#asoiaf x oc

[izzy140105]

i know it's been 2 days from the jon incest anon, but in the books, he has MUCH better people to choose from. val, satin? and in this scenario, even isabelle. like, sorry that not everyone wants to commit incest..

THANK YOU!! It's good to see people with sense 😌 also 100% there are so many better people for Jon to choose from, books and show!! Like I'd rather see him end up with Tormund then see him with his LITTLE SISTERS!!

Also, yes, let's normalise this 👇 instead.

I mean just look at them... Not related... Hot af... Speaks for itself honestly 🫣🤭

[thetormentita]

the woman in winter (se ābra isse sōnar) - chapter 1

duty is sacrifice, and not even the house of the last dragonriders can escape from it.

Pairing: Original female! Targaryen/Criston Cole (one-sided), Original female! Targaryen/Jacaerys Velaryon

A/n: Poor Jace. I play here with the idea of Viserys having dragon dreams and having told anybody about it.

Warnings: mentions of death, some angst, High Valyrian, clinging Criston Cole

Rating: Mature (+16)

Tagging list: @novaursa @maegelletargaryen (send an ask if you wanna be tagged too!)

She doesn’t even hide a cackle as that big black beast of her dragon lands into the Dragonpit with a thunderous thud, sending a cloud of dust swirling around them. The creature’s scales shimmer under the light of the torches, casting a myriad of shadows that dance on the ancient walls like flickering flames. Her eyes gleam with pride as, once she has jumped off the dragon, her gloved hand brushes over that huge neck, hard as a brick.

“Sir ilagon, Mayhem (Now rest, Mayhem)” she whispers in the old tongue of her ancestors, the dragon tamers of old and their kin. The beast lowers its massive head and closes its eyes, letting out a contented sigh that rumbles through the cavern, echoing off the stone like distant thunder, making her smirk.

As she approaches the entrance one of the dragonkeepers confirms her what she had been suspecting all along: her escapade had not gone unnoticed. Apparently, a ‘timpa azantys’, a white knight, had arrived not much after her leaving. It only meant that the Hand, her aunt, the Queen or even the King himself had been searching for her with no positive results.

“Kirimvose (Thank you)” she nods, with a soft smile, as she leaves the old keeper inside the massive stone hall of the Dragonpit and heads out into the bustling streets of the city, with an arm half covering her eyes from the light of the midday sun.

The streets are alive with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, the clatter of horseshoes on cobblestone, and the distant calls of seagulls circling the nearby harbor. The scent of freshly baked bread, spiced meats, and the salty tang of the sea fills the air, mingling with the less pleasant odors of King’s Landing, a city where luxury and squalor walk hand in hand.

She looks at one side of the entrance, searching for the ‘timpa azantys’, and she almost wrinkles her nose when she finds out a man cladded in white and silver armor next two palfreys, a helmet hiding the identity of the Kingsguard who had been sent to fetch her to the Red Keep. Despite not having a special predilection for any of them, she did not like ser Willis nor ser Rickard, and although they were nice to her and even had bring her some sweets from the kitchens here and there, it was almost embarrasing to keep mistaking ser Erryk and ser Arryk all the damn time.

“I guess I am grounded?” she says as her feet draw her to the knight, who just turns his head towards her, not bothering to change his stance. “I have done no wrong, just wanted to fly a bit.”

The knight’s expression seems to soften slightly under the helmet, betraying a hint of sympathy beneath his stern exterior. “His Grace cares deeply for you, princess.” It is ser Criston who has come for her. “He sent us searching for you.” As he removes his helmet, his eyes land on her, maybe more than he intends, showing a depth of concern that surprises her. “I thought maybe you came to visit your dragon.”

“I am not my uncle, yet he can go every day to Flea Bottom and get drunk and lay with whores and nobody says a thing.” Elia approaches one of the horses, letting the animal sniffle her hands to get used to the smell of Mayhem.

“It is not the same.”

She turns to face the knight, his pale green eyes upon her, observing her every move with an intensity that makes her feel both vulnerable and strangely empowered. "Why is it not the same? Because I am a woman, or because it is deemed improper for a lady of my standing to venture out of the Red Keep without the company of a septa or a guard?” Elia’s voice is steady, yet there’s a hint of frustration lacing her words.

“You are the King’s only granddaughter” he offers her a hand to help her climb the horse and, despite the ridiculous of the gesture —she had climbed up and down a dragon seven times the size of that mount by herself with little effort— she lets him do, something inside her telling her that he may need it.

“Not for long, in any time Helaena will get pregnant and it may be a baby girl, true Valyrian…”

She frowns, and almost like being trained by Cole, her mount starts moving the moment his does the same, the rhythmic clop of their horses' hooves on the stone path blending with the sounds of the bustling city around them.

“How far have you gone atop your dragon?”

Ser Criston’s question takes her by surprise. The ever stoic and stern warrior had never asked her such things, taking little to no interest in anything related to the Targaryen lineage, as if repelled it despite being in charge to protect the last family of dragonriders.

“I… Dragonstone, I think. Not quite far because Mayhem is still young and may lack the strength. We have planned with Jace to do a progress in the future, going further but in various stages. I wanna see the Wall, and Tarth, and go to the Eyrie too.”

Her eyes sparkle with a rare excitement as she speaks of the yet undecided journey, laying out a map of dreams that stretched beyond the horizons she had known, and ser Criston’s face shows a small smile, indicating his quiet amusement at her enthusiasm.

“Have you thought about going to Dorne?”

“Dorne?” she chuckles, “Really?”

“Aye! Why not?” Criston challenges, his tone light yet persuasive. "It's unlike any place you've ever seen. Sunspear’s harbor, the spicy food, the vibrant colors of the markets, and the warmth of its people. It's a land of passion and fire, where the heat of the sun is matched only by the warmth of its people's hearts.”

Her eyes gleam with curiosity, a spark ignited by Criston's vivid description. "It sounds like a dream," she muses, her mind already wandering to the exotic landscapes and bustling bazaars he painted with his words. "How come—?”

“Your mother and mine were raised by the same desert, princess.” Criston's voice softens, a touch of nostalgia coloring his tone as he speaks of their shared heritage. "The same sun that kissed your lady mother's cheeks warmed mine. You should go to Starfall and see it yourself.”

Starfall. The seat of House Dayne, the former Kings of the Torrentine. The mere thought of it makes her heart flutter and, at the same time, her stomach churn in disgust. She had never gone south of the Kingswood, and despite the whole world ahead waiting for her to fly over it, she feels like the other side of the Red Mountains is a forbidden territory for her.

“They will surely hate me” she spits, her eyes observing the looming walls of the Red Keep’s courtyards atop Aegon’s Hill. “I just cannot go there as if nothing had happened. My mother died after my birth, and they may blame me for it.”

“They won’t hate you, princess, I bet my sword hand they don’t.” The Kingsguard reassures her, his voice steady and clear, a contrast to the tumultuous thoughts swirling in her mind. “Nobody could hate you. It is not a babe’s fault if the mother dies in birthbed, sadly such tragedies are more common than any of us would wish.” He pauses, glancing down at the sword at his side, its hilt gleaming in the soft light of the morning. "And you," he continues, turning his gaze back towards her, "have grown into a remarkable young woman, one who carries herself with grace and dignity. You have strength, more than you know."

As they cross the yard, leaving their palfreys tethered near the stables, the air is filled with the sounds of the living court, always busy with people coming and going, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, and the distant ring of steel as knights practice in the training grounds. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat wafts from the kitchens, mingling with the earthy aroma of the stables and the sweet fragrance of the blossoming gardens that surround the palace. It is a place alive with activity, yet there is an underlying peace that seems to permeate the very stones of the castle, as if the ancient walls themselves exude a sense of history and stability amidst the bustling life within and around them.

This is the heart of the kingdom, the monstrosity of a castle looming over a city that looks like another world compared to the Red Keep.

Ser Criston guides her towards the royal appartments, through corridors that seem to wind endlessly, past tapestries that depict the glory of the kingdom's past and the grandeur of its present. Greeted by courtiers and workers alike, Elia finds in the keep a strange comfortable feeling, like she belongs here amidst the echoes of history and the whispers of power.

“Was he angry?”

“Worried, I would say, princess. He is your grandsire, he has you in great esteem.”

As they pass by the gallery next to the training yard, her eyes can spot Jace training, surrounded by friends, certainly having a good time, and she envies him for a moment. How happy he seems, how eager to show himself to potential allies and close kith. He had always told her that he would one day be worthy of Blackfyre, of the ancestral sword the kings of Westeros had wielded since the time of Aegon the Conqueror.

“You will be my good queen” he had told her once in the privacy of her rooms during one of those nights they had evaded guards and septas.

Ser Criston stops by the entrance of the royal appartments, and Elia takes a deep breath, her hands clasped at her back, her stance proud and shameless.

“Let me first, just in case” he mumbles to her in a soft, protective tone, approaching the guards positioned by the door and knocking on it as they both retreat to the sides.

Elia comes into the chambers once ser Criston announces her, and they both exchange looks as the Kingsguard leaves and she turns to face her grandsire, bowing out of respect.

“Your Grace.”

Viserys Targaryen raises from his chair, leaving what he has in his hands aside and approaches her, his eyes never leaving her figure.

“You fled the keep. You told nobody. Only the Gods know what could have happened to you.”

His voice carries a mix of concern and sternness, a king's burden laced with a grandfather's worry. The air in the room feels thick, charged with unspoken thoughts and feelings. A moment stretches between them, a bridge of silence that speaks volumes of their complicated relationship.

“I cannot be still until my wedding with Jace comes. He has his swordplay, and his lessons, and also gets to come into meetings with the Small Council while I have to set myself with embroidery and walks along the gardens and prayers at the sept.”

Grandfather and granddaughter hold their gazes, the weight of her words hanging between them like a tangible thing. The king, with lines of time etched deeply into his face, reflects on her words, understanding the depth of her restlessness and the constraints placed upon her by the expectations of her status. "My child," he begins, his voice carrying the wisdom of years and the softness of genuine affection, "I sometimes forget how alike you both are.”

He pauses, his eyes drifting to the scale model of Old Valyria, the small project that once united father and son, now a mere source of nostalgia. “He may have known better, all eyes were upon him and he so graciously bore that weight. You would have learnt so much with your father around, at last as much as I did.”

If there was something sacred to than man was the fruit of his first marriage, the union bonded by love and not by duty. Baelon and Rhaenyra, both children desired and cherished by him, their mere existance the testament of the strength of House Targaryen, of the generation who would have to fight through thick and thin to keep the grandiosity of their lineage, the respect of the rest of the Westerosi houses, big and small. The tragic death of his only son had scarred Viserys Targaryen for life, and Elia is the one to pay the price.

“I am afraid, lass” his voice is like a mumble, his own fragility showing. “You are the only thing I have left from my boy, and the mere thought of you being harmed makes my heart tremble like a leaf in a storm. I love you as if you were a daughter of mine, Elia. I look upon your face and I see Aemma’s lips, in your eyes there is the same spark my lady mother once had, and I fear for you in these troubling times. The court is a dangerous place, filled with those who would seek to use you for their gain, and I cannot stand it.”

Elia listens, her heart swelling with a mix of emotions—gratitude, love, and an undeniable surge of protective fierceness. The man before her has been a steadfast presence in her life since she was a child.

“I am aware of your secret lessons with Jacaerys and his friends. You have my mother’s spirit, and it shows.”

She clenches her jaw with the confession. She had been the one to ask her cousin for guidance with a sword, and he had gladly started to give her small lessons here and there, helped by Aeron Bracken, Gerold Marbrand and Davos Blackwood, and even the latter had taken the role of a sworn shield against the looming dangers of those opposing the closest figures to her, only to keep her safe and not be used as a tool to harm her cousins or her aunt, or even the king himself.

“You should have never let lord Lyonel go, Your Grace.”

It all was easier when the head of House Strong was the Hand, when he could be spotted in any corner of the Keep and his mere presence was a balm and a warning at the same time, as did his eldest son, the one they called ‘Breakbones’.

“I should have let you get more involved, my girl, I see that now," the king admits, his voice laced with regret. “I did not prepare you to be a queen.”

“I thought that was not the role of a king.”

Viserys allows himself a small smile, faint and tinged with sadness, a reflection of the burdens that lay heavy upon his crown.

“There is this thought that roams free in my head since Lord Lyonel’s departure.” he burrows his frow, his gaze distant as if he's looking into the very depths of his kingdom's future, “Maybe your place is not to stand by Jacaerys’s side, but rather to guide him from the lands of winter.”

…

Jace’s grip tightens around her hand as they walk through the corridors, his eyes scanning the ancient stone that whispers the history of their ancestors. The torches flicker in their sconces, casting long shadows that dance across the floors and walls, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere.

“I thought we would be married” she mumbles, her voice a mix of confusion and a faint, lingering hope. The cold stone beneath her feet seems to echo her uncertainty, each step a question left unanswered.

“I knew of it after you left for the Dragonpit” his voice is steady, but there's an undertone of regret that threads through his words, a sorrow that seems to seep into the very air between them. “He said your place was to be a beacon amidst snow, that he saw it now clear.”

Elia frows as they keep going, ser Steffon guarding them, guiding them to their destiny, to the hall where the skull of Balerion, the Black Dread, lays among a myriad of candles, burning for years with no interruption. At their arrival the king turns his face to look at them, only returning his gaze to the massive skull that dominates the room once the Kingsguard leaves them alone. The flickering candlelight casts shadows across his features, deepening the lines of worry and contemplation etched into his face.

“I have been selfish” he says, his voice echoing softly in the vast, silent chamber. "I have kept secrets, harbored fears, and allowed the shadows of the past to dictate the future. I owe you both an explanation.”

Elia and Jacaerys look at each other, then back at him, their expressions a mix of concern and anticipation. The air feels heavy, charged with the weight of impending revelations.

“You both were supposed to get married soon, your betrothal would have been made public in no time. I was afraid of losing you, the legacy of my children, of my Aemma.” the mention of his loses makes his voice trembles, tinged with affection and nostalgia, the pain evident in the depths of his eyes. “Your grandmother, she was everything to me, and when we lost her, a part of me died with her. I struggled so hard to keep your parents close, but I failed miserably. It led me towards fear. I felt like I had to protect you at all costs, and time only made me realize of my mistake.”

Jace’s hand tightens around hers, his eyes observing the massive skull before them, looming like a reminder of mortality and the transient nature of life. Elia’s gaze observes him, the shape of his jaw clenched in a silent battle with his emotions. The lights from the torches and the candles flicker, casting shadows that dance across his face, mirroring the turmoil within, making her realize the true and delicate beauty in him.

“Histories say Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land ripe for the capture.” Viserys keeps talking, his voice steady but filled with a kind of ancient gravity that demanded attention. “But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. It was a dream. And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. 'Tis to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north.”

“Tell me you are not sending me up there as a bait.” she retorts with a mumble, her words laced with a mix of disbelief and fear, her gaze shifting uneasily, as if the mere mention of the north conjured its chilling winds within the room.

“You are not a bait, lass, but our guidance. I saw it, crystal clear. I saw you among wolves, Elia, and they bent to your will” Viserys turns to face his eldest grandchildren, his eyes burning with an intensity that seems to pull the very warmth from the air. "Jacaerys and you will secure the north of Westeros for the oncoming days, keeping Winterfell and Riverrun close to us, for their strength and courage is the one we will need the most. I am sorry, my children, for not having been able to see it before. I have been a fool, but now I see the path that lies ahead, and it is through unity and strength that we shall prevail. You both hold the power of dragons within you, a legacy that will ensure our victory and our endurance for generations to come”

[y0ur3-a-c0wb0y-lik3-m3]

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓⋆⁺₊⋆

𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒘𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆⋆⁺₊⋆

𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠, 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦𝑙𝑜𝑛⋆⁺₊⋆

𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑑, 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛⋆⁺₊⋆

𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒 • 𝐎𝐂 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

⋆⁺₊⋆𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝑗𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑥 𝑜𝑐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑏 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑥 𝑜𝑐⋆⁺₊⋆

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒⋆⁺₊⋆

⋆⁺₊⋆𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆⋆⁺₊⋆

⋆⁺₊⋆𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆⋆⁺₊⋆

𝑖'𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑠 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑣𝑒⋆⁺₊⋆

𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑜𝑛𝑒⋆⁺₊⋆

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐍𝐄⋆⁺₊⋆

𝒊⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒

𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑤𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑚𝑒⋆⁺₊⋆

𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖'𝑚 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛⋆⁺₊⋆

[fanfictiongirlie]

Game of Thrones - His Wolf, Her Kraken Chapter Four

Click here for masterlist

Parings: Theon Greyjoy x Original Female Character

Description:

Arenna Stark grew up adoring Theon Greyjoy.

Theon Greyjoy grew up hating Arenna Stark.

In the midst of war, Robb Stark decides to ensure the loyalty of the Greyjoys by marrying of his sister Arenna to Theon. Arenna will do whatever it takes to keep Winterfell under Stark rule, even if that means marrying the boy who bullied her all her life.

Warnings: (This fanfiction will eventually be explicit!)

- Arenna -

I managed to avoid Theon over the next few weeks, it proved difficult since we were still living in tents in a field, even as we moved camps I avoided him best I could. Luckily he never tried to find me, it made my job easier. 

As time passed, the war raged on, I never saw the battle, I'd stay behind with the women, which suited me. Arya was the girl in our family that liked such things as fighting, never me. 

I walked into Robb's tent, finding my brother, mother and Theon standing around the battle table. I walked in, feeling a little sheepish. 

"May I ask something of you, brother?" I asked, trying to feel hopeful about what I was about to request. Robb looked over to me, giving me a weary smile. 

"Of course Arenna" He says "What is it?"

I took a deep breath before speaking "I would like to go home to Winterfell, I am no help here, Bran and Rickon are the only Starks in Winterfell, and they're children. Let me go home, and I will run Winterfell in your absence" 

Robb was silent for a moment, his brow creased in thought. "Are you certain you wish to leave?" He asks hesitantly "It's safer for you here, close by my side"

"Certainly" Robb says slowly "I can have one of my most trusted men to accompany you back to Winterfell" Robb then looked to Theon for a moment, and I hoped he wouldn't chose Theon. 

"Who do you have in mind?" Theon asks, the look on his face says he fears the same as me. 

"I'll let you decide brother" I say, smiling. 

"Go pack, I shall have a carriage, driver and my best man ready to take you home by time you're done" Robb says to me. I nod and then leave the tent, rushing back to my own. 

Many hours later, I was fully packed and the horse and carriage were ready for me. I walked back to Robb and my mother.

"Ah Arenna" He says with a smile. "Are you all ready?"

"Yes brother" I answer "Who will be accompanying me?"

Robb hesitated for a moment "I've chosen someone who I believe is very capable of protecting you" He said, his tone growing serious. "Theon will be your escort for the journey, and he will not leave your side until you are safely back in Winterfell"

"Theon?" I hissed. Robb looked at me in surprise, clearly surprised at my outburst. 

"I don't want any arguments Arenna" Robb says with a firm tone "You should be thankful I'm sending you with such a capable man. Theon is an excellent fighter, and I trust him to protect you with his life" 

I nodded, feeling myself flush red. Robb rarely yelled at me, so I knew to be quiet now. I said goodbye to our mother and then Robb. I hugged them both tightly. And I then walked to my carriage, seeing Theon standing by it, his jaw was clenched and his eyes narrowed at me. He wasn't in a good mood that much was obvious. 

"Come on, we need to go" He snaps at me. I stay quiet and climb into the carriage. I watched as Theon walked around the carriage a few times before shocking me and climbing into the carriage, he sat opposite me. 

"You're not riding?" I asked him. He looked at me for a moment, clearly irritated. "No, I'm not riding" He muttered. "I'm supposed to be protecting you. I can't exactly do that from the back of a horse, now can I?"

"Yes, because there's so much danger inside of my carriage" I muttered sarcastically. Theon scowled at my snarky response, his green eyes narrowing in annoyance. 

"I'm not particularly thrilled about this arrangement either" He grumbled. "But if I have to sit through hours on end in the same cramped space as you, you'd damn well better believe I'll be close enough to protect you if anything happens. So stop complaining"

I rolled my eyes and turned my head to watch the outside world go by, we would reach Winterfell by tomorrow evening. Throughout the journey, Theon sat in silence opposite me. As the sun began to set, Theon finally spoke, breaking the silence. 

"We should stop for the night" He says gruffly "We'll need to make camp soon, so that we can continue on at first light" I nodded, agreeing with him. Theon spoke to the carriage driver and soon enough the carriage slowed to a stop on the side of the road. After a few moments, Theon stepped out of the carriage. 

"Stay in the carriage" He instructed me. I rolled my eyes wanting to get out, stretch my legs. But I stayed, like told. I waited for a few moments, Theon came back after a few minutes. 

"We're going to make camp here for the night" He says gruffly "Now don't complain about it"

I rolled my eyes again and climbed out from the carriage. Theon turned to look at me, annoyed. 

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" He snapped. 

"I'm stretching my legs" I answered, matching his tone. 

"You are not supposed to leave that carriage!" He snaps, pointing to the carriage, the driver and guard watched us, they were huddled by the fire they had created. I huffed loudly. 

"You said we're camping out here, what's wrong with me stretching my legs!"

"Just don't wander off" Theon snapped. I rolled my eyes and walked closer to the fire, sitting close to it. After a moment Theon spoke again, and I was missing the carriage ride where he would stayed silent. 

"You know, if you weren't so damn stubborn, maybe this would all be a lot easier" Theon snapped, and I knew straight away he was speaking on the marriage that would happen between the two of us. 

"Stop acting like you would want this if things were different between us" I answer back, I moved my hands close to the fire, warming them in the cold air. The closer we got to Winterfell the happier I felt, I had missed the cold and my home. I was most excited to see my direwolf. Theon rolled his eyes, scoffing at my words. 

"Don't be daft, of course I don't want this" He said, his tone growing sarcastic. "I just love spending my time babysitting you instead of being at battle with my men" 

"Yeah" I muttered "Or being with your choice of brothel woman instead" His eyes narrowed and he sat up straighter, a frown on his face. 

"And what is that supposed to mean?" He asks gruffly, his tone challenging. 

"You know what it means"

Theon scoffs, his expression turning into a dark scowl. "Yes, I know what it means, I'm not an idiot" He snaps "But I want to know why you're saying it. Is this you being jealous?"

"Don't be ridiculous" I snapped "I'm not jealous!" I used to be...I was thirteen when I first saw Theon leave a brothel, I cried for hours. It broke my heart, I was so in love with him back then. I was a fool. Theon laughed at my words, a dark, cold sound. 

"Oh yes you are" He said smugly "You're jealous that I spend all my time with other women, aren't you? You're jealous that I prefer their company to yours, and you're jealous that I don't think about you the way you think about me" 

"Good, I don't want you to think of me the same as those women" I sneer at him. He snorted and rolled his eyes, only the fire lit up his face, it annoyed me how pretty I thought he looked in this moment. 

"Oh really?" He asks with a smirk "You're pleased I don't want to be with you at all, that I find you boring and dull? That I'd rather be with someone else?"

My heart ached at his words, I had wanted to run off and cry. But I couldn't, I was stuck with him until we were back at Winterfell. 

"I don't care what you think of me Theon" I say quietly. 

"You don't care?" He asks, his tone growing more smug as he leant towards me. "Are you sure about that? Are you telling me that you're not the least bit jealous?"

"I don't care, just like I won't care when we're married, you can do what you like if it means you'll leave me alone" I mutter. 

"Oh really?" He asks, his voice filled with derision. "You'll just sit around and let me do as I please, knowing that I'd rather spend time with practically anybody else? Even once we're married?"

"I'm going to sleep" I mutter, standing. He laughs again, shaking his head. "Run away, like always" He says "You can never face things head-on, can you? You've always been a coward"

"And you've always been an arsehole" I snap back as I climb into the carriage, finally shutting myself away to cry to myself. 

[venusbyline]

An important question for HOTD stans and ASOIAF stans in general:

You guys also read fics about s/o x OC or just s/o x reader??

[izzy140105]

I fear Jon would not survive if my girl Isabelle (oc) wore something like this one night 😭🤭

[izzy140105]

𝐌𝐘 𝑨𝑺𝑶𝑰𝑨𝑭 𝐎𝐂'𝐒☾⋆⁺₊⋆

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞⋆⁺₊⋆

𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝑗𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑤

𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞⋆⁺₊⋆

𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑏 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑘

𝐚𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧/𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧/𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠⋆⁺₊⋆

𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕⋆⁺₊⋆ ???

𝐣𝐨𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐧⋆⁺₊⋆

𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕⋆⁺₊⋆ ???

[thetormentita]

fire and blood - prelude

Bad decisions bring great tragedies.

Pairing: Original Male! Targaryen x Viserys Targaryen (platonic), Aemma Arryn x Viserys Targaryen

A/n: let me put a third brother in the equation, not all is viserys and daemon loving/hating each other 🤔

Warnings: mentions of death, angst, basically Aemma’s corpse is witnessing everything

Rating: Mature (+16)

Tagging: @novaursa @maegelletargaryen

Bitter tears run down his face as he leans over the body consumed by grief and desperation. The only thing he can do is embrace him tightly, being his support despite his own feelings.

Poor Aemma, she did not deserve such an end.

“Aemma…” Viserys whispers with a trembling voice, his heart heavy with sorrow, the sharp sting of loss piercing through him. “How could…?”

Another sob.

Maekar would gladly tell him how could it happen, how his blind thirst for an heir had clouded his mind, but he stays silent. It is useless to remind his brother of the biggest mistake of his life.

It is cold in the room, the chill seeping into their bones, wrapping around their grief as if to solidify it, make it something tangible. The fire in the hearth had long gone out, its warmth a distant memory, much like the laughter that once filled this very room. Only the rumour of the dresses of the Silent Sisters dares to break the silence as they finish with the dead body of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Maekar takes a deep breath, fighting back his own tears, as he observes the lifeless face of her goodsister, the sweet and pliant Aemma, and memories from the life spent together come to his mind, hitting it like a hammer hits a nail.

“What am I going to do?” Viserys, once the pillar of them three, always with a clear mind and a polite and agreeable spark upon his eyes clings to him in despair, his voice barely more than a whisper lost amidst the cold walls of the chamber. The Silent Sisters, sworn to the service of death, continue their sacred duties with the solemn grace that their office demands, their movements both methodical and gentle as they prepare Aemma's body for its final journey. The air is filled with the faint, haunting scent of flowers and herbs, a poignant reminder of life in the midst of death.

“Carry on” his own voice low as well, his mind going to the girls who have just lost their mother in a cruel attempt of his father to preserve their line, once the greatest and shiniest of the whole realm. “Nyra and Aly need their father now more than ever.”

He steps closer to the side of Aemma's body, his hand hovering but not quite touching the cool, pale skin that once glowed with warmth and life. The room, draped in shadows and the soft glow of candles, seems to close in on him, amplifying the weight of his grief and responsibility. A deep, aching sorrow grips his heart as he thinks of the young girls, their future forever altered by this tragic event. Rhaenyra, with her mother’s intelligence and fiery spirit, and Alysanne, who inherited her mother’s kindness and grace, now must navigate a world without their guiding light. The thought of them facing the harsh realities of their destiny without the gentle hand of their mother to guide them pierces his soul. He has always known that the path laid before them would be fraught with challenges, but he had hoped to shield them from the cruelest parts of their inheritance for as long as possible. Now, with their mother gone, the onus falls on him to be both shield and guide. He must tread carefully, for the world they inhabit is not kind to the faint of heart or the innocent.

His eldest brother looks at him, despair etched deep within his eyes, a reflection of the burden that now weighs heavily upon their shoulders. It's a silent communication, a shared understanding that their lives will never be the same. They stand together, on the precipice of a future fraught with uncertainty, yet bound by a resolve to protect and nurture the young sisters behind them.

“I will help you with the girls” Maekar mumbles, soft spoken yet firm in his resolve, his voice barely above a whisper but laden with determination. The weight of his promise hangs in the air, tangible and solemn. “But they need their father, Viserys” Viserys nods, the movement almost imperceptible, his eyes weathered from the storms of past regrets and shimmering with the fragile hope of redemption, meets Maekar's gaze. “Nyra and Aly need you by their side, do you hear me?”

Maekar's words cut through the thick fog of despair that had been clinging to Viserys, a clear beacon in the tumultuous sea of his thoughts. Maekar has lived shadowed by his elder brothers, but it had let him learn from them and their surroundings, that much that even Viserys had trusted him enough to give him a seat on his council as a mere advisor, showing him his gratitude for having negotiated during the council at Harrenhal. What he had never expected was to become the voice of reason in Viserys’s darkest hour.

“I’ve got you” he mumbles as his brother sobs bitterly into his shoulder, the weight of the crown heavier on Viserys’s head than any physical burden could ever be. “I’ve got you, brother.” Maekar leans over his brother’s head and just kisses his head, softly, closing his own eyes as he tries to keep himself steady.

…

He frowns as he approaches the Council’s room, the news of a new meeting so soon after Aemma’s passing unsettles him deeply. The kingdom is still mourning, the air thick with grief, and yet the wheels of politics grind on, indifferent to personal loss.

“Gentlemen.” he greets them as he comes into the room, ser Harrold following him closely.

All eyes are upon him, clearly expecting Viserys instead of the youngest dragon. As he takes the round stone from the tray and puts it into the King’s place, he raises an eyebrow at them all, almost expecting them to complain about the absence of their monarch. Maekar takes sit on his brother’s chair, his posture both a reflection of his lineage and the burden of the crown he never had the chance to bear one day —not that he wishes it.

“My Prince” Otto Hightower speaks after clearing his throat, his voice modullated and carefully measured to convey respect and a hint of caution, "the realm appreciates your presence here today, in lieu of King Viserys. We all understand the troubled path that now His Grace has to—”

“I am not my brother, Otto. Let’s get straight to the point, shall we? My nieces await.”

Of course. The girls. With Daemon expelled from court after his rejoiceful incident at the brothel and Rhaenys on Driftmark with her own family, his priority is to look after his nieces, to let them know they are loved and supported after the lose of their mother.

Oh, sweet Aemma.

Quickly the meeting drives them to the treasure, the grain and the state of the city after the failed tourney for the late Baelon’s birth.

If only Viserys would have been more measured…

“There is also the future of the princesses on the table, as well as the matter of succession.”

Maekar raises an eyebrow at the Grand Maester, silently, his blood boiling at the dispassion of his brother’s council, wondering for a mere moment how many of those faces he would change.

“Succession, you say Mellos?” he tries his best to not lose his temper “How could you dare to speak of such matters when you have been the one to open my goodsister like cattle?” he bangs his fist on the big wooden table, some of the lords around it get startled by his reaction. “Aemma is dead because of your blade, Grand Maester. Yours! You haven’t even waited for a whole day to let our family mourn her and her baby to think about replacing her with another and separate my nieces. Shame on you! Everybody out! Now!”

Maekar stands, his finger pointing the doors of the council chamber as his other fist is clenched tightly, his knuckles white in tension, trying his best to not lose his temper.

Only when the rest are gone, the Master of Laws approaches him, slowly, careful not to provoke him further. “Prince Maekar,” he begins, his voice low and steady, aiming to inject a calming influence into the charged atmosphere, “I am terribly sorry for your loss. I know you were close friends with the Queen and I understand the impact her passing has had on you. Losing someone of such prominence and personal connection is never easy.”

“Thank you, lord Lyonel” Maekar’s face softens for a moment, showing a glimpse of the profound grief he's been trying to mask with anger. He sits again, his posture slightly deflated, the weight of his sorrow momentarily displacing the fury. “I— This will be hard, specially for the girls.”

Lyonel Strong sits by the Hand’s chair when ser Harrold closes the door, leaving them alone, apart from the rest of the court. They quickly connected, both of them having similar targets for the realm, and they had been seen before walking through the corridors or discussing over any text from the library or projects of laws.

“They will be well guarded, my prince. My daughters are with them, and I think there are other young ladies around them for them to not feel alone.”

Maekar nods, silent, his thoughts seemingly wandering to the safety and well-being of Rhaenyra and Alysanne.

“Mother passed when I was just a little lad, you know? Father said it was about two moons before my third nameday.” he clenches his jaw as he speaks, clearly the memory still a tender wound that had never fully healed. "I never really knew her, but I know that the girls will do, and the thoughts about Aemma will sting on them. I— I feel so hopeless when I think I will not be able to protect them from that harm.”

Maekar has been there for the entirety of their lives. Having watched them grow up from sweet babes to young and promising women, he feels a duty so deep it's etched into his very soul. “You're not alone in this,” Lyonel says softly, the warmth in his voice aimed to soothe the heavy burden Maekar carried. "We have each other, and together, we can provide a stronghold around them. Sure the matter of another royal wedding will be put over the table, the same with them, but I give you my word that we will give them the future they deserve.”

[izzy140105]

𝑚𝑜𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛 𝑎𝑢!

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓ఌ︎ 𝑎 𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒'𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || 𝑗𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑥 𝑖𝑠𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑒(𝑜𝑐)⋆⁺₊⋆

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 || 𝑗𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 ℎ��𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑒⋆⁺₊⋆

Jon would've been concerned at the fact that both his girlfriend and his direwolf had not come to the front door to greet him after work, if it weren't for the very obviously placed rose petals on the floor and the fact that he was home slightly earlier than usual.

He looked down at them with a raised eyebrow as he shrugged off his coat and hung it up. Before slowly following the trail.

There was a part of him that was thinking at the end of the trail he'd find Isabelle naked on whatever surface in the apartment, but he knew her too well to know she'd never do something like that. Not because she wasn't comfortable with it, no. But because she would have completely forgotten that was an option she could have, as she tends to overthink her ideas.

Jon could already imagine her reaction if he told her he'd expected that, a palm smacking to her forehead lightly muttering quietly to herself something like "damn it, I should've done that instead".

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips at the thought as he continued to slowly make his way through the apartment, soon coming into the living room. Noticing the way the lights were dimmed slightly and a few candles lit to bring a certain ambience to the setting. As well as the soft sound of one of her vinyls playing in the background. Jon knowing exactly which artist, album and song it was.

Coming to a stop in front of the coffee table, Jon looked down at the things that were set up, obviously meant for him. There weren't many things, but it was to be expected, this was their first Valentine's Day together as a couple and he knew Isabelle probably stood around in the shops for hours trying to figure out exactly what to get as she had never done so before.

The card though was definitely not store bought and Jon could instantly recognise Isabelle's work anywhere. Carefully picking the card up he looked over the cover of it. It had a rough little painting of Ghost on it, the reference most definitely being one of her many .5 pictures she took of the albino direwolf. He loved the way she would always giggle quietly to herself whenever she took them.

"You're not supposed to be home yet." Isabelle's voice came from the doorway, making Jon turn to look over at her. A handsome smile coming onto his lips.

"Thought I'd come home early." He said, placing the card back down and walking over to her. Stopping to stand in front of her, looking her over.

She looked like she hadn't finished getting ready for whatever it was she planned for him that night, as she was still dressed in her sweat pants and a loose t-shirt. Although she looked like had just got done finishing her makeup. Not that she needed any, but Jon was oh so tempted to smudge the red lipstick she had on.

"Well now you've ruined your surprise." She pouted slightly as she looked up at him.

Jon simply shrugged. "Perhaps,but I still enjoyed it either way." With that he held up the bouquet of flowers he got for her, white and red roses, her favourite.

A sweet smile came onto her lips as she looked at them, before happily taking them from him. Her eyes then lifted up to meet his. "Did you see the ones I got for you?" That made Jon raise an eyebrow at her. Making her way past him and over to the coffee table, she pointed down to the very obviously placed blue roses that sat in a vase. Walking to stand closer to her, Jon looked down at them before turning his head to look at her.

"You know it's my job to get you flowers, not the other way around." He chuckled, making Isabelle roll her eyes playfully.

"Well maybe I wanted to get you some as well, as it doesn't seem fair that only women should get flowers... Besides, I know they're your favourite." She spoke, gently placing down the bouquet he got for her on the coffee table. Already planning on how she was going to mix all three coloured roses together.

Jon then reached out to place his hands on her waist, pulling her closer to him. Isabelle wrapping her arms around his neck as he did, her fingers moving to play with his dark curls at the back of his head.

"Do you like it?" She questioned him softly, resisting the urge to bite her lip. A nervous habit she had.

"Aye, I do." Jon nodded, before leaning down to place a short, yet sweet kiss on her lips. Pulling away slightly to look down at her, his thumbs gently caressing her hips. "Although with the setting, I was thinking I was going to find you with a little less clothing." He chuckled.

That made her pout. "Well if you got here when you usually do you might've." She grumbled.

Jon paused slightly, looking down at her. He was only joking, but now that he knew that she was actually planning that, a sudden wave of heat filled his body.

"And I chose something really cute and pretty as well..." She huffed out softly, not even noticing Jon's change in mood until she was suddenly lifted up and thrown over his shoulder. "Jon!" She squealed out in surprise.

"You can show it to me another day." He said as he walked towards the bedroom. Isabelle going slack in his grasp as she succumbed to her fate.

[izzy140105]

OK!! But Isabelle (oc) wearing something like this!! 🤭🫣

ELIE SAAB Couture Spring/Summer 2025 if you want to support this blog consider donating to: ko-fi.com/fashionrunways

[thetormentita]

the woman in winter (se ābra isse sōnar) - prelude

the gods can be cruel, but they always leave a chance to see the bright side in every tragedy.

Pairing: original female! Targaryen/Viserys Targaryen (platonic)

A/n: behold Viserys and his upteenth tragedy! Rhaenyra was not always his chosen heir, but here we go again!

Rating: Teen (+13)

Tagging list: @novaursa @maegelletargaryen

The fool had returned home with a baby, and the heart of the King had softened at the sight, his mind bringing up memories once lost, of princess Alyssa flying with her children atop Meleys, the Red Queen.

If only she had had the chance to meet her grandchildren…

The babe, a little girl peacefully asleep close to the prince’s chest, had called the court’s attention, everybody instantly claiming bastardy upon her only for the tuft of black hair of hers.

“Her name is Elia, Father.” he had said, proud and hurt at the same time. “I couldn’t leave her behind. I just couldn’t.”

If the prince would have done things right, maybe the Iron Throne would have been able to get closer to Dorne, and the little girl would have perfectly represented the final union of all Westeros under the same rule as Aegon the Conqueror intended, but the premature death on the birthbed of the lady Dayne had left him with little margin to maneuver.

“I wanted to do things right, I swear.” Prince Baelon cannot stop looking at his baby daughter as she sleeps, her little fists clenched in the soft, warm blanket. “We planned to come after the birth, when Mara had gained her strength back.” His voice breaks when he talks about the lady of Starfall, now dead and forever lost to the realms of men.

Viserys conforts his son as best as he can. Memories of his own lost wife and the pain of childbirth still fresh in his mind.

Sweet Aemma would have loved to see her grandchildren.

It takes him a few days to be able to talk with his son and heir about the parentage of his daughter, and it shocks him the reaction of his Small Council when they decide it would be best for little Elia to remain as a bastard, even Jasper Wylde and Larys Strong dare to suggest giving up the girl to the Faith or the Silent Sisters.

“We are talking about my own granddaughter, Seven Hells!” he bangs the robust table with his fist, the mere idea of losing that little girl from his sight makes him sick. “She is my blood! She shall grow up as a princess of the realm, among her cousins and my children with the Queen.”

Only when the council finishes Lyonel Strong dares to approach him, the name of Baelon’s daughter still on his lips.

When the Stepstones rise against the Iron Throne again, it is Baelon the one who leads the attack, recklessly wanting to prove himself and show the realm how fit he would be to succeed Viserys as a future king. He almost kneels before his own son to beg for him to stay in the capital, because war is damgerous and the Stepstones have proven a treacherous ground for many who sought glory there.

But Baelon flies there.

And Baelon dies.

The blow leaves him breathless. His mind breaking in tiny little pieces when his generals, his own brother among them, bring him the news, and a wooden box with ashes in it, because a Targaryen shall be incinerated.

The court mourns little of its former heir, and all eyes lay upon the little Elia, the girl who is playing with her cousins when he arrives at the conservatory, carefully under the eye of a kingsguard and a septa, who watch over the children like a hawk guarding its nest.

“What now?” she mumbles, her little face struck with a grief she should not have to feel, less being that young.

“I will take care of you, my sweet.” he cups her face with a hand, his thumb stroking gently the soft cheek, trying his best to assure her.

Nobody dares to question the little girl’s future before him after the passing of the prince.

Nobody but Lyonel Strong.

It is him the only one to put some perspective upon the situation, and Viserys lets him talk in a futile attempt to ease his own grief.

“There is an option.” says the Riverman when they are observing princess Rhaenyra’s sons play with Elia, carefully hidden in the king’s solar. “If you decide making Rhaenyra your heir, Jacaerys shall follow her.”

“You are stating the obvious, Lyonel.”

“Marry Baelon’s daughter to Rhaenyra’s eldest son” Viserys looks at him with weary eyes, silent, his mind too tired to even focus on that obvious thought. “They are close in age, good friends and have grown up together. They are made for each other, and you know it as well as I do. If they become husband and wife they can stay around under your protection, and not by your children, but by theirs you will strengthen the main line of House Targaryen.”

[venusbyline]

https://www.tumblr.com/venusbyline/778238466451505152/an-important-question-for-hotd-stans-and-asoiaf?source=share

This is so frustrating to me because the poll currently shows a tie, supposedly half of people read OCs as well... but OC fics are pretty much ignored in this fandom, they get next to no engagement and writers have to beg for interactions. But reader fics can get hundreds/thousands of likes depending on the character?

I didn't understand sm too. Considering the result, seems like many ppl really like HOTD x OCs fics, but also they don't interact often. I could understand it if they simply didn't like OCs fics, but apparently this isn't the reasons why... :(

[snow-blower]

⋆˚࿔ A BOOK SO BOUND 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Jon Snow x OC series masterlist.

MAIN SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary:

A modern AU love story in which Kaelith Bolton moves away from the City to a small Northern town called Winterfell. It was her first and — hopefully — only attempt at running away from her problems. Her older brother, Domeric (far more likable than her bastard, younger half-brother, Ramsay) had suggested she moved close to him, and Kaelith has always been unable to refuse him. She hopes to start anew, with her loving older brother, in a lovely little town. Hell — she may even find love!

A/N: This is based on all those soft, autumny bookshop romances that I can't stop reading. I just felt like writing something soft and cute that y'all can come to when you need to comfort yourself after reading the main AU 🤭

Warnings: Ramsay is a warning in himself (he's fairly tame in this though), smut and nsfw themes, talks of illegal actives, graphic talk of injuries (in one of two chapters).

Warnings will be updated as chapters are posted.

Chapters:

Chapter I - Kaelith Begins - WIP

[izzy140105]

Actual picture of Isabelle (oc) out in the snow freezing her butt off <3

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Autumn (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Unreliable narrator!!!! Mature language. Descriptions of grief.

A/N: I was not expecting the response my silly little idea has gotten. I am very thankful for all of you who decide to read it, and would love to hear what you think of this chapter. Series masterlist here.

YOU CRUMPLE THE letter in your fist, hearing the parchment wrinkle with a satisfying sound. Then, you throw it into the flames, watching as the fire grows slightly bigger, and the ball uncurls, alight for a second, before it is fully consumed.

It doesn’t soothe you as you thought it would. The odious parchment offering you an honor guard from your future husband might be gone, but you still have to journey North before a moon since Luke’s funeral has passed.

At the thought of your brother, a sharp, stabbing pain, manifests in your chest. You choke down a sob. You had not realized you had started to measure time like this. Before and After Luke’s death, as people did with Before and After the Conquest.

Your grief only serves to fuel your rage, though. How could he? How could he demand you be wed when you were still in mourning? When you were still thinking of your sweet brother, not of keeps, and lords, and men?

“You dare!” You screech, barging inside Jacaerys’ rooms. Whatever he is doing, hunched over his desk, is interrupted. “You cannot do this to me! Mother will not allow it.”

Jace sets down his quill. He turns to look at you, his expression calm. You would think him indifferent, were it not for the fact that there is the slightest furrow of his brows.

“We need men.” He states, simply, and when you are about to interrupt him to say there are many more in the realm, he keeps speaking. “We need his men. The North is the largest kingdom, you know this as well as I. And when a Stark calls the banners, they are the only ones who respond in full.”

Your hands ball into fists. You hate that he is acting so composed, so rational. After Luke died, you felt like a chained dragon, roaring your grief and wishing to be freed to set ablaze those that had wronged you. Once, you had been as gracious as him and mother, composed even in the height of emotion. But grief has made you into live lighting, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Your emotions are out of control. You know this. You get angered at the barest hint of an insult, you cry as easily as a newborn babe. Knowing it doesn’t stop you from lashing out, though. It only makes you regret it later.

“Our mother promised I was to have my pick of suitors, not that I would be sold like a cow!” You point an accusing finger to his chest. Jace sighs and gets up, surrounding the desk.

“I understand you are upset.” He tries offering you a hug, but you jerk away. His face hardens slightly. “But this is war.”

As if you do not know. As if you haven’t lost a sibling, too. Your face crumbles, and Jace calls your name, but hearing his voice, how similar Luke and him sound, only makes you cry harder.

“Hey, hey, it’s not so bad.” He hugs you, pressing your face against his doublet. The material is soft against your skin, and you feel tempted to let go of your rage against him and sink into his arms. Jace is barely a man, too, just as you are barely a woman. He is doing as best as he can, spread too thin by the weight of responsibility that comes with being heir. “Cregan is a good man. I got to know him during the time…”

Yes, he was doing as best as he could. But it hadn’t been his own hand that he had bartered away, had it? The insidious voice in your head asks. It isn’t him who is making a sacrifice. And such a hollow one. He claims to need men, but he won’t be getting even the full northern army.

“You sold me for a few Greybeards! Not even a proper army! Good Gods, you are a fool.” You cry out.

“Lord Stark assures me…” Jace starts, with the tone of someone who has already had this same argument. Were you thinking clearly, you would pause and realize why. Instead...

“He has put a wife in the grave already.” It is the only thing you know about him. Not much is whispered about Cregan Stark, at least, nothing concerning. You would remember it. The only thing that you know, though, is that he is a Stark and his wife is dead.

“You make it sound as if he killed her himself with his bare hands.” Jace scoffs. “I assure you, he dearly loved Arra Norrey and would have never harmed her. You know the dangers of childbirth. Perhaps even better than I.”

Perfect. He hadn’t killed the damn woman, he was just still in love with her. By the Seven, Jace was a fool. You hated being second in anything. Here, at home, you were already second to Jace, and you resented it. Being a twin meant having to share everything, including the love of those around you.

When you married, you had hoped to be the only woman in your husband’s life, not to be compared to a ghost. You had seen exactly how that went. King Viserys had never forgotten his first wife, calling for her years after her death, even as Alicent was the one to nurse him during his illness.

“He is still a widower.” You repeat, stubbornly.

Jace pinches the bride of his nose, before letting out a deep exhale. His next words are spoken extremely slowly, as if talking to a child. It makes you bristle.

“You said you were afraid of childbirth, and he already has an heir. There is no better solution.”

It would be thoughtful, were it not for the fact that:

“His first wife died in childbirth!”

As Jace prepares a scathing comeback, face scrunched up in mirrored displeasure to your own, the voice of your mother startles you both.

“What is going on here?” She asks, mouth pursed in an expression identical to Jace. The Queen looks as regal as ever, and it only serves to make you feel a tad embarrassed. With wild hair and eyes, face flushed from rage, you are sure that next to her, you must look like a wilding. “Why can the whole castle hear your quarrel?”

“It’s his fault.” You accuse, pointing at Jace.

“My fault?!” He says, placing his hands on his hips. “Apologies, I think they didn’t hear your screeching about Lord Stark in Driftmark!”

“So you informed her?” Your mother asks, calmly. Too calmly for someone who has just found out. Had it been her plan all along?

“Did you knew all along?” You whisper.

Rhaenyra turns to look at you. As always, your mother has a smile ready for you, but as of late, they are laced with sadness. This one is no exception.

“I did. I think it is for the best. You will be safer next to Cregan Stark, in Winterfell, than you could ever be here.”

You examine her expression. Her eyes are swollen and red rimmed, grief clouding her regal face. There is a certain determination in her features, a calm acceptance in her eyes, that tells you that her mind is already made.

Her face is not one of a distraught mother who will soon give her daughter away. You know her too well to mistake it for that.

“You hoped for this.” You keep your voice dangerously low, your anger threatening to bubble up in your throat. “You did because I have no dragon. I bet you are scheming to send Rhaena away too!”

Your mother doesn’t answer.

Her silence is damming. You turn to look at Jace, disbelieving. Of course the two of them had been scheming behind your back. Your brother had always been the closest one to your mother.

“And neither of you could tell me to my face?” You ask, letting out a hysterical laugh. “I had to find out from a letter from fucking Cregan Stark. I am not leaving. You cannot make me. ”

Suddenly, your mother grabs you by the shoulders. Her face is frightening, like an avenging goddess of Old Valyria. Her lips are curled back, teeth bared, and her eyes are as wild as yours.

“Listen to me!” She says, shaking you hard. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to register them. “Listen to me! Luke is dead. He is dead, and you will obey me because I cannot bear to lose any more of my children. You are going North. Your Queen commands it.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, leaving you standing on still shaking legs.

CREGAN HAD BEEN lingering near the entrance of Winterfell ever since his men had spotted the Queen’s banner on the horizon. Back then, they had expected the party to arrive in half a day. He didn’t care if he appeared too eager, his usual stoicism was failing him in the face of his nerves.

The first time Cregan had married, he had known the bride for a long time. Arra had been his childhood companion, and they had spent many moons together, playing Come-into-my-castle and Bears-and-maids. Cregan had unfortunately been the maid many more times than he preferred.

He had not feared marriage then. Spending forever chained to another person wouldn’t be so bad if that person was Arra.

Now, he did. Cregan had been content on his own, and had no desire to remarry. Even if he had, a southron princess wouldn’t have been his first choice. Though Prince Jacaerys had been honorable and dutiful, he was still naive. They were nearly of an age, but when Cregan had stood next to him, he had felt as old as his Greybeards.

A naive little princess would never survive in the North. His lords would eat her alive. The Lady of Winterfell couldn’t be some frail little thing, she had to be strong. Strong enough to hold Winterfell in his absence if needed, were the threat from beyond the Wall come to pass.

Arra had been the only woman he had thought of marrying because she had been the only woman he had thought fit to the task. She had been of the North, as he was, and it had helped him envision a future together where they ruled over the very same land that had birthed both of them.

It was only adequate that the Lady of Winterfell was a woman of the North. Southron Princesses, especially those who had been groomed to marry inside the family, could be of little help running a keep. If he had to remarry and choose a southron, Cregan would have preferred a stronger one.

Yet if wishes were dragons, beggars would soar through the skies. Prince Jacaerys had seemed a bit insulted at his offer of Greybeards, but with winter coming, it was all Cregan could spare. He was no stranger to political games, though, and knew he had to smooth down the feathers his offer had ruffled.

Hence, the offer. To receive the toothless dragon in his home and keep it safe. A favor, from an older brother to another. The Gods knew if Sara was near war at all, Cregan would do everything in his power to send her somewhere safe. He would be forever indebted to the man who aided him to do so.

And Prince Jacaerys, showing himself to be the dutiful prince and brother he was, had understood the offer for what it was. A true alliance. A Pact of Ice and Fire, to bound their bloodlines and keep the beloved, but defenseless sister safe.

It had impressed Cregan. Jacaerys was a serious man, no matter his dubious parentage. He could picture himself following him. After all, his Targaryen blood and character were the important part. That was what made him a worthy King.

Without a dragon of your own, your journey had been perilous. He knew you had ridden without banners until you had safely arrived into northern territory, a feat that had taken you a whole moon. Cregan had offered to have his men meet you halfway, but his letter doing so had gone unanswered. It had only prompted new anxieties for him.

What if he failed to fulfill his promise because you were abducted or harmed in the journey? What if the people riding with Black banners weren’t truly your honor guard, but an ambush prepared by the enemy?

Cregan doubted he would be at ease until he saw you emerge out of your wheelhouse, whole and unscathed. Hence, his waiting by the door. He would not be nervous a moment longer than he needed to.

The first thing Cregan saw was that your honor guard was smaller than he expected. He had known you would travel with a sparse escort, as to not attract undue attention. It was a miracle you had made it here with only ten guards, though. The wheelhouse and the men carried so many packages that Cregan would have known you were a Princess even without expecting you. Anyone would have known.

In contrast, the woman who stepped out of the wheelhouse wasn’t miraculous nor was she what Cregan envisioned when thinking of a Princess.

You were… Pitiful. Cregan understood now why Prince Jacaerys was so desperate to protect you. You wouldn’t survive a winter in the North, hells, it looked like a strong breeze would blow you away.

Your hair and eyes were as dark as the ones of your brother. You wore a pretty wool dress, in mourning black. The lacings on the back were done too tightly, a lot of the ribbon hanging limply, and the dress was loose around your chest and hips. It was clear you had recently lost weight, probably during the journey because the gown hadn’t been altered to fit you.

There were dark circles under your eyes, which were also red rimmed. Your skin was pale, your dark hair braided back in a severe style. Grief didn’t suit you. You looked small and sad, despite having a pleasing figure.

It didn’t help that the dress you had chosen was one far too thin for a sensible northern woman to wear. The day wasn’t even that cold, but you were already shivering. It was barely snowing, for the Gods’s sake!

Cregan approached you and gave you a bow.

“Princess.” He extended his arm to you. You took it, shivering. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Pleasant enough.” At least your voice isn’t frail. The last thing Cregan needed was a soft-spoken southron lady. You even manage to smile at him, which makes you look considerably more attractive.

Cregan would admit one thing, and one thing only: Queen Rhaenyra made pretty children. Both you and Jacaerys had sinful mouths and bewitching dark eyes, though he found yours far more pleasing.

“I am sorry for your loss.” He says, as he escorts you inside Winterfell. Your trembling intensifies, instead of subsiding in the warmth of his hall. You say nothing.

When he risks a glance at your face, your eyes are suspiciously wet. You avoid meeting his eyes, even as he offers you the customary salt and bread.

“I remember when Arra got here.” Cregan offers, awkwardly. He isn’t quite sure of what to say to a grieving Princess, so he decides to share something about himself in hopes that you will open up too. He desperately needs to change the subject. Or to start a subject. He is not picky, anything that keeps you from crying will do. “She brought less of a procession than you did. And less luggage.”

“She was quite closer to home than I.” You reply, and your tone has regained strength. You no longer shake, body stiffer. Cregan decides to take it as a good sign. You are clearly struggling to get a hold of yourself, which is why you turn so tense, so he decides to keep speaking to give you some more time.

“She was. By far a more practical woman.” He smiles at you, teasingly. “But if the fuss makes you happy…”

You laugh. When he gets to know you better, Cregan will realize that your laughter wasn’t genuine.

He will also realize this had been the moment your heart iced over.

YOU PAGE THROUGH your book, in silence. Winterfell doesn’t have court musicians, and for that, you are thankful. Silence has always been your preferred companion right before bed. That, and a good book.

Your obsession with Valyrian history and traditions had been carefully nurtured by your stepfather, Daemon. Neither your mother nor siblings had much interest in your shared heritage, beyond the ability it gave them to ride dragons.

While Baela and Rhaena spoke fluid High Valyrian, the same could not be said for your brothers. As the only girl in the household, your lessons had been spent with the former and not the latter, forcing you to improve. Once you did, you had found reading the tales of old was a pleasant pastime.

You enjoyed laying in bed and imagining all the stories about magic, dragons, and empresses. When you had turned four and ten, Daemon had gifted you your very own book with Valyrian tales, a beautifully bound and illustrated edition that had followed you in your journey North.

“For you to read to your future children.” He had said, back then. You had barely flowered, so you had laughed. “I mean it, Princess. Out of my three girls, you are the only one I envision doing so.”

The day he had acknowledged you as one of his daughters, even if you didn’t share blood, was the happiest nameday you had had. He was right, too. As much as you loved the twins, you couldn’t picture them being motherly. Baela would have to have a son, to inherit after Jace, but you believed that it would be him who took charge of the more fatherly duties while she dedicated herself to statecraft. Rhaena, instead, had a thirst for adventure, to travel and know the world. Her ambition wasn’t conducive to motherhood either.

You, instead, had always dreamed of marrying a man who loved you and starting a family of your own. You envisioned yourself as the lady of a great keep, where you would rule fairly, and raise your children without wet nurses.

Those dreams had already been shattered. The man you had married didn’t love you. He had only done so to secure an alliance. And the man already had a child of his own, an heir. There was no need for you to be a mother anymore.

You turned another page of your book, watching the beautiful illustrations. You had dreamed of reading this to a little girl who looked like you, or perhaps a boy that would have looked like the man of your dreams. They would have learned High Valyrian, and spoke it as beautifully as your mother and stepfather did.

It would not come to pass. Not any longer.

A soft knock on your door makes you set down your book, closing it with great care. Then, you get up and put on your robe over your sleeping shift.

“You may enter.”

Your husband steps in, dressed for bed already. He is a handsome man, you think, biting your lower lip. Tall, dark and handsome, Cregan is the sort of man your childhood self would have pictured marrying.

He could have been the perfect man to fall in love with, were it not for the fact that he would never love you back. He already loved someone else, someone who you could never aspire to match. His first wife, Lady Arra.

As Alicent had learned, it was impossible to overshadow a ghost. Dead as she was, she could never make mistakes. He would forget all her imperfections.

She gave him a child, she was the wife he chose. The one he married for love, not duty. A practical, northern woman his bannermen had surely liked far more as a match to him than a soft southron princess who didn’t even have a dragon.

“I was wondering if you would welcome my company tonight, Princess.” Your husband says, voice emotionless. He is only here because of duty, it seems. “We could share the bed.”

“You said we could wait to consummate our union.” You keep your voice firm. It is not a task you anticipate eagerly, but you are not afraid of it either. You had seen enough of your mother and Daemon to know bedding someone can be pleasing. It is only the awkwardness of doing so with a stranger that puts you off.

“I was not referring to that.” Your husband says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “The nights are cold in Winterfell. Is it wrong for a man to seek closeness to his wife?”

You frown. His behavior is most puzzling. He intends to share your bed… To sleep? Your mother shared her bed with Daemon, but she also bedded him. It makes no sense to you that he wants to sleep next to you without touching you. Most marriages don’t do that. Much less if they are political matches.

“It is not a sin. But why would you..?” You question, but your Lord Husband is getting up already, huffing. He seems angered that you are unable to understand his message, whatever it might be. He storms off, leaving you confused over his behaviour.

That night, Cregan dreams of running. Of having a snout covered in blood, of jumping into the river, trying to trap a seahorse.

He never manages to. Wolves aren’t meant to hunt seahorses.

[silverspotted]

serving 70s realness