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feyhunter78 · 1 year ago

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Description: During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival. A thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together. Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion sees the need for a sworn sword in his beloved daughter's life.

Ch 2

You should know better, truly you should, but you’ve always had a weakness for pitiful-looking creatures, or at least that’s what your father has always said. He stands a pace ahead of you, watching as your uncle, the King Robert, embraces Lord Ned Stark with a boyish joy you have never seen in your uncle. Your Aunt Cersei stands to the side of them, smiling politely at the Lady Catelyn Stark, Joffery all but hanging from her skirts, demanding attention. Usually, you would scowl at the back of the boy’s head, but the sight of Ned Stark’s bastard son has you quite distracted.

He is pitiful, even his name, Jon, it’s so common, so often used it cannot differentiate him from others. He stands stiffly, with gray eyes so dark they almost seem black set beneath thick brows. He has curly dark hair that frames his face, an unchanging frown upon his face, and his hands clasp and unclasp nervously as he watches the mingling of your two families. Jon’s dressed like all the other Starks, but somehow lesser, as if he has chosen only the drabbest of colors in an effort to blend into the dreary landscape. There’s a solemn softness to him that intrigues you. What secrets does he keep? Why does he look so mired in grief? He notices your gaze, and his face tints pink as he ducks his head further into the fur collar of his cloak. You bite back a laugh, for a moment he looked like a turtle.

The boy beside him, Robb, stands an inch or so taller with cornflower blue eyes, and auburn hair. The clear son of Lady Catelyn radiates confidence, nearly bordering on arrogance, as he surveys the servants unloading your family’s belongings from the wheelhouses. Beside him stands a boy whose arrogance you wouldn’t mistake for confidence, even if you were less astute than you are. But the arrogance rings false, you can see the cracks in his bravado, the insecurity leaking from every pore. It’s in the way he hovers so close to Robb, as if he fears to be away from him would be his undoing. This one you know inside and out; your father had drilled you on everyone you were going to meet before you even stepped foot outside King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, a war prisoner disguised as a ward, the closest companion to Robb Stark, both accepted and held at a distance, Lord Stark’s sword an ever-looming threat should his father ever revolt once more. Theon has eyes like the sea and tousled hair the color reminiscent of the mahogany desk in your father’s study. He is lankier than the other two, hungrier, and when your eyes meet his, he winks. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose in response, you were a lady, a Lannister, you were not so easily swayed. Theon is handsome, but if your father’s reports were true, he spent much of his time in brothels. The tactics that worked there would not work on you.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.” Lord Stark says, motioning to a girl that was perhaps two or so years younger than you. She is beautiful, with fiery red hair, eyes like Robb’s, and high, graceful cheekbones. She curtsies with the air of a Southern lady, and smiles when you do the same. This is who you are meant to befriend, and it does not seem it will be too difficult, Sansa’s eyes eagerly drink in every aspect of your being, as if she wishes to glen all she can of Southern life before it is ripped away from her.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Your father says, giving her then Lady Catelyn a smile.

They both thank him, Lady Catelyn beaming at the praise, while you notice Sansa’s cheeks flush with color. She is easily flattered; you must remember that.

“Allow me to introduce my own daughter, Y/N Lannister.” Your father introduces you, putting emphasis on your surname, the very fact that you have one. You are not a bastard, no matter what awful Joffrey likes to say. Your mother and father had married in secret, she died giving birth to you, it was tragic and left your father quite saddened, but you were not a bastard.

Your eyes dart back to Jon taking him in subtlety. You wish to see him blush again, but you will not make your actions so easily observed.

“It is too cold, why must we stand here all day?” Joffrey whines, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot resoundingly.

Your aunt fusses over him, and Lord Stark leads you all inside, talking jovially with your uncle as you hurry to catch up with your father.

It is loud in the Great Hall of Winterfell, made of gray stone and smelling of smoke, meat, and a hint of dog, which you must assume is from the Direwolves. It is well lit and filled with people, all enjoying the bountiful feast set before them on long wooden tables. You’re seated away from your father, something you despise. He is closer to your Uncle Jaime, nearer to the King and Lord Stark, while you have been seated with the other children. It has only been you and your father for so very long, a part of you feels anxious to be separated from him, but you are a Lannister, if you cannot charm the strangers around you then can you truly call yourself such?

“Will you tell me more of King’s Landing, Lady y/n?” Sansa asks, looking enraptured by the mere thought of it. She is dressed in a gown of blue silk, her fur lined cloak on the back of her chair, her hair done up in a style you’re quite familiar with. She is very beautiful, and you spot many men staring at her, one of them being Theon who is seated at the lower tables. You catch his eye and smile knowingly. In response, he scowls and ducks his head.

You must mention this observation to your father.

You smile and return your attention to Sansa, regaling her with tales of festivals and feasts, of tourneys and services in the Great Sept. Her siblings either listen as well or turn their attention elsewhere, which you don’t mind. They are not who you are here to befriend.

Sansa sighs dreamily and turns her gaze to Joffrey, who is seated next to his mother further up the table and is staring down at his food as if it has offended him. “And what of Joffrey? Surely you must be close?”

Your cousin, and closest companion, Myrcella snorts into her drink, and you shoot her a look. Myrcella was meant to be sitting next to Joffrey but had convinced someone to switch with her so that she could be next to you.

“Joffrey is a…spirited boy, he has many…passions.” You say carefully, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

Your father suspects Robert will wish to wed Sansa and Joffrey. It’s a strategic match, but your cousin is a horrible bully, you have marks hidden beneath your sleeves to prove your words, and you do not wish to see innocent Sansa suffer in such a way. True, you have not spent much time with her, but she has been warm and welcoming, her innocence shining through like the sun on a spring day.

“Does he enjoy tourneys? I have heard the King was quite the warrior, he and father fought together.” Sansa continues, resting her chin in her hand.

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your skirts. “Joffrey has not competed in any tourneys quite yet, Lady Sansa, he is too young.”

“He is three and ten, is he not? Most squire by one and ten, why has he not been sent to one of your bannermen like his uncle?” Robb says, taking a long drink from his glass.

“My mother does not wish for him to get injured; he is heir to the throne, after all.” Myrcella chimes in, saving you from coming up with another excuse for why Joffrey has not been allowed to leave King’s Landing.

Sansa nods and gazes longingly at Joffrey once more. “That seems most wise, what a dutiful mother Queen Cersei is.”

“Where is your mother, Lady y/n? I did not see anyone else arrive.” Bran, one of the younger Starks asks, his round innocent face not dulling the sting of his words at all.

Myrcella takes your hand under the tables and squeezes it. She has been privy to the nights of crying, of mourning the mother you would never know.

“Bran, that is not polite.” Sansa hisses.

You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “My mother died giving birth to me, but I am told she held me in her arms before the Stranger came for her, that she named me and spoke of how dearly she loved me.”

Bran makes a soft noise of apology, and the conversation lulls, until finally you have finished your meal and are free to retire to your chambers.

You wave off any offer to escort you, telling them all you wish to admire the architecture of Winterfell in solitude.

It’s not wholly a lie, though you cannot say you ever wish to be alone , you enjoy the company of others, are invigorated by it, but tonight feels different. Perhaps it is the mention of your mother, or the false face Joffrey is putting on for the Starks and their bannermen, the sound of his laughter ringing about the hall. You wander the halls of Winterfell with a faint knowledge of where the guest chambers lie, when you find yourself approaching the training yard. The night is quiet, snow falling gently, the brisk air seizes your lungs, purifying them with an icy chill.

You are not alone, the thud of blunt metal upon wood, the sounds of exertion, the turn of boots in snow covered dirt. You slowly move towards the sound, knowing your father will scold you later for such carelessness. There are countless people here, and you cannot be assured they all wish you well.

Jon Snow, the ever so distracting bastard, stands in the middle of the yard, training alone, the moonlight shining down on him, making his pale skin glisten. You rest your hand on the stone archway, one foot on the dirt, the other still firmly planted on the stone. You should leave him alone, you know it, but you’re mesmerized by the sight, the tension in his muscles, the expanse of his back, the strength in his arms. He is a little older than you, six and ten to your five and ten, both old enough to be married, yet both remaining unbetrothed.

There had been offers for your hand, even though you were the imp’s child, and many wondered if you would sire broken children, if you would pass on your father’s curse. But for the gold that backed your name many were willing to risk it. You didn’t like your suitors, they were too brash, too lewd, too old, or simply just not right.

Jon stops and lifts his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow. His stomach is toned, his skin mostly smooth, though there are some faded scars.

Yes, they were simply not right, they did not look like that.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you avert your eyes. What were you, a child? A lovesick maid? You have spent no more than mere minutes in his presence, and already you are lusting after him like some silk street whore? It must be the chill that is muddling your mind, yes, the chill. Not the kindness that you saw within him as he played with Arya and Bran in the courtyard earlier in the day. Or the way he stood stiff lipped while Joffrey threw barbed insults at him as he passed him in the hall, or the stack of novels you had overheard the maester say were to be set aside for him. Merely the chill. The chill and the flights of fancy all young girls are prone to.

With that in mind, you wait until he has returned his tunic to its rightful place and step fully into the snow.

He turns on his heel, weapon at the ready. He is perceptive, you note, good reflexes, excellent hearing, fine form, carved from marble, glowing like a god in the moonlight.

Gods y/n, pull yourself together.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” You say, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. It is thin, far too thin to wear in the chill of night.

Jon lowers his sword. “Lady Lannister, why are you not inside at the feast? Are you lost?”

“Yes.” You lie, batting your eyelashes at him, crafting your expression into one of helplessness. “I wished to return to my chamber, but I lost my way.”

Jon stows his sword and retrieves his cloak from a nearby rack. “I will escort you, if you do not take offense?”

You tilt your head in faux confusion. “Why would I take offense?”

He shuffles his feet and busies himself with his cloak. “You are a lady of a great house, and I am…” He lets the unspoken words hang in the air, and you have the grace to act surprised.

“Oh, yes, right, you are a Snow.” You say, taking a step towards him and extending your hand, waiting to set it on his arm. “Well, I care not if you are a Stark or a Snow, I am sure you are more than capable of escorting me to the guest chambers of your home.”

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

You take it gratefully, allowing him to guide you back towards the way you came. The wind blows through the yard as you walk and cuts straight through your thin cloak, a shiver shooting down your spine.

Before you can blink, Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again…might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly, then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

Yes I used a Hozier line bc it's perfect for the vibe of this fic

#meg's writing #jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #jon snow x oc #jon snow imagine #jon snow #tyrion lannister #lannister!reader #new series alert!#I know y'all don't want this but I wanted to make the title thing so bad #tyrion's daughter #theon greyjoy x sansa stark #theon greyjoy #sansa stark #got fanfiction #robb stark

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theetherealbloom · 8 months ago

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AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 2 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Two: Let The Dance With The Devil Begin

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Omfg. I took so long to write this I know T^T Thank you for being patient with me! I just decided to have a mini break bcs I was jet lagged from travelling and had to focus on my health for a little bit.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

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RED KEEP, WESTEROS - 300 AC

You spent two decades carefully avoiding forming deep bonds, all the while meticulously plotting your revenge. You studied their weaknesses, habits, and relationships, patiently biding your time until you could strike from close range.

You had noticed the lingering glances between Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister, their whispered conversations turning into passionate encounters. So when Cersei bore a child, rumored to be the result of her incestuous relationship, and as you witnessed Joffrey Baratheon growing into a likeness of his parents, you recorded every detail in your leather-bound notebook. It contained all the information about those responsible for the death of Elia Martell, ensuring no detail escaped your scrutiny.

Serena, a girl you befriended in the bustling stables, is a steadfast ally in your quest for vengeance. Together, you both meticulously gather intelligence, weaving through the whispers of the kitchen staff and the secrets shared in the shadowy corners of brothels. With her keen eyes and your shared determination, you stalk those who have wronged you, laying the groundwork for your calculated retribution.

In the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, the struggle for power rages on. Joffrey Baratheon, seated upon the Iron Throne, wields authority backed by the formidable House Lannister. However, his claim faces challenge from his uncle Renly, who, bolstered by the might of House Tyrell, presses his own bid for kingship. In this turmoil, Tyrion Lannister arrives in King's Landing, aiming to assert control, only to find himself at odds with his conniving sister, Cersei, now entrenched as Queen Regent.

As autumn blankets the realm and whispers of an impending winter linger, Westeros braces for the bitter cold ahead. Yet, instead of preparing for the harsh season, the land remains conflicted. Renly Baratheon's sudden demise alters the tides of allegiance, leaving the political landscape in flux. Meanwhile, Joffrey, with the backing of House Tyrell, emerges victorious in a decisive clash against his uncle Stannis, solidifying his hold on power.

The fates of many hang precariously in the balance. In the labyrinthine corridors of King's Landing, both Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark navigate treacherous waters, their survival dependent on their ability to navigate the perilous currents of court intrigue.

You had served Sansa since the day she was first betrothed to King Joffrey. Back then, she had been full of dreams—visions of knighthood, love, and a golden crown. But those dreams quickly soured, turning into nightmares as the Lannisters’ hold over her tightened. What was once a promising union became a gilded cage. They kept her in the Red Keep, a prisoner beneath layers of silk and politeness.

Sansa clung to her “lady-like” pursuits to distract from the harshness of her reality—sewing, embroidery, poetry, and music. Her stitches were always delicate, her voice soft, yet behind her graceful demeanor, you saw the cracks. You were there when Septa Mordane led her through the Red Keep’s throne room for a lesson in history. It was meant to be a glimpse into the glory of the Targaryens and the rulers of old, but instead, Sansa’s gaze lingered on the dark stain where her grandfather and uncle had been butchered by the Mad King. Her face paled, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, haunted by the ghosts of her own blood.

One evening, as she sat embroidering by the window, she confided in you. “Do you think I’ll be able to give Joffrey sons?” Her voice wavered. “What if… What if I’m only able to give him daughters, like Jeyne Poole’s mother?”

You tried to find reassuring words, though even Septa Mordane's attempts had done little to ease her fears. “You’re young, my lady. You will bear many children in time.”

Her blue eyes, wide with fear, met yours, but she said nothing more.

The Hand’s tournament arrived, and Sansa, despite everything, seemed to sparkle for a brief moment amidst the finery of the lords and knights. You stood in the shadows, watching her as she watched them. Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, was a towering presence, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he unseated Ser Hugh of the Vale, killing him in the dust of the joust. Littlefinger whispered dark stories to Sansa of the Hound’s past, tales of burned flesh and brutal lessons. You saw the way Sansa’s hands trembled as she absorbed the horrors hidden beneath the chivalry.

Yet, there were moments of fleeting happiness. Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of the Flowers, gave her a single rose before his tilt with Ser Gregor. She blushed under his attention, but you noticed how Loras’s gaze lingered not on her, but on Renly Baratheon, who stood just behind. That small act of kindness, hollow as it was, brought a rare smile to Sansa’s lips, even as the court applauded Sandor Clegane’s intervention to stop his brother’s rampage.

But that brief joy was drowned by the darkness that soon followed. When King Robert Baratheon died after a hunting “accident,” everything unraveled. Eddard Stark, honorable as always, tried to reveal the truth about Joffrey’s parentage, but it was too late. You weren’t surprised when Littlefinger betrayed him. You had seen the cunning in his eyes long before, the way he played everyone like pieces on a cyvasse board.

Chaos erupted. Eddard’s men, loyal to the last, were slaughtered by Lannister guardsmen led by Sandor Clegane. You remembered Mordane’s voice trembling as she urged Sansa to lock herself in their chambers. But there was no hiding from the Lannisters. They took her.

You watched from a distance as Sansa was humiliated before the court, her innocence crushed beneath the weight of Cersei’s cold cruelty. She stood there, trembling, and you saw the beginning of a transformation. The girl who once dreamed of knights and love was slowly breaking, her innocence being stripped away by every sneer, every command, every cold laugh in the throne room.

You wished you could offer her comfort, but in King’s Landing, comfort was as fleeting as mercy.

The great Sept was filled with the hum of whispers, the heavy weight of tension hanging in the air as Eddard Stark stood before the court. His face, weathered by years of honor and battle, now looked hollow, beaten by betrayal. You stood in the shadows, where servants always stood, your eyes flicking between the high lords and the northern Warden. As the silence fell, Eddard knelt, acknowledging his so-called “crimes” and pledging loyalty to King Joffrey.

For a moment, it seemed the court might breathe again. Sansa stood nearby, her hands trembling. Hope flickered in her eyes—briefly. But Joffrey, perched on the Iron Throne like some twisted boy-king out of a nightmare, leaned forward with a smile sharp as a blade. His words fell like a thunderclap. “Bring me his head.”

Sansa's scream cut through the hall, raw and broken. She lunged forward, hysterical, her voice lost in a storm of pleading, but the gold cloaks restrained her, forcing her back. Her cries—“Please, mercy, mercy!”—rang in your ears, making your stomach turn.

Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, cold and unfeeling as he drew Ice, the greatsword of House Stark. You could see the light catch the edge of the steel, and the last thing Sansa saw before she fainted was her father’s final, resigned glance.

You moved through the chaos as a shadow. Your duty to Sansa came first, so as the blood pooled on the Sept’s floor, you carried her from the carnage, her limp body heavy with grief. The days that followed were hollow. She barely spoke, her eyes vacant as you tended to her, making sure she ate, dressing her in the Lannisters' silks even as her soul remained buried in sorrow.

It was one of those somber evenings when she finally spoke, her voice so faint you almost missed it. “Do you… serve the Lannisters?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You paused, setting down the tray of untouched food, meeting her tired gaze. “Yes, my lady,” you answered softly.

Sansa’s eyes flickered with something—confusion, maybe anger. “Have they always been this cruel?” she asked, her words trembling with an innocent horror.

You weighed your response carefully, then nodded. “From what I’ve heard, unfortunately, yes.”

Her lips parted as she considered your answer, but it was her next question that cut deeper. “Then why do you serve them?”

You lowered your eyes, your hands folding over the fabric of her gown, the lie of your position hanging heavy on your shoulders. “It’s something I wager on,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the unease in your chest.

Sansa, always perceptive, frowned. “Is that the only kind of wager you make?”

For a moment, you froze. Then you let a faint smile tug at the corner of your lips, the words “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken” echoing in your heart, though unspoken. “There was one time I bet my entire life on something,” you confessed quietly.

She looked at you then, truly looked, her tear-streaked face searching yours. “Did you win?”

Your smile faltered, but you met her gaze with a spark of determination. “I’m planning to,” you said, with a quiet promise hanging between the two of you.

KING’S LANDING, RED KEEP — 300 AC

The stone walls of the Red Keep felt colder that night, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the ancient stones. In a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the grand halls, you worked in silence, the weight of your plan pressing down like the calm before a storm. Every movement was deliberate, each thought sharper than the edge of a Valyrian blade. The game was already in motion, and you were setting the pieces in place.

You had long been underestimated—a mere servant, a shadow in the background of the powerful Lannisters, Tyrells, and Martells. Yet, you had seen the truth: the most dangerous players were often those who remained unseen. You were one of them, a silent force, blending into the background while carefully planting the seeds of destruction. The poison, subtle and undetectable, was your weapon.

A soft knock interrupted your focus. The door creaked open, and there stood Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger himself. His thin lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only calculation.

“Ah, a quiet place for quiet minds,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, eyes darting around the chamber before settling on you.

You raised your head slowly, meeting his gaze with a calm that belied the storm brewing inside you. Littlefinger wasn’t a man easily intimidated, but neither were you. Two wolves circling, each looking for the other’s weakness.

“You seem to find yourself in many quiet places, Lord Baelish,” you replied, voice soft but pointed. “What brings you here?”

He moved closer, his steps light, like a predator stalking prey. “Just ensuring the right wheels keep turning, ensuring the chaos that follows serves the right cause.” His gaze lingered on your hands, noting the fine movements as you handled a small vial, the liquid within almost imperceptibly shifting.

You allowed a small, knowing smile. “Chaos... Chaos can be useful. But only if it’s controlled.”

His eyebrow raised, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Controlled chaos? Now, that’s an art.”

You carefully set the vial down, your voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “What if the chaos that’s already simmering were to boil over? What if, after Joffrey’s wedding, his reign came to an... unexpected end?”

Baelish didn’t blink, though you could see the subtle change in his posture, the slight narrowing of his eyes. You hadn’t suggested anything outright—it was the art of planting the idea, the delicate balance of nudging him without him realizing he’d been led.

He took a slow breath, his mind already racing. “And who, I wonder, would have the audacity to arrange such an unexpected end?”

You smiled, but didn’t answer directly, your silence speaking volumes. Instead, you moved the conversation forward, allowing the implication to sink in.

“The realm is already full of hungry wolves, my lord,” you said, your voice steady, your hands working deftly as you began to clear away your tools. “All it takes is a nudge in the right direction, and they’ll tear each other apart. No one will stop to notice who did the nudging.”

Littlefinger tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone as noncommittal as ever, “but wolves are tricky. You can never be sure which way they’ll turn.”

“That’s true,” you conceded, meeting his eyes directly. “But I’ve always been good at reading the pack.”

The silence that followed was heavy, each of you measuring the other, testing the boundaries. He wouldn’t act on your words immediately. Littlefinger was too careful, too meticulous for that. But you could see the spark in his eyes—the idea was there, planted, waiting to take root.

With a nod, he turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “You have a dangerous mind,” he remarked, half admiration, half warning. “Be careful. The pack bites back.”

You gave him a knowing look. “Only if they see the one holding the leash.”

Days passed, and as you moved through the grand halls of the Red Keep, you watched everything begin to fall into place. Like a silent puppeteer, you pulled the strings without ever needing to step into the light.

Varys had been busy, moving pieces on the board that even you hadn’t expected. Ros had whispered in his ear, and soon after, Lady Olenna Tyrell had been brought into the fold. The whispers of a marriage between Sansa Stark and Loras Tyrell spread through the castle like wildfire. You had always known Varys to be a man of schemes, but even you marveled at how quickly he moved.

In the gardens, you overheard the conversations as they unfolded—subtle, quiet, but filled with power. Lady Olenna, with her sharp wit and keen mind, was already orchestrating her plans, likely envisioning a future without Joffrey’s cruel reign.

You stood in the shadows as Littlefinger passed by, his expression unreadable. He had heard your suggestion, and though you were not directly involved, you knew the idea had taken root. He would set things in motion, ensuring the chaos that followed would serve him—and you would remain unseen, untouched by the blood that would soon spill.

RED KEEP, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The War of the Five Kings dragged on, but within the Red Keep, the battles were far subtler, fought with whispers and veiled threats. Your life as a servant under King Joffrey's reign had grown increasingly unbearable. Between the relentless demands of court life and the constant fear of his cruelty, you found little time to care for yourself.

Your headache throbbed—a reminder that you hadn’t eaten since dawn, and the long days had begun to blur into endless nights. It wasn’t uncommon for you to push through these spells, but this time felt different. The world around you grew heavier, your limbs sluggish, and the gardens seemed far away.

Basket in hand, filled with fruit from the kitchens, you trudged through the Red Keep's gardens. The bright afternoon light stabbed at your eyes, worsening the pounding in your head. You tried to focus on your task, but each step felt more labored, and a cold sweat broke out on your skin.

As you rounded a corner near the overgrown hedges, your vision blurred. The world tilted. The cobbled path beneath your feet shifted into an unforgiving blur of stone and soil, and with a muffled thud, everything went black.

In that hazy in-between of consciousness, a voice pulls you back—familiar, though distant. “He would have liked you,” Princess Elia’s voice echoes in your mind.

“Whom do you speak of, my lady?” you had once asked her, back when the Red Keep still buzzed with life and not dread.

“My brother. Oberyn. He’s trouble, but even so, I love him dearly.”

For a brief moment, you can almost feel her presence, and the weight of the past rushes over you like a cold wave. You blink, pulling yourself out of the memory just as a different voice fills your ears. A deeper one, full of curiosity and something unreadable.

You woke slowly, your senses coming back in fragments: the scent of crushed grass, the cool air against your skin, and the distant murmur of voices. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the filtered sunlight through the leaves overhead.

"Careful. Don’t rush."

The voice was deep, tinged with amusement. A hand—warm and strong—rested on your shoulder, gently holding you down. You blinked, focusing on the face above you, unfamiliar yet striking. Dark, sharp eyes, framed by lustrous and black with only a few silver streaks recede from his brow into a widow's peak. The emblem of a red sun pierced by a golden spear embroidered on his tunic caught your eye.

Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne.

“Are you injured?” His voice held a soft curiosity as if you were some puzzle he intended to unravel.

You shook your head, still disoriented. "No, I... I must have fainted."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the basket of spilled fruit beside you. “It seems you’ve been overworking yourself. King Joffrey’s court, I assume? They’re not known for their kindness.”

A rush of embarrassment warmed your cheeks. You scrambled to sit up, but Oberyn’s hand remained firm.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone softening. “Even a servant deserves a moment to breathe.”

You weren’t used to kindness, especially not from someone of his stature. His reputation as a fierce and dangerous man preceded him, yet there was something else—an air of compassion, albeit hidden beneath his sharp edges.

“I’m... grateful,” you murmured, unsure of how to respond. “But I should get back to my duties. They won’t—”

Oberyn interrupted with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let them wait. The Lannisters have their claws in many, but even a viper can strike when the time is right.”

There was a pause, a subtle shift in the air between you and Oberyn Martell. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, and though his words were casual, they held an undercurrent you couldn’t quite place. It was as though he saw something deeper in you, something more than just a servant tending to her duties. Fate, or perhaps something far more dangerous, had drawn his attention to you.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stood upright, his dark eyes gleaming with a playful intensity. "You Dornish are known for our... passions," he said, his voice a low, deliberate purr. "But it seems fate has a way of placing beauty in my path, whether I ask for it or not."

You blink, unsure of how to respond, heat rising uncomfortably to your face. He stepped closer, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, lingering there a moment longer than propriety would allow. "Tell me," Oberyn continued, his tone playful yet edged with something deeper, "does a woman like you often find herself fainting at the feet of princes? Or is this a rare occasion?"

Your breath hitched, panic flaring inside you, though you did your best to suppress it. Affection—let alone attention—was something you were unaccustomed to. His flirtation was like a wildfire, threatening to burn through the careful walls you'd built around yourself.

"I... I don’t..." you stammered, trying to pull your thoughts together, your mind racing. You weren’t used to being noticed, not like this, not by someone like him.

Oberyn tilted his head, his smirk widening as if he could sense the flurry of emotions raging within you. "Don't be shy," he murmured, voice lowering as his eyes roamed over you with quiet curiosity. "I can see there's much more to you than meets the eye."

The words felt like a tease, a challenge wrapped in silk, and your heart pounded in your chest, caught between the instinct to flee or stand frozen in place. Oberyn Martell's gaze seemed to strip away every defense you had carefully built over the years, as though he could see straight through the mask of servitude you wore.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, steadying your trembling nerves. This was not the time to panic, not in front of the Red Viper of Dorne. He was too sharp, too dangerous, and your heart fluttered at the way his presence seemed to unsettle the very air around you.

Without answering the prince’s flirtatious remark, you bent down to hurriedly gather the fallen fruit, your fingers clumsy as you fumbled with the basket. But even as you moved, you felt his eyes on you, watching every motion with an almost predatory amusement.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours as he handed you one of the scattered apples. "You're in quite the hurry," he murmured, the smirk never leaving his face. His touch lingered, deliberately slow as he placed the fruit in your basket.

You rose quickly, trying to distance yourself, but Oberyn stood just as swiftly. Before you could retreat, he grasped your wrist, pulling it gently toward him. His movements were fluid, effortless, as if this were a dance he had long perfected. He raised your hand to his lips, his dark eyes locked on yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—his lips soft, warm against your skin.

Your breath caught, panic fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird. Heat crept up your neck, your heart racing as you tried to pull yourself together, but his touch seemed to set your mind spinning.

Just then, Oberyn’s eyes shifted, narrowing as he caught sight of something—your scars, peeking out from beneath your long sleeves. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, curiosity flashing across his features. He tilted his head, about to speak.

But you jerked your hand away, the sudden movement sharp, almost frantic. "I should go," you blurted, the words tumbling out hastily. You gathered your things, your pulse still thrumming wildly as you turned on your heel, desperate to escape his piercing gaze.

As you hurried away, you could feel Oberyn's eyes lingering on your retreating form, his expression unreadable. Even in your rush, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the prince wasn’t done with you yet.

KING'S LANDING, WESTEROS – 301 AC

The sun hung high over King’s Landing, its golden light casting a deceptive warmth over the cool sea breeze that drifted in from Blackwater Bay. You stood with Marei at the edge of the courtyard, the bustle of the palace below and the hum of the city distant beneath the tranquil air. The garden was alive with color, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that clung to those gathered at the banquet table.

Shae moved with a quiet urgency, filling a plate with food from the banquet spread. She placed it in front of Sansa, who sat still, pale and lifeless, her face void of any spark. Her slender hands rested on her lap, unmoving. It was as if she had already become a shadow, despite still breathing.

“You need to eat something,” Shae urged softly, her voice carrying both concern and exasperation.

Sansa did not stir.

“Pigeon pie,” Shae offered, her tone gentler now, but Sansa’s pale lips barely moved as she whispered, “No, thank you.”

A sigh escaped Shae, but she quickly turned back to the table, scanning for something else. With a quick motion, she removed Sansa's untouched plate and placed a new offering in front of her. “Lemon cakes?” Shae asked, a glimmer of hope in her voice. Everyone knew Sansa's love for lemon cakes.

Sansa’s voice, barely a whisper, responded again. “No, thank you.”

Shae’s expression faltered. “You love lemon cakes.”

But Sansa remained unmoved, as if the world around her had lost all meaning. Shae’s shoulders slumped in frustration, her eyes flicking toward you and Marei before glancing at the entrance of the courtyard.

Tyrion Lannister entered the garden with deliberate steps, his short legs struggling to match the long strides of the men he was often compared to. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the scene with quick efficiency. Despite his stature, you had learned well enough that Lord Tyrion Lannister was not a man to be underestimated. His mind was his sharpest weapon.

“Tyrion,” Shae called out to him with a sigh of relief. “Tell her she needs to eat.”

Tyrion approached the table, offering a small, polite smile. “My lady, you do need to eat.”

Sansa’s gaze remained fixed somewhere in the distance, her hands limp in her lap. “I don’t need to eat,” she said softly, without even looking at him.

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, glancing between Shae, you, and Marei. His expression was measured, patient. “Could I have a moment alone with my wife?” he asked gently, though his tone held the firmness of a command.

You exchanged a quick look with Marei before bowing your head and stepping away. Shae, however, lingered, her eyes flashing with concern and defiance. She crossed her arms, unwilling to yield.

“She needs to eat,” Shae said stubbornly, her eyes narrowing as she looked between Tyrion and Sansa.

Tyrion met her gaze, his expression imploring, but Shae’s frustration was palpable. With one last glance at Sansa, Shae reluctantly turned and left the garden.

Tyrion took a seat across from Sansa, his eyes softening as he reached out to take her hand. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to draw her from her daze. “I can’t let you starve, Sansa,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet compassion.

Sansa didn’t react. She stared past him, her blue eyes hollow, as if the world had dulled to nothing but gray. Shae, now at the far end of the garden, cast a furious glance back toward Tyrion, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

A FEW DAYS LATER

KITCHEN KEEP, KING'S LANDING — DAY

The kitchen was a chaotic blend of sounds and smells, with servants rushing around, preparing the feast for the garden party. You focused on your tasks, slicing fruits and arranging them neatly, hoping the repetitive motions would calm the unease bubbling in your chest. The Lannisters' garden parties always came with tension—too many eyes, too many secrets.

Serena, ever observant, moved beside you with a conspiratorial smile. Her presence had always been a quiet comfort, an unspoken pact between two women wronged by the same family. She nudged your side playfully, her voice just loud enough for you to hear over the clattering pans and murmurs of other servants.

“Guess what I overheard in the gardens earlier,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of fresh gossip.

You glanced up, your curiosity piqued. “What is it now?”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower. “Tyrion and Lord Varys were having one of their secret little chats. Something about Shae.” She gave a sly smile before recounting the conversation she’d overheard, her voice adopting a mocking impression of Tyrion's measured tone.

“Lord Varys. Breakfasting with the king?”

Your hands paused over the fruit, recognizing the weight of that simple greeting. Serena continued, now mimicking Varys’ smooth, ever-cautious reply.

“I’m afraid foreigners aren’t welcome at such exclusive affairs,” she quoted, barely concealing a smirk.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. Tyrion and Varys—always circling each other, testing the limits of loyalty and power. Serena’s impression was spot on, and the dry chuckle she added to Varys’ line brought the exchange to life.

“Oh, to be foreign,” she muttered in Tyrion’s voice before glancing around the bustling kitchen with exaggerated suspicion, mimicking Varys’ quiet amusement.

“Ahem,” she finished with a soft laugh.

The kitchen clamor drowned out any chance of someone overhearing, but you kept your gaze fixed on your hands, focusing on the fruit before you. "What did they say after that?" you asked in a low voice, not wanting to appear too interested but knowing that information like this was often a lifeline in King's Landing.

Serena's smile dimmed slightly as she continued, her tone more serious now. “They were talking about Shae. Varys warned Tyrion that she’s been noticed. That Sansa’s maid saw them together, and it’s only a matter of time before Cersei—and worse, Tywin—find out.”

Your breath hitched slightly. That was dangerous—too dangerous for a place like this.

You glanced up at Serena, who nodded grimly. “Varys told Tyrion his father has promised to hang the next whore he’s found with.”

Your stomach twisted, though you managed to keep your expression neutral. Information like this could be a weapon if used correctly. But it also carried its own risks, especially for someone like you, who lived in the shadows of these powerful people. You simply nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, DAY — 301 AC

The gardens of the Red Keep, beautiful though they were, could not ease the tension that clung to the air. The lush greenery and sea breeze seemed wasted on the gathering before you, where cruelty simmered beneath the surface. You moved silently among the servants, pouring wine, offering trays of food, your head low as your sharp eyes observed everything. No one here was truly safe—not even those who smiled and pretended otherwise.

You had learned long ago to watch, to listen, to see things others missed. And here, among the so-called lords and ladies, your simmering hatred boiled just beneath the surface. Revenge had a way of lurking in quiet moments like these, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

At the head of the table sat King Joffrey, his golden crown glinting in the sun like a mockery of all that was just. Around him, the key players of the realm gathered: Queen Cersei, her eyes sharp and watchful; Lord Tywin, stoic and commanding as always; Prince Tommen, innocent and ignorant of the malice around him; and Grand Maester Pycelle, old and leering.

But your attention flickered to Sansa Stark. Pale, withdrawn, her once-vibrant spirit all but crushed under the weight of her suffering. She sat beside her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who, despite his small stature, radiated an awareness far sharper than anyone gave him credit for. The tension between them was palpable, an unspoken grief they both carried.

Your heart tightened as you watched, knowing Sansa's pain was not unlike your own. Like her, you had learned to survive in silence, though your silence was of a different kind. The Lannisters had taken too much from you. They were going to pay for it one day, one way or another.

Across the table, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed out his chest, carrying a gleaming goblet, his voice filled with a pride that bordered on foolishness.

“From House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace, it is my honor to present you with this wedding cup.”

He placed the goblet before Joffrey, who barely looked at it, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

“A handsome goblet, my lord. Or shall I call you Father?”

You noted how Mace Tyrell’s face flushed with both pride and unease. He bowed deeply. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

As Mace withdrew, Shae moved gracefully through the crowd, setting a tray before Sansa. You saw how her eyes flickered toward the young girl, but there was no response from Sansa, no recognition of the kindness that once might have been there.

Then, the sharp voice of Queen Cersei pierced the moment, her words venomous.

“She’s the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one.”

Your blood boiled as you saw Shae stiffen. The insult cut through the air like a blade, but Shae, ever composed, turned to leave without a word. You noticed how Tywin’s cold eyes followed her, narrowing as she walked away.

“Have her brought to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding,” Tywin ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet as sharp as a death sentence.

Tyrion’s face darkened. You could see the concern etched into his features, his helplessness as he tried to control a situation slipping further out of his grasp. Your heart raced, knowing the precarious game being played here—and how dangerous it was for all involved.

Shae’s departure was barely noticed as Podrick stepped forward, carrying a large tome. He placed it carefully before Joffrey, and Tyrion followed, a strained smile on his face as he addressed the king.

“A book,” Joffrey said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Tyrion clasped his hands together, speaking with calm civility. “The Lives of Four Kings. Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read.”

For a brief moment, Joffrey hesitated. His sharp tongue seemed to fail him as the weight of the gift hovered in the air. But Tywin’s piercing gaze prodded him, and the boy-king forced a mocking smile.

“Now that the war is won, we should all find time for wisdom,” Joffrey said, his voice laced with scorn. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Tyrion bowed, but the tension between them crackled like a hidden storm.

Before anyone could breathe, The Mountain lumbered forward, carrying a sword swathed in black cloth. He laid it before Joffrey with all the reverence of a knight presenting a sacred relic. Tywin rose, his voice steeped in gravitas as he spoke.

“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, Your Grace, freshly forged in your honor.”

Joffrey’s eyes gleamed with an almost childlike excitement as he tore the sword from its sheath, its blade gleaming ominously in the sunlight. You felt a ripple of unease roll through the gathered nobles as the blade sliced through the air.

“Careful, Your Grace,” Pycelle croaked from his seat. “Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.”

But Joffrey’s wicked grin only widened. “So they say.”

In a sudden, violent movement, Joffrey swung the sword down, cleaving the book Tyrion had gifted him clean in half. The sound of tearing parchment and splintering leather echoed through the garden. A gasp rippled through the crowd, but Joffrey was delighted with himself.

“Such a great sword should have a name,” Joffrey declared, his eyes burning with cruel glee. “What shall I call her?”

The crowd murmured suggestions, none of which seemed to please the boy-king. But then, his lips curled into a malicious grin.

“Widow’s Wail. I like that. Every time I use it, it’ll be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You saw Sansa freeze beside him, her face drained of color, her entire body rigid with the memory of her father’s execution. Across the garden, Shae watched, her eyes narrowing with unspoken fury.

You kept your head down, but the seething rage inside you boiled hotter. One day, they would all pay for this. The Lannisters, their cruelty, their arrogance—it would all come crashing down. And you would make sure of it.

KING’S LANDING GARDEN, LATE AFTERNOON — 301 AC

The preparations for the royal wedding between Joffrey and Margaery were endless, consuming the days and nights of everyone within the Red Keep. But while others concerned themselves with the surface duties, your mind was preoccupied with a far more dangerous task.

The thought of the Strangler stones hidden within Sansa's necklace gnawed at you. The pieces were already in motion, each step methodically planned. Your hands moved through the flowers you were tasked with arranging, but your thoughts were elsewhere, carefully calculating the next move in your plot to bring down King Joffrey without implicating yourself.

As you worked alone in the gardens, the late afternoon sun blazed overhead. The sweat clung to your skin, and the heat forced you to roll your sleeves up just enough to reveal the faint, jagged lines of scars that adorned your forearms. The burn scars, remnants of your brutal encounter with Ser Gregor Clegane, were still a reminder of what you endured—and survived. The pain was still fresh, but it fueled your resolve. Spite, after all, was a powerful motivator.

You barely noticed the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across your path. Looking up, you were met with the sharp, knowing gaze of Oberyn Martell. His smirk was playful, as it often was, but there was something deeper there—an intensity that sent a ripple of unease through you.

"You work too hard," he said smoothly, his voice like silk. "It’s a crime to see such beauty covered in dirt."

You straightened, brushing your hands on your apron, trying to keep the panic from showing. "I have my duties, my lord," you replied, keeping your tone even. The way Oberyn looked at you—intense, almost predatory—made your heart race, though you tried to remain composed.

He crouched beside you, plucking a flower from the arrangement and twirling it between his fingers. His eyes flicked briefly to the scars on your arm, scars you quickly moved to conceal by rolling down your sleeves. But it was too late—Oberyn’s gaze lingered on them for just a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

The way he studied you wasn’t merely out of curiosity, but recognition. His next words carried a weight that hung in the air between you both.

"There are stories... of a servant who once attended to Princess Elia." Oberyn’s tone remained casual, but you could feel the shift, the tension creeping in as he spoke. "They say she escaped the Sack of King’s Landing with her life. Barely."

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still. You had heard those stories too. After all, you had lived them.

Oberyn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Some say she vanished, swallowed by the chaos. Others claim she survived through sheer will, fueled by spite." His dark eyes locked onto yours, searching. "I wonder… do you know of such tales?"

The question lingered in the air, heavy with suspicion. You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, but your face remained a mask of composure. "Many stories are told in King’s Landing, my lord. Few of them hold any truth."

Oberyn’s lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes remained sharp, watching you carefully. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But then again, some tales are more dangerous than others." He stood up, still twirling the flower between his fingers, casting one last glance at your concealed scars. "Sometimes, survival speaks louder than words."

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Ellaria Sand approached, her eyes already on you. There was a possessiveness in her gaze, though softened by intrigue.

“So this is the woman who has caught my prince’s eye,” Ellaria remarked, her voice a low purr as she moved closer, her hand brushing lightly against Oberyn’s shoulder.

You bowed your head, hiding the inner storm brewing within you. "My lady," you greeted, though the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Ellaria’s gaze flicked to Oberyn, then back to you. “She is different,” she said, her tone intrigued, but there was an edge of caution in her words. “I wonder what it is you see in her, my love?”

Oberyn chuckled softly, his attention still on you. “There’s something about her,” he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with deeper meaning. “Something familiar.”

Ellaria looped her arm through his, drawing him closer to her side. “Familiar or not, I trust you know where your loyalties lie.”

Oberyn’s smile deepened, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. "Always," he replied to Ellaria, but his words were aimed at you, and the unspoken suspicion between you both lingered in the air, unsaid but undeniable.

As the two of them moved off together, your heart pounded in your chest. Oberyn's words, the way he had looked at you—he was starting to piece it together. He suspected who you truly were, but for now, he remained silent, watching. You returned to your task, but the weight of his suspicion clung to you.

Everything had only just begun, and you were already in far deeper than you had anticipated. But like the scars on your skin, the memories of your past had shaped you into what you were now. And just like that day long ago, you would survive.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

#oberyn martell x fem!reader #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn x reader #oberyn martell fanfiction #prince oberyn #oberyn martell x female reader #oberyn martell x you #oberyn nymeros martell #oberyn x you #oberyn martell #got #ethereal writes #pedro pascal

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stormborns · 1 month ago

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SANSA STARK 5.05, Kill the Boy

#gameofthronesedit #gotedit #sansastarkedit #gotladies #sansasource #game of thrones #sansa stark #show: got #show: s5 #ch: sansa stark #*mine

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esther-dot · 2 years ago

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I’ve always found it odd that in s8 Sansa started wearing her hair more like d@ny. Like that bun braid she’s got going on in the promos & those two little braids that frame her face at the dragon pit. I can head-canon that she chose to wear her hair like that in king’s landing for the sake of the unsullied. Perception is everything & their leader wore her hair that way—a strong woman capable of commanding an army; an intimidating woman. Sansa likely felt she needed to project an intimidating level of strength if she had any hope of securing Jon’s release & the braids could’ve been a way to subtly influence their perception of her. Meant to recall images of their leader & paint her as someone to be feared.

As far as wearing her hair the way she did at the start of the season…the best I could come up with is that she was doing it for Jon. And while it’s an answer I can accept (be still my jonsa-heart!) it doesn’t feel quite satisfactory. I’m wondering if you’ve put down any thoughts on this & might have something more for us to consider? Or perhaps a head-canon you’d like to share?

I remember this debate and there’s even an article about it,

(link)

But the idea that Sansa was copying Dany never made much sense to me because Sansa starts wearing the hairstyle before she’s met Dany? I think that Sansa's hair was meant to be a Northern style, and worked with the association of Sansa & Lyanna the show created (link).

Here’s a pic and another post about it:

(link)

And then in s8, looking at the hairstyles, even though there are braids in both, it looks to me as if they attempted to keep them distinct. Look how soft and loose Dany's is in contrast to Sansa's. Also, Sansa has a bun while Dany's braid is like a crown sliding off her head (ba-dum-ch!)

Even when I look at “Sansa’s war braids” at the dragonpit,

It doesn’t make me see Dany at all. She susually had two curls down by her face, but that was to soften her look, whereas Sansa's braids have the opposite intention. My main thought is that it’s weird the girl who wasn’t fighting got the armor-ish dresses while the two who were out there with the army of the dead did not! This may have been an effort to give her a totally unique hairstyle from the Northern cast, in prep for Queen Sansa?

I think the Jonsa implications would be in the Lyanna connection and the NedCat cosplay from s6-7. The fact that the finale rested on Jon’s (Targ) love for Sansa (Stark girl) makes me think there was some story-related reasoning back in s5-7 that carried through to the end even if they didn't really wanna follow-through on the implication. Making Jon appear as Ned and Sansa as Cat (the hairstyles are similar, not exactly the same but the script referenced the Cat thing at one point so it was intentional) also feels like something that was still present in s8 storywise. They were a unit, they did trust each other, but there was a lot of anxiety about that trust and pain about a perceived betrayal.

And in-world reasoning, I’d say that when in the South Sansa was trying to fit in at court so mimicking to greater or lesser extent the fashion made sense, and when she returned home, it made sense for her to start wearing styles she’d worn or seen as a girl.

(link)

#jonsa #game of thrones #anti daenerys #(just to be safe)#dot chat #< for filtering

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oceangrief · 2 years ago

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Day One: Women.

Sansa Stark + Stark Women.

#ch: sansa stark #ch: catelyn stark #ch: lyarra stark #ch: lyanna stark #ch: arya stark #lit: a song of ice and fire #asoiafedit #valyrianscrolls #valyriansource #valyrianladies #asoiafwomensource #sansasource #thenorthedit #thenorthsource #sansamonth2023 #dailysansastark #literatureedit #*my edits

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robnikmeria · 12 days ago

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Alyssa: Name a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety. I'll wait.

Sansa: You and me!!!

Alyssa, tearing up: Okay.

#it’s literally them😭#ship: sansalyssa #ch: sansa stark #oc: alyssa baratheon #incorrect quotes #sansa stark x oc

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levithestripper · 1 year ago

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sansa rejecting ned's doll always breaks my heart

#jack likes to talk #jack watches: game of thrones #ch: ned stark #ch: sansa stark #game of thrones

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countrymusiclover · 2 years ago

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Ch 40 - The Targaryen Queen

Part 41

Fire OF A Stark

@dragonixfrye

A Few Years Later

The Iron Throne had been destroyed. The throne that kings and queens fought over for thousands of years until a dragon burnt it to the ground. The six kingdoms have been faring quite well over the years. It took a lot of long hours and council meetings to get the country back into shape. Sansa had her hands full running the North as an independent kingdom like our brother Robb wanted it to be before he died. “What if I am not good enough, Father. They may have accepted Bran as King but he isn’t the last dragon?”

Lifting my head up in the room I shared with Jaime in the rebuilt Kings Landing castle I was still feeling uneasy about all this. Eyeing myself in the large mirror leaned up against the wall I slumped my shoulders. The dress I had chosen was red and golden with gray and black designs across it. It was short sleeved showing a banner seal of the

Lannister lion and the Targaryen dragon split together to combine one house seal. I had my riding boots on like normal running my hands down the fabric until arms wrapped around my waist from behind. “You have nothing to be nervous about, my dragon wife.”

“Jaime…” Spinning around in his arms I draped my arms on his shoulders lifting my gaze up so I could meet his green orbs. “We have been traveling so much with the kids. Casterly Rock to here and then Dragonstone. All over too many times to count, I just don’t want the people to think that I am not looking out for them too.”

He tilted his head to the side, raising his left hand up to cradle my cheek. Leaning into his palm he slowly spoke to me. “Listen, little dragon. Ruling isn’t easy and you are a mother first. I told you once that the rest of the world doesn’t matter, it’s just us.”

“But that can’t be true-“ He cuts me off with a quick kiss resting his forehead against mine.

He whispered back where my fingers gripped onto his armor that he was wearing. He wasn’t a Kingsguard but he decided to wear the golden armor on my coronation day. He was wearing the Lannister colors underneath like usual. “It is still true, Lynesse. As long as we are in this room or one of our chambers in either place we call home. We don’t have to worry about responsibility…all we focus on is our family.”

“Daddy!” A child’s cry came from the other side of the door making us break away from each other. He opened the door getting his legs tackled by our youngest daughter Guinevere.

The girl wrapped her arms around his legs giggling. She had taken after her father with the green eyes that almost would match my eyes at some points . But she had fully taken to having my white hair that looked blonde when she was in the sunlight. “Be careful there, little G.” I responded, bending down on my knee tugging her off her father’s leg and up into my arms.

“Mommy, Eddie keeps asking to see Uncle Tyrion.” Another girl’s voice that belonged to our eldest Rhaenyra ran inside the room where I could see her wearing a red short dress and trousers coming towards me. Her hair was in two separate braids falling over her shoulders.

Finally as if on cue Eddard entered afterwards. The locks of golden hair scattered everywhere in a set of messy curls almost on top of his head. He was wearing a training sword, reminding me so much of Arya. “He is Hand of the King, Rhae!….oh and Queen. Sorry mother.”

“It’s alright, Ed. I am not the Queen just yet.” Bouncing Guinevere on my hip I sent him a smile enjoying that he accepted his uncle with such happiness. Everyone in the world had hated the dwarf for long enough.

Guinevere tugged on my dress strap asking in her sweet voice. “Does that make daddy King?”

“It’s not like that, little lioness.” Her father stepped up taking her from my arms, ticking her stomach making her giggle loudly. “Your cousin Bran is king. I am simply the husband to the Queen of the Six kingdoms.”

Eddard raised his sword in the air with his right hand following his father with being the best young swordsman in the young King and Queensguard. “I will be a Knight, like father.”

“Nah Eddie. Dragon rider is better.” Rhaenyra crossed her arms over her chest sticking her tongue out at her younger brother. She had been riding Joanna with me since the day we told her she was old enough to ride a horse on her own.

Guinevere made a raspberry noise at her. “Princess….”

“Enough all of you. Whatever path you may choose is important. You are my children and you will be able to choose whatever you want. We have taken away the old traditions of the Gods.” I waved my index finger at the three once Jaime had placed our youngest girl on her feet so they were all looking up at us.

Someone knocked on the chamber door altering all of us. Jaime crossed the room opening the door meeting the gaze of our First Lady Knight Brienne. “Ser Jaime, My Lady. Everyone is ready. I shall escort the children downstairs.”

“Go on young dragon-lions.” Jaime nudged them with his knee sending the three of them forward. The three ran forward following closely behind the woman that was now named Commander of the Kingsguard/Queensguard. “Shall we, my dragon queen.”

He offered me his left arm that I looped my hand through tightly. Intertwining our hands together I stared up at him before we started walking through the hallways. Scanning my eyes around I felt nervous walking down their halls when we first came back here. At first glance I could only see my father Ned being killed even though I wasn't here the day it happened. I could still see a dream of it happening. But Jaime isn't without his own nightmares as I am well aware. Some scars stay with you. "What if not all the remaining houses accept me as their Queen?"

"What will it take for me to convince you that they will. Shall I drag you back to our chambers for a private reminder?' He sent me a glare tugging our walk to a halt, smirking that cocky grin he knew usually works on me.

"Jaime-" I attempted to say but he squeezed my hand still in his.

"Lynesse, this whole coronation is more for the Lords and Ladies to show their support for you in a formal way. You have been ruling the six kingdoms beside your cousin since the day the small council declared your name. You will always be their chosen queen from now and always. Just like you will forever be my loving wife." He pressed his forehead against mine, leaning down kissing me. Leaning forward I deepened the kiss until we needed breath starting our walk to the former throne room.

Walking in almost sync with each other there was a thought that kept crossing my mind. “Does it seem or feel weird to you. That I am queen but you aren’t the king of the six kingdoms?”

“Gods no, I never thought I could handle the job as Hand of the King. I most certainly couldn’t handle taking on the role of being king.” He snorted out, making me think that he was more used to sword fighting than anything else in his life.

Shrugging my shoulders I turned my head seeing that we were standing outside the main doors. "Here we go, my lion…" I muttered under my breath squeezing his hand a little tighter in mine.

"You'll do just fine, little dragon." He kissed the crown of my head watching the doors opened by two guards standing on either side. Together we strides through the aisle of people who all had their eyes on us. The train of my dress got dragged behind me when I walked. Before our eyes I noticed that Bran was sitting in his chair on the top set of the stairs where the Iron Throne used to be.

Sansa was standing beside him being on the front row of the crowds. Brienne had Rhaenyra, Eddard and Guinevere standing beside her. Arya would have been here but she was traveling the world so she was only here for Bran's coronation. Jaime and I finally stopped where he stepped to the side nodding at me with a proud smile. "Today we are gathered here to witness a beautiful moment for our time of new reign. My cousin and I may not have wanted the power but we shall keep doing our best to rule..Lynesse, please take a knee. Brienne, I will need your assistance."

"Of course, your Grace." She bowed her head stepping up to stand beside his chair ready to assist his help.

Bran glanced over to a Septon that walked forward carrying a pillow with Rhaenyra Targaryen's crown sitting on it. He held it out, never breaking his gaze with the king. "Lynesse Stark-Targaryen now married Lannister. I am here to ask will you honor the duties of the realm. Will you wear the crown and uphold the safety of the realm. Will you defend the houses and keep the peace from this day until the end of your days?"

"I will, King Brandon." I declared resting my elbow on my knee that I didn't have bent on the stone steps. Above his head was a painting made of glass that showed an image of the Iron Throne before it was destroyed and a Targaryen banner behind it. In place of the throne there was two separate thrones now on either side of the burnt swords that had been cleaned up.

Bran nodded at the Lady Commander simply. "Commander Brienne." She stepped forward pushing his chair forward where he could reach me closer.

She then handed him the crown, stepping back with a light bow. "Your Grace. My Lady."

"By the power vested in me by the Crown and law of the Six Kingdoms I hereby declare you Lynesse Lannister, formally born Targaryen, raised true as a Stark, Lady of Casterly Rock, Protector of the Realm. Now decried to be Queen Lynesse, The Last Targaryen." He lowered the crown down onto my head gently. I shut my eyes, sucking in a breath feeling the weight of the jewelry on my head. Rising to my feet I turned to face the crowd seeing Tyrion standing beside Sansa's side.

He raised a cup of wine in his hands declaring. "I, Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister!" He bent down on a knee nodding his head at me.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater now known as Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin. "I swear fealty to Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister."

"I, Yohn of House Royce swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister." Another lord bent his knee to me.

Young Robin stepped forward, dropping down. "I, Robin Arryn of the Vale swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister."

"I, Edmure of House Tully swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister" Catelyn's brother got up bending down by his wife Roslin's side as she was holding their son in her arms.

Sam, Jon's friend from the Wall raises his hand coming to bend the knee next with a king smile. "I, Samwell of House Tarly, Grand Maester, swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister."

Davos Seaworth, Master of Ships. "...swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister."

"I, Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End…" Who used to be Robert's bastard son. "swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister."

The two final Lord and Lady finished their vows. "I, Howland of House Reed….I, Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands."

"I, Jaime of House Lannister, Lord of the Rock and Husband pledge to swear fealty to the Queen Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister." Jaime was the last person to bend the knee to me. His green eyes only focused on me as he sent me a proud smile.

My gaze fell down onto him watching the rest of the guests in the room bend down on their knees and bow their heads. "Gods save King Bran and Queen Lynesse!" From that moment I knew our story was far from over.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 1 year ago

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ch. 8 — frician (to desire)

notes: margaret by lana del rey was a big inspo for this one

summary: alethia arrives in kattegat

warnings: i dont want to give it away tbh. in a good way i promise!!!! jack we talked about this literally last night (its not to that extent but still hehe)

tagged: @demon-of-the-ancient-world @levithestripper @grantairescurls

general masterlist | series masterlist

Alethia

Lagertha was kind to her. She was glad that she did not end up alone, as she had feared, and yet, there was the perpetual feeling of only being wanted because she was linked to Athelstan.

They all stared.

She knew they whispered.

Still, Alethia boarded ship, successfully this time, making for Kattegat. Ecbert could not stop her, and she was not inclined to stay any longer than she had to. If only she could have felt as if this was where she was meant to be.

In truth, Alethia had no idea if this was the right thing to do. What if she was messing everything up, ruining things for Athelstan? This was his life, not hers, and it felt like she was intruding.

And still, Alethia followed Athelstan like John the Baptist, quiet like a shadow. In Kattegat, Athelstan helped her onto the docks. It was only when she touched those wooden planks that Alethia felt free.

She breathed in the salty air that was no different from the sea mere moments ago, and yet, entirely something else. This was to be her new home. Alethia would make it work, she had practiced enough for this moment for the entirety of her childhood.

The eyes glued to her back were there when Athelstan squeezed her shoulder, her hand, looked into her eyes with that gaze meant to comfort were not lost on Alethia. Rollo, Floki, Ragnar, Lagertha – they would not look away. Alethia wanted to turn around and hiss at them as she would have with King Ecbert, but instead, she ducked away and towards the Great Hall, disappearing in the feast that was being hosted for the return of the Vikings.

Athelstan kept his distance, as he had since they had met again. Alethia knew that there would be a gap between them, some sort of irrevocable change upon reunion, and yet, she ached for things to return as they had been.

They never had, not since she’d been a girl. And in that moment, Alethia felt ancient.

The woman with the feline eyes approached her a few hours into the feast, when Athelstan was still being held close by Ragnar, and most of the crowd had surmised to get drunk instead of doing anything meaningful for the remainder of the night. Alethia backed herself into a corner, where a cat curled around her ankles and she could nurse a cup of mead in peace.

Alethia knew that she was a queen the moment Aslaug approached her. She held herself with the same inherent dignity as Catelyn Stark had, as Sansa had. Alethia straightened her back, pushing herself up. The cat jumped away, disturbed by her sudden movements.

“Queen Aslaug.” Alethia said, bowing her head.

“How do you know who I am?” Aslaug asked. She was holding a bundle in her arms, the babe whom Alethia presumed to be Ivar sleeping lightly.

“You hold yourself as I would expect of a Götland princess.”

Aslaug raised one of those well-manicured brows, but she gave Alethia a small smile.

“Then you are the woman that plagues my dreams.”

“Sorry about that.” Alethia said.

“You have an accent.”

“Sorry about that as well.”

“It is all fair and well. I expect Athelstan has been teaching you to the best of his abilities.” Aslaug said. She took a seat next to where Alethia had been, patting the free space. The cat returned to Alethia’s lap.

“I dreamt of you. I am not… friends with Athelstan as my husband is, but I think in this, I understand him better than Ragnar does.”

Alethia looked down, scratching the cat between his ears.

“He loves you.” Aslaug whispered. Alethia paused, her heart beating wildly in her chest. When she looked over to Aslaug, the Queen of Kattegat was smiling.

Alethia did not know what to say, swallowing. She looked back down, clearing her throat, and a small laugh escaped Aslaug.

“Do you love him?” she asked. Alethia wanted to say yes, but the guilt of it strangled her, and she could not say a single thing. Aslaug sighed.

“You are good for him. He is not someone I understand very well, but Athelstan is a man who has suffered greatly. Even if he is a Christian, I can see that.”

“Thank you.”

“It is nothing.”

“It is everything.” Alethia protested. Then, she leaned back against the wall behind her, resting her head. “I was afraid of you, you know?”

“Me? I am not someone invocative of fear.” Aslaug replied.

“Please. You are a Götland princess. A völva. You see things others do not. I am not afraid of warriors. They all try to kill me, but so far, none of them have succeeded. Those that see beyond the fog of reality, they are the ones that scare me. You, Queen Aslaug, are one of them. You have my respect, and my admiration, no matter what others say about that.”

Now it was Aslaug’s turn to be speechless, but Alethia could not stay silent. She had to continue. The words built on the back of her tongue, forcing themselves out of her mouth.

“You are brave, too. I heard of Ivar and his disability. From what I understand of your culture, Northmen despise what they perceive to be weakness. I knew a boy like Ivar once. His name was Bran, and he was one of the most powerful men alive. No one thought he would survive what happened to him, but he did. Your Ivar… you have a right to love your son. He needs you.”

“Thank you.” Aslaug said. “And I… I know what happened to you. Most of it, anyway. The correct way to address you should be Queen, and not simply your name.”

“Please, do not.” Alethia replied.

“I won’t.” Aslaug promised. “I do not know how much the Gods showed me of your life, but I hoped that what I did see was all of the pain you experienced. It is enough for ten lifetimes.”

Alethia’s heart caught in her throat. She tried to stop the tears that pricked her eyes, right until she looked at Aslaug. When the Queen smiled at her, cold facade from a few hours ago gone, Alethia let them fall. She gave herself three minutes of respite before she cleared her throat.

“Queen Aslaug, may I ask a favour of you?”

“Almost any.” Aslaug replied.

“May I protect you? I would be honored to serve you and your children as a shieldmaiden, for I know you left many of yours behind when you came here. I do not wish to go to war anymore, but protecting a family, to protect children – that I can do. It is the sort of fierce gentleness I wish to embody.”

“Give it three moons. Rest. Then, we shall speak of what you have asked.” Aslaug promised. “But now, go. Find your priest. Do well by him.”

“I will.” Alethia promised. She did not expect Aslaug to cup her jaw, to lean forward the way she did, as if she was reading something behind Alethia’s eyes. The moment passed, Alethia shuddered, and then, she left. Aslaug turned to her son.

Athelstan

Ragnar whistled as Alethia approached them. Neither he nor she turned to look at the King. Alethia only stared at him, eyes somewhat bewildered. She looked lost, as if she’d forgotten where she was. Athelstan was fully aware that all eyes were on him as he crossed the distance between them and touched Alethia’s shoulder.

She looked right at him, green eyes boring into his own.

“Are you alright?”

Alethia looked down, and then back up at him again. She closed her eyes. “I need a break please.”

“Of course.” Athelstan said. “Go wait outside for me. I’ll be out in a moment.”

Alethia nodded, slinking towards the door. Athelstan turned to Ragnar, who had a shit-eating grin on his face. In that moment, Athelstan could not laugh at it.

“Nothing smart, Ragnar. Not tonight.” he said. Then, Athelstan followed Alethia outside. She was picking at her nails when he found her, and Athelstan watched as she hissed under one particularly painful tear. Suddenly, he was reminded of his mother. When Lillian had bad dreams, she would do the same thing. She had destroyed herself in the process.

Athelstan knew he was his mother’s child.

It was why he put an arm around Alethia, guiding her through the empty streets of Kattegat. Everyone was still in the Great Hall, celebrating. Everyone but the two of them.

He did not know why he brought her to his longhouse, but Athelstan felt the palpable sort of relief when the door to his home shut them out of the world outside.

Alethia spotted the portraits immediately. Athelstan had forgotten they were there, not having packed them away before he left for the raid. She went to them immediately, staring with wide eyes.

Gently, Alethia picked up a portrait of Floki, staring right at the viewer. Athelstan tried to swallow down his fear, stepping towards Alethia to explain.

“Athelstan these are…”

“I know I shouldn’t have.” Athelstan replied.

“What do you mean? They are beautiful. This one right here, it is exactly how Floki stares at you when you say something he does not like. And this one-” Alethia grabbed another piece of parchment, this time of Ecbert looking down at the subject. “It is exactly how King Ecbert sits his throne. Are there more?”

Athelstan hesitated. Of course there were. There was an entire sketchbook dedicated to Alethia , but he was not sure if he wanted to tell her that.

His silence was enough for her. “May I see them? Please? Your art is so beautiful.”

Art? His portraits were art?

“It is blasphemy.” Athelstan replied, shame making it difficult to breathe.

“Blasphemy? Athelstan, there are many things in this world that are blasphemy. This is not one of them. Trust me, I know.”

“How?”

“Because I love art. I have seen much of it. Van Gogh, Monet, Kahlo, Rubens, Gentileshi, Rembrandt, Michelangelo – you name it, I know it. Your portraits have spirit. Do you know the most important thing about art, Athelstan?”

“Portraiture must be used to portray the life of Christ. To display our belief to the world.”

“No.” Alethia shook her head. “No, that is not art. That is illustration. Art is that which makes you feel something. These portraits are that.”

Athelstan did not notice the tears until they tracked down his cheeks. He could not move, did not stop Alethia when she grabbed a small journal from his table. She looked at him with raised brows, and Athelstan nodded softly. Alethia opened it, and froze immediately.

He prayed she would not turn away from him for this. Alethia sat on his chair, looking at the first page. It was a portrait of her the day she had arrived in Ecbert’s villa. Alethia’s hand ghosted over her own features, careful not to touch the charcoal and smudge it. After a moment, she flipped to the next page. It was her side profile, this time sketched right after a long lesson of English grammar.

Her sitting on the edge of the roman bath followed, then Alethia balancing a sword, then only a collection of her features that Athelstan had practiced with, all disconnected. There was a sketch of her hand on her shoulder, tugging on an old scar. That was from the bath after Alethia had lost her child. Then, there was Alethia sharpening a dagger, Alethia talking to a serving girl, Alethia, Alethia, Alethia…

She paused on the page where Athelstan had sketched her right after the battle against the Northmen. Athelstan had struggled with it, because he had never drawn someone with nothing in their eyes. Portraying someone’s gaze to be empty was a thing of the almost-impossible. Alethia set down the journal, returning it to its rightful place, and Athelstan awaited judgement.

“Thank you.” Alethia whispered. “You have made me immortal in the only way I wish to be.”

Athelstan was a selfish man. “Which way?”

“That of love. I see your devotion, Athelstan. I see it in every line of each portrait. And then I have to look back up to you with empty hands in search of some way to thank you, and I have nothing. I am a beggar. I wish I had something to show for mine own character.”

“You need nothing.”

“I know. I know, but I wish to give you something, Athelstan.”

“Why did you trust me? Why did you tell me your secrets when you could tell me nothing else?” Athelstan asked.

Alethia smiled lightly. “When you know, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Alethia stood, the chair scraping on the wood. She took Athelstan’s hands. Gentle. The gesture should have felt repetitive. It never would, not to Athelstan.

“I saw you , standing behind King Ecbert in that damned courtyard. I saw you, Athelstan, and I saw your pain, your gentleness, your willingness to try, to give me a chance. Out of all the people there, you were the only one that did not regard me like an animal. Perhaps I saw my own pain reflected in you, but I do not want that to be it. I wanted… I knew that you would be right .”

Athelstan closed his eyes, trying to take another breath. Each one was harder than the one before, and the tears that had been isolated exceptions at first now ran down his face, hot and salty. He was not sure what they meant.

And then, Alethia’s hands were on his face again. They caressed his cheeks without guilt, with the gentleness of a million lifetimes that they did not have. Athelstan could have fallen at her feet right then and there.

She touched her forehead against his, wiping his tears. Athelstan let himself sob, only once, for all the pain he had let pass through him to avoid what he was doing now. He was ruining a moment, he was-

“It’s alright.” Alethia said. “Don’t force yourself to stop.”

Alethia was the only one he trusted to catch him if he fell, and so, he did. She held him as his senses left him and his shoulders buckled under the weight of everything he thought he’d forgotten about. Athelstan buried his face in the crook of her neck, there where the world meant nothing.

Time was meaningless where they stood, and for the first time in his life, Athelstan was not holding up the sky all by himself. The weight on his shoulders had not been lifted away entirely, but he was not carrying it alone, then.

Athelstan felt the storm brew in his stomach. It coiled itself, beginning to boil and bubble up into his throat, and then, his mouth was forced open. His arms turned against him and he left Alethia’s shoulder, looking at her. With violence, the words were taken out of his mouth and into the air, and Athelstan trembled with fear as he said them. But they were right.

“I love you.”

Alethia’s eyes widened, she froze, and for a moment, she looked scared. Then, her eyes softened, her mouth broke into a wide smile, and there seemed to be some of that violent love that had forced his vocal cords moving within her as well.

“I love you too.”

“How do you say it?” Athelstan said. The words broke out of him too.

“What do you mean?”

“Those words, how do you say them in your tongue? Your mother tongue, not any of the others. Your language. I want to say that to you in your language. If anything.”

“They mean more in my language. The way that you want to say them, they are impossibly heavy. It is not the same.”

“Good. I want it to mean something.”

“Ich liebe dich.” Alethia whispered. She said the words as if she was directing them at him, not teaching them to him.

“Ich liebe dich.” Athelstan repeated. Alethia laughed, air leaving her lungs, her chest rising in a rapid exchange of air.

“Ich dich auch.” Alethia replied. Athelstan knew what she had said, without any doubt. This time, it was Athelstan who moved first. Finally, he had the courage to kiss her. He was not so afraid that he had to ask, he simply did it.

His lips touched hers, and Alethia melted into him, pulling him closer. She was slow, languid, patient, nothing like that first time, where it was as if they had tried to cram everything into one kiss. Athelstan felt lost, unsure what to do, but as Alethia’s hands wandered to tangle in his hair, caress his jaw and neck, and her tongue dared to move further, he found some of that confidence that only Northmen and Ecbert seemed to possess.

And then, Alethia pulled him even closer. Athelstan was flush to her, his head began to spin, and he suddenly became overly aware of just how close they were. He knew what came next.

“We don’t have to.” Alethia whispered suddenly. “This is enough for me.”

“I trust you.” Athelstan replied. He felt no guilt, and he was not surprised at that. It was Alethia. How could the most sinful of things be bad with someone as beautiful as her?

No God could convince him that everything he was doing was wrong.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to regret this.” Alethia said.

“I could not. Not with you.”

“But you… what about God?”

“Let God see that I love you, and if He condemns me then, I shall gladly accept the pain of it. It will have been worth it, for you.” Athelstan replied. Alethia’s eyes widened at his words, her hands digging into his tunic.

“Athelstan…” she began, but he shook his head.

“No more, Alethia. I am sure.”

Alethia nodded, and she kissed him again, leading him towards the bed. Athelstan felt his heart beat in his chest. He had only ever done this once, and then it had been under the influence of whatever Floki had given him. He did not know…

But Alethia was gentle, slow. She lied down on his bed, and Athelstan allowed himself to lie atop her, kissing her slowly. Alethia’s hands wandered, undoing the laces of his tunic. He was somewhat relieved to see that her fingers trembled as well. She pulled it over his head, barely breaking the kiss, and Athelstan shuddered as her hands ghosted over his chest, before she reached back up, fingers combing through his hair.

Athelstan could not help the quiet groan that escaped him as she kissed his neck, leaving a small bit at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

There was something within him that snapped, and Athelstan flipped her around so that Alethia sat atop him. He reached up, pulling her closer. His hands wandered, undoing her tunic now. Alethia leaned down, kissing him with a fervent urgency that left Athelstan dizzy. He slid the tunic down her shoulders, watching as the fabric fell. Athelstan could not take his eyes off of her, determined to commit every scar, every raised bump, everything he could see to memory.

“My eyes are up here.” Alethia joked. He laughed nervously, looking up, and that made Alethia laugh in turn.

“You can look.” she whispered.

“I’ll do a bit more if that’s okay with you.” he joked back.

“Oh?”

Athelstan let himself touch her, sins forgotten, let his mouth kiss her neck, kiss her collarbones, her shoulders, lower and lower, down her body. He dared to move her as if she was not immovable, a mountain against him, a man.

His hands found their place at her hips. Alethia rolled them with a knowing smirk, and Athelstan tried to suppress another groan.

“What are you staying quiet for?” Alethia asked, her hands travelling down his chest, his stomach, until-

She reached inside his pants with no shame, fingers wrapping around him deftly and sealing any sounds that could have left his mouth with a kiss of brazen challenge. Athelstan sighed into her mouth, already bucking up into her hand.

Gently, he stopped her by the wrist.

“What is it?” Alethia asked. “Do you want to stop? We can-”

“I want more. I want you.” Athelstan replied. Alethia nodded, making to undo her own breeches, but Athelstan knew with a firm suddenness that he wanted to do that himself.

“Lie down.” he said, his voice calm. He did not know where he was taking it from, the courage, only that he suddenly had it.

Alethia followed his words, lifting her hips as Athelstan removed the remainder of her clothes, until she was bare before him.

“That’s not fair.” she whispered. “I want to see you, too.”

“Be patient.” Athelstan reminded.

“Oh, patient, are we now?” Alethia teased. “I thought you wanted me so badly.”

She is in his blood, he thought. In his very bones, in the foundations of his body, his soul. And yes, God, he wanted her badly. But Athelstan was not going to rip the clothes off of her body and fuck her like an animal.

Maybe he could if she taught him.

For now, there was only the gentleness that he had promised her. She tugged at his pants again, impatient and Athelstan noted that Alethia was needy . The thought made him think of things he was better off keeping to himself.

Alethia undressed the rest of him, and now, there was truly nothing that Athelstan could hide. Her hand returned to him , and Athelstan thought that he could not wait any longer, which surprised him, considering that he thought he was patient. Apparently not when it came to her.

He gave her a half-question in the form of raised brows and she gave him a half-answer in the tiniest of nods.

Alethia guided his hips, looking up at him once more, and Athelstan gulped down the rest of his fear. He pushed inside her, and almost immediately, his eyes rolled into the back of his skull. This was not what he had been waiting for for over a year, but, God, wasn’t it a good reward anyway?

“More.” Alethia whispered. “I want all of it.”

He obliged, giving her the rest of what he had, until his hips were slotted against her pelvis. There was a thought in the back of his mind, one of the sort that he was finally holding her the way a husband was supposed to hold his wife, and it made his blood rush. He had not wanted to have her because of this, but it was a gift Alethia had given him.

Afterward, Alethia curled into his arms, still naked. Athelstan traced the scars on her back, the massive one on her abdomen, the ones on her thighs. There was an automatic anger as he saw the many small cuts that inched up towards her womanhood. Athelstan was not sure he wanted to know what had been done to her.

The cuts that littered her stomach scared him more. How was she still alive? It didn’t matter, what did was that she was alive.

He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her collarbones, and, finally her lips, as if Athelstan had not done that enough already. He knew there was a dark bruise at the base of his neck where she had bit him. It was little surprise to him that Alethia liked to scratch and tear, and more that he had enjoyed it.

“Do you feel sinful?” Alethia asked.

“No. But I…”

Athelstan trailed off. It was not the right time, nor the right place. He would keep the question for another time.

“Did you like it?” he said instead.

“I did. I hope you…”

“Yes. It was… I do not know how to…”

“Call it mindblowing.” Alethia winked. Her smile was sardonical, and Athelstan snorted.

“Worldchanging.”

“Thank you. I always knew I had superpowered… you know what, I’m not finishing that joke.”

“Thank you.”

“Rude.” Alethia teased. Athelstan turned onto his back, pulling the blanket over him and Alethia. She put her head on his chest, and he knew that she was listening to his heartbeat. Athelstan thought that it was Alethia’s way of making sure he was alright.

“Why did you draw me?”

“Because you are the light that illuminates my life.”

“Adoringly poetic.”

“Hmm.” Athelstan hummed. “I loved you since I laid eyes on you, I think.”

“Really?” Alethia asked.

“Truly. And there is something about you that makes drawing you an utter joy.” Athelstan admitted. “Your eyes…”

“The eyes are the window to the soul.” Alethia recited.

“I like that.”

“I knew you would.”

“You are impossible to ignore.” Athelstan whispered. “I love you for it, my lady. My lady, my love, my light.”

Alethia smiled. There was no pain in her features, and her muscles were not tense. It was everything Athelstan could have asked for.

#heorte til heorte #alestan #alethia x athelstan #alethia stahl #athelstan #history channels vikings #lagertha #ragnar lothbrok #history vikings #vikings #athelstan x oc

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feyhunter78 · 9 months ago

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Chapter Sixteen - The first move has been made, and the Stark boys take what is theirs. Ch 17

My darling Lord Robb,

First, I must thank you for my gifts, they are quite lovely and as you requested, I wore them on my nameday this night past. Many paid me compliments, even Tommen which I must admit was quite humorous. Oh, my love, I long for the day when we are united, I grow tired of waiting. I know it is harsh, but today I was forced to spend three hours listening to Tommen describe his blossoming sword skills. I know he is a child, but the desire within me to tell him that he is nothing compared to my true husband, the Young Wolf, was quite strong.

Y/N reminds me that I must be patient, but I think that is hypocritical considering she has been in such a foul mood since Jon has decided he must act proper as to not get them in trouble. She believes I do not know of their affections, of their dalliance, which I find both insulting and amusing. Only a blind man would be unable to see what is between them, and even a blind man would be able to hear in their voices the affections they have for one another, even now as Jon pretends he is nothing more than a guard.

I am hoping they shall resolve this little spat before you come to save me from this lion’s den. I would like there to be no conflicts within our family, so rest assured I will do all I can to assist either y/n or Jon so that our ascension to power is a peaceful one—at least within our own houses. There will be nothing to distract us upon meeting.

I anxiously await your next letter and the day when we may finally cease writing and speak face to face.

- Yours in earnest, Margaery

Robb presses his lips to her signature before folding the letter and slipping it into his pocket, earning a snort from Theon.

“Will you be this unbearable when you finally get your hands on the girl, or can I expect a reprieve from these disgusting displays of undying affection?” Theon asks, pressing his hand to his forehead pantomiming a swooning figure.

It looks ridiculous as Theon is fully cloaked, his armor hidden by the black fabric, his voice low as they wait for the signal.

They had been lying in wait ever since word had gotten out that the royal family was soon to pass by on their return trip to King’s Landing. The snail’s pace they had taken down to Riverrun to meet with Stannis then here to Highgarden had nearly driven him mad with boredom, but they could not risk alerting the Lannisters further than they already had. Now a mere week after Margaery’s nameday they have set the trap along the Roseroad.

Robb can hardly contain his excitement, soon he will be able to see her, speak with her, take her hands in his own. She will be angry, yes, that she will no longer be queen, that he had deceived her, but she would be queen of his heart. When he thought about such a line, the back of his head still stung from where Sansa had smacked him for it. It will be no replacement for Queen of the Seven Kingdoms , she said, but Robb hoped Margaery would forgive his deception.

It was not even truly a deception born of his own mind; it had been her grandmother's. The North did not want the Iron Throne, would not fight to put one of their own upon it, and his father was far too honorable a man to go against Stannis. There was no other suitable option. Stannis himself was married, had only a daughter, Margaery could not climb any higher, and she would not be safe if she remained married. Not with the truth of Tommen’s birth spreading farther and farther each day.

“You want me to scare her a bit, make you seem more the hero? Might ease her anger.” Theon offers an easy smile spreading across his face.

“Is that what you did to win over my sister?” Robb drawls, scanning the dimly lit road, they should hear the wheelhouses any moment now.

Theon chuckles quietly. “It was I who carried her through the streets of King’s Landing, who kept her safe from the ruffians and murders among the crowd that day.”

“Funny, Sansa said you held onto her sleeve and my father’s tunic as you ran, that you swore you would never visit a brothel again if you survived to the edge of the city.”

Theon scoffs but shifts in his crouched stance. “I have not visited a brothel since then, this is true, but I did not hold onto your father.”

“Just Sansa then?”

“Fuck you Stark.” Theon snarls, but there’s no bite to his words, only the playful ribbing that Robb has grown accustomed to since they were children.

“Will you two shut up?” Dacey Mormont hisses, her eyes like will o’wisps shining in the dark.

Then he feels it, the slight tremor in the ground, Grey Wind's ears perking up. The rush of adrenaline as the carts and wheelhouses begin to appear flanked by guards, guards who are either on their side or far too tired to expect an ambush on a road as well guarded as the Roseroad.

Robb counts the wheelhouses and carts as they pass, he will know hers on sight, Lady Olenna Tyrell had sent him a letter describing it down to the spokes on its wheels. She would not have any other man kidnap her granddaughter. Finally, finally, he spots it, gold trimmed, a rose embossed on each door, the curtains, a red crushed velvet pulled closed, and a freshly repaired third spoke on the second wheel.

Glass shatters up ahead, flames leaping into the air, horses rearing up, and it is time.

Jon guides his horse away from your wheelhouse, towards Robb and Theon. This has been the plan, it has always been the plan, though he had not known it until his father appeared.

“Brother.” Robb says, leaning forward to clasp Jon in a one-arm hug. He is smiling, joyful as if the sky was not filled with smoke, and the road alight with flames, as if the sounds of battle did not rage around them.

“I thought you were told?” Jon asks, confusion adding to the heavy stone of guilt in his stomach.

“I was, nothing has changed, we were raised together, you are my brother as Theon is.” Robb shrugs, nodding towards the Ironborn who had gone to fetch you and Margaery.

Jon squeezes his brother tightly. “Thank you.”

Robb pulls back with a smile. “Do not thank me, not until the anger of our wives dies down.”

Wives. Robb has no fear, he calls Margaery his wife, caring not that she is married to another, but Jon does not share that courage. He cannot shake off the lingering aches of being labeled a bastard all his life so easily. There is still fear someone better will steal you away, that you will resent him for the stigma that followed him for so long.

“Fucking hells.” Theon curses loudly, stumbling back as you and Margaery bust out of the wheelhouse, pushing past him, a blade clutched in Margaery’s hand.

“What a woman.” Robb whistles lowly, kicking his horse into a gallop after you both.

Jon follows, tugging the hood of his cloak further down.

Robb sweeps Maragery from her feet, but your hand is still in hers, and you cry out her name, as she cries out yours. Raw fear and desperation are clear in your eyes, and you dig your heels into the ground, pulling Margaery from Robb’s grasp, the two of you tumbling to the dirt.

You quickly help her up, just in time for Robb to round his horse and ride towards you both. Jon grabs you as he passes by, his arm an iron band around your waist keeping you locked against his chest.

You struggle against him, screaming when Robb sweeps Margaery onto his horse. “The Queen, save the Queen!”

Your cries draw the attention of some Lannister guards who are fighting against men Jon remembers from Winterfell, arrows fly and take advantage of their distraction, the Lannister men crumbling to the ground.

You scream again, terrified, and it guts him to realize you are screaming his name, begging him to save you.

Why has he not spoken? Why has he let you believe he was a stranger? It is the adrenaline, the rush of battle that has paralyzed his tongue, dried out his mouth and he finally forces it to work, unsticking it from the roof of his mouth. “Y/N, y/n, it is me, my starlight, you are safe.”

You twist in his hold, terrified eyes meeting his. “Thank the gods, Jon, we must turn back, we must rescue Margaery.”

“She is well, all is well, I promise.” Jon says, kicking his horse into a gallop.

Robb cannot say if he is upset or overjoyed at Margaery’s reaction to the news. It had been a few hours now, the moonlit fading, the sun soon to rise. First, she was frightened, then apologetic when she saw the cut she had given Theon with her dagger, then she was smiling, and it is a smile he would gladly give his life for. But now, now she is angry, her words calm, her voice even, and soft, but he can see it in her eyes.

“You deceived me, My Lord, you said I would be queen.” She says, fixing him with a look that he knows he will see much more of in their shared years to come. “Now you tell me Stannis’ dour wife will sit in my place instead. That you have organized a kidnapping to lure the remaining Lannisters here, that way Stannis and your father will have no trouble taking King’s Landing.”

“My Lady, it was your grandmother’s idea, Stannis would not hesitate to lock you away or marry you off to an old, fat bannerman of his if you had attempted to keep your position as queen. He might have even ordered you killed if an agreement had not struck for your safety.” He explains, taking her hands in his and pressing them to his lips, they are as soft as he imagined.

Margaery cannot hide the smile tugging at the corners of her lips, not from him, even though her eyes still flash dangerously. “So, you thought to make that choice for me? What if I wished to marry an old, fat lord?”

He chuckles, and presses her hand to his chest, allowing her to feel not only his steady heartbeat but the hardened muscle. Y/N had written to him of Margaery’s likes and dislikes, what caught her eye, what displeased her. “If you truly want that, I am sure there is a Frey somewhere you could marry.”

He slides her hand down slowly, taking a step closer, his voice low. “But I have waited a very long time to finally set my eyes upon you, to feel your hand in mine, and if I am to send you to a Frey, at least allow me the honor of hearing my name fall from your lips.”

Her eyes flicker to his, then to his lips, then back again, a smirk curling on her own as her lashes flutter. “Like this, Robb? ”

She says his name so sweetly he nearly groans, but he stands firm, “not quite.”

Margaery pouts up at him, then tangles her fingers in the laces of his tunic and pulls him forward, going up on her toes, her lips parted so invitingly. “Do not be mean to me, Robb, I am to be your wife.”

Old gods take him, he is not Jon, he does not possess the strength his cousin does. He cups her cheek and kisses her, crushing her to him, walking her backwards until she falls onto his bed, him hovering above her, refusing to relinquish her lips.

Margaery sighs beneath him, carding her fingers through his hair. “Was that better?”

“Much better.” He laughs breathily, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips.

“I am queen Robb; I wish to still be queen.” She says softly, looking up at him with those doe eyes, she is so beautiful, a goddess of spring.

Robb caresses her cheek, pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. “I wished to keep you as queen, but it would not be safe. I offer you myself instead, and the whole of the North, I shall remake it to your desires.”

She ponders his words, and for a moment cold fear strikes through him.

“I guess that will be enough. I shall draw up plans quickly, and present them to you for your input, you know the capabilities of your people far better than I do.” She says, giving him that radiant smile, her hair splayed out, her lips kiss swollen, her eyes lowered demurely.

“Do not look at me like that, I know you are much too spirited to play such a meek part.” He says, flipping them over and running his hand through her hair, the silky tresses falling through his fingers like water.

Margaery plants her hands on his chest, smiling coyly. “You do not wish me to play your good little wife?”

He chuckles. “You may pretend with all others, but not with me. I have seen you Margaery, the core of you, we have spent too long writing each other for me not to know who you truly are.” He sits up, brushing the hair from her neck, his fingers trailing down the pure, unblemished skin. “And I quite like you without the mask, will you allow me to see more?”

Her breath catches in her throat, and he takes that as a yes.

Jon sees you bite your lip and glance at him, the sounds from within Robb and Margaery’s tent are soft, but not soft enough to spare you both the embarrassment. “Do you think they know we are here?”

He knows his ears are bright red, he can feel them burning, and he shakes his head. “I doubt it, Robb is bold, but…not that bold.”

“Perhaps we should come back at a later time?” You suggest shuffling your feet in the dirt.

The sounds grow louder, and Jon takes your arm, walking briskly away. “I think that would be best.”

You both wait until you are far enough from the tent and dissolve into peals of laughter, doubling over.

“I cannot believe—oh I must tease her for that later.” You get out through your laughter, the moonlight giving you an ethereal glow.

Jon wipes tears of mirth from his eyes. “I knew he was eager to meet her, but I thought his honor would hold till her marriage was annulled, at the very least.”

You look at him, laughter dying down, a smile on your beautiful face. “I guess I cannot blame them, I do not know what I would do if we were separated for such a long time.”

Jon reaches for your hand, caressing the soft skin, admiring the silver ring gracing your hand. His father had brought it from Starfell, it was his mother’s, a starburst amethyst that shined when the light hit it. “I do not think I would bed you where anyone could hear, even if we had spent years apart.”

You give him a mischievous smile, taking a step closer, your free hand on his chest, your lips mere inches from his. “Even if I asked?”

He presses your hand in his to his lips instead of responding, and you giggle.

“Let us pray we shall never be parted then.” You say, rising up on your toes to press your lips to his in a quick kiss.

His cheeks burn, and he ducks his head. “Y/N, someone could see.”

“We are to be married remember, and we are among your cousin’s men, I am sure they will not begrudge us one small kiss.” You tease, ghosting your lips over his as you speak, your fingers sliding between the laces of his tunic.

“You are a temptress, a vile, vile temptress.” Jon groans softly, his eyes fluttering shut as you begin to draw circles on his chest with your nails. He bridges the gap between you two, even the scent of smoke that lingers on your clothing can smother the smell of your jasmine perfume. He nearly groans again when you part your lips for him so readily, desperate to further intertwine yourself with him.

A familiar sharp cough breaks the two of you apart, and Jon swears beneath his breath. “Theon.”

“Jon.” Theon smirks.

“Lord Greyjoy.” You say, brushing the hair back from your face in an attempt to look put together.

“Lady Lannister.” Theon nods his head towards you, still smirking. “We have been called to gather. Tyrion Lannister has sent his response.”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film, @wifiatthetrainstation, @duskypinki, @tartine-de-pain

#meg's writing #jon snow x reader #jon snow x y/n #jon snow x you #lannister!reader #Jon Dayne #jon snow imagines #robb stark x margaery tyrell #robb stark #margaery tyrell #theon greyjoy #theon x sansa

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