your shoulder with a fondness as she looked at you. “I’ll see if we can’t find something proper to dress him in.”

You thanked her in a whisper, but both of you knew she needed nothing of the sort from you. Turning to the other, you gestured down to him. “Would you be alright taking him, mother?”

She stood at once, with a light in her eyes you had not seen in some time. “Of course.” Coming close, as you both exchanged his hold, your mother softened with a smile you hadn’t seen in even longer. “Hello, little one. You’re safe with me, I’m your grandmother.” Holding him calm in her arms, your eyes met. Had you two held such a relationship, you both may have found words for what wanted to be said, but there was none. “Would you want privacy?”

You shook your head though, not sure if you needed another in the room, or perhaps if the idea of little Eddard being so far away again upset you. But she understood. Finding a place comfortable to sit with him, but giving you privacy for what needed to be done, you knew too there were a number of things you would need to explain, and more then a few injuries to elaborate on.

At the very least, your entire time knowing Wolkan had not made you both strangers to seeing such intimate injuries on you, nor was this anywhere near the strangest or most horrifying. Each description increased in the severity of the situations, but by the time the most pressing part came, you could provide little to add. Just an unspeakable pain and more blood then there should have been. You looked at none but the dark stone ceiling above with as little voice as you could provide, trying not to return to that night. For many reasons, but such an important one to be seen to was the least you wished to return to.

You spoke not of the terror that you wouldn’t make it.

By the time you were sat more upright, your mother had come closer. Sitting on the edge of the bed, but not invading your space entirely as she watched with a careful gaze. Wolkan however, seemed to have much more confidence and comfort then either of you. “You will need much rest for the next number of days, but otherwise your injuries have begun healing well all on their own.”

Your mother asking in a quiet doubt which you took no offence towards. “Right after birthing a child, and none of those have long lasting problems?”

Wolkan only shook his head. “I assure you, my lady. Were it to be more severe, she would be in far worse shape then she currently is. Likely most of her current weakness comes from a mixture of exhaustion and strain on the body in general.” Directing his attention towards you, which you had by then moved to more match your mothers position rather then staying laid out on the bed as before. “The worst of the bleeding has all but ceased. Birthing a child that early means you will likely require far less time to heal, but I will need to see to you on a regular basis to ensure no further complications have arisen.”

Merely a nod left you, thinking not to yourself what something darker was asking to be brought up. You had only just gotten back, push that away. Just for now. Handle it tomorrow.

Putting little Eddard, mostly now asleep in a small cradle, your mother seemed to speak for you to Maester Wolkan with little thought to your relative quiet, how little you had yet to move. “I’m sure we will be able to find something suitable enough for him to sleep in properly.”

Wolkan had been putting his own things away slowly. “Lord Stark raised six children, I’m sure somewhere within the storage below we will find an appropriate bed for him.” His attention turning to you, catching your gaze to shoot up suddenly. “We should be able to acquire something before the tomorrow evening.”

You were quiet as you said it, a little dispondant had you the thought to put a word to it. “No need to rush yourselves. He got this far without a bed.” Luckily, muffled voices from outside spared you from any further questioning as your brows narrowed looking towards the door.

Though there was little question as to who was speaking to whom, both strong voices when agitated could grow to a loud yell echoing over top one another. Maege seemed to have found herself at a crossroads with Jon about whether or not he should interrupt, with the later not taking it very well at the insulation that he should give his own wife privacy in these regards. The moment you heard something well along the lines of Jon saying he delivered his son himself, and Maege starting on something about he dragged you out there in the first place your hand rose to press against your forehead as your elbows leaned on your knees.

“Mother, could you go out there and tell them to stop arguing about me where I can hear them?”

Her head tilted a little in an understanding if not a bit of amusement behind her gaze knowing what form of headache could arise in you. Moving swiftly to the door now that little Eddard was settled and asleep in his small cradle on a table closer to the fire, she and Wolkan stood at the door where no doubt both heads turned to see your mothers disapproving stare along with a strict lecturing tone. “If you two are going to argue, I presume taking it elsewhere but the hall would be appropriate.”

Hearing the trail end of Jon asking how you were, the door closed behind the rest of them likely to discuss it as giving you quiet. Slowly standing, you circled around to where little Eddard slept soundly. Your hand rising to rest just enough on the blanket covering his chest that you could feel his faint breathing moving up and down.

It felt strange, knowing he was here and real and yours. It was not a dream you would awake from and find yourself trapped back down in the cold cell of the Dreadfort, alone and feverish. Not the life you once thought you’d have but one similar in the one you once wanted. But the way to such a path was so blood soaked you felt like it all would melt away around you and reveal it was a facade.

Head turning on the spot, the door opened and closed with only enough space for Jon to quickly slip through. Wide eyes as he looked from the bed over to where you actually stood. Whatever was in his hand he didn’t even look as he placed it to the cabinet beside him and walked over to you. Looking you over in the short time he had to cross the way was something shining bright in his eyes as if the worry had yet to realize it didn’t need to stay.

Turning to face him more, you hadn’t even managed to say his name before Jon wasted no more of his time. Cupping your cheeks, Jon leaned down as he too pulled you up to meet his lips. A desperate kiss rough and demanding as if pouring the remaining nerves flowing through him into yours, just as in return you gifted him your sighs. Your hands found his waist at first, but as Jon tilted your jaw up to better keep your lips to his. You let them slide up his chest and around the back of his neck.

Keeping one hand on your jaw as he deepened his kiss, Jon wrapped the other around your waist and back to pull you tight into his front before keeping you there at your hip with a tight hold. Small nibbles to your bottom lip were followed by him chasing to keep you even closer, the hand on your jaw sliding to cup the back of your neck and force you to lean up for him.

The urgency faded a little, replaced by something no less desperate, but begging for you to not pull away yet. Hand adjusting and re adjusting over and over through the strands of hair in his fingers to almost caress his hold as much as it was forcing you to stay in his kiss. His tongue gently running along your lip as you gasped from another small bite, only for his hands to grip you tighter, the manner in which you so easily parted your lips granting his tongue permission to brush over yours. Your hands tightening their grip with your nails digging somewhat into the curls fallen loose from the day as he explored the taste of your mouth gently with a need constantly keeping him pulling you close when you drifted even somewhat.

Not yet letting you go, Jon used his grip on your hip to turn you away from the table. Pushing you further back into the room before the back of your knees came into contact with the edge of the bed. Pulling away just enough, Jon rasped deeply as his breath danced hot across your skin he remained so close. “Sit.”

The moment you tried to gently protest of his name, Jon pulled you back to his lips as soon as he connected them on his own moving forward. Sitting you down your hands braced against the fur below you before seeking Jon out again. Now kneeling before you Jon had to lurch upward to almost hover over you again. As if were he not dragging your lips up to his you might escape, and he could not handle that by how much he cupped your cheeks once more with a force pressing you to his lips that made your lungs start to burn.

Begging for air, but no mercy was granted as he stole each and every but of air you needed, taking all for himself what your needs were to trust he’d give it back. A whimper slipped through just as your nails dug deep into his skin enough indents were made, did he tear himself away. Strands of saliva not yet snapping between you as he tilted your forehead to rest against his. Your chest heaving as you tried to regain your breath, Jon running a hand down your hair at the back of your head.

Through the pounding in your heart, you heard not the door knocking. Only a faint murmur from Jon refusing to let you move from him, telling them to come on. The moment your eyes opened Jon tugged you back to focus on him, eyes closing again naturally from the force it took him to keep you close enough he could push forward hardly an inch and capture your lips again.

Hands smoothing out against his shoulders until voices told him whatever they had been doing was ready. Barley muttering out a thank you as the doors closed, your brows furrowed. Jon only then tilted your forehead down to meet his lips as he pulled back enough to seek your eyes.

The rasp just as deep, but the grey returned to his eyes wide looking now up at you. His touch never leaving by your jaw, cheek or through your hair. “Maege brought him some clothes, and I had them run a bath for you, both of you when he wakes up.” Smoothly running your hands along the skin exposed around his neck, you couldn’t help but look Jon over with a silence but all within it dripped of a gentle feeling you hadn’t been able to give him alone in days upon days. Not realizing your silence, Jon prompted you as he nudged his nose against yours before racing down the length of it. “Do you want to be alone for-”

Shaking your head, your words were more desperate then you expected, or him. “No, no. Please, I want you with me.”

Sighing deeply, Jon nodded. Pulling you in for one more gentle kiss, much more chaste then before. A smile breezing onto his lips as he chased your kiss once, twice more. “Always.”

As if made of porcelain, Jon stood grabbing your hands to pull you up, but never quite let go as he ran them smoothly across your hips. Once more resting his forehead against yours. Your voice small but tender as you let yours sit high on his chest. “I’ll set the record straight with Maege tomorrow. She’s worked up is all, I don’t want her thinking you did anything wrong.”

Only a single nod followed, as Jon moved to pull your head close to kiss your forehead muttering against it. “Don’t worry about that, darling.” Perhaps something sat on your tongue wanting to defend your position, but you didn’t. Allowing him to guide you to the other room, warm and steaming the water begged for you to join. Everything sat out ready, with a smaller basin kept warm nearby as Jon muttered in your ear. “It’ll be his first proper bath.”

Leaning back into his chest as he kept you pressed against him you only smiled faintly once more. “It’ll be his first proper night in his real home.”

Lips finding their way to your neck, Jon murmured against you, letting his hands now drift up to the remaining layers covering your front. “Our first proper night as a family.” Instead of finding a good response, Jon stole your breath again but this time with the swiftness in which he pulled your final layer off from your torso, leaving you exposed to the cold. Muttering back that was all you could ask for, Jon only laughed as he turned you to face him, working now gently on your bottom layers. “We’ll do this right next time. I’ll give you a little girl, and we’ll have her here.”

You only nodded, once again letting a shiver come about as the last of the wretched layers you felt so trapped in for so long were finally off you. Not moving in the slightest, you begun working on Jon. The layers easy to come off, but too did you look forward to being able to take your time again. Work on his many layers, leathers or armour. Undoing every little bit keeping him so well put together that gave you both more intimate quiet then the minute or two this all took in total.

Instantly, your hands found his torso. Palms flat against the scars across him, just as real as they ever were before you shook yourself out of it. Reaching up you reached behind without looking from his grey eyes, letting loose his curls. Running your fingers through them as his jaw clenched ever so briefly as his eyes fluttered. Swallowing rougher, Jon rasped as he pushed lightly at your hip. “Get in for me.”

Little needed to be said, there was little to say at all. First Jon pulling your back into his chest so he could carefully wash your hair and skin, only for you to turn in his grip. Perched in his lap to do the same. Acts so simple for a man and wife but so long forgotten between you both in this manner. Unable to help himself, more then once as you were so close, Jon interrupted your work to pull you by your chin to meet his lips, letting you go to work again as he ran his hands along your waist, then losing that control again and kissing you once more.

Nearly unwilling to let you go for any period of time, even as he pulled you both from the water did he keep you in front of him. Hands, lips and eyes always attached to you in one fashion or another, but it was the small sound in Jons main room which drew a smile from you both. It was someone else’s turn that time.

For such a small thing, it did strike you both as rather funny it still took four hands to bathe little Eddard. One of you would occupy his need to grab and play with one of you, while the other gently cleaned him. Water splashing at you more then once as the baby's small babble of a sound drew your eyes narrowed. Leaning down to him with a jesting lecture, “You won’t be so silly when this takes too long and the water is cold.” A small kiss to his forehead and he was much more at ease.

“They won’t fit him perfect, but it will do until we can get him things of his own.” Jon was right, the baby being born so early meant that normal sized clothes even for newborns were still too big, but at least he could be warm and comfortable better then he had been able to since he came into the world. It all felt so easy, so natural the way you and Jon worked together with him, but you had not much in the way of time to focus on it. Jon kissed the side of your head, muttering into your hair, “You look as tired as him. You need to rest.”

For once, you did not argue that at all. A fading mumble as he laid you under the furs properly, “Thank you.” A smile passing his lips asking for what, your brows furrowed as if he should already know. “For everything, for him, for getting us home, keeping us safe. All of it.” But your eyes begun to slip closed, and with a kiss to your lips, then forehead before all you recalled warm in Jons bed was his rasp in your ear to sleep and perhaps the fading off memory of telling you he loves you, but by the time you would have wished to respond, the softness and warmth around you finally overtook whatever remained in your head, and drifted away.

Jon could affirmatively say, he had only been expecting to take care of one child that night.

But much to his own instant amusement, did the feeling not long after he left you and the baby to sleep did his discussion with Wolkan get interrupted with something running into his leg with a rather young sound to follow. “Jon,”

Blonde hair and bright blue eyes, if those did not give it away, the giggle did. Looking down, did the laughing figure of a more grown Sam come into Jons view. Crouching down more to him, Jon smiled easily running a hand over the boys hair. “Look how much bigger you’ve gotten.” A quick glance saw he was alone, and a knowing look rose in his eyebrows to the boy. “Where’s your mother?”

Shaking his head in what Jon knew all too well was a mischievous look, he grinned. Continuing on, “Now I know you’re not supposed to be awake.” Glancing up to Wolkan who was equally as amused. “We’ll finish discussing this in the morning.” Picking the boy of three up whose arms raised eager to be picked up by him, Jon perched him in his arms to keep him at his own eye level. He hadn’t seen either of them yet, so Jon did not know where Gilly would be, but he had a feeling he knew Sam well enough to guess where he’d be at this time in the evening.

Voices a little frantic were heard behind the door as Jon approached, raising a brow to the toddler as if to point out what hes caused. From looks of worry to surprise to exasperation all within seconds did Gilly turn from where she and Sam had been much more worried and make her way with playfully narrowed eyes. “Samwell.”

Hiding instantly into Jon, he could only laugh as he approached her. His voice more gentle then before, “I think he heard I was back, and came looking for me.” Sighing deeply, Gilly tried to apologize before Jon dismissed the need for it. Putting him down, Gilly pointed to the other side of the room where no doubt his bed was in a side room.

All watching little Sam make his way before it seemed to dawn on both other parties exactly what was happening. Sam calling Jons name in a relief, and the closer Gilly just as matching in tone, “We didn’t know when you were coming back, I’m so glad you’re alright.” For someone who was as small as you were, it continued to always surprise Jon when Gilly’s hug could be as strong as it was. Jon only muttered he didn’t know either, she pulled back with a desperate wide eyed look saying your name. “Is she alright, is the baby-”

Holding her by her arms, Jon muttered that you were alright, both of you. Letting go, she glanced between he and Sam before giving both space she knew that they needed. If Gilly was happy to see Jon back and alive, Sam was even moreso. Neither hesitated in bringing the other in for a hug, no time the two of them spent apart ever had managed to separate that they were as close to brothers as they could possibly get without the same blood. And too many times had they seen the other off not knowing when or if they’d ever come back.

“What was it even like?”

Both arms perched on the table between them, Jon first only propped one up by his elbow as he let the bitter taste of the ale burn down his throat. Doing little to hide the wince as he let the mug hit down on the wooden surface a little harder then necessary. Rough and low his tone was, but in truth he couldn’t stand around listening to anyone congratulate him anymore. “What was it like? What do you want me to say, Sam?”

Already people were whispering about it in wonder, when it really did not feel good to look back on for either of you. Jaw clenched, Jon could nearly still hear it, the screams in his head. How in the cave they echoed around you both making that all either of you could hear. Sam had clearly not been expecting the sort of reaction Jon was giving him. “I only mean, you delivered the baby yourself. That must have been something.”

Dark eyes stared down at the wood as he failed to clear his throat before the tearing showed up in his voice, only a mutter but something heavy and in pain intertwined with it. “It was awful.” Meeting Sam’s taken aback gaze, Jon dropped his eyes once more as they grew brighter but with a shine none close to happy. “We were alone, and she only had me. I- I couldn’t even help her. Something was wrong and she was in so much pain but I couldn’t do anything but force her to handle it alone.”

Jon didn’t want to see the look in Sams eyes, he didn’t want to confront the gut wrenching feeling in his own heart. Luckily, his voice came down to his lack of loudness and was less sympathetic but more on the realistic side Jon tended to live at. “And Maester Wolkan said they are both fine. You did everything right, Jon-”

Cutting him off, he was far away. Not present as his hand gripped the mud tight to the point the strain was visible in his knuckles. “I thought I lost her.” The heartbreak in his eyes was something Sam almost couldn’t look at, but he held Jons gaze as much as he was willing to meet his. “When it was all over, for a moment she..there was a minute after when I didn’t even know if she was alive, and all the blood..”

Sam had tried a more reasonable way to divert that pain, “There’s always pain and blood in delivering a baby, it was-”

“My father had four children after me, Sam. It was never like that..she was in so much pain she could barley breath, she couldn’t even talk.” Jon bothered not to hide the water behind his eyes, but attempted to drown out that feeling in his veins as he downed far more of the bitter ale then he had the last time. “I didn’t comfort her once, forced her to endure it on her own because I had to focus on the baby.”

Sams voice was stern as he spoke up. “Jon.” Eyes flickering back over, Sams head tilted a bit as his voice followed with more emphasis. “She’s alive, the baby’s alive and you’re all home, together. Most men wouldn’t have even done as much as you did, most would’ve left her to birth a child all alone.”

He didn’t want the tears to fall, but even if they did, Jon knew Sam could see how much they were already building up as it was. “And after?” Words not spoken at first, and it only gave Jon the room to let that darkness brew further. “I was supposed to protect her, and I didn’t. Twice. I wasn’t the one who hurt her, but I didn’t keep her safe. I’m the reason she was out there in the first place. She shouldn’t be thanking me for keeping her safe when I didn’t.”

In a switching tactic, Sam changed the subject not too far to be jarring, but enough to hopefully swivel Jons self hatred from falling too deep into the depths. “So you named him after your father?”

In the minimal, it pulled a small grin from Jon. “From the minute he was born I knew I wanted to name him after my father.” Meant only as a joke, Sam had commented that at least his name would be easy to explain, being a family name already, but Jon hadn’t even thought much of how he said it nor to be patronizing. “Sams is easy too. You’re already his father where it matters.”

Not unlike the name of Eddard, Jon knew. Not much different at all. Two fathers by blood a son would loathe to learn of, and a father which birth or not was the only one which mattered.

“When are you going to reveal him?” Jons face jolted back twisting in a pure confusion for a moment as Sam laughed. “Really, sometimes I think you of all people forget the most that you’re a King.” His brows furrowed more and Jon was already aware for his sake, Sam was withholding a no doubt clever comment about his intelligence. “He’s not just your son, he’s the son of the King in the North. Aren’t the firstborn Princes of a King supposed to get revealed formally to the court?”

Jon hadn’t even considered that. Not truly. Thinking of himself in terms of being called a King was one thing, but now calling his son a Prince? That certainly would take a grand amount of getting used to he realized. Running a hand over his forehead Jon muttered your name, “When she’s better then maybe. There’s a lot more to do first then reveal a son everyone already knows I have by now.”

By the time Jon made to leave, Sam had one more question in mind as he turned from where he was by the door. “Jon, what did you learn out there? Something that could save us, or help?” When he hesitated, Sams tone lowered to more a concern again. “Was it anything good?”

It wasn’t any words Jon said, as he said nothing, but the morose look on his face that did not give much optimism by the time he muttered out, “Goodnight, Sam.” And closed the door behind him. Jon and you had learned too much out there, and part of him wishes he never did. It might have made some of this a bit easier, but there was no changing the past. He knew what he knew, and the only singular option was to move forward best he could.

As Jon grasped the handle to his chamber door, for a moment, Jon thought perhaps he spotted her again. If so, she had disappeared down the hall before he could call out to her. Sighing deeply, Jon closed his eyes to gather that tension and leave it here before walking into his chambers for the night. Tomorrow he had a busy day, make sure you always had someone with you to help and ensure you were actually resting as needed. Make sure by the end of the night he’d have most of what his son would need now that he was home.

But right now, the fact that Sansa was both watching and avoiding him couldn’t be on Jons list of things to deal with. He couldn’t force her to accept anything, and he was likely the last sibling she would take well to some of the more harsh truths about their new specific debacle. He never wanted it to be one against the other with any of his siblings, but Jon was aware enough that if there was one sibling who such a problem would turn unpleasant against, it was her.

For now, he had to be fine with the simple fact that she was home. There weren’t many of them left, their family, but what there was, was alive and it would have to do. Jon did know however, that tomorrow he and Arya needed to start handling the much more urgent problem, that came with Sansa returning home.

Jon though, was not quite sure he had the self restraint to not at some point, let his temper get the best of him in what would be his first meeting of Petyr Baelish. He never liked him from the stories you would tell him when you sat on the small council, and now that had grown into a hatred. But as he entered his chambers, he could only smile.

You and the baby clearly had been awake at some point. His small cradle moved from the table to the floor on Jons side of the bed as the fur there was rustled as if you had sat there for a while. Likely he presumed, he had woken up hungry and no doubt woken you up with him. Now uncovered by the furs, laid atop you, in fact you were on top of them further down the bed not even with a pillow. Your arm by the look of it seemed like you would be able to easily reach down to soothe him should he awake again and you wanted to be close if need be.

As quiet as could be did Jon pull most of his layers off, leaving just his breeches as he carefully climbed up on the bed beside you. Leaning over to press a kiss to your neck as he pulled your long hair out of his way, Jon didn’t move you. Just positioned himself behind you in the same manner close to the edge, only tugging your back a bit more comfortably into his chest. One hand running over your hip, Jon had to remind himself.

Maester Wolkan had said you’d need a while to heal entirely if you got enough rest. The bleeding had stopped but you’d still be in too much pain for anything like that. Your emotions had been all over the place, even if since getting to Castle Black they had been on the better side. Jon had to remember not to push you, or make you feel pressured just because of the darkness in his head. He could look at you now, and say without any fantasy that you were the mother of his child and even that thought alone he felt his cock stir.

He didn’t want you to feel like he would pressure you into anything, he wanted to wait as long as you needed. Jon closed his eyes, nuzzling into the back of your head and neck as the oils he used to wash your hair invaded his senses enough to relax him. His final thought as his mind begun to fade was to ease off of you for a while. Back up the amount he could be physical with you, no matter what the wolf in him growled in such a dark clawing instinct, sex with you wasn’t anywhere near the most important thing in his love for you.

If only the twisting fog in your own head had understood that when you would wake.

[dead-lights]

household // 1910s caleb & lilith & lily [DOWNLOAD]

It's so much fun throwing the Vatores into random historical eras. This is what you'll get if you throw my late Edwardian Zhu-Vatore household into your game! I may have gone a bit overboard.

↓↓↓ tl;dr household download link & required cc below the cut ↓↓↓

There's absolutely gorgeous Edwardian cc out there, so I collected it for you 💖

The Edwardian era was marked by excess and conspicuous consumption. They liked big hair and big hats, and by the end of the period people had come to agree that the sexiest shape a woman can be is cylindrical.

Caleb, Lily, and Lilith really pull off the look. Neither lady is particularly cylindrical, but they look great in these dresses and absolutely rock the Gibson Girl updo and fancy hats.

I aged Lily down and changed her hair color, removed Lilith's tattoos, and gave Caleb a basic dark form, but no other changes. I tried to make them cousins? But when I loaded the household onto my laptop, they weren't cousins anymore :(

You'll need Vintage Glamour, in addition to Vampires and Werewolves. A few of Caleb's outfits and his hair are from VG and you CANNOT pair side bangs with Edwardian clothing. It's a fashion law.

In order to cut back on the amount of cc, there's less variety of hats, hair, gloves, and shoes than I'd like. I also didn't include jewelry. If people are interested, I can put together a list of supplementary cc that can be swapped in.

Please tag me @dead-lights if you use these for anything! I'd love to see my pixel buddies walking around in other people's saves.

Now buckle up, y'all. This gets long.

download household [SFS]

Extract that into your Tray folder (in the same folder as your Mods folder). You should see the household in CAS when you open your gallery.

required cc

@happylifesims

fedora shape no. 2

peaky blinders outfit

wilbur outfit

1920s coat

rose's boarding outfit

rose's dinner dress

rose's lunch dress

rose's flying dress

rose’s jump dress

rose's swim dress

1910s day dress 01

my recolor of day dress 01

1910s day dress 02

1920s nightgown

@historicalsimslife

men's casual edwardian suit

edwardian men's underwear + sleep wear

edwardian women's hat + coat

edwardian women's nightgown

@gilded-ghosts

the hartfield shoes

summer swells dress

flower accessory

gilded gibson hair

fanny's finery gown (dropbox)

perfectly plain skirt

clair de lune nightgown (dropbox)

promenade dress

demure day dress (dropbox)

astor dress (direct link)

coquette corset (dropbox)

@linzlu

picnic tops 2 & 3

bathing belle

florence outwear (direct link)

miss scarlet evening gown

hattie dress (direct link)

&

vintage swimwear by @eirflower

duchess of xviii hat by @rustys-cc

white garden gloves by rustys-cc

sunday hair by @saurusness

season's greetings hat by @nolan-sims

edwardian satin bow pumps by @waxesnostalgic

knickerbockers by waxesnostalgic

gibson curl updo by @the-melancholy-maiden

vintage glam hat by @madlensims

avery skirt by madlensims

scholar vest by @magnolianfarewell

edwardian huntress dress by @elfdor

tyrell by @clumsyalienn

bespoke corset by @dzifasims

my recolor of bespoke corset

fur hat by @lilis-palace

carla by @buzzardly28

hattie dress by @dancemachinetrait

"tea time" vintage edwardian hat by shawnthesimmer

lingerie dress by @javitrulovesims

If you're trying to replace the default in-game:

move this household into wolfsbane manor with the default vatores, then delete the defaults

use mods/cheats to make the new lily the vatores' cousin (i think mccc and ui cheats can both do it)

move custom lily in with the volkov household - use cheats/mods to copy her default relationships if you'd like - and then delete default lily. you will also need to mod/cheat lily back into the moonwood collective if you want her to keep her position. all three characters still have their occult rank and powers. she does NOT keep her special moonwood mill gossip dialogue - not sure why.

TOU

don't put my stuff behind a paywall

don't claim my stuff as your own

don't violate the TOUs of the cc makers i've included

Please let me know if there are any problems - this is my first time putting up a household and I'm only mostly sure I did it right 😅 I managed to get it to work on my laptop, so there's that.

If you're just here for the download, you're done now! If you're interested in learning more about Edwardian fashion, let me ramble at you for a bit :)

my notes

This isn't the most historically accurate set, but I'm calling it close enough - if you're interested in learning more about the era, Edwardian Promenade is a great place to start.

Edwardians had really weird, complicated rules about hat and glove wearing. For most of these outfits, people would don and remove their hats and gloves based on social context - they shouldn't be wearing gloves when they eat, for example, but should always wear gloves when they're dancing. It's hard to find consistent information about the specific rules, but I've read excerpts from the Edwardian equivalents of Miss Manners and Good Housekeeping and they are fascinating.

I found some great reference images for sportswear from Silhouettes Costumes. Caleb's athletic outfit is based on this contemporary illustration. The unfastened bottom button is a nice detail to have - it was fashionable for men to leave the last button undone, as a nod to King Edward.

The ladies have 3 sleep outfits - the first are nightgowns that they would wear to sleep, the second are corsets, with other undergarments still on underneath, and the third are chemises, which were worn under their corsets - the underest part of the underwear, essentially.

For an in-depth explanation of Edwardian lingerie, check out The Fashion Archaeologist's Blog. For information about Edwardian nighttime hair care, check out Sew Historically.

The girls are wearing lingerie dresses for their hot weather outfits - lacy dresses made with the same materials & techniques as lingerie. These were good casual afternoon dresses, and were sometimes worn without a corset. Learn more about them from The Dreamstress!

[nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma]

Missing Women of HOTD - Marilda of Hull

A familiar sight about her father’s shipyards, the girl was better known as Mouse, for she was “small, quick, and always underfoot.”

When Addam was ten and Alyn nine, their mother inherited the yards upon her own father’s death, sold them, and used the coin to take to the sea herself as the mistress of a trading cog she named Mouse. A canny trader and daring captain, by 130 AC Marilda of Hull owned seven ships, and her bastard sons were always serving on one or the other.

That Addam and Alyn were dragonseed no man who looked upon them could doubt, though their mother steadfastly refused to name their father. Only when Prince Jacaerys put out the call for new dragonriders did Marilda at last break her silence, claiming both boys were the natural sons of the late Ser Laenor Velaryon.

On Driftmark, the town of Hull experienced a rebirth. Scores of new ships were built and launched, and Lord Oakenfist’s mother greatly expanded her own trading fleets, and began work on a palatial manse overlooking the harbor that Mushroom dubbed the Mouse House.

On his tomb is engraved a single word: LOYAL. Its ornate letters are supported by carvings of a seahorse and a mouse.

The fleet set sail at mid-year, led by Oakenfist in a galley he named Bold Marilda after his mother.

I can't believe we had to sit through Sharako Lohar the cool lesbian slaver when we could have had this Queen instead.

Both her sons are so proud of their mother and she's clearly so important to them, it's so shitty the show erased her. And then there's 30-year-old Show Alyn giving a speech about going hungry just to rub the salt in the wound - because we can't have Bold Captain Marilda and her fleet of trading ships. It's not as though this season centered around a sea blockade or anything.

We could have had Marilda play an active role in that blockade. Though of course, the entire plotline of the famine in King's Landing was ridiculous. Most of their food comes from the Reach, the Breadbasket of the Realm, by Road. That was why there was a famine in the War of the Five Kings when the Tyrells blocked the Rose Road. But we all knew the writers hadn't really thought the famine through the moment the starving crowd started throwing food in protest-

But if we had to have it, then Marilda could have been the one tasked with delivering the food aid. Or if we focused on the actual effects of the blockade (its impact on trade of goods from the free cities, which would have been more luxury goods impacting the wealthier of King's Landing), we could have had Marilda being the liaison with other disgruntled captains and traders, or the one helping to keep them in line and not break the blockade.

Imagine also if we had a book-accurate depiction of the Sowing of the Seeds (no Squid-gaming a crowd of bastards into a room and ringing the dinner bell for a crazy religious ritual or whatever the show was going for in The Bells Round 2). If instead of divine intervention dropping a dragon on a passive Addam (and triggering Rhaenyra's descent into crazy cult leader apparently) he was actually able to be a character with agency - actively responding to Jace's call for dragonseeds and willing to take the risk. Because he's Bold Marilda's son.

We could have then had Corlys quietly begging Marilda to keep the boys parentage a secret so he doesn't shame the memory of his recently deceased wife. And Marilda says "sure no problem" and then turns around with the baldest of bald faced lies that the kids are Laenor's and watches the succession chaos unfold (until Book Jace of course saves the day with "Yay, new brothers! Please Mom can I keep them?"). Marilda stares Corlys down until he guiltily chimes in to request his 'grandsons' be legitimised.

We could have seen Marilda's guilt and grief at what happens to her bold and daring youngest son - an age-accurate Alyn (14) who eagerly tries to follow in his big brother's shadow and suffers burns for life. Heck, the show could have even paralleled Marilda and Addam at Alyn's sickbed with Alicent and Kylo Raemond at Aegon's sickbed - only with actual love in the room.

We could have had Marilda's pride at watching Addam legitimised and knighted, tainted by sadness at the cost to Alyn, but relief that both her sons survived. We could have had her keeping a recovering Alyn company while Jace trains with Addam and the other dragonseeds (replacing the little brother he lost). We could have had her be the one to confront Corlys for his absence. We could have had Corlys make it up to her by telling Alyn tales of his voyages, offering him an alternative path now that he can't join Addam as a dragonrider.

It would have been a hell of a lot more engaging than Dull 30-year-old Alyn having what feels like the same conversation with Corlys over and over again about that time he was the sailor who pulled him from the sea-

Or Less Dull But For Some Reason Younger Addam, who talks about wanting an opportunity for glory but ultimately is a passive character who gets a dragon landed on him. Contrast to Nice Man With Wife And Sick Daughter Hugh, and Funny Drunk Ulf - two white men who we are for some reason following instead of Nettles, and who actually get to make the active decision to go claim a dragon. Because they get to be written with motives and agency.

Considering the treatment of Laena, the erasure of Baela's personality, the decision to merge Nettles with Rhaena, the dullification of Alyn and Addam... and considering the rush to shower attention on Hugh and Ulf and genderbent Sharako Lohar and Gwayne Hightower of all people...

It does lead me to conclude that any potential interest the writers may have had in adapting certain characters... abruptly vanished the moment a certain casting decision was made.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Game of Thrones Fic List

🖤= tw:dark content

🍑= smut

📚= series/multi-part

💌= requested

For Whom the Bell Tolls (Margaery Tyrell x Baratheon!Reader)

A glance and a sassy comment. The more time you two spent alone together, the less of a sister you became to one another. It wasn’t your intention to fall in love with the wife of your brother. You had never really felt bad about it when Maragery was married to Joffrey, but now that she was wed to your sweet Tommen. . . You couldn’t do that to your sweet lion.

Between Saints and Sinners (Sandor Clegane x Reader)

It had been years since you last saw Sandor Clegane. Years since you had last been in employment at Lord Baelish’s brothel.

A Stark Bride (Aegon Targaryen i x Stark!Reader)

Aegon Targaryen reduced your father, Torrhen Stark, to a mere lord. The Targaryen conqueror had taken the title of king for himself. You wanted to depise them, those beautiful Targaryens with their lavender eyes and silver tresses. But they were beautiful. Terrifying and beautiful just like their dragons.

Promises (Oberyn Martell x Reader) 🖤

Having witnessed the brutal murder of your family, your uncle Oberyn is the only one to fend off your nightmares and the only one you could ever feel an attachment to.

Shedding Skin (Arthur Dayne x Targaryen!Reader) 

You wouldn't let your brother Rhaegar humiliate you. No. Faking your own death, you travel to Dorne and there shed your dragon skin to become a new person. A happier person.

A Touch of Gold (Margaery Tyrell x Stark!Reader)

If Renly was to have a lover, then Margaery wanted one as well. And she decided that it just had to be the visiting (y/n) Stark.

Gold and Red (Jaime Lannister x Reader) 🍑

How could you bring yourself to have sex with your child husband? Jaime, however, was a full grown man.

Stupid, Pretty Little Things 🖤

She was the only gift Joffrey wanted for his name day. And Joffrey would be damned if anyone forbade him to what was his.

Targaryen Daughters 

After so long staying safely hidden in the privacy of a Sept, you discover your younger sister Daenerys is very well alive. Alive and with three dragons.

A Good, Mean Dog (Sandor Clegane x Baratheon!Reader) 📚

The Princess and the Hound. What a story that would be

Horns That Hold A Crown (Rhaegar Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader)

The only daughter of Steffon Baratheon, and to Aerys you were th eonly suitable bride for his son Rhaegar. Your previokus engagement to Ned Stark was broken. Now you found yourself the bride of a dragon instead that of a wolf.

Ruined Hallelujah (Margaery Tyrell x Baratheon!Reader)

You had expected such a move from Robert, maybe even Stannis, but never from your brother Renly. He was well aware of your affair with Margaery, even supported it. Yet he had married you off to Robb Stark, King in the North.

Misfit (Daenerys Targaryen x Greyjoy!Reader) 🖤

Nightmares, your nightmares were filled with the blazing symbol of a kraken. As you travel with your siblings to Meereen you hope Queen Daenerys would be willing to help you in defeating Euron.

One True Queen (Rhaegar Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader)📚

What he had done was the greatest insult to you. One that you thought he would never do. You knew he loved you with all his heart, that was certain. You were his sister and his wife. However, that all changed when he took Lyanna Stark as his second wife.

Knight in Blue and Red (Rhaegar Targaryen x Tully!Reader)

You wanted to be in charge of Riverrun when your father died, but because you were the third and youngest daughter of Hoster Tully that was highly impossible. You would show him. Show him that you would be a better successor than your brother Edmure.

Belladonna  (Young Robert Baratheon x Reader)

With the death of his father, Robert Baratheon found himself the young lord of Storm's End. A new lordship requires a wife.

Dragon (Daenerys Targaryen x Reader)📚

She had trusted her Unsullied with her life. That was why when one attacked her with a knife she doesn't have him killed. Instead Daenerys wants to get down to the problem. Only when she removes the Unsullied's helmet she is met with the face of a young girl.

A Lion’s Vow (Jaime Lannister x Stark!Reader)💌

This game the both of you played was your only real entertainment in the mess that was the Red Keep. Knowing it’s true nature, your father attempted to keep you close to his side. Reminding you not to trust anyone easily, especially those that belonged to the House of the Lion. 

A Mouse in a Lion’s Den (Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader)📚

A little mouse surrounded by ferocious lions? It didn't look to be a good situation, even if those lions happened to be your family.

Exiled (Arthur Dayne x Reader)💌

You run into Ser Arthur Dayne in Essos. Along with a dark haired, gray eyed child.

Glow (Daenerys Targaryen x Reader)

Why she had taken a liking to you among all the others she had freed, you would never know. You had been a personal whore for one of the masters and had gotten pregnant. There were many others like you. Your story was nothing special, but Dany had found you worthy enough to be her close companion. There were even times when you thought that maybe you could be more than her companion.

The Doe That Chases the Hound (Sandor Clegane x Baratheon!Reader)

Normally in a hunt it was a hound’s duty to chase down deer. You went against the natural order of things. This time it was the doe who sought after the hound.

Crimson Lady (Ramsay Bolton x Bolton!Reader, Sansa Stark x Bolton!Reader) 🖤

Sansa should have known better. Of course she'd be every part of a Bolton as her brother Ramsay was.

Loveless (Rhaegar Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader) 🖤💌

There was nothing Rhaegar could do about your sudden engagement. Try as he might, he couldn’t persuade Aerys to marry you to him. It didn’t matter that he proclaim his undying love for you. Didn’t matter how you got on your knees in front of the iron throne and begged him to reconsider. Instead of mercy, the Mad King simply laughed at you.

Just For You (Ramsay Bolton x Reader) 🍑💌

The cruel Ramsay Bolton has an unknown side to him. Not just for anyone though. Only for the maid whom he loves to taunt. 

From the Ashes (Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader)📚

A year has passed since (y/n) and her brother Jaime fled from King's Landing to the vast and foreign world of Essos.

Mine First, Mine Last, Mine Even in the Grave (Ramsay Bolton x Reader) 🍑

Even at such a young age, Ramsay was proving a difficult and willful child. He was somewhat twisted in nature that sometimes disturbed his mother. However once he laid eyes on the little baby, he immediately grew attached to her.

Birth of Dragons (Aegon i Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader) 📚

It wasn’t fair of him to choose a favorite between his sisters. Fearless Visenya, playful Rhaenys and loving (y/n). Above them all he secretly placed (y/n) close to his heart.

The Most Impossible Battle (Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader) 🍑

Robert hated all Targaryens. Wise words from those close to him though make Robert Baratheon give in to the idea of taking (y/n) Targaryen as his bride.

Wrap Around (Oberyn Martell x Martell!Reader) 📚🖤

Oberyn was beside himself at the return of his baby sister (y/n). For a year she had been off in Essos, experiencing the rest of the world outside of the safety of Sunspear. Now she was returning to Dorne. Returning to Oberyn.

By Any Other Name (Margaery Tyrell x Reader)

Another Life (Rhaegar Targaryen x Stark!Reader)

Lyanna watches Jon from atop of the courtyard's parapet, her eyes crinkling with pride as she watches Jon best Theon Greyjoy at the dance of swords. Every victory Jon made resulted in him outgrowing the label of bastard. He was so much more than a bastard of Winterfell. Not even Catelyn saw him as such. Many were so shocked when the news came that Ned had brought back his bastard one day. In fact Cat had shown up at Winterfell by his side as he held the infant in his arms, for she was one of three that knew the truth about Jon Snow. 

What We Sow (Theon Greyjoy x Greyjoy!Reader) 🍑🖤💌

This was his home, a place where the salt of the sea and the cries of seagulls were a constant presence and where you were. Waiting so patiently as always. His queen, his sister, his wife. He'd been dreaming of the moment when he'd be reunited with you after so long. 

Omission (Theon Greyjoy x Stark!Reader)💌🍑

Robb wasn't being dramatic when he claimed your change toward Theon. From innocent children to teenagers, everything happened so fast that you weren't really able to comprehend what was going on with your own head. When Theon first arrived to your family, you were a small child. You and Robb grew attached to him immediately. For so long you saw him as a brother. Then it just stopped the moment you bled.

Hummingbird (Petyr Baelish x Baratheon!Reader) 💌

[spurstwt]

[jaimexbrienne-fic-finder]

Wedding

May is Wedding month, so here are stories about weddings! Some are only about a wedding, some just have a bigger part about a wedding. There are lots more I can't remember right now, if I think of many more there will be a part 2!

Found Wanting by dreadwulf

Brienne is still convinced that the entire affair is a joke on her. Surely there is a real bride somewhere in the castle, who will be brought out once the crowd has had a good laugh at the cow in a satin gown. When she said as much to her intended, he said it was surely a joke on them both. Let them laugh, he said. What’s funnier is that Queen Daenerys made the match in the first place – she must have thought them intolerable to one another. The Beauty and the Kingslayer. Surely Brienne could see the humor in it?

Something Drastic by bearsofair

Brienne ducks out of a wedding reception early. Her "date" comes looking for her.

the battlefield between us (isn't here tonight) by robotsdance

“I missed you, ” Brienne says like she’s admitting something else, and Jaime wants to say it back to her in exactly the same way: loaded with all of the things they’re not saying. Let that truth settle between them, unsaid but at least somewhat spoken. That could be enough. To share that quiet understanding with Brienne, here, alone together in the middle of the woods, in the middle of a war, in which one of them will be on the losing side. That could be enough. I missed you too.

Brienne would understand.

What Jaime says instead is “Marry me.”

The Lion, the Wench, and the Wardrobe Trailer by GilShalos1

Jaime Lannister’s entire acting career has been built on playing reckless cads and heartless villains – ever since a scandalous death on his first film, Kingslayer, was quickly hushed up at his father’s behest. Nearly fifteen years later, acclaimed director Olenna Tyrell has announced her retirement: after one last film, Oathkeeper, inspired by the mythic story of the Long Night. She wants Jaime to do what he does so well, play into his on-screen persona and off-screen reputation, and be a villain for the ages in her final film. But to make sure his infamous ways don’t interfere with production, she requires his personal assistant to keep him on the straight, narrow and sober. Brienne Tarth, in her first job on a film set, finds herself tasked with keeping the impossible Jaime Lannister under control …

Something Blue by Aviss

Jaime Lannister was a wedding planner, though he sometimes missed his old job where he was actually allowed to kill people. Ten minutes with his latest clients and he was already convinced they should not get married. He wasn't a marriage counsellor though, he wasn't invested in this Hunt and Tarth wedding beyond the planning of the ceremony.

Never A Bride by CourtingDisaster

(Modern AU) Wedding bells are ringing in Westeros. After an unpleasant first meeting, Brienne and Jaime find themselves being thrown together over and over as their friends and family marry off. After all, as Tyrion likes to point out, there really aren't any other groomsmen tall enough to escort everyone's favorite bridesmaid...

Over the course of several weddings and receptions, Brienne and Jaime form a sort of truce, perhaps they even become friends. But Brienne isn't going to let the atmosphere of romance carry her away, no matter how handsome Jaime is...is she?

Vows by theworldunseen

Jaime Lannister profiles the most interesting and romantic weddings in the country for his super popular blog, The only problem? His own heart has been stomped on, and it might have ruined weddings for him forever. When he finds out about a woman who’s going to be in her twenty-seventh wedding party, he thinks writing about her might be his way back to loving weddings. But Brienne Tarth isn’t anything he ever expected.

What happens in Sunspear (doesn't) stay in Sunspear Series by Luthien

Brienne wakes up the morning after a night on the town in Vegas Sunspear, with unexpected company in her bed - and that's just the first surprising discovery she makes.

My Best Friend's Wedding by wildlingoftarth

A desperate Brienne hires a “professional party date” to accompany her to Renly’s wedding on Tarth. It’s just a weekend – what could go wrong?

so keep me close. by SeeThemFlying

Brienne pines for her husband, Jaime, who she is convinced is not madly in love with her.

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia - Chapter 1: A Platter of Grapes (Daemon Targaryen x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapter 1: A Platter of Grapes 

The Red Keep is graced by an old, familiar presence. 

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | 

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: Extremely, and I mean extreme slow burn lol, Daemon and Y/N both being little shits who cannot stand each other, I have a blood feud with the HOTD costuming department for Rhaenyra and thus I go into extreme (probably historical inaccurate) detail about the clothes of the characters, Rhaenicent hints so faint that if you blink you’d miss it 

Word Count: 3.3k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: A special thanks to all those who have reblogged my ‘Se Zaldrizoti’ Prumia’ related posts 💗 your support is truly appreciated and has been the source of my smiles over the past few days 

lovely dividers courtesy of @firefly-graphics​ !

105 years after Aegon’s Conquest

Queen Aemma’s chambers was a busy hive of activity, as usual. The queen’s serving girls, ladies-in-waiting, and Grand Maester Mellos went in and out of the Queen’s apartments in a constant rotation, fussing over the heavily pregnant Aemma’s every need or discomfort. Aemma herself was exhausted at the constant fussing and prodding, but Viserys was deeply concerned about the babe in Aemma’s womb - which he insisted with vehement conviction was a son, and therefore must be treated with the utmost level of care, and after five failed attempts at producing an heir, Aemma had learnt over the years that to be overcautious was not necessarily a bad thing. 

Aemma sat sprawled on her lounge, occasionally grimacing when a sharp ache rippled through her body should she choose to adjust herself. Clad in a simple white linen shift and an intricately embroidered rose pink robe of Myrish silk and lace, she felt beads of sweat beginning to form at her temples once more. Her pregnancy had cursed her to endure bout after bout of severe sweating, despite the fact that it was nigh autumn and the ladies of the court had taken to long sleeves and wrapping shawls around their shoulders. Closing her eyes and dabbing at her forehead wearily, she sincerely hoped that the babe in her belly would be the boy Viserys had so longed for, if it meant that she would stop being plagued with the labours of pregnancy.

Her tired expression fell in an instant, replaced by a radiant smile as a woman dressed in a light green linen gown with long bell sleeves walked into her view, nodding politely to the exiting Grand Maester. “You finally came back,” Aemma joked lightly, watching the woman take a seat on the cushioned stool next to Aemma’s recliner. “I was afraid you got sidetracked and forgot about my grapes.” 

The woman’s (Y/E/C) eyes flickered with amusement. “I could never dare forget about you, my queen. You would have me beheaded and my head placed on a spike if I did.” Aemma let out a laugh as she reached over to pluck a grape from the bowl in Y/N’s hands. Y/N shook her head at the queen’s lack of dining decorum, but offered up the much awaited platter of grapes to Aemma’s eager hands regardless. “And pray tell, what shall I do if I had executed my favourite and most competent lady-in-waiting, hmm?” Aemma jested, shoving three grapes into her mouth. It was definitely not something a queen should be doing, but Y/N had been Aemma’s lady-in-waiting for nearly two years, and her friend for far longer. Decorum was not a concept that existed between the two of them. 

“You flatter me, Your Grace. And slow down, the grapes will not fly away.” I chided gently, as Aemma continued shoving three grapes at a time into her mouth. “The grapes won’t, although I’m afraid Rhaenyra will. Didn’t she say she would come to see me at first light? It’s nearly midday.” Just then, like clockwork, a commotion could be heard near the entrance to the Queen’s apartments. Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Alicent Hightower’s voice could be heard laughing together among the subservient voices of the servants greeting the two of them. “Speak ill of the Stranger,” I laughed, as Rhaenyra and Alicent appeared in view, smiling with their arms linked. 

Rhaenyra was wearing a silk gown of soft gold, with butterfly sleeves. The bodice had a ribbed triangular corset that was cinched at the waist, and the skirt parted at the middle to reveal a layer of dark crimson brocade, with faint scrollwork detailing in tiny golden threads. A similarly coloured velvet shawl patterned with gold-threaded dragons was draped over her shoulders, to protect her from the chill. Meanwhile Alicent was clad in a gown of light blue worsted yarn, with bell sleeves going to just above her wrists. A thin layer of cream muslin peeked out of her sleeves and ruffles of the same material covered her collarbones modestly. Blue roses were sewn around her waistline, and olive leaves were embroidered around the neckline of her dress. I suppressed a smile when I noticed a garden violet tucked between Alicent’s reddish brown locks, and a similar one nestled in the princess’ white-blonde tresses. 

Rhaenyra immediately went over to Aemma, Alicent staying a respectful distance away. “Your Grace,” Alicent smiled and curtsied politely to Aemma, and Aemma greeted her warmly, “Good morrow, Lady Alicent.” “Mother, Y/N”, Rhaenyra crouched down next to Aemma, holding out a hand to stop me when I stood up to offer her my seat. 

Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose when she noticed her mother clad in such thin clothes, and started detangling her shawl from her shoulders, but Aemma only shook her head with an affectionate smile and stilled Rhaenyra’s motions by cupping her cheek with one hand. “It has been quite long since first light, has it not? You have forgotten about your poor royal mother, Rhaenyra.” 

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, though her voice was tender. “Forgive me, Mother. But the weather was far too lovely for me not to take Syrax out for a flight. She has been growing lazy as of late.” Aemma snorted softly, adjusting a braid that had loosened from Rhaenyra’s hairdo. “Now that explains the dragon stench overwhelming my apartments then. You are lucky that Y/N was kind enough to accompany me during your absence.” “Is it not my duty, my Queen?” I teased, “Unless you find my company repulsive, of course.” Aemma pursed her lips thoughtfully, although her eyes were filled with mischief as she said, “Your company is delightful as always, although the waiting time for my food to be brought up is quite outrageous.” “Then I shall pray to the Seven that they might bestow on me the power of flight to serve you better, your Grace.”

“Seven hells!” Rhaenyra cursed, fumbling in her pockets. “Rhaenyra! Language,” Aemma scolded. “What is it?” I asked, concerned. Rhaenyra groaned in frustration, “I had a present for Mother, but I must have dropped it in the throne room when I was showing it to father yesterday.” “How careless,” Aemma chided, although her tone was soft as Rhaenyra bit her lip and hung her head slightly. She must’ve really wanted to give the present to Aemma. 

“Why don’t I go retrieve it?” I offered, standing up and smoothing my dress. “The kitchens are but a stone’s throw away from the throne room, and I am certain Your Grace’s appetite for grapes has not yet been sated.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes shone with gratitude, “Yes please! Thank you, Y/N.” “Tis nothing, princess. What does it look like?” “It’s a necklace, with a ruby falcon pendant, ” Rhaenyra described, “I got it to remind Mother of home.” “Oh Rhaenyra,” Aemma murmured softly, a soft look of love flooding her face. Rhaenyra held her hand tightly, “There was a sapphire one, but I thought the ruby one would be fitting. For both your Arryn and Targaryen roots.” Aemma squeezed her daughter’s hand, “I will cherish it fiercely forever, as I do with all your gifts.” My face took on a wistful expression as I watched mother and daughter interact and I spoke softly, “Worry not, princess, I will find it and bring it here.” 

I retreated out of the room, returning Alicent’s smile with one of my own as I passed her on my way out of the room, but not before Aemma called out to me, “Make sure you make haste! Your queen desires for more grapes!” “Of course, my Queen!” I called back, grinning. 

The throne room was blissfully unguarded, which signified the absence of the King, and by extension, any nosy courtiers who might frown upon me fumbling around the throne room like a sneaking rat. ‘Perfect, no need for awkward pleasantries then.’ I opened the double doors leading to the throne room, shutting the doors with a heavy thunk. My eyes took a while to adjust to the gloom of the throne room, but I nearly let out a shriek when I saw a shadowy figure sitting on the throne room. Was that the king? And if so, why in the Seven Hells was he sitting in a darkened throne room? 

“Byka zaldrīzes,” an all too familiar voice called out. My heart thumped furiously in my chest as my mouth dropped open in disbelief.

No. No way. He was somewhere floating around in Lys, if court gossip was to be believed. It couldn’t be him. 

“Won’t you come closer? It’s only been 8 years since we last saw each other. Surely you haven’t forgotten me.” 

Daemon Targaryen. Second son of Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, younger brother of king Viserys, and the most annoying royal pain in my ass. 

His petulance and near unnatural ability to be able to get on every single nerve in my body had caused me to become a devoted practitioner of self-restraint, given how badly I longed to throttle him or slit his throat with a dagger whenever he was near me. But much to my consternation, societal propriety rendered me unable to challenge him in a duel or even brawl with him, like most boys would do to sort out their differences. But even so, it was not in my nature to silently endure the countless pranks and jests he tormented me with, and thus I often paid him back tenfold for every misdeed he committed against me. My mother was chagrined, while Prince Baelon and Viserys merely laughed and observed our antics with much amusement, along with the rest of the court. 

My lips twisted in a frown, and my heart still beating fast from the initial shock, I walked closer to the Iron Throne. “As much as I’d like to, your memory still leaves an unwanted stain in my mind.” The figure sitting languidly on the throne leaned forward as I approached, making me finally catch a glimpse of the boy whom I used to detest with every fibre of my being. Although he certainly bore no resemblance to the annoying brat I detested. 

Gone was the lankier frame of his youth. In his stead, it was a man, of tall stature and strong muscular frame, honed by years of intense sword training and puberty. His hair had lengthened considerably since the last time I saw it, and my lips twitched in amusement as I remembered how I had once cut it off when we were children as retribution for him dousing me with a bucket of Arbor Gold while he and I were sneaking around the Red keep late at night, him claiming that he had something interesting to show me. I treasured the memory of that deliciously girlish scream he let out when he realised I had dared cut his precious white-blonde locks. His face had lost its roundness over the years as well, becoming lean and chiselled, lending a harsher quality to his expression, but it only seemed to accentuate his daring and dangerous beauty, or at least, if you listened to the giggles of the twittering ladies of court. His eyes, still filled with that same mischievous glint, watched me as I stood in front of the throne, raking over me shamelessly. I rolled my eyes at that, at least some things never changed. 

“Ah, but you remember me nonetheless.” 

“The emphasis was on the word ‘unwanted’, your Grace.” 

He laughed, leaning back against the throne leisurely as he stared at Y/N. ‘It was a sheer marvel his body was not littered with a thousand cuts by now,’ Y/N thought, a scowl on her face. 

“I see the years have finally taught you some manners. I couldn’t remember the last time you addressed me formally. You always had some rather…colourful turn of phrases up your sleeves, however. Maybe the years of looking for a prospective marriage match have taught you some decorum.” 

I narrowed my eyes at him, the vein in my neck beginning to tick in annoyance, as it always did around him. “You know they say, people age slower when they get married. You are living proof that the saying is false.” He let out a throaty laugh, crossing his legs as his voice took on a mocking tone. “I see your lack of marriage prospects have turned you from sour to bitter, byka zaldrizes.” 

I bristled, “Stop calling me that. Why are you here?” “I heard there was a tournament being held in my honour. I should be in attendance since all this heraldry was made on my account, should I not?” “The tournament is for the King’s heir.” Daemon learned forward again, his tone edged with menace, and defiance. “Precisely as I said.” 

I shook my head, duly unimpressed. “There is no need for you to be sitting on the Iron Throne though. Tis not your place.” Daemon scoffed, “And who are you to command me? I am a Targaryen prince, I sit where I please.” “The King would disagree with that if he were here.” I fired back. 

Suddenly, I remembered I was here on an errand, not for idle chat, so in a huff of frustration, I turned away from the offending prince and began to search the halls for a glint of red anywhere. “Running away, byka zaldrīzes?” I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to punch him in his smug face. Calm down, Y/N, you already did that once, and by the Seven Hells, the consequences were absolutely not worth it. “Unfortunately, I am here on an errand, not for childish bickering, your Grace.” I heard a faint sound of footsteps behind me, but I ignored them as I continued to pace around the vast empty room. No sign of any necklace at all. I groaned internally. Perhaps I should’ve asked Rhaenyra for more instructions before taking on the task. 

“Could the errand be this?” I whirled around, finding the Prince in far too close a proximity for my liking, a smirk on his lips and a necklace with a ruby falcon dangling from his raised right hand. My eyes widened, chest sagging in relief as I beheld the necklace. “Yes. Oh thank the Seven,” I reached out to grab the necklace, but Daemon only snatched it back. I let out a strangled noise of frustration, “Hey!” 

Daemon leaned in closer, pressing me against a pillar uncomfortably. “Thank the Seven? I think that they shouldn’t be the one you’re directing your thanks to,” he murmured softly. Goosebumps broke out on my skin, as I glared into his eyes. His infuriatingly, inhumanely beautiful purple eyes. Damn him. “Back up.” I hissed. Daemon seemed to take it as an invitation to lean in closer, his face was mere centimetres from mine now. My breathing became more uneven, feeling a mix of frustration and another strange feeling I couldn't place. “Are you going to punch me again if I don’t?” he whispered softly, his eyes sparkling with deviousness and mischief. “Yes,” I hissed. 

“However, if you take a step back, I might find it in me to thank you for your nosiness in picking up things that do not belong to you.” “Yet if it were not for me, you might have needed to scour the whole of King’s Landing to find this little trinket.” He withdrew from me with a smirk, and I huffed, glaring at him. “Well? I’m impatiently awaiting your gratitude, byka zaldrizes.” Gritting my teeth, I finally bit out, “Thank you, Your Grace. Will you please return me the necklace now? The princess is in need of it.” 

A rough laugh escaped him. “Now that’s more like it. You’re very welcome, my lady.” He dropped the necklace into my waiting hand, eyes watching me as I clasped the falcon pendant in my hand and internally praised the Seven for being able to find it, although through an unconventional method. “You changed a lot, you know,” he said, his eyes still studying my face. “That’s to be expected. It’s been 8 years. You have changed too.” “You’re quieter,” he observed. “Well, I can hardly scream at you now that we’re both adults, can I? I have a reputation to maintain.” 

The prince scoffed at that, “Reputation. Lady Primrose always stressed about that. I didn’t think you’d take her lessons to heart.” “She was my mother, Your Grace. And she is correct about the importance of reputation, especially as I am chief lady-in-waiting to the queen now.” I chided him. He chuckled darkly, “The topic of reputation is not one I much care for. You should know that better than anyone, my lady.” I raised my eyebrows, “Is that why you came back to court without Lady Royce then?” Daemon rolled his eyes, “That boring cunt is the least of my worries. Court is already dreadfully dull. Should I need to suffer in her presence for any longer, I might just mount my own head on a spike.” “I always thought you a warrior, but it seems you are a coward in the face of marriage.” I mocked. I could see Daemon’s face scrunch up with anger at my claim, and I smirked, relishing in how he still had the same sore spots he did when we were children. Classic Daemon. 

Daemon felt fury bubble up in him, like a kettle dangerously close to boiling point. Seeing her smirk however, made him forgo his initial angry outburst and settle for a sharper, more hurtful one. “Bold words for someone who keeps rejecting marriage proposals. If there’s anyone who is a coward, I would say it’s you, my lady.” The vein in my neck was probably protruding to the high heavens by now. I longed to yell at him, like I always did back in my girlhood, but I couldn’t, because he was right. Yelling would only prove his point and allow him the pleasure of gloating. I was not about to rise up to his bait. Turning away from him, I walked out of the hall briskly. “It was a pleasure seeing you, your Grace, but I’m afraid I must be off. I hope we never have the misfortune to cross paths again.” 

My hand was on the brass door handle when I heard him call my name once more. “Y/N?” Rolling my eyes, I kept my back turned away from him. “Yes, your Grace?” 

“I was sorry to hear about Lady Primrose’s passing.” I stiffened at his unexpected condolences. I hadn’t thought about my mother in a very long time. “She was as much of a mother to me as she was to you” I tilted my head downward, closing my eyes for a brief moment. “It has been 7 years since she passed. There is no need to offer your condolences…but I appreciate it nonetheless.” 

Daemon heard the doors to the throne room slam shut. His eyes still cast on the door Y/N had just left from, he tilted his head slightly. A soft chuckle resonated through the throne room. ‘Same old Y/N’, he thought to himself, a smile curling at his lips, ‘but…different somehow.’ Oddly enough, he felt his heart twinge for some reason at her sudden departure. He had not realised how silent these past 8 years have been, not until today.

Queen Aemma was delighted with her daughter’s present, although a bit put out that her lady-in-waiting had arrived back at her chambers with no grapes in sight. But observing the mildly murderous glint in Y/N’s eyes, Aemma wisely kept her mouth shut. She wondered what had happened to make Y/N so annoyed, but then she let slip an amused chuckle as realisation dawned on her. 

Daemon.

translation: byka zaldrīzes: little dragon

And that’s the first chapter! If you loved it so far, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated :) Thank you for reading! Chapter 2 should be out in the next week or so! Let me know if you wished to be added to a taglist in the comments or through this form 

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part seven

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 10.0k

a/n: this chapter got a little longer than intended so grab some popcorn for this one and thank you to everyone who has sent asks / left comments on this work! i am having so much fun writing this and it is lovely that it is being enjoyed.

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Highgarden is recalled as a soft spring day upon Lady Tyrell’s mind. A clear afternoon spent tucked into a shaded passage underneath an archway of flowers, a thick book with aging pages raptly capturing her attention as a lute player’s song drifts over the hedges in melodical swirls. The evening winds upon her and her sister, barefoot and dressed in slips of light silks, running through fields of golden roses that stretch out endlessly until the sun sets into pinks and oranges and yellows against the horizon. Crystalline laughs, blithe and innocent, when she and the other young ladies would convince their parents to allow them to take gracefully carved boats out upon the Mander, weeping willows dipping over the river full of emerald grasses and brilliantly colored flowers that grow beneath the water’s surface. She can picture her mother, under the shade of a large and lacy parasol of pastel fabrics, who would occasionally lift one gloved hand to wave elegantly at her daughters from the banks.

As a child, her mother had been the very pinnacle of desired sophistication and grace. With easy charm and poise, the Lady of Highgarden can command any room simply by entering it. From the moment Lady Tyrell was born, it has been expected of her to carry herself with similar elegance. To shine, to play darling and enchant those she meets, to excel at all typical ladylike pursuits. Unfortunately for her, it had not all come naturally. But what she had not been blessed with upon her birth – an easygoing nature, a soft-spoken tongue, a quiet countenance – she found could be learned.

And as time passed, as she gained the perspective upon her parents that only time could provide, Lady Tyrell came to realize that she is certainly, undoubtedly, her mother’s daughter. What she had perceived as perfection as a child was actually patience. The ability to bide one’s time productively, to study oneself and to learn one’s flaws and weaknesses and those of their allies and enemies. When weaponized, patience and a sharp eye blossom into a spider’s web that ensnares unsuspecting prey lured in by the beauty of a blooming rose. How astutely the lady has watched this dance unfold beneath the glittering stars since her mother rose to power in Highgarden. The enemies of House Tyrell did not survive the succession war, although one could hardly say it solely happened by fate’s generous hands. Tongues that rose up against them soon found themselves choking and spitting over their words, poison sweet and lethal upon them. 

If the Lady Tyrell is considered clever and fierce, these traits passed to her through her mother’s blood. When the hour draws late, the bells chiming and tolling out the highest point of the moon in the sky, she often wonders if she possesses as ruthless a spirit. She does not long for the day when that might be tested. To secure the safety of their family, of her children, Elinor Tyrell has tightened her grip upon her web, drawing in the flies and scorpions and snakes. Yet in her recent years, the Lady of Highgarden has grown more and more ambitious, eyes often cast to the winds of fortune and their ever-changing flow. With two eligible daughters, now would be the ideal time to firmly grasp power through advantageous betrothals. 

Betrothals without consideration for the character of the men in question.

A letter of rolled parchment is gripped tightly within Lady Tyrell’s closed fist, her fingers crumpling the tan paper with a constricting hold. Peaking out from beneath her fingers is a wax seal of a single rose, the color of the darkest blue. As her shoes echo sharply within the decadent halls of the Red Keep, a spiked anxiety jumps rapidly underneath her skin. Her brows are drawn above her eyes, which dart from stone wall to marble pillar as her mind composes and discards a multiplicity of strategies that might convince her mother to abandon her quest for greater power. The more she considers the issue at hand, the more abrupt her steps grow. Once upon a time, when the notion of fairy tales was still harbored with childish hope in the cavity beneath her breastbone, she had spun similar designs for a far more romantic purpose. Childhood love, falsely and treacherously placed as it was, drove her nearly mad. 

As she approaches the Queen’s Chambers, the guards immediately draw back from her path, nodding at her after growing quite accustomed to her presence in Maegor’s Holdfast. There is no need to question her being there after their liege lord has brought her past them on many a night. The early hour of the day does not seem to give them pause, nor does her agitated expression and pace. With the arrival of more nobles to the castle that very afternoon, notable allies of the Northern forces whom had recently finished with the remaining issues in the Riverlands, neither Cregan nor Lady Tyrell could surmise how much time the meetings might take as the upcoming trials were further discussed. Unwilling to allow a day to pass without seeing Jaehaera, she had inquired if Cregan might accompany her for a visit in the earlier hours of the day as opposed to their usual meetings which occurred after supper. The Lord of Winterfell had been swift in his granting of her request. She purposefully declined to dwell on how frequent and genuine his accommodations of her desires have become as of late. 

So distraught by the contents of the letter in her hand, Lady Tyrell cannot even muster a saccharine smile to wax demurely across her face. The skirts of her morning gown swish in an angry rhythm across the cold floor, the noise prominent in the otherwise silent passageway. Once, this section of the castle had brimmed with busy servants and giggling ladies maids, clinging upon each other’s arms as their eyes shone with laughter and mischief. Now, it served only as place for ghosts and fragmented memories to linger in hazy and liminal echoes. 

A frown creases upon her face at the sight of the arched oak door, already partially ajar. A warm ray of golden sunlight has snuck past the marble pillars upon the walkway overlooking the enclosed courtyard below, relaxing languorously before the doorway. Her steps draw to a halt before the wood, her unoccupied hand outstretched to press the pads of her fingertips against the smooth wood, the centers of her brows drawn together as she peers into the room. Before her eyes might inform her of anything, a voice that has grown all too familiar reaches her ears.

“Good, princess. Now attempt it once more.” The Lord of Winterfell’s low timbre, stern still albeit it considerably more gentle in that moment, fills her agitated mind as she pushes the door the remainder of the way open. Inside the extensive chambers of the room stand Cregan and Jaehaera, the latter of whom clutches a small wooden sword in her hands. The girl has an expression of utmost concentration upon her face as she swings the toy weapon through the air in front of her, her wide eyes immediately gazing up to the lord to inquire as to how she had performed. Her hair has been pulled back into a single braid, similar to the style the Lady Tyrell has often woven in the princess’ silvery locks. Cregan parts his lips to speak, the telltale raise of the corners of his lips signaling his approval, when both become alerted to the lady’s presence within the room. Jaehaera lights up immediately, a sweet smile upon her face as she lowers the sword. Cregan, in turn, finds his immediate softening at her arrival rapidly morph into hesitation when he sees the look upon her visage. 

So familiar with her expressions has he become, that as Jaehaera hurries across the room to take Lady Tyrell by the hand and begin to explain what she has been learning, Cregan experiences a slight drop in his stomach at the tightness of her closed fists and the creases at the corners of her mouth. As the princess extends the pretend weapon for the lady to view, he wonders if she is angry with him for providing the young girl with lessons, no matter how rudimentary. Perhaps he has overstepped in his decision, in acting prior to consulting her first. With some effort, the lady gives Jaehaera a smile and nods as the girl continues to speak, but Cregan can surely perceive it to be forced. He shifts his weight to his alternate foot as he finds himself with the rare and uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty. A cool morning breeze blows the sheer curtains into the room further, billowing as if the sails of a boat. 

Jaehaera reaches out a small hand to bequeath the wooden sword to Lady Tyrell as the princess wanders into the next room to retrieve a book in High Valyrian she has been reading, the lady’s eyes following the girl out of the main chamber. Only when Jaehaera has slipped through the connecting door does Cregan speak, his voice lowered to a deep hush so that the girl might not overhear. With a single step towards her, a squaring of his broad shoulders as his stern eyes search her face thoroughly, he attempts to phrase his intention clearly. “If I have overstepped, Lady Tyrell, I do apologize. I had only thought upon your own anxieties and wished to perhaps provide the princess with basic knowledge to defend herself.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes widen as the words fall from his lips, her own parting in soft denial as she realizes how Cregan has interpreted her distressed stance and expression. Her shoulders lift and then sag as a portion of the weight from her turbulent thoughts escapes through a concentrated sigh and she intentionally loosens her hold upon the parchment clutched in her anxious hands. The movement causes light to catch the delicate gold jewelry atop her prominent collarbone, drawing attention when juxtaposed by the depth of the neckline of her gown. She can feel the parchment retaining its crushed shape from the strength with which she had been squeezing it. 

“No,” It comes out as a weary breath, followed by a soft swallow and the brief closing of her eyes as she collects her thoughts that have been scattered about her brain like blushing petals from a spring tree. A hand reaches up to her forehead, lingering tiredly atop her skin as if the motion might vanquish the headache that has formed from her incessant worrying. Should she fret any longer, her skin will surely erupt into reddish hives that bloom across her arms like the remnants of a wayward flame.  It is impossible to not be softened by the gentle look she had glimpsed in Cregan’s eyes as he had instructed the princess, by the way the girl has seemed to grow accustomed to Cregan’s presence slowly. For that brief moment she had witnessed them, uninterrupted by the world, she could tell at once how kind and attentive of a father Cregan must be to his own young son. It had seemed as natural as drawing breath, to spend time instructing and guiding the girl. “No, you are right to teach her. You have my gratitude for it, Lord Stark, please do not mistake me.”

In truth, she might rest easier at night with the knowledge that Jaehaera can at least make a valiant attempt at defending herself if something were to happen. She desperately wishes to keep weapons from the girl’s hand, considering her young age and the violent tragedies that have befallen her family, but there shall be no safety for the princess so long as she remains within the castle. The last of her direct lineage, the sole survivor amongst her immediate family upon that side of the war. Many watch with drool dripping from their fangs, twisting hands reaching out to ensnare the child within their grasp and attach puppet strings to her back. If they cannot control her, it is likely at least one attempt on her life shall be made. At present, she remains safe within her chambers, a constant system of guards posted outside her door. But such measures of security shall not last forever, and Lady Tyrell would much rather give the girl a fighting chance rather than end up like her, unable to truly physically protect herself. “You do me a great favor by instructing her, if you truly do not mind doing so. I do wish for her to have some knowledge, given the precarity of her position.”

As Cregan approaches her, seemingly placated by her gentle correction of his misunderstanding, worry of his own flickers tenderly across his face as he seeks out the cause of her agitation. As his imposing figure shadows her own, strands of reddish hair fall about his face and to the tops of his shoulders when he brings his voice impossibly lower, impossibly deeper. Merely a breath away from him, her chin lifts with gentle hesitation to reveal the depth of her concern to his prodding eyes, the distinct color of storm clouds. “Then what troubles you so, my lady? Allow me to rectify it, if it might be within my power.”

How certain his quiet words are, nearly comforting in their strength and assurance. If only it were so simple, to surrender her worries to the Lord of Winterfell and wait patiently for him to straighten each one out. But far too much rests upon his plate at present, and this matter might be out of even his control. Another soft sigh from her lips and she clasps her hands together, unable to resist the childish habit of pressing her fingers into her palms. Cregan’s eyes flick down at this, finding himself only barely able to resist the urge to draw her smaller hands into his own, the way he had when he had bandaged her wrists within the quiet warmth of her chambers. Instead, he involuntarily tightens his jaw while waiting with the steady patience he has come to extend to her whenever she might need it.

“You need not send Lord Blackwood to treat with Highgarden,” The airy and exasperated quality of her words is far from lost upon Cregan, as her tone adapts the rushed cadence she speaks with when her mind becomes embroiled with worry. The letter in her hands seems to hold a weight akin to a stone pulled from a garden’s soft dirt. “Highgarden shall come to you, my lord. My mother and sister will arrive with a small traveling party within the week. She has long since been underway.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow at this, his gaze continuing to search her face while the implication of the news takes firm root within his mind. With a quiet inhale through his nose, he gives her a slow nod. “I had imagined the upcoming trials might draw in more of the prominent families of the South. I did not know your lady mother would wish to attend.”

“The scales of power are in constant motion at this time, and the turbulence of the war has only increased the amount of  opportunities for those who have long since minded themselves and heeded the Targaryen rule,” Lady Tyrell might do well to mind herself and her own words, tending to her personal interests before she foolhardily presents her honest opinion to another, but finds it difficult to not tell Cregan the entirety of the truth. She need not wonder upon how long it has been since she has had a true confidant in whom she can confess the extent of her thoughts – the lady can count the exact number of days that have passed. Perhaps that is why conversing honestly with the Lord of Winterfell has proven so undeniably tantalizing. His stature and countenance might play a considerable role, but following their first truthful encounter it would seem neither of them is eager to raise the issue of the tension up in conversation. Jaehaera’s quiet voice can be heard briefly from the connecting room, in soft conversation with her Septa. “With two eligible daughters, she ought to be here, where she might confirm what I suspect are her desired matches.”

The lady gives a sharp breath at this, managing only barely to keep the words from dripping with sardonic bitterness and exhausted dread. Her eyes drift to the window, as they so often do when unpleasant emotions coil up in her stomach, and she misses entirely the seriousness with which Cregan Stark is taken aback by her words. His eyes narrow further, his shoulders drawing back so that he might appraise her with tight lips and an even tighter jaw that twitches slightly as he is met with an unexpected brush of an emotion adjacent to irritation twisting within his chest. His gaze moves about her face, before he looks down and makes a stoic attempt to reason with himself over how improper it might be to speak brashly upon the matter. Given her beauty, it will prove exceedingly difficult to find a man who would not fall to his knees for but a taste of her, to claim her as his own. The idea of such an atrocity only serves to bring his hand into a tight fist, knuckles nearly white at the thought. She, who has fought so valiantly with the skills she possesses in the face of brutal masculine strength and wanton violence, should not be subjected to such a fate after surviving the war while living amongst vipers and dragons. 

“Are you not of an age where you might seek out a match yourself, my lady?” The words are offered as a low interjection into the silence that has fallen between them, yet perhaps Cregan is unable to fully banish the sharpness from his tone as he presents his inquiry. She is barely younger than Cregan himself, and having been in such a prolonged betrothal with the late prince Daeron she has avoided the fate of marriage in her teenage years. While she has spoken upon a number of occasions about the upcoming engagement of her sister, she has not mentioned an imminent marriage for herself. One edge of her mouth twists up resentfully at his words and she tilts her chin slowly, eyes still cast away as the curtains sway gently in the breeze seeping in through the open window. 

“Such an age seems like a lovely dream, one I have not the luxury of possessing.” The bitter lamentation disfigures itself into forlorn and disconsolate acceptance. She desires to cease discussion upon the matter, holding no wish to appear as one who complains futilely of their fate. Yet thickly veiled sorrow flickers behind the curtain of indifference she sweeps over her glassy eyes. “It matters little. Of greater importance, you shall not be seeing a host from Oldtown within the coming days nor months. They have agreed to stand down.”

This brings the turbulent discourse within Cregan’s mind to a temporary stillness, the leader within him long since used to prioritizing matters of duty over matters of a more personal consequence. There is a quiet mix of relief and lassitude at the realization that the fighting truly has ended, combined with worry over his people, who will have to march north to return to their struggling families as winter bares its fangs and prepares to descend upon the lands. His eyes drift downwards, her expression growing sterner and then weary as he sighs heavily. “Good then, that the trials shall commence sooner rather than late. Too long has this crisis endured, and now it shall end.”

Her hands remain drawn together atop the light fabrics of her gown, her shoulders lowered and her eyes big as she watches him with a reserved look upon her features. The subtle manner in which she recalls all hints of emotion, as if reigning in every outer expression of her own thoughts upon the matter, does not go undetected by Cregan. So much has she lost in the war and so little she gained, save for a broken heart and a tiredness unbecoming of her age. The concept of such a catastrophe within her life having finality to it must weigh disconcertingly upon her heart. He does not envy her for experiencing it now, as he has experienced it before. “I shall not forget your assistance with the Hightowers, nor with the princess or managing the nobles at court. You have been of great help to me, Lady Tyrell.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes narrow with ambiguous deflection, her brows raising as she draws her arms across her chest slowly. The concept of being thanked with such solemn genuineness has become foreign to her as of late and sets her lashes aflutter as she searches internally for a way to change the topic of discussion once again. But any thoughts upon the matter – or any thoughts at all, in truth – are vanquished from her mind into wispy clouds of white smoke as Cregan draws impossibly closer to her, broad shoulders leaning forth. Her eyes instantly meet his own, delicate confusion and wariness upon her face even after their growing familiarity. The memory of his hands upon her lower back and the curve of her hip as he taught her to fight burn hot against her skin, and perhaps this is why her eyes traitorously flicker to his lips, parted softly as he considers his next words. 

At the nearly imperceptible drop of her eyes, Cregan too is robbed of words and coherent thought. His face seems to melt with slow wanting, heavy and thick as golden honey. The hesitation within her eyes is not lost upon him, nor the very gradual manner in which he has been seemingly gaining some amount of trust from her. He knows it is not an easy thing for her to give. There is a flutter of breath that catches within her chest, the effect of steeling herself to stand before him rather than draw away at such weighted proximity. Cregan’s brows draw together with an aching softness at the sweetness of her acceptance, of her belief in his character and intention. Never will he allow a hand to harm her again, never does he wish to see fear upon her lovely countenance. Her heart is well-guarded, separated from the everyday happenings of the capital by barbarous briar hedging, but he swears he can catch a glimpse of the pure tenderness through the twisted maze. The Queen’s Chambers have faded to a soft and distant background behind her, she who shines in perfect focus within his gaze. Any wish to verbally affirm the appreciation he has for her has been lost, replaced by a burning yet tempered desire to provide physical proof of it. Words such as decency and propriety dance briefly upon his mind but are hesitantly pushed aside with the slow raise of his arm. Unlike when teaching her the sword, Cregan has no excuse for his closeness nor the want within his eyes. “You said once that I might endeavor to act upon my gratitude, rather than speak of it.”

His large hand casts a warm shadow upon the skin of her cheek, as she parts her lips unconsciously, mirroring Cregan’s own. Her refusal to draw away from him only solidifies the timid trust she has placed in him, and if it were not wholly unbecoming, the Lord of Winterfell might find himself upon his knees to ask her for something he should not. The concept of her marrying a stranger only fuels the fire within his chest, a petulant selfishness whispering in his ears to forbid someone who does not know her from attempting to come near. To whisk her back to Winterfell, with her approval, if only to keep her out of the reach of unworthy hands. But in this moment, his desire is simple. 

“May I, my lady?” A tantalizingly low echo of his previous words, just as reverent yet more needing than when he had last spoken them. At her silent consideration, that hint of a smile she has come to long for finds its way to his lips. “I am not above petitioning at length, should it please you.”

Lady Tyrell cannot claim that she understands exactly what Cregan Stark is seeking permission for. In an even more dire realization, she finds it does not matter to her. Her answer remains the same, so long as it is he who is asking. A soft breath of disbelieving protest at her own foolishness escapes her lips, the near whine sending heat directly between Cregan’s thighs. Ally or not, she might kill him yet. 

“You need not do such a thing.” The phrase does not take as certain of a shape as she might wish, but the lady manages to whisper the words into the small space between them without her voice breaking. Curse her own idiocy, her own desires. It would seem she has not become wise regarding matters of this nature, despite previous lessons hardly and cruelly learned. A long time coming has this intimacy been, from the very moment their eyes locked within the throne room. Before there had been respect and wary alliance, there had been want. 

The pads of his fingers brush against the plush skin of her cheek, the roughness of them a stark contrast to her softness. Cregan inhales quietly at the touch, the callouses of his battle worn hands tender upon her face as he slowly envelopes her cheek within his grasp, cupping it with a gentleness she imagines few would expect from such an intimidating and large leader of men. His towering over her matters little when his caress is so fond, as if she is some sacrosanct being he wonders over the rightness of touching. Her head leans almost instinctively into his palm, her chin raised so that she might look him in the eye. His eyes are low-lidded, his warm breath dancing gently atop her own.

Her given name is breathed into the space between them, reverent and weighty upon his lips as if from sacred scripture. 

No sooner do light footsteps pad through the door of connecting chamber, and Lady Tyrell jolts back from Cregan as if lightning has descended upon her. In her absorption in their intimate moment, she has nearly forgotten they stand in Jaehaera’s chambers, with the intention of spending time with her. The guilt at this lapse of memory has her quickly turning her back to Cregan, forcing an easy smile upon her face as the princess begins to explain the book she has retrieved. The lady’s heartbeat is so rapid, she wonders if Cregan can hear it as he stands behind her.

“Would you read it with me?” Jaehaera inquires softly, unaware of the tension that hangs thickly between the adults in the room. With such precious little time that the lady has to spend with the princess, she can hardly refuse her. She reaches her hand to gently brush a strand of silver hair that has fallen loose from Jaehaera’s braid and gives an earnest nod.

“Of course, darling. Come, let us begin now.”  Lady Tyrell’s voice is soft and full of the tender love she only presents when around the child. As the two of them cross the room to the cabriole leg sofa by the fire, discussing the book in gentle voices, Cregan can hardly find himself displeased. Conversely, a rather clear image has settled into his mind of tender moments interrupted by the soft voices of children, the halls of Winterfell once more filled with laughter and light. How long it has been since he has acknowledged this dream, let alone believed it might yet happen within his lifetime? When the lady pulls Jaehaera into her lap, opening the book with a sweet smile of pure and devotional love upon her face, there is no doubt in Cregan’s mind upon what he feels within his chest. It is love.

To his surprise, the princess then looks across the room at Cregan expectantly. She does not request anything, but she does not need to. Cregan gives a small nod to indicate his understanding, and makes his way to the sofa, sinking down next to Lady Tyrell as the woman’s face conveys how softly impressed she is by his winning the princess over. As Jaehaera begins to read the words of the story aloud, a gallant tale of the adventures of a knight and his squire, a warm peace has filled the room.

For the first time since the Northerners arrived at the Red Keep, new forces are allowed past the castle’s imposing gates and into the expansive front courtyard. Allies of the Lord of Winterfell, those who had fought beside him during the arduous descent from the North to the capital city, that had been straightening out the remnants of those who had supported Aegon II and the Green faction during the war. The open iron-barred gates let in a long line of weary soldiers, shoulders raising as they dismount their armored horses within the walls of the ruling seat of the Seven Kingdoms. Banners decrying the identity of the gathering Houses are taken careful note of by Lady Tyrell, who remains atop a balcony overlooking the bustling activity below. At her side is the Lady Jeyne Arryn, whom had suggested that the lady join her to observe the happenings prior to the meeting that is to be held. Lady Tyrell has developed a true fondness for Lady Arryn, her admiration for the Lady of the Vale having been in great supply since their first meeting. Learning more of her past has only served to increase her desire to learn from the other woman.

Many wagons roll through the gates, carrying what little supplies are still possessed by the troops, their wooden wheels bumping atop the tiny rocks dotting the courtyard’s ground. Loud and deep voices boom out into the air, laughter heard as friends reunite and begin to speak of their great victories during the campaign. Men clap each other upon the back, talk of drinking and whoring within the capital city that night already heard in plethora throughout the busy space. There are sounds of metal clanking together as armor is stripped and swords are sheathed, of neighing of the horses, of interspersed shouting from guards as the gates are manned. It is such a lively scene that the lady is swept into the unwilling remembrance of a bitter nostalgia, her mind recalling days where such vivacity occurred at the gates each time the sun rose. A cool breeze upon her cheek and the smell of seawater drifting in from the Blackwater stirs her from her thoughts, a quiet acceptance upon her countenance. 

“Lord Stark has told me of the resolution of our problem regarding House Hightower,” Lady Arryn muses in an even tone, her eyes as sharp as steel as they scan the incoming men. Yet there is no harshness to her words, simply the direct Northern practicality that Lady Tyrell has come to find unfortunately endearing. “And so this shall be the remaining arrival of troops to your doorstep. I imagine you shall be relieved to see us depart, Lady Tyrell.”

“I cannot lie and pretend I do not wish for the ending of being trapped within these walls, nor the ending of such a tragedy,” Lady Tyrell finds that the resigned smile upon her lips is rather genuine, and she tilts her chin, eyes wandering across the commotion beneath them calmly. The matter is far too complicated for her to voice her true opinions on, should she herself even manage to ever put her thoughts upon the war into words. The strangeness of its ending has not yet settled fully within her chest. “Yet neither can I truthfully say I wish you all to be gone from my sight permanently.”

Cregan Stark’s Northern council is filled with those the lady truly does not mind the company of. Lady Arryn is perhaps her favorite, but the young Tully lords are bold and entertaining, and she still retains the hope of introducing her sister to Lord Blackwood. Even the lords Corbray have grown upon her, despite her initial uncertainty. It speaks to the quality of Cregan’s character, to surround himself and fill the chairs of his table with those who uphold honor and integrity. As she meets the other woman’s eyes, her smile softens. “Perhaps I shall pay a visit to the Vale once matters have settled further. Your bannermen speak often of the beauty of the Eyrie.”

Lady Arryn beholds her with an unreadable expression for a moment before her eyes crease slightly at the corners, a dip of her head indicating her approval. “We would be honored to host you, my lady.”

“And I honored to be received into your halls.” Another gust of wind graces Lady Tyrell’s face, blowing sections of hair behind her in a gentle wave. Remembering the rumors that had stirred in the castle prior to the arrival of the men from the North, she is quite glad to have discovered for herself their true nature. Rather than bloodlust and violent savagery, the Northern nobles carry a stern upholding of duty and a blunt pragmatism that has served the capital well since their rise to power. Not far in the past are days when she could never have imagined herself with allies from the North, and yet here she stands. 

Her attention wanders down to the courtyard as she steps forward with reserved curiosity to gaze upon the lord who has caused her such upheaval since the day he arrived. Cregan Stark appears every inch the fearsome warlord when amongst the other men, and it is clear from the manner in which they acknowledge him that he commands great respect. But when she catches sight of him, her eyes narrow and her expression grows more serious as she watches. 

Before the Lord of Winterfell stands a lady, dressed in attire far more suited to hunting and fighting than a gown might be. Hair as dark as a starless sky, cascading in small curls down to the tops of her hips as the edges catch loose droplets of warm afternoon sun. A quiver of black arrows rests upon her back, and the ease with which she holds a bow within one leather-gloved hand signals to many years spent familiarizing herself with its use. Her height leaves her upon even footing with many of the men within the courtyard, and her wiry frame still reveals the strength of her arms and of her lithe legs. Boots are laced up to her knees, meant for riding far distances. There have been no alterations to emphasize any one quality about her; it would seem she simply adorns herself with what might be beneficial in battle. She might not be considered a great beauty amongst the nigh impossible standards at Court, but that matters little to Lady Tyrell at present. It is the way Cregan looks at her. Dark eyes shimmer as she laughs, hearty and genuine, at words the lord speaks to her with a stoic fondness. There is an effortlessness to the exchange, a familiarity with each other that sends a worrying gnaw into the pit of Lady Tyrell’s stomach. 

This, she finds unacceptable. To be driven to worry over a conversation – it is entirely possible, the Lady Tyrell decides silently, that she has lost her mind altogether. The recollection of the sensation of Cregan’s fingers upon her face flutters delicately atop her skin and disappears at the sight of the corners of the Lord of Winterfell’s lips upturning to indicate true liking for the woman before him. Never has she seen him look at another in such a way. Her mind races to identify the emotion in his reserved eyes, her own darting across his face as her posture draws up tightly, strung and sharp. 

“The lady whom Lord Stark converses with,” She begins, intentionally manipulating her voice to be pleasant and soft to avoid giving any external indication of the nonsensical concern tugging insistently at the strings of her heart. Especially in front of Lady Arryn, who seems to take great pride in being exceptionally practical. “Who might she be?”

Lady Arryn’s eyes scan the courtyard, her head tilting as she searches for the origin of the lady’s line of questioning. When the other woman notices the exchange below, she observes for a brief moment before leaning towards Lady Tyrell, her eyes remaining fixed upon the two within the courtyard. “That would be the Lady Alysanne Blackwood. She lead her men upon the battlefields as they marched south.”

The name sparks a quiet grasping for any information that Lady Tyrell has ever heard regarding the other woman. With some difficulty, she remembers that Lord Benjicot Blackwood has an aunt upon his father’s side, a lady of true Blackwood blood who has been assisting the young lord since the death of the previous Lord of Raventree Hall. It had been a passing fact she had learned and paid little mind to, but as she watches the conversation continue with smiles from both parties, she curses herself for not seeking out more information on Lady Blackwood. Nothing makes her more anxious than to be uninformed or unprepared, and she seems to have become both of those over a rather unexpected matter. It is not unimaginable that Lord Stark has admirers, nor women he is fond of. She cannot say she has not thought upon the matter briefly, but her time at court has left her rather confident in her ability to outmaneuver another to seek out what she wants. She is familiar with the games the other ladies play at court to win the attention of men. Alysanne Blackwood does not seem to be playing a game at all. It is the raw and brash manner in which she carries herself and speaks that stands out to the Lady Tyrell and with another sickening drop of her stomach, she realizes that this is likely what Cregan finds appealing. 

“She fought in the battles herself, then?” It is with practiced expertise that she keeps her voice light and airy, as sweet and nonchalant as if she were asking about the state of the weather. Truthfully, the concept of a woman fighting upon the battlefield is quite fascinating to her. If only the Lady Blackwood had not captured Cregan’s attention so, Lady Tyrell might have found herself eager to converse with the woman herself. 

“Aye. And a rarity it is, even with her talent. I myself cannot claim to have done so.” Lady Arryn’s casual remarks upon the matter do little to soothe the lady’s troubled mind. She wonders briefly if a lady need not have beauty if she is instead utterly fascinating, and then if perhaps the Lord of Winterfell prefers to be fascinated himself. The conversation within the courtyard carries on quite amiably amidst the bustle of the incoming troops.

“A rarity indeed.” It is a saccharine breath of agreement, accompanied by the brief narrowing of her eyes and upturning of her chin. Over the tip of her nose, she watches the easy way that Cregan angles his broad shoulders towards Alysanne Blackwood, nodding his head as he explains some happening that has occurred since their last meeting. As the Lord of Winterfell leans forward to brush off a dry leaf that has fallen upon Alysanne’s hair, the pit in her stomach hollows in cavernously and the Lady Tyrell is left all but reeling once more, her mind scrambling for logic or sense or a reference of information that might prove a useful balm to her tumultuous state of being at the simple touch. All she manages to do is press her lips together tightly, her smile slipping from sweet to sickeningly so. “He appears rather fond of her.”

Lady Arryn’s expression is tinged at the edges with something akin to amusement at this, and the other woman gives the lady a look out of the corner of her eye. Lady Tyrell is far too occupied with staring quite pointedly down at Cregan – the Lady Arryn finds it a wonder that her liege lord does not simply burst into flames from the severity of the gaze. After a moment, she dips her head in acknowledgement. “I believe they enjoyed each other’s company when their armies met.”

A crinkling of the corner of her eyes is the only indication of Lady Tyrell’s agitation. The phrase is quite vague, and while she desires fiercely to delve further into the meaning of it, she restrains herself. The lady is far too ruffled by this, more so than she cares to be, and she need not allow Lady Arryn to perceive any more of that frustration than the other woman already has. Little can be kept from the discerning gaze of the Lady of the Vale, but she shall try nonetheless. 

The nobles gather in the former Small Council chamber soon after the troops have all entered the walls, talking amongst themselves whilst standing around the long rectangular wooden table. It is not as crowded as she might have expected, most of the men eager to engage in more pleasurable pursuits despite the night not yet having fallen, but Lady Tyrell is not as vigilant as she ought to be. The new faces in the room would normally draw her observant gaze, as she might attempt to study their character and decide who might prove useful in the remaining days the Northerners will reside at the Red Keep. She knows well she captures their attention, her effect on men is severely understood by her and she remains the only Southern presence within the room aside from the twin princesses Baela and Rhaena, whom Cregan has invited to the meeting as an offering of peace. But wandering eyes and wistful looks are spared no thought, not when Alysanne Blackwood has seemingly settled comfortably at Cregan’s side, walking next to him as they discuss something in a low tone.

The Lord of Winterfell is met with a pair of icy eyes when he scans the room for the Lady Tyrel’s presence. It gives him pause.

She does not seem interested in elaborating her thoughts upon the matter, busying herself with a soft smile and pleasant conversation with the lord standing next to her who is all too eager to speak to the lady. Soft light streams in through the small circular windowpanes upon the far wall of the room, the rather dull space only slightly more revitalized by the welcoming of more lords and ladies within its stone columns. Lady Tyrell’s hands remain folded atop her gown the color of the clearest sky as she asks politely after the battles seen by the lord at her side – Lord Hugo Vance, who appears to be around her age and is not an abhorrent partner to converse with. On the contrary, she finds his manner of speaking rather interesting, and he seems to be both grounded and reasonable. Not traits in high supply at King’s Landing. Despite the general geniality of the conversation, the matter with Lady Blackwood has another masculine voice echoing in the darker parts of her mind. 

A flash of violet eyes, the curl of a scornful lip, whisperings of her worst traits and shortcomings. How brutally foolish she had been once, manipulated by the sweet fruit of childhood love that had led to a garden of poisoned apples and dying trees. For all her shrewdness, nothing can save her from the way she can twist the cruelest truths to better reflect upon a person she adores until a knife is pressed to her throat and only her own spilled blood can wake her from the dream. As Lord Vance recounts a particular sword fight from the war, Lady Tyrell cannot shake the numbness accompanying her wondering upon whether or not she has been led astray once again. Wrapped in weary cynicism, she cannot help but consider that she has made the same disastrous mistake twice. She will not be made a fool of by a man again.

Nodding sweetly, she gives a smile that does not quite reflect in her dulling eyes. As Cregan calls for the attention of the nobles, never needing to work too hard to command a room, Lady Tyrell does not bother to gaze in his direction. His speech thanking the lords and ladies for all their hard work, for all the sacrifices made to achieve the peace that is only just upon the horizon, is nothing but a faint hum in her mind. With Lady Blackwood at his side, a woman who is more familiar with the world of battle and typically masculine pursuits than Lady Tyrell can ever hope to be, she can see a vision of the true North. A glimpse of something she wants – power and strength, a respect that is given only to those whom men consider strong.Callouses upon hands that come from wielding weapons, from being able to defend oneself in a way that she cannot. To live without such fear, to be seen as someone who might be an equal. There is a lady who can stand by the Lord of Winterfell. 

Exhaustion has seeped far into her bones by the time Cregan finishes speaking, earning a rousing cheer and applause from the other men. Her eyes briefly catch sight of Rhaena and Baela, their faces still rather grim. Lady Arryn is observing with calm seriousness, a matter clearly weighing upon her mind. The few women within the room do not seem nearly as enthused as the lords. Lady Tyrell cannot bring herself to look to Lady Blackwood again, but it would not seem she needs to gaze far. As Lord Vance attempts kindly to rekindle their conversation, she hears her name and title upon Cregan’s lips behind her. She pauses, her figure drawing up tighter, a thin swallow making its way down her drying throat. Wondering briefly upon how rude it might be considered to pretend she simply has not heard, she continues to nod and smile. The warmth of a gentle hand upon her lower back signifies she shall not be escaping so soon. 

Sucking in a soft breath, she turns as the Lord of Winterfell offers a small dip of his head to her and then Lord Vance for interrupting their conversation. At the sight of his liege lord’s hand upon the lady, Lord Vance is quick to nod in understanding and give her a bow before departing to speak with one of the Tully lords. Cregan’s large hand has settled into the small of her back as he guides her closer, the action bringing all of her pessimistic thoughts to an abrupt halt. Never has he touched her so casually, and certainly not in the presence of others. She blinks up at him, soft eyes that only partially reveal her confusion and desire for clarification upon this change. A few of the other lords seem to have taken note of this familiarity, raised eyebrows and meaningful looks exchanged with knowing smiles between the men. Lady Tyrell might have been angry if any other man had reached for her in such a familiar manner, but she allows him this closeness as Lady Blackwood approaches.

“Lady Tyrell, I wish for you to meet Lady Alysanne Blackwood. Our forces fought together on our journey south.” The introduction is simple and straightforward, and Lady Tyrell merely smiles pleasantly as Lady Blackwood gives a firm nod, offering her a neutral look. Lady Tyrell offers a small curtsy in response, her fingers curling into the embroidered fabrics of her skirts tighter than necessary. 

“It is my pleasure, Lady Blackwood. The realm is grateful for your service.” Lady Tyrell’s voice retains a sugary quality, her posture demure and her hands returning to clasping each other delicately in front of her dress. Her lashes flutter slightly as she speaks, her chin tilting down. Lady Blackwood does not seem to harbor any of the pressures expected of a lady during introductions, something the Lady Tyrell finds envious. Instead, the other woman simply presents a look of general affability and regards her thoughtfully.

“It is good to meet you, my lady. Cregan has written of you in his letters, it is excellent to put a face to your name.” Her tone is light yet has a weight to it that wraps around her words and bestows upon them a quality of certainty. Lady Tyrell does her utmost not to let her smile twitch at the casual use of the lord’s given name, nor the revelation that they have been exchanging letters. Her stomach continues to twist itself into a nauseating knot. The information regarding her being mentioned in such letters seems of little consequence compared to the anxiety filling her chest. She scoffs internally at her own thoughts, wishing that this sort of worry would be beneath her. Rather than attempting to formulate a proper answers, she merely widens her smile slightly, her eyes narrowing a moment as she does. Cregan looks down at her, hand still pressed firmly to her back, and tilts his head slightly.

“A dinner shall be held tonight, to welcome those who have just arrived. Shall you join us, my lady?” The Lord of Winterfell extends the invitation with the utmost sincerity and courtesy but Lady Tyrell has worked herself up into such a state, one that will surely worsen if she is forced to endure a whole meal in this situation. 

“I must unfortunately decline, my lord. I am quite weary and shall leave the festivities to all of you.” As she speaks, she gently maneuvers herself out of Cregan’s grasp, sliding her waist out from his warm hand. She does not look up to register the slight frown, nor the drawing of his brows at her obvious desire to escape him. Offering a small smile to Lady Blackwood, she slips out with the rest of the nobles before she can be questioned further. 

Late is the hour when a heavy knock falls upon her chamber door. It rouses her from her aimless staring into the depths of her fireplace, eyes empty as they gaze into the golden flames and crackling logs of thick wood. Her intentions for the remainder of the night had been to soak in a hot bath, allowing time for her nerves to settle and her mind to still. The warm water had only served to send her thoughts into a further spiral, the scents of various florals reminding her poignantly of her own fragility. Adelin had been given the night off, casting a long look at the lady before she had left. Sinking into her plush armchair, barely having the energy to adorn her body with a thin nightgown the color of sea pearls, Lady Tyrell had only wished to sit for a moment. 

One part of her wishes to pretend she has gone to sleep, but she knows the firelight casts a soft glow underneath the crack of the door. And her heart, exhausted as it is, gives a weak flutter at the weight of the knuckles rapping against the wood. Inhaling through her nose, she wraps a sheer robe atop her evening slip and softly makes her way across her chambers. Hands upon the cool metal of the latch, she barely pulls the door open wide enough for her figure to be seen before she pauses, hovering about the edge of the wood. The Lord of Winterfell stands before her, stoic and steady as always, his eyebrows lifting slightly upon seeing her. Within his hands he holds a bowl of soup, steam curling upwards in silvery helices.

The door is left to drift ajar lazily, leaving her fully visible as she stands beneath the door frame. Cregan is given momentary pause at the casualness of her dress, the slip clinging precariously to each soft curve of her body as if fresh powdered snow atop gentle hills. Despite the heat in his lower stomach, he forces his attention upward. Her eyes reflect the slight surprise that bubbles within her chest at the sight of him, hopeful yet hesitant at the unexpected visit. The warm scent of the hearty soup drifts softly to her nose, greeting her with hints of potatoes, tomatoes, onions and carrots. As her gaze devours the bowl with thinly veiled interest, Cregan gives her a softer look.

“I had not known if you had eaten, my lady,” His low tone is a welcome wave that washes over her body with a comforting and slow rhythm. Her gaze stutters slightly at the simplicity of the words, yet the thoughtfulness they imply. From the heat of the soup, which she can feel as she steps closer to Cregan, it would not seem that he has merely grabbed her leftovers either. “I asked the kitchen which soup you might prefer. I hope it is to your liking, if you are still in need of supper.”

As she turns her gaze upward to meet Cregan’s, she can scarcely keep the affection from flickering warmly in her eyes as if candlelight dancing behind stained glass. Lips press together as her brows draw closer, gratitude light upon her tongue.

“I am, it would seem.” She breathes it between them, a feather of a phrase that floats in the silence of the hall. Torchlight burns low across the stone corridor, illuminating Cregan’s commanding figure at the edges. There is that golden glow at the tips of his reddish hair that always calls her attention so captivatingly. Her weariness still aches deep within her tired body, but the small gesture has rekindled the dying embers in her chest. So quick is she to dismiss the possibility of affection and attachment, but she has not done so completely. As he reaches out to hand her the soup, his lips part slowly.

“Careful, it is quite warm.” The Lord of Winterfell cautions softly, ensuring she cups the bowl from the sides before he allows it to pass to her hands. His own calloused fingers brush tenderly against hers as he releases his hold, filling his senses with her smooth skin. Her lashes flutter gently at the innocent touch, a soft swallow upon her throat as she draws the warm soup closer to her chest. After a moment of easy silence, Cregan dips his head low. “I ought not to keep you from your rest, Lady Tyrell.”

As she lingers uncertainly in her doorway, her mind recalls earlier that day when Cregan had spoken her given name as a sacred devotion into the centimeters between their lips. How anxious she has been since then, how fretful over a man who is not her betrothed nor beloved. It is not in her character to be so easily swayed, not after her previous dealings in matters of the heart. And she finds, much to her own concern, that Cregan Stark has unexpectedly become a matter of the heart indeed. Taking a small breath, she resolves not to be so quick to resort to judgement. “I shall not retire until I have finished my soup, my lord. Perhaps you might join me until then?”

The invitation catches Cregan’s attention at once, his eyes widening slightly as his shoulders lower. Given the agitated state she had been existing in for most of the day, he had not believed she would wish to speak with him further. The opportunity for a quiet moment to sit beside her is not one he desires to ignore. “Aye, I would gladly do so.”

Lady Tyrell turns without further comment, not wishing to be caught standing before a man in her nightgown by any who might be passing by at the late hour. As she pads across the floor, her slippers soft upon the rich oak, she returns to her armchair and settles into it with a swish of her sheer robe. Cregan is left to watch for a moment, eyes tracking every move and step as the lady makes herself comfortable in front of the golden fire glowing within the hearth. Despite the stress from the day, she looks comfortable and soft within the firelit room. He then endeavors to join her, sinking into the chair across from hers as she begins to sip the hot soup with a neutral expression of content upon her face. As the liquid brushes her tongue, she winces at the heat and her brows knit together in a small frown. Cregan can do nothing but smile gently at the endearing expression.

“I did warn you it is hot.” Cregan offers quietly, amusement flickering across his face alongside light from the fire. Lady Tyrell lets out a huff in return, frustration upon her visage as she blows harshly overtop of the creamy soup.

“So you did.” It is the closest thing to a growl that he has heard escape her pretty lips. Shaking his head, the rumblings of a low laugh echo into the warm air between them, accompanied by the crackling of logs within the fireplace. Lady Tyrell wholly forgets the soup in her grasp and the stress of the day and every other thought that has ever entered her mind. Her mouth drops open slightly, her eyes wide as saucers as she stares blankly at him. Here sits the Lord of Winterfell, the feared Wolf of the North, laughing so easily within her chambers. The warmth in her chest is hotter than the bowl in her hands. 

“I have missed the soups of the North,” Cregan sighs nearly wistfully as he gazes into the flames. The smell from the earthy potatoes had brought him back to days of wild youth, running breathlessly through fallen snow and underneath ancient pines. The puff of his own breath before him, his fingertips turning red from the biting cold. “Too long has it been since I have tasted home.”

The lady is completely placated by his presence, by the taste of the rich soup within her mouth. She sighs, pleased and warm, curling her legs beneath her in a most unladylike manner. “You have been away for some time. It must be difficult.”

It is a soft murmur, spoken around breaths used to blow gently into her food to spare her tongue the burning sensation each time the creamy liquid sits atop it. Cregan watches with a gentle approval, pleased to see her eating. He had worried over her, when she had declined to join the nobles for dinner and is glad he decided to ensure she had gotten something for supper. “And you, my lady? Do you miss home as well?”

“I do not know, in truth,” Lady Tyrell muses, her shoulders dropping elegantly as she shifts within her seat. Her eyes wander slightly, as if her mind is drifting to a place far from here. After a second with her thoughts, she shakes her head, the edges of her hair glowing in the warm firelight. “I had always known I would leave Highgarden one day. It was only that I believed King’s Landing would be my home, and it is…not. Not any longer.”

A small, weak smile is offered with the explanation. Her attention returns to her soup, the silver spoon held tenderly within her delicate grasp. As she brings it to her lips, she tries not to dwell upon the idea of home too seriously. 

Cregan frowns at this, his brows low as he casts his gaze down to the plush rug that rests upon the wood in front of the hearth. Winterfell has been his home for the entirety of his life, and while he had been forced to fight for that home, it has always been his. His birthright, the lands that have raised him and all of his ancestors before him. How strange it would be, to have such uncertainty surrounding where one belongs. The North is in his blood and in his bones – he would not know his own identity if he were forced away from it permanently. The idea of her not having a place to belong to does not sit right within his chest. “You ought to have a home you can be certain of.”

A light raise of her eyebrows is given at this, while she keeps her eyes upon her soup. Her hands shift the ivory bowl back and forth absentmindedly, yet the seriousness of his voice is not lost on her. Still, there is not much she can do to rectify her own situation. Instead, she merely gives a small dip of her chin. “I would very much like that, my lord.”

“I hope that after the trials conclude, the Realm might have a better chance at peace.” Cregan sighs, a weight to the phrase from all the pressure that he has been carrying since his arrival. Being the Warden of the North has prepared him well for the power he currently holds within the capital, but it does exhaust him so. He cares little for Southern politics and the tumultuous remnants of the succession war. Although he cannot truthfully say he wishes he had never come – not when she sits across from him, gently lit by warm firelight, her visage a heavenly blessing upon his tired eyes.

“You have worked tirelessly for the bettering of the Seven Kingdoms,” The lady acknowledges, her voice quiet as she stirs her soup while keeping her gaze downwards. There is a certain comfort in sitting here with Cregan at the late hour, in simply being around him within the familiarity of her chambers, with no chance of being caught or interrupted. “I had strong doubt at first, but I do now believe you genuinely mean to carry out justice and return to the North.”

Cregan rubs a hand across his face, trailing it up through his hair as his eyes close. There has been far more ruling involved than he had anticipated when he had agreed to fight for Rhaenyra Targaryen. But fate has its own plans for the Lord of Winterfell, and he cannot turn away from a situation that mirrors his past so closely. “The young prince Aegon reminds me much of myself, when I was a lad. Mine own family had a similar issue with succession. My seat was hard won, against kin.”

Lady Tyrell has heard tale of how Cregan had imprisoned his own uncle and cousins after they had attempted to retain power once the lord came of age. Hearing him speak of it now, the way his jaw tenses as he does, she can tell it is something that was quite difficult for him. Her eyes flicker across his face, the way his reddish lashes fall atop the curves of his cheeks. The softness of her voice, barely above a whisper, betrays hints of the true affection she has come to hold in her heart for him. “It is kind of you then, to extend to Aegon the assistance you did not receive as a child.”

His eyes open at this, his chin lowering as he fixes his heavy gaze upon her. The lady holds his stare for a moment, before taking a small sip of her soup once more. “it is in my nature, I suppose. The need to rectify a present situation to ease the pain of a past one, even if it only is for the next generation. And in yours as well, I would say.”

It is an accurate assessment of her character; one she suspects few would know. But there is no hiding the truth from Cregan, who has seen her with Jaehaera every night. While she loves Jaehaera deeply, as she has since the girl was born, her guilt and pain over Helaena does additionally drive her need to ensure that the princess has a brighter future than her mother did. It cannot fix anything, but the thought of creating a peaceful life for Jaehaera does bring the lady some semblance of hope. 

“It is all I can think, somedays. If only to give myself something to do, lest I go mad from my own helplessness.” It is a soft musing, spoken from someone who has sat for many hours within the cold grasp of grief’s unyielding hands. Cregan recognizes it well, as he so often does. It is peculiar to him at times, how he sees himself mirrored in this woman whose upbringing was vastly different than his own. Yet there she is, reflecting pieces of himself he needs to examine more closely, forcing him to think harder about why he is the way he is. 

“We cannot change our past, but we have it in our power to make an attempt towards a better future. It might be in vain. We might never see it, or we might fail before we create it. It is our mortal duty to try nonetheless.” The heaviness in his tone forces her to look up at him, her eyes meeting his as she inhales softly. A better future – might it yet be possible for her, for Jaehaera? As she gazes into Cregan Stark’s eyes, searching for any sign of doubt and finding only stern certainty, it does not seem like a distant dream. 

a/n: slowburn is definitely slow but stay tuned for the next chapter, i imagine it's what a few of you have been waiting for ;)