#i LOVE drawing tully hair

[imjustapoorwayfaringgeek]

Cat and her kittens

[pricklypear1997]

To me the Starks are pale olive with dark brown hair. They’re obviously white, but I do think Cat could be a shade lighter than Ned. Brown doesn’t equal olive skin either. Just to clarify. Some people on this site seem to think that people of European origin, or in this case, characters of a fantasy European based ethnicity, can only be pasty white, and that’s not true lol. I do see some artists obviously making the Starks look ambiguously Asian and darker which is rather odd considering that the books never even say that they are. They’re clearly meant to be white, and there’s ample proof of it, but there’s others such as the Tullys or even the Boltons who I think are actually even whiter or almost “ivory” looking in a way, compared to the Starks who I could very well see as a light olive/pale.

What I’m trying to say is that, they’re all white, but there’s different shades of white, just like there’s different shades for different races. And on another note, I really don’t like seeing people drawing Arya to look more like cat or Sansa when she explicitly doesn’t look like either of them, and that’s another big problem I see in the asoiaf fandom. They make Arya’s hair more red/brown, and give her the very pale and freckled look of her sister and mom. Sometimes they do that but they make her tan af too tho 🤦🏻‍♀️ and it’s just ridiculous tbh. One more thing, Arya is out in the elements for a good portion of the series, so it makes sense that she would be a bit tanned/sunburnt, but her skin is never described as becoming burnt like a lobster so I feel like that kind of proves that she might be a bit more on the olive/pale side rather than the “so pasty white, she could turn into a crustacean or something”.

sorry to break it to you but all the stark kids are pale asf, stop drawing only jon, ned and arya with brown skin, you look stupid

[painted-flag]

From Eden, III - Benjicot Blackwood

✧.* masterlist

✧.* pairing: benjicot blackwood x velaryon!oc

✧.* warnings: 18+ MDNI. (oral, f receiving).

✧.* summary: Ben promised to finish their activities after dinner and he is a man who always keeps his word.

✧.* word count: 2.3k.

Daenys and Benjicot were sitting on a plush rug in front of the hearth in her chamber. There were plush cushions arranged all around them and two cups of wine with a pitcher to share. The hour was late and darkness enveloped Dragonstone. Ben had Daenys leaning against his chest as they rested amongst the low lighting of the fire. His chin rested on her shoulder and held his gaze on the pages of a book she had in her hands. It was Valyrian, so he focused on the intricate drawings of dragons and battle scenes, rather than attempting to even comprehend what the words were.

She was reading the words out loud, despite him not understanding. It was something Ben wanted, for in his words, ‘he wished to hear her voice’. Ben moved his chin from her shoulder and leaned in to press soft kisses into her perfumed skin. He pulled back from her neck and took a lock of her loose hair in his hand, threading his fingers through it. He hummed lowly at the softness.

Daenys continued to read about a knight in the story, “Ziry brōztagon zirȳla gevie, Iā jaesa hen uēpa Valyria” (He called her beautiful, a goddess of Old Valyria).” 

“Zery bruzagon zirela gevie,” Ben stuttered over the words she had read. Daenys laughed gently and craned her head to look at him. She kissed his cheek. 

“Close, my love.” She trailed her pointer finger against his jaw in admiration. 

“What does it mean?” Ben questioned. 

“It said ‘he called her beautiful.’” Daenys then repeated the phrase in Valyrian, slowly so he could pick up on it. The two of them went through each word together. Daenys would say it in Valyrian and Ben would repeat it in the common tongue. 

She finished the phrase, “Gevie.” 

“Beautiful,” Benjicot repeated. Daenys gave him a nod of encouragement. He used his finger to rest on her chest, “Gevie.” 

Daenys leaned further into him, finding the warmth there better than the fire in front of them. Ben reached for his cup of wine and took a sip to clear his throat. Daenys closed her book and shoved it out of the way. It had been difficult for her to relax all night and her antsy movements exposed her feelings.

“What bothers you, my princess?” No matter how many times he used her title, she still felt the heat that flushed her face each time. 

“All of the planning. I did not know it would be so complicated.” Daenys ranted, “Though, I am thankful it will not be in Kings Landing.” 

Daenys had, very early on in their courtship, confided in him the trouble that was the Hightower side of her family. She revealed the events of her childhood with them, and the taunts sent her and her siblings way. It was a topic that went surprisingly well, as Ben of all men would understand the deep-seated hatred houses could hold for each other. 

“I am grateful not to meet them, for I do not know how I would act.” 

Daenys moved forward and out of his hold. She leaned back on one arm and turned her torso to face him. “Must you always resort to aggression?” 

Ben opened his mouth to answer but Daenys cut him off, “I do not think I actually need an answer to that. Look, I met your house’s enemy and did not act on my impulses. Granted, I suppose at that time I had only met you once, so there was not much I would have done…” She trailed off. Her attention was on the flames from the hearth as her hands felt the air for warmth. She did not notice Ben’s tense form behind her. 

“You what?” Ben spoke. Daenys turned to see him sitting with his knees tucked in and arms resting on them. His mouth was opened in a grimace, with his tongue sweeping across his teeth. He sat up with his knees to his chest. 

Daenys realized what she had done, “When I was Lord Tully’s guest. Do you remember that feast held just after we met? Well… my first dance there was with a Bracken.” 

“A Bracken?” The word was uttered with such aggression and venom it could have been mistaken for the foulest of insults. Ben's hands gripped his knees with a ferocity she had scarcely seen from him. Daenys scrambled to control the situation. She crawled to him and placed her hands over his while she kneeled in from of him. She sat back on her legs. 

“My love, you need not worry about such things. It was only a dance. I recall his name being Aeron or something.” She rubbed his hands.

“Did he do anything? Gods, that craven family. Degenerates and-”

“Benji, he did not do anything. If you recall, that feast was for men to meet me, so you cannot fault him for approaching.” Daenys used one hand to comb through his hair.

Ben scoffed, “I can and I will fault him and that whole damned family. It’s-”

“You are losing yourself to your anger.” Daenys kissed him on his forehead, “If anything, I offended him.” 

Ben breathed deeply, in and out for a moment. All the while Daenys was physically assuring him through soft caresses. She had noticed early on that despite his shy exterior, Ben was quick to anger. A level of aggression that balanced on the edge of near insanity. It had not bothered her when she found out. It was a part of Ben and she wished to be with the whole of him, not any fake persona he would put on. 

“And what offences did you give him?” Ben questioned. 

“He had warned me about bad houses present at the feast. He cautioned me to avoid members of your house.” Daenys answered, though was nervous about setting him off. 

“That craven. Too cowardly to fight me and must undermine my family. I swear-” Ben cuts himself off upon seeing Daenys’ face. He breathed in and out again to keep himself grounded. 

“I told him off for his foul words, you need not worry. And who exactly won? I am with you, aren’t I?” Daenys moved closer to Ben. He allowed her to slot herself between his knees. He nodded to her and hung his head. She leaned forward and connected their foreheads. 

“I did not mean to put you in such a foul mood,” Daenys confessed. 

Ben lifted his head with a glint in his eye, “You’re mine, not his.”  

He surged forward and captured her lips in a kiss. It was searing. His hands went to the back of her head and pulled her in closer, impossibly close. The grip on her hair was new, as he only ever caressed her locks gently. The change was not disliked on her end. Ben moved forward, slowly pushing Daenys backwards. He bit down on her lip slightly and let out a muffled groan. 

Daenys continued to move backwards until her head hit one of the cushions. Ben leaned over her with his forearms on either side of her head. She struggled to stay aware of her surroundings, as her feelings made her senses dizzy. Each time she felt comfortable, Ben always surprised her with the intensity of his devotion. He pulled away but did not stop his assault on her face. Trailing his lips over to where her neck met her jaw. His teeth scraped the skin as his heavy breaths fanned against her. 

“Gevie.” Ben’s whisper was nearly incoherent. The man seemed lost in his own world as he worshipped Daenys’ skin. He muttered the word many times over, like a holy man reciting scripture. In this life, his heaven lay beneath him. He shifted his weight onto one arm while the other moved down and pulled up her dress, crumpling the fabric to sit at her waist. His fingers gripped the plush skin of her thigh and the thumb moved back and forth, swaying dangerously close to her core. 

Ben had gone back to kissing her. Daenys’ lips parted and he seized the opportunity. His tongue made a new home in her mouth, fighting against hers. He hummed and the vibrations coursed between them. The hand on her thigh trailed up to her centre.

“Ben!” Daenys rasped at the shock of skin-on-skin contact. Her heart began to pound. Ben broke contact and pulled away. 

“I told you before dinner that we would finish later.” His index finger trailed down and between her folds, smoothing down the slick that had built up quickly. His movements were slow and calculated. One area was grazed making Daenys breath hitch. Ben noticed her reaction and zeroed in on her bud with his thumb, slowly increasing the pressure and speed. He began to kiss her chest as it rose up and down with her frantic breaths. 

She had no other thought but him: his touches, his kisses, the feeling of his strong body over hers. If she could stay here for the rest of eternity, Daenys would stake her soul on it and curse the gods. There was a lightness to his touches, but a possessive nature in the way he revered her body. Daenys covered her mouth to suppress her moans in fear that a guard making the rounds in the hallway outside could hear. 

Ben continued to bite and suck on her chest, collarbones, and neck. His fingers moved in quick succession, building the tension growing in Daenys. 

“Ben! I-” She bit down on her lip to silence her cry. The tension pulled taut. Her back arched as it felt like her body was going to burst into a ball of flame. As soon as she was nearing a peak, Ben stopped and pulled his hand away. Daenys whimpered in disappointment, already missing his touch. He moved in to kiss her lips one last time before shifting down. He had crawled to be near to her core, and without any warning, he buried his face in her. 

Daenys’ first instinct was to move her legs together, but Ben used both of his hands to grip the area where her thigh met her hips and held them down. What his fingers did well, his tongue excelled in. It moved over her bud in careful strokes while his hands massaged her skin. Ben acted like a man starved. It was feverish, rushed in speed, but careful in savouring. 

Jolts of pleasure shot through her body as he continued his work. Her exposed skin pricked despite the intense heat she felt and a flush swept over her. The wanton manner in which Ben was kissing, licking, and sucking her made Daenys’ face scrunch and eyes close. It was getting harder and harder to keep the lewd noises that spilled from her lips quiet. After a particularly loud moan, Ben growled in response and the vibrations coursed through her lower body. 

Daenys was intoxicated by his worship of her. Her head lulled from side to side, fighting with all her strength to not call out his name. Her voice started to murmur his name repeatedly, becoming more frequent as the same pressure began to build up again. Ben, in the small seconds of lifting up for breath, muttered back: gevie. His voice, which spoke her mother tongue, sounded better than all the hymns and bands she had ever listened to in life. 

“Gevie, gevie, gevie,...” 

A prayer of worship, of the promise of safety, of love. It was all too intense, too otherworldly. Yet, with just one more flick of his tongue, Daenys felt herself reach that snap. The intensity had turned into a fire that coiled through her limbs, etching trails of pleasure through her. Her body shook and her thighs moved against the hold Ben had them in. He continued to work her core as she rode out her high. Her spasms turned tense as she lost control of her body. Her breathing had been sent into overdrive in an attempt to cool the burning she felt. Daenys hands had been gripping the cushions around her as if that action could ground her.

Once Daenys was able to get a hold of her own body, Ben pulled away. He looked at her and smiled while running his tongue against his lips. She sat up slightly as he crawled over to her. Their mouths moved together in a tantalizingly slow kiss. Ben moaned as his hands continued to move and caress all over her body. Daenys opened her eyes when she separated, but he kept his eyes closed as he moved further forward to search her out. 

They finally pulled away, but only slightly. Their breaths mingled together in the air around them. Both seemed to have trouble in catching their breath, but neither cared. Ben moved to lie down beside her. He pulled her down with him and wrapped her up in his arms, his biceps flexing. Daenys set her head on his chest. A free hand moved up to caress the skin of his chest that peaked out from the small unbuttoned space from his shirt.  

After a moment of silence, Ben spoke up, “Remember when you jested about running off to get married soon? I do believe we should do that.” 

Daenys laughed, “After the weeks of trouble I have gone through to plan? Not a chance.”

“You do realize we will have to wait two more weeks? Every day it kills me slowly that I cannot call you my wife. At this rate, I should be dead before the ceremony.” Ben huffed. One of his hands rubbed up and down Daenys’ upper arm.

“No amount of honeyed words you speak will change the date,” She lifted her head to look at him. Daenys leaned in to give him a quick kiss. “I am sorry, my love.” 

Ben nodded at her words, content to listen and obey whatever she wished, “If I must wait that long, then I will. But do not expect that upon that night you will be getting any amount of rest, my love.”

___________

✧.* notes: this is the first time i have ever written smut, so if it looks like i don't know what i am doing, thats because i truly don't lol. but, if i do not practice, how will i ever get good at it? thank you all for your support <3

if you want to be added to the taglist to any of my posts or just posts from this series, just comment which one and i will add you.

✧.* taglist: @credulouskhaleesi @username199945

[babybells123]

Do you ever think of how;

“Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair.” (Arya, AGOT I)

“The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky.” (Jon II, ASOS)

“I might get her with child."

"Aye, I'd hope so. A strong son or a lively laughing girl kissed by fire, and where's the harm in that?" (Jon II, ASOS)

(And Sansa II follows where she thinks of having children resembling/named after lost family members)

‘Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.’ (Jon II , ASOS)

‘Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells.’ (Arya I AGOT)

“She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.” (Catelyn, ACOK VII)

“Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful.” (Tyrion, VIII ASOS).

This is autumn auburn hair: (*note* this photo also appears when you search dark honey hair)

I cant decide whether this is auburn or a dark blonde caramel (and I think it can be seen as both)

‘They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.’ (Jon, ADWD XI)

“She donned silken smallclothes and a linen shift, and over that a warm dress of blue lambswool. Two pairs of hose for her legs, boots that laced up to her knees, heavy leather gloves, and finally a hooded cloak of soft white fox fur.”

….

“When she opened the door to the garden, it was so lovely that she held her breath, unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty. The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground.”

…

“I wish you could see yourself, my lady. You are so beautiful. You're crusted over with snow like some little bear cub, but your face is flushed and you can scarcely breathe.” (Sansa VII ASOS)

“It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me. (Sansa VII ASOS)

A sight so lovely = Val with Ghost, cheeks flushed red, clad in all white like snow, sometimes she’s described as having grey eyes but she has blue eyes in this excerpt, bearskin cloak, long braid the colour of dark honey, reference to a weirwood = old gods.

So lovely she held her breath = Sansa clad in a white fox fur cloak (which GRRM has as a figurine), all white surroundings (snow), building a snow castle, face flushed, referred to as a little bear cub, covered in snow, the snow is very romantically coded in this scene as well + there is talk of weirwood trees = Ghost, not to mention ‘ghostly silence’ and Jon reuniting with Ghost in the previous chapter where he also talks of the godswood and weirwood trees.

The connections that Jon makes here are associated with warmth, home, belonging, and Winterfell.

Sansa’s quotes are also rich with themes of home, belonging, and Winterfell where she draws strength from the snow and rebuilds from the ‘ashes.’ Just as Jon in the previous chapter talks of doing.

And “drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses…..it was the taste of Winterfell, the taste of innocence, the taste of dreams.” (A dream of spring)

All of these above associations are overtly positive.

Now compare that to….

“The light of the half-moon turned Val’s honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. “The air tastes sweet.”

“My tongue is too numb to tell. All I can taste is the cold.” (Jon VIII ADWD)

I’m not going to say anymore on that.

Dark honey hair:

Light auburn hair:

Copper hair:

You could also interpret the dark honey as actual dark honey i.e

<333

[thetormentita]

daylight and the sun - chapter 2

something changes when profecies mingle with reality.

Pairing: Original female! Targaryen x Genderbent! Rhaenyra Targaryen, Original female! Targaryen x Original female! Tully

A/n: wohoo! Here comes our king! 🤪 step by step rhaegar will craft his legend.

Warnings: smut, mentions of pregnancy, unprotected sex, targcest in all its glory.

Rating: Explicit (+18)

Tagging list: @novaursa @maegelletargaryen

Rhaegar wants to be a good ruler, so he leaves to check the island with some of his friends, wanting to know it as good as the palm of his hand, having asked her first to take a look at his Roslyn, who doesn’t seem to improve from her aches and discomforts even after half a moon since their arrival.

And she pliantly obeys, fighting her best to not melt under the touch of his hand over the lower part of her back.

Alysanne has been by her side all morning, sewing as her sweet goodsister dozes, watching over her with a tenderness that could melt even the coldest of hearts. The bond between them has only grown stronger since their arrival on the island, each day forging a deeper connection through shared experiences and mutual care.

“I like the way the sun draws your profile, my dragon.”

That mere mumble, barely louder than a whisper, is enough to draw a soft smile from Alysanne. She sets aside her sewing, the needle and thread momentarily forgotten, as she turns to gaze upon her goodsister, whose eyelids flutter slightly with the touch of dreams. The early sun casts a warm, golden hue over the room, painting every surface with a gentle light that seems to celebrate the quiet, intimate moment between them.

Alysanne reaches out, her hand gently brushing against Roslyn’s cheek, tucking a stray auburn hair behind her ear. Roslyn's eyelids flutter once more, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans unconsciously into Alysanne's touch. For a moment longer, Alysanne allows herself to drink in the sight of her goodsister, so peaceful and pristine in the morning's embrace. It's a rare, unguarded moment that speaks volumes of their bond, a sacred silence that needs no words to convey the depth of their connection. Alysanne's heart swells with a sense of affection and gratitude for this quiet interlude, a tangible reminder of the strength and intimacy of their relationship.

“Come, sweetling” Roslyn says, pausing to take her hand gently and kiss the palm before pulling her to make her lay on the bed as well. “Let us not waste this beautiful morning.” Alysanne can't help but smile, the warmth from Roslyn's gesture enveloping her like the morning sun.

Despite the time they spend together, Alysanne still marvels at the tenderness and care with which Roslyn treats her. There is something infinitely comforting about being in Roslyn’s presence —a sense of peace and belonging that she has never found anywhere else. As they lay side by side, Alysanne turns to look at the wife of her brother, her heart swelling with emotions that are complex and bewildering.

“You should be resting, my love” Alysanne cups Roslyn’s face with a hand, tender, her eyes locking with Roslyn’s in a gaze that holds volumes of unspoken words between them. Roslyn’s lips curve into a soft smile, a response that feels like a balm to Alysanne's agitated soul.

“I find my rest in your company,” Roslyn whispers back, her voice a gentle caress that seems to soothe the very air around them.

Alysanne feels a smile tugging at her own lips, despite the turmoil that roils within her.

“If Rhaegar finds out…” a soft laugh leaves her lips as Roslyn places a finger gently over them, a signal to silence the worries that threaten to overshadow this moment of tranquility.

“He will be pleased to see us so close, I am sure of it.”

Alysanne unconsciously kisses the digit, softly nibbling at it before pulling back, a playful glint in her eyes. Roslyn's cheeks flush with a soft rose hue, her expression a mix of surprise and delight.

“I desire you, my sweet sister” Alysanne leans over her and kisses her lips, delicately, feeling the warmth that emanated from Roslyn, their breath mingling in the quiet air between them. “But I feel I must call for maester Gerardys to check on you.”

Roslyn’s laughter, light and melodious, fills the room, easing the tension that had begun to coil within Alysanne. “Oh, my sweet dragon, do not leave me alone.” Alysanne's heart flutters at Roslyn's words, a symphony of emotions playing within her. “Your presence lifts my sprits, my love.”

To have somebody so devoted to her is strange, no matter how hard Roslyn tries to ease it. Never in her life, not even her own mother the queen Aemma, she has been subject to such praise and protection, such unwavering belief and support, and she can’t help but find it warm and inviting, luring her towards her goodsister’s side, almost demanding for more as she pliantly complies, happy to have her ‘sweet dragon’ look at her with such admiration and love.

It takes Alysanne a considerable effort to leave the room, promising to herself that it would be just for a moment, only to bring maester Gerardys back to check Roslyn’s condition. As she steps out into the cold, stone corridors of the castle, the warmth of her goodsister’s affection still clings to her, an invisible cloak that guards her against the chill.

Her steps are swift and purposeful, echoing softly against the ancient stones as she navigates the labyrinthic hallways of the castle, almost automatic as she roams over the corridors searching for the maester.

What she doesn’t expect is to meet Elinda there, searching for her.

“The prince is back, my lady. You gave orders for us to tell you the moment we knew.”

She is about to thank her handmaiden when some steps echo against the stone of the floor and she turns to meet her brother’s gaze upon them. She does turn back to face Elinda in search of an explanation of the delay of the notice, but in those brown eyes she finds a clear answer: “It took a while to find you because you left the room.”

“Aly” his voice reaches her then, filled with a mix of relief and mild reproach, “is something the matter?”

She had spent the days since their arrival always close to somebody else, still unsure of his feelings towards her no matter what Roslyn says, because the last time they shared some degree of intimacy she was pregnant with her first son, the body he used to lust before long gone.

“I felt I needed to tell maester Gerardys to see Roslyn” she approaches him, her eyes upon his, lured to go to him as in a sort of spell.

“Of course” he replies, nodding softly before looking at Elinda. “Please, do tell the maester to go to the lady Roslyn’s chambers, Elinda. We will be there in a moment.”

Elinda nods, her gaze lingering on them for a moment longer than necessary before she turns on her heel, her skirts swishing softly as she departs to carry out the request.

Before the war on the Stepstones they were together almost all day, every day, their laughter and whispered secrets filling the halls of the castle, a testament to the bond they shared. After the war came the forced separation.

“Aly” he gently cups her face, their gaze meeting, a silent understanding passing between them. The years apart have changed them both, scars etched not just on their bodies but their souls too. “I need to talk to you.”

“Rhaegar” she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper, the intimacy of their connection undimmed by time or turmoil. The name falls from her lips like a prayer, a beacon of hope.

One of his thumbs brushes her cheek, tenderly, like if Alysanne was made of the finest porcelain, fragile and precious. His eyes, deep pools of unwavering sincerity, hold hers. “Haēdar.”

Haēdar. Little sister. His little sister.

Alysanne closes her eyes, leaning into the comfort that Rhaegar’s presence brings. His touch, light and reassuring, anchors her in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. The warmth of his hand against her skin feels like the first rays of dawn after the darkest night, promising safety and a new beginning. She breathes in deeply, the scent of his cloak, a mix of pine and the crisp sea air, enveloping her in a cocoon of familiarity and peace. It feels like coming home, a sentiment Alysanne hasn’t realized she yearns for until this very moment. Rhaegar’s presence is a balm to her tempestuous spirit, a quietude that quells the tempest within her soul.

“I have been so lonely” she confesses, her face searching his palm, her soul longing for the touch of the only man that has ever fulfilled her. “I have missed you deeply.”

“We are meant together, haēdar.”

The touch of Rhaegar’s forehead against hers, the warmth of his breath mingling with hers, ignites a spark that had long lain dormant within Alysanne. She tilts her head, softly, and the ghost feeling of his lips grazing hers brings a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

“I made you a promise long ago, and I will fulfill it.” he mumbles, only for her to hear.

If there is any kind of resistance in Alysanne, it fades away the very moment their lips meet in a kiss that feels like the mending of two souls long separated. The world around them seems to still, time pausing in reverence to this singular moment. The air grows thick with the magic of their connection, an unspoken bond that pulls them closer, knitting their hearts together with threads of love, destiny, and an undeniable sense of belonging.

Alysanne’s body responds instinctively to his touch, her own hands reaching up to thread through his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss that felt like the first and last all at once—a moment suspended between the eternal heartbeat of the universe. Rhaegar, with a gentleness that belied his strength, wraps his arms around her, drawing her into the warmth of his embrace. Her body leans against his, like two broken pieces putting back together again, finding solace in the completeness of their union. In the silence that envelops them, it is not just their hearts that speak volumes but the very essence of their souls, intertwining in a dance older than time itself.

“Nyke jorrāelagon ao. (I need you.)” His voice, a soft murmur against her ear, carries the weight of unspoken promises and forgotten dreams, rekindling a fire within her that she thought long extinguished. “Sagon ñuhon. (Be mine.)”

Her response comes as a whisper, delicate yet unwavering, a testament to the depths of her feelings, stirred from their long slumber, the words leaving her mouth without even thinking about them. “Eman va moriot issare aōhon. (I have always been yours.)”

Roslyn’s confessions come to her mind as she fights to not give up and melt under his touch. The mere idea of being the object of affections from her brother and her goodsister leaves her in a delightful state of bliss, suddenly her life seems to be filled with a multitude of possibilities, ones she had never dared to dream of before. The revelation, wrapped in the gentle cadence of the language of their ancestors, feels like a binding spell, weaving their destinies together with an unbreakable thread.

Rhaegar’s lips curve into a smile bright and genuine, and she does the same, a soft laugh escaping her mouth as the joy within her finds no other way to express itself.

“We should go with Ros, Zaldrītsos. (Little dragon.)” his nose nuzzles hers, softly, as he takes her by the hand.

Alysanne nods, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers, a connection sparking between them that goes beyond the physical. The title he bestowed upon her, ‘Little Dragon,’ fills her with a sense of pride and belonging. It's more than just a term of endearment; it is a recognition of her strength, her spirit, and her fierce independence.

Their steps guide them towards the quarters where their other part is resting, possibly eager to meet them, and Alysanne can’t help but smile the whole way towards their destiny, her body delighting itself with the warmth of her brother’s presence, their hands tied together, as if neither of them wants to leave the other go.

Once they reach the door to Roslyn’s chambers, Rhaegar opens them without knocking before, not caring about any sense of pudity nor maners, and Alysanne realizes that he may do the same in the future.

Not that she truly cares.

He will be the king of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her king.

Hers.

Hers and Roslyn’s.

“Rhaegar” Roslyn greets him as their gazes meet, and Alysanne can see a glow of elation in those big blue eyes of hers when she observes her by her husband’s side. “My love.”

Maester Gerardys is finishing his examinations when they come into the room, and he stands up from the chair the moment the name of the crowned heir comes to his ears, bowing at him before turning again at Roslyn and helping her to lower her nightgown again, in an attempt to keep any decency after having observed much part of her anatomy. Alysanne sighs when she can feel the warmth of Rhaegar behind her, his hands resting upon her flat belly, his thumbs drawing lazy figures over the dress, a nice tingly feeling pooling between her legs as her mind allows a moment of fantasy.

“My prince. Princess.” his face betrays nothing of what he has discovered, and Alysanne can feel her heart skipping beats. “The lady Roslyn will need rest and an easy life for the oncoming moons. My most sincere congratulations.”

That only means one thing.

Before she can even notice, Gerardys is closing the door to leave them some privacy and she is already sitting by Roslyn’s side, her head resting against her goodsister’s shoulder, the scent of her hair intoxicating her senses.

“My sweet wife” Rhaegar lifts Roslyn’s chin with his index and the kiss they share fills Alysanne with joy as one of her hands goes to the Riverlander’s belly, stroking it with loving care. “You are such a blessing.”

Roslyn seems elated, and Alysanne nuzzles her neck, slightly letting herself go.

“We will take good care of you” she mumbles, her lips curving in a tender smile. “Both of us.”

Rhaegar kneels in front of them, and his purple eyes shine like the most precious amethysts. When his hand lands over hers on Roslyn’s body, she closes her eyes in delight, still getting used to the feeling of belonging.

“Whose quarters are fitter, haēdar?”

His mumble stirs something inside her she thought she had forgotten.

“Mine.”

She had taken the lord of the castle’s quarters the moment they moved to Dragonstone to Laenor’s dismay. He had shown his discomfort for the fact of not being him the one to occupy the biggest chambers in the whole castle, and it had costed an argument or two, but she had never given too much importance to what her husband could say about anything related to her family.

“I will make the necessary arrangements to move everything there. It will be our den.”

…

The feeling of Roslyn’s soft locks between her fingers as she braids them is addictive, the reflex of the woman’s pleased face showing how much they love that private moment.

“My first pregnancy on Dragonstone. I feel like a Valyrian.” she chuckles as her hand lands on her still flat belly.

“You are as pretty as a Valyrian, mandia yno. (sister of mine.) Mother of Valyrian children, wife to a Valyrian dragonrider, lover to another. You have everything.” she kisses her hair with a soft smile, pausing her braiding momentarily to gaze into Roslyn's eyes, a mix of warmth and a tinge of melancholy in her own. “And you carry a Valyrian baby, a child of fire and blood.”

They smile at the reflection of the other in the polished silver mirror before them, the intimacy of the moment enveloped in the quiet hum of the chamber.

“You are so good to me, Aly.”

Roslyn murmurs, her voice a gentle caress that matches the tender look she offers Aly. The room seems to hold its breath, the only sounds are the flickering candles, silently dancing and casting shadows on the walls, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere around the two women.

“And you to me,” Aly replies, her voice barely above a whisper, as she reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Roslyn's ear, tenderly, as if touching something infinitely precious. The simplicity of the gesture speaks volumes, conveying love and care in a way words never could. Their eyes lock, a silent conversation passing between them, an understanding deeper than the ocean flowing effortlessly.

“I love when there is only Rhaegar, you and I” Roslyn murmurs, her voice laced with a warmth that makes Aly’s heart swell. “As it should be. As we are meant to be.”

Her response is a soft smile, one that carries the weight of their shared moments, the trials they’ve overcome together, and the promise of a future filled with more of these tender, quiet exchanges. Aly reaches out, her hand finding Roslyn’s, fingers intertwining in a silent vow of their connected spirits.

“Ñuha byka klios. (My little fish.)” Aly whispers in High Valyrian, her words floating between them like a sacred secret, leaning towards her goodsister, her lover, her lips grazing hers softly at first, before deepening the kiss with a fervor that speaks volumes of their undying affection. The world around them seems to fade away, leaving nothing but the warmth of their embrace and the beating of their hearts in synchrony.

The fire within Roslyn seems to ignite with a passion unmatched, a yearning that had been silently growing, now unleashed in the safety of Alysanne’s arms. Her response is equally fervent, a testament to the profound bond they share.

“Aly, sweet Aly.” Roslyn’s lips barely part from Alysanne’s as she whispers the endearment, her voice a soft murmur filled with emotion. Her hands, previously tentative, now roam with purpose, tracing the contours of Alysanne’s back, feeling the strength and tenderness that lie beneath. Alysanne’s breath catches in her throat at the intensity of the touch, a shiver running down her spine. She stands up at the same time as Roslyn, unable to stay too far from her. She just pushes her against the vanity, forcing her to sit on it.

“I need you.”

Gerardys had said that it is possible for an expecting woman to get greedy and crave intimate touch more than usual, and it had sounded strange at the first time, but now it feels normal, as it should be, a bond between them deepening with every breath they share. Roslyn’s hands find Alysanne’s waist, pulling her closer, eliminating the distance between them. Their eyes lock in a moment of silent understanding, conveying a depth of emotion that words could never fully capture.

Aly goes to the exposed neck of the Riverlander, tracing delicate patterns with her lips, eliciting a shiver that runs through both of their bodies. Her hands roam free under the nightgown, her fingers finding delight in every inch of flesh below them before landing on her thighs, her soft and warm thighs that call for her, attracting her like a flame attacts a moth.

“Ñuha ābrar.” a chuckle goes unadverted to Alysanne’s ears.

She certainly hasn’t heard the door, and of course she hasn’t noticed the new presence in the room, but that voice, raspy with desire, tears a soft whimper from her, her skin pliant and malleable as Rhaegar’s lips land on her own neck, leaving a trail of wet sloppy kisses.

“My love” Roslyn breathes as her own hands tug with the laces of her nightgown, pooling it around her waist.

“So selfish to have fun without me.” one of his hands goes to her belly one more time, pulling her against him. It is then that she realizes how little she is next to him, how she takes after their mother’s side and Rhaegar takes after their father’s. “I like it when you are playful. My women.” Rhaegar’s mouth approaches her ear, her teeth nibbling at her lobe for a moment, tearing a soft moan from her. “Mine. Only mine.”

She knows the mere moment Laenor returns to Dragonstone there will be conflict. She knows how deeply Rhaegar loathes him, how he delights himself with the idea of his blade opening him from ear to belly. She knows Rhaegar wants to claim her not as a lover, nor a sister, but a wife, like Aegon the Conqueror with sweet Rhaenys.

And she likes the idea.

“Our Ros looks ravishing with a babe in her belly, my love” his lips go to her neck again, and she tilts her head to leave him do as he wishes. “A little dragon growing up inside her, making her glow.” One of his hands go to one of her breasts, teasing it over her nightgown, making her whimper, as the other strokes her belly, flat and fallow. “It would be such a lovely sight to have both of my wives full with my babes, haēdar. How perfect you would look with your belly swollen, a perfect Valyrian mother. Wouldn’t you like it, love?”

A corner of her mind, the one that is still working and not hazed in lust, tries to find any opposition to the idea, any reason to make is stop or run to the maester’s rooms searching for moon tea, but the image of a little baby curled between her arms, with a tuft of silver-blonde hair and the eyes of Rhaegar is appealing enough for her. He needs a dinasty, spare heirs to wear the crown of the Conciliator once Rhaegar dies and keep his bloodline going for centuries.

He promised her the very day of his wedding.

And he wants to fulfill it.

She nods, only able to hum as he approaches Roslyn, still sitting on the vanity, placing her between them.

“Off with your nightgown, haēdar.”

Before she can even try to oppose, her arousal drives her movements, and she finds herself naked between the perfect figure of Ros and the imposing body of Rhaegar.

She could die happily.

“Good girl” he purrs as he gets rid of his own breeches as well, quickly leaving them aside, far enough from them to not disturb. The feeling of his cock against her back entices her, unconsciously making her slightly part her legs. “Why don’t you take care of our wife while I take care of you?” a finger goes to her crotch, and the pooling warmth of her arousal makes her brother groan “Soaking. Ñuha byka līve… (My little whore…)”

A soft moan escapes her lips as Roslyn and her fuse in a sloppy kiss, greedy, her hands go to her thighs and her waist searching for some support as Rhaegar tortures her with his fingers, teasing her, driving her insane.

“Valyrians used to have more than a wife, you know? Even Aenar Targaryen, himself. He took his wives from Valyria to Dragonstone.” a gasp makes her part from Roslyn’s lips as Rhaegar slips a quick finger to the front of her crotch, to that little source of pleasure, and Aly returns to Roslyn, licking and nibbling her way down her neck to her breasts, suffocating her own moans against the flesh of her lover. “The Conqueror married both his sisters. Maegor married six different women. I will take you both as my wives, claim you as mine at the eyes of every god above.” her wetness gets invaded by the tip of Rhaegar’s hard cock, who seems to take delight in her whines, in how her body searches him. “Aly…” he hisses as he makes his way into her, his hands focused on her pleasure. “Oh, my haēdar… Sīr sȳz… (So good…)”

Alysanne moans as soon as Rhaegar buries himself deep inside her, her mouth leaving Roslyn’s breast for a moment before retaking it, her tongue swirling around it and her teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making her quickly come, her own fingers pleasing herself, her moans calling her name like a prayer.

The sound of Roslyn’s own pleasure and Rhaegar’s groans as he searches his won pleasure into her are enough for her to reach her own bliss, her back arching as if wanting to make Rhaegar go even deeper, almost coming on him again as he unloads inside her, his hands grasping her breasts as he calls for her, driven by lust.

Fused in a warm embrace, they keep that position until Rhaegar decides to move out of her, making her whimp at the sudden feeling of emptiness. His firm hands guide her to the bed, where he helps her lay on her side before impalling her again, half-hard, tearing a silent moan from her lips, curled in a sort of pleased smile. A strong arm makes her lean against his chest, and she closes her eyes to delight herself to the feel of him against her back.

“My beautiful sister-wife” Roslyn’s soft voice comes with a sweet kiss on her forehead, her lips wet and warm. “You cannot imagine how happy you make me.”

…

He likes to wake up next to his ābrar, to start the day observing the peace they exude, the love they have for each other.

He loves Roslyn, he has leant to love her through all the time they have been married and her presence is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. Together, they have built a life that is rich in love and mutual respect. She had also turned to need Alysanne as well, and Rhaegar doesn’t know if his wife trully does or if she just wanted to comply with his wishes and she turned to love the part they missed to feel complete.

Because the dragon has always had three heads.

“Issa paktot. (It is allright.)” he says as he takes the hand of Alysanne to his lips, kissing it before putting it against his cheek “Emi olvie jēda. (We have plenty of time.)” he closes his eyes and delights himself with his sister’s warm touch.

He promised himself to not worry about the succession, not to be like his father. He would never sacrifice the lives of neither Aly nor Ros for a baby. They could have others.

A pat on his lap is enough for his sister to sit down, and one of his hands goes to her waist while the other stays on her thigh, holding her close in a comforting embrace.

“Kesan jurnegon tolī ao (I will look after you)” he mumbles, his eyes half-lidded as he observes her features, delighting himself with the gentle curve of her smile, the way her eyes light up with trust and affection. She rests her head against his shoulder, her own eyes fluttering closed, feeling the warmth and security of his embrace enveloping her. “Kesan manaeragon aōha valītsossa hae ñuhon. (I will raise your boys as mine.)”

She nuzzles against his neck, and he feels lucky.

He could stay like that forever. With his duties as a husband fulfilled with the babe growing in Roslyn’s belly, he has enough time to enjoy the company of his little sister, his dear Aly, whose laughter fills the halls of their ancestral home, a sound more precious to him than the finest melodies played at court. Aly, with her youthful exuberance, embodies the spirit of their family’s legacy. She is the light in the gloom, a beacon of joy.

It wonders him how she manages to keep such warmth and brightness in her after all she has been through.

“I love you” he muses, finding delight in the feel of her lips against his jaw. “I need you by my side, ñuha zaldrītsos (little dragon).”

The privacy of their moment is shattered when a guard in black and red armour interrupts, announcing her eldest lad.

Just in time.

[allergictocolor]

Character Profile - Cousin Itt

Cousin Itt was created for the 1960s TV show, so I don’t have a quote from Charles Addams saying what he should be like. He was fashioned after two drawings of a man completely covered in/made out of hair and wearing sunglasses:

In his first TV appearance, he was a little person wearing a suit and gloves, who simply had a tremendous amount of hair. You could clearly see his legs, arms, and hands. Here he is performing a magic act for the family:

That first costume was made using real human hair, but since everyone everywhere smoked all the time back in the 60s, the costume was later changed to synthetic hair to be less of a fire hazard. They also added more hair, glasses, and sometimes a hat. This became the iconic look of Cousin Itt.

He was played by Felix Silla (above right), who at 3’11” tall was the perfect height to wear the costume. While he performed Itt’s actions, they did not use his voice. Itt’s signature meeping sounds were created by the show’s sound engineer, Tony Magro. His way of speaking was replicated in various ways in every later incarnation, even when he was voiced by a celebrity. In the 2019 and 2021 3D animated films, his voice was provided by Snoop Dogg, but it sounds like it was played backwards and the pitch was raised and possibly sped up. Despite his speech being indecipherable, the members of the Addams family can all understand Itt perfectly.

In the sitcom, Itt will ring the doorbell when he arrives at the house, but if they take too long to let him in, he’ll climb up the walls and enter the house through a window or the chimney. Itt doesn’t live in the house, but he has a guest room built to his dimensions. The others have to stoop to fit inside of it. It’s played for comedic effect, but it’s kind of wonderful that there’s at least one place where other people have to deal with everything being built for his size, rather than the other way around.

The plots for Cousin Itt’s appearances in the sitcom centered around him finding a job or, at one point, losing his hair. In the 1991 film, he falls in love with Margaret Alford, the wife of Tully Alford, who was scamming the family. This sort of establishes Itt as a ladies’ man, which carries over into the 90s animated series and the 3D animated films. Though in the 1993 movie, he’s happily married to Margaret and they have a hairy little child together named What.

Cousin Itt has not yet appeared in the Netflix show Wednesday, though an ancestor of his has. In the seventh episode, Fester, Thing, and Wednesday break into a safe behind a painting of Ignatius ”Iggy” Itt. The way that Fester refers to him makes it clear that this is not the Itt that they both know today, but a different, earlier relative. In addition to that, the dates under the painting are from 200 years ago, and we can assume that Cousin Itt is not over 200 years old. Though it is hard to tell with this family.

Will Cousin Itt make an appearance in Wednesday? It’s unlikely to happen in season 2 unless it’s a surprise. None of the guest stars listed are under four feet tall. There is the possibility that one of the new actors with an unnamed role could be the voice actor for Itt, and a little person would be hired to do the body work, but it’s far more likely that they would hire someone famous for the role.

We are already meeting Grandmama in season 2, and there will be some amount of plot happening in the Addams family mansion, so we can’t completely rule out the possibility of Itt making an appearance. However, they may also wait until a third season to introduce him, and hire someone like Warwick Davis to play him. Right now, only those involved in the show know for certain.

[the-fiction-witch]

A Good Job

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Oscar Tully (Age Up) Couple - Oscar X Reader Reader - Ophelia (Wife) Rating - 18+ BJs/ Word Count - 1135

Requested -

Please do a lil smut of Oscar! him and his wife in Riverrun! pretty please!

Oscar woke after a long night of deep, restful sleep, perhaps his responsibilities as lord paramount of the Riverlands were taking more of a toll than he first thought. The distant rumble of the storm still lingered outside Riverrun, its echoes reaching his chambers. Despite the tempestuous weather, the warmth of his chambers provided a comforting shield against the chills that sought to invade. As he rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up on his elbows, the soft glow of the storm's light filtering through the windows illuminated the room, revealing the intricate tapestries adorning the walls and the ornate furniture that spoke of centuries of noble Tully heritage. It was only then that he noticed it.

He felt the addictive sensation below his sheets. Enough to force a moan from his lips as he throws back his head.

His wife, Lady Ophelia. Laid below the sheets working hard to please her husband. Her lips wrapped firmly around his cock, suckling and licking him expertly. They'd only be married a month and she'd never done this to him before let alone wake him up with it… but he wasn’t complaining. He was immediately wide awake, his breath catching in his throat. he tried to speak, to say her name, to say anything. but his mouth simply opened and closed wordlessly, staring at the ceiling his body growing tense "o- oh- oh! Ophelia!"

She let out a little giggle and continued her work,

It took every inch of his willpower to stop from bucking forward, his hands clenching at the sheets "f-f-fuck-! What... what are you... doing?" his voice was strained, barely able to form sentences, barely able to think straight

she pulled back enough to speak "Making my husband happy," she cooed before getting right back to work

he groaned. he could barely look at her, his head falling back against the pillows again as he reached down to grip her shoulder, his fingers trembling against her soft skin "You know I- I don't want- mmmph- I don't want you to feel like you have too-" he said desperately, his voice faltering as he spoke, interrupted by moans and sighs

"I don't feel like I have to... I like making you happy Oscar." She cooed peppering him with little kisses

he groaned, his breath catching in his throat as he arched his back, his fingers tangling in her hair, tugging gently as he tried to form words again, his mind going foggy "you- you're too good to me-" he gasped, letting his head fall against the pillows again. he struggled to find the words to describe how he was feeling, his body shuddering. it felt incredible, her touch like fire against him. it had been so long, yet all he could think about was her and- "please- please don't stop. I- I need-" he groaned again, his words fading into moans as he lost himself in the sensation

she nodded guiding his hands to her hair so he could give her more direct orders

he gripped her hair desperately, his fingers tangling in her soft locks, pulling her forward as if to draw her to him, to feel more of her touch, more of her kisses "please- just like that-" he muttered, his breathing uneven, his chest heaving. the fire was building low, building fast, and he was helpless to stop it, not that he wanted too. he tried desperately to focus himself, to hold back, but it was so hard. the pleasure was so sharp, so intense, it was all he could do not to lose control "Op-Ophelia-! love, d-don't stop" he whimpered, his hips rocking with her movements as he arched against her touch. he was close, so close. he couldn't believe how quickly she had him unraveling. he gripped her hair tighter, his eyes shutting as his head fell back against the pillow again, his body shuddering as his breath came in short gasps, his heart racing in his chest "please- please don't stop- don't stop" he panted, his voice coming out as a hoarse whine. he was on the edge, his body coiled with tension, his hands trembling against her head. he was so close, his breath coming in short gasps, his thoughts fuzzy and wild. he managed to form another plea "please!- I- I'm-!" he didn't finish, his voice cut out as his head rolled back against his pillow, his mouth hung open as groans and animalistic moans fell from his lips as he has the most perfect feeling after just waking up and immediately becoming satisfied.

Ophelia happily cleaned up and sat up poking her head out the covers and combing her fingers though her curls still loose from going to bed last night, her nightie hung from her shoulders "Happy my sweet husband?"

he laid there panting, chest heaving, as if he had just been through a battle. after a few moments, he forced his eyes open and looked over at her, blinking blearily. he looked stunned, as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened "Gods, I think you'll be the death of me, my sweet." his voice was low and still breathless, his eyes fixed upon her, taking in the sight of her

she giggled and kissed his forehead before she hopped out of bed having a cup of wine to push the taste from her mouth before she poured him one and brought it to the bed

he laid still for a moment longer, then pushed himself into a sitting position with a sigh, reaching for the cup in her outstretched hand. he took a large sip, letting the sweet drink soothe his throat. he watched her for a moment over the rim, taking in the shape of her body through the thin fabric of her nightie "You're unbelievable"

"oh?" She asked sitting down on the bed "Didn't I do a good job?" She whimpers

he set his cup aside and leaned forward, drawing her into his lap, and wrapping his arms around her. he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, pressing his lips to her skin in tender kisses "Oh, you did too good a job." he said teasingly, his breath still hitching

she giggled rubbing her nose against his

he chuckled, pulling her close against his chest, his hands roaming over her body "Gods, I adore you. I love you so much." he murmured, nuzzling his face into her hair, breathing in the sweet scent of her and letting himself relax

she smiled widely "I love you more." She said kissing his nose

he snorted, shaking his head as he smiled, burying his face into her shoulder, planting his lips against her skin "That's not possible" he mumbled, pulling her closer into a sweet loving kiss. 

[istumpysk]

Hello! I’ve really been enjoying your chapter rereads. I’m a big fan of both Daenerys and Sansa (although unlike many Dany fans, I like her for her potential as a villain. I’ll be a fan of the character whether or not GRRM decides to follow through with her villain arc. There are things that she could do that would make me stop liking her but for now I hold the position that I like her, hero or villain).

Have you ever given much thought to potential anti-parallels between Dany and Sansa? They do share a lot of common experiences but with mostly different outcomes and I think their trajectories are clearly pretty different. I think there’s some really fertile ground for comparison.

1. Both are forced into marriages with much older men as political pawns. Both are traumatic experiences but as a result, Sansa ends up losing power whereas Dany gains it. 2. Sansa’s magical creature dies (RIP Lady) and Dany’s magical creatures are brought back from the dead. 3. Both are in a sort of exile as a result of the crimes of their fathers. Difference is that Ned didn’t actually really commit a crime and Aerys was a monster. 4. Both have a dark mentor who is also a spy, who makes unwanted advances and specifically force a kiss upon them. Both girls remind these men of another woman they loved. 5. Hair is somewhat significant. Sansa has distinctive Tully auburn, which she must dye. Dany has distinctive Valyrian silver, which is burned away. 6. Both have a dead older brother who incited great violence by having extramarital affairs (I guess Robb wasn’t married yet but I count it). 7. Both are romantics who love stories/songs and go through a sort of disillusionment. However, Sansa becomes more aware and realistic whereas Dany falls deeper into delusion. 8. Lemons. The house with the red door and the lemon tree vs lemon cakes.

Im still only like 30% through AFfC but know how it and ADwD differ from the show so idc about book spoilers. I’d really love to hear your input and if you can think of any other parallels or anti-parallels!

Hey anon, great list!

Admittedly, I suck at drawing direct parallels between characters, so I can only think of the contrasting aspects of their personalities, such as their leadership styles, their approaches to power, their notions of identity and self-perception, etc.

One thing that does stand out is how differently the author explores the themes of home and motherhood in both their POVs. A couple of people have written about it before, perhaps you'd like to read it.

Thanks for your message. :)

[naeleys]

CHAPTER 02 — the queen of love and beauty

author's note. both damon and robert aren't knights in particular since they are future lords but participating in the tourney like daemon had while being a prince. but i had called them knights in here so let us pretend that they took knighthood here before becoming lords of their houses.

< previous chapter >

Years had slipped by since the birth of Princess Rhaenyra, each one weaving a tapestry of peace and prosperity around her life. From the tender age of five months, when her father, King Aerys, had proudly declared her "The Realm's Delight," she had been cherished by all. Now, at fourteen, Rhaenyra had blossomed into a stunning young woman, her beauty celebrated far and wide across Westeros. Her name was immortalized in songs, stories, and poems that praised her grace and allure.

"There's nothing for you to fret about; you're beautiful," Vivienne Hightower, her lady-in-waiting, reassured her gently as she braided the princess's long, silver hair. "You are the beauty of Westeros for a reason."

"Being the beauty of Westeros doesn't guarantee a good husband," Rhaenyra replied, her voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "Men will come for my title and appearance, not for who I truly am."

Vivienne paused, her hands stilling as she glanced at the mirror, catching the despondent expression on Rhaenyra's face.

"You don't have to accept a suitor if you don't feel a connection or happiness," Vivienne consoled her. "The King and Queen would never allow their only daughter to end up in a miserable marriage."

As she finished braiding, Vivienne rose and gently pulled Rhaenyra to her feet. "Come now, we mustn't be late for the tourney for Prince Viserys's nameday."

King Aerys had arranged a grand tourney in honor of the first nameday of his youngest son, Prince Viserys. Nobles from across the realm had been invited, making it a prime opportunity for Rhaenyra to find a suitable match, as her father had subtly suggested. She was, after all, of marriageable age now.

"I heard a certain heir participating in the tourney has his eyes set on you," Vivienne remarked with a sly smile as they settled into the royal box beside the Lord Hand and the King.

Rhaenyra exchanged pleasantries with Cersei Lannister, the daughter of Tywin Lannister, who was of similar age.

"Is that so?" Rhaenyra inquired, arching an eyebrow at the smirking Alicent.

"Rumor has it he's an honorable man," Vivienne chimed in, her voice carrying a note of intrigue.

"Lord Rickard Stark has also arrived with his sons: Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen Stark," Cersei added, causing both ladies to glance her way in surprise. "They've come to seek your hand.”

"But doesn't Eddard Stark have a lover?" Rhaenyra asked, her brow furrowing. "I heard she's from House Tully."

"Perhaps," Cersei said with a nonchalant shrug. "But what use is a lady when he could have a princess?"

"Speaking of which..." Vivienne murmured, her gaze shifting. The others followed her line of sight to see Lord Stark and his three sons approaching the royal box, each of them tall and striking.

"Gods be good," Vivienne whispered, clearly captivated by their presence. "Is there something in the air at Winterfell?"

Cersei giggled at Vivienne's remark, a lightness in the air as they watched the Stark men draw near.

"Your Grace," Lord Stark greeted with a deep bow, his sons following suit.

"Lord Stark! It is a pleasure to see you. How do you find King's Landing so far?" the King asked warmly.

"Very different from the North, Your Grace," Lord Stark replied with a hint of a smile.

"We hope you find it comfortable," the King continued, before gesturing to the young men beside Stark. "May you present your sons?"

"The eldest, Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell," Lord Stark introduced.

Brandon stepped forward, bowing to the King before turning to Rhaenyra. "Your Grace," he said, his stormy grey eyes locking onto hers. He was undeniably handsome, and his intense gaze sent a shiver down her spine.

"Princess," Brandon added, his voice deep and steady.

Eddard, the second son, stepped up next. "Your Grace," he greeted with a kind smile directed at Rhaenyra. His long brown hair and prominent beard lent him a more mature appearance, and if not for the introductions, Rhaenyra might have mistaken him for the eldest.

"And lastly, Benjen Stark," Lord Stark concluded. The youngest son approached, his eyes setting on Rhaenyra with a mix of admiration and awe. He had heard tales of her beauty and kind heart but had never seen her in person. Her generosity to the smallfolk was well known, and it only deepened his respect for her.

"Your sons are fine young men, Lord Stark," the King said, bringing Benjen out of his thoughts. "May they accomplish great things in the future. Daughter?"

Rhaenyra rose gracefully and approached the Starks with a warm smile. "Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to finally meet you all."

"Princess Rhaenyra," Lord Stark said, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "It is an honor to meet you."

"I heard that you're seeking a husband?" he asked, his tone respectful but pointed.

Rhaenyra's smile faltered slightly. The pursuit of a match had almost slipped her mind amidst the grandeur of the tourney. Queen Rhaella had always assured her that marriage would bring happiness, especially with the prospect of motherhood. Rhaenyra wanted to believe her, but she couldn't ignore the reality of her parents' troubled union. The sadness in her mother's eyes spoke volumes. King Aerys might have been a loving father to her, but he was far from a devoted husband.

"That I am," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with uncertainty.

"Then let's hope you find a suitable match," Lord Stark said, glancing subtly at his sons, as if suggesting one of them might be the answer.

The three Stark brothers took note of their father's look. Brandon puffed out his chest, determined to make an impression. Though he didn't love the princess yet, he was prepared to fulfill his duties as a husband and, perhaps in time, grow to love her.

Eddard, however, avoided his father's gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. His heart was already promised elsewhere.

Benjen, the youngest, felt overshadowed. As the spare, he had little to offer in terms of inheritance or status, with the birthright belonging to Brandon. Still, he excelled in swordsmanship and could offer protection if nothing else.

Returning to her seat, Rhaenyra let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"How was it?" Cersei asked, her curiosity evident. "Did any of them catch your eye?"

Vivienne, too, turned her gaze toward the princess, awaiting her response.

"None of them particularly interest me," Rhaenyra replied, her tone measured, though she added, "Brandon Stark isn't entirely unattractive."

Vivienne offered a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, you may find yourself drawn to him in time."

Brandon Stark, with his confident demeanor and striking looks, had certainly left an impression. His intense gaze lingered in her thoughts, and she couldn't deny his appeal. But as Vivienne had pointed out before to her, physical attraction alone didn't guarantee a happy union. Eddard's distant manner and Benjen's youth made them less appealing in her eyes, but she couldn't dismiss any of them outright.

The burden of her title weighed heavily on her. As the only daughter of King Aerys, she knew her choice of husband would have far-reaching consequences. It wasn't just about finding a man she could grow to love; it was about securing a future for the realm. The stakes were high, and the pressure to choose wisely was ever-present.

The horns blared, and the crowd erupted in cheers as the grand tourney in honor of Prince Viserys's nameday commenced. The air was thick with the sounds of clashing swords, hooves thundering on the dirt, and the excited murmurs of the gathered nobility. Knights, eager to prove their skill and valor before the royal family, paraded onto the field, their armor gleaming under the sun.

Rhaenyra sat in the royal box, flanked by her parents and her lady-in-waiting, Vivienne. Although the festivities were in full swing, her mind wandered back to the Stark brothers and the looming prospect of marriage. The burden of her future weighed heavily on her, even as the crowd's enthusiasm surged around her.

Suddenly, the next joust was announced, pulling Rhaenyra's attention back to the field. A knight in shining armor, his shield emblazoned with the sigil of House Strong—three rivers (blue, red, and green) on white, flowing from a black escutcheon displaying a white hand—rode out with confidence. The sunlight glinted off his polished helm as he took his position, his posture exuding both strength and determination. Across from him, his opponent, a knight from House Arryn, prepared to meet him in the clash.

"Lord Damon of House Strong!" the herald's voice rang out over the crowd, naming the challenger. The spectators leaned forward in anticipation, eager to witness the skill of the man who had captured the admiration of many.

Rhaenyra's gaze fixed on Damon, a mix of curiosity and admiration in her eyes. There was something undeniably captivating about the way he carried himself—proud, yet not overly arrogant. As the joust began, the tension in the air thickened. Damon spurred his horse forward, lance aimed with precision. The crowd held its breath, waiting to see which knight would emerge victorious in this contest of skill and bravery.

The crowd murmured in anticipation as Lord Damon Strong took his place on the field. The tension in the air was palpable, with eyes fixed on the formidable knight who had earned a reputation for his strength and fearlessness.

"There he is!" Vivienne whispered excitedly beside Rhaenyra. "Lord Damon Strong, son of Osbert Strong, heir to House Strong. He's renowned for his unmatched prowess in battle."

"They call him Lord Damon 'Breakbones' Strong," Cersei added, her voice tinged with admiration. "Some say he's even better than my twin brother Jaime."

Vivienne leaned closer to Rhaenyra, her excitement barely contained. "He's quite the warrior, isn't he?”

Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze fixed on Damon as he readied his lance. "Yes, but being a good warrior doesn't necessarily mean he'll make a good husband."

Vivienne smiled, her voice softening. "True, but it's a start."

As the two knights charged at each other, the sound of clashing steel filled the air. Damon's skill was undeniable—he unseated his opponent with a single, powerful strike, sending the knight of House Arryn crashing to the ground. The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, and Rhaenyra couldn't help but feel a flutter of admiration at his prowess.

Damon dismounted and removed his helm, revealing his sweat-soaked hair and a triumphant smile. His eyes searched the royal box, and when they met Rhaenyra's, he bowed deeply, a gesture of respect that held a hint of something more. The sincerity in his gaze made her heart skip a beat, and she felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. Embarrassed by the unexpected reaction, she quickly turned away, feigning interest in the next match.

But Vivienne had noticed the exchange and leaned in with a teasing smile. "You may not be as indifferent as you claim, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra huffed, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "He's impressive, I'll admit. But I'm not making any decisions based on a joust."

"That's wise," Vivienne agreed. "But remember, you should follow your heart, too."

Rhaenyra's smile faded slightly as her gaze drifted to her parents. Queen Rhaella watched the tourney with a serene expression, yet Rhaenyra knew the sorrow that lay beneath that calm exterior. Her father, King Aerys, cheered loudly, his mood as unpredictable as ever. Their marriage had been a strategic alliance rather than a love match, and Rhaenyra couldn't help but fear that she might face a similar fate.

As the tourney continued, she realized the burden of her position. The prospect of marriage wasn't just about choosing a husband; it was about securing the future of the realm. Despite her feelings, she knew she had to tread carefully, balancing duty with the desire to forge her own path.

"Lord Damon Strong is now going to choose his opponent for the second battle!" the announcer's voice rang out, cutting through the roar of the crowd.

Damon Strong, having finished his first bout, rode back to his horse and made his way along the line of waiting knights. His gaze swept over the contenders, and Rhaenyra noticed Cersei Lannister stiffen as he stopped right in front of her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister. For a tense moment, Cersei's face paled, but relief washed over her as Damon's horse veered away and continued down the line.

"You're afraid he might crush Jaime?" Rhaenyra smirked, noting Cersei's anxious expression.

"I am merely concerned for my brother's safety," Cersei replied, her tone defensive.

"Of course," Rhaenyra chuckled. "But this is a tourney, Lady Cersei. Knights are expected to compete fiercely for their honor."

Damon's horse came to a halt in front of another knight, whose shield bore the sigil of House Baratheon. With a deliberate and confident motion, Damon pointed his lance at his chosen opponent.

The announcer's voice boomed again, "Lord Damon has chosen Lord Robert of House Baratheon as his opponent!"

The crowd erupted into applause and cheers at the news. The clash between Damon Strong and Robert Baratheon promised to be a spectacle, each knight known for his strength and skill. Rhaenyra's attention remained fixed on the field, eager to see the outcome of this high-stakes match.

Rhaenyra had yet to meet Robert Baratheon in person, but she had certainly heard whispers about him among the ladies of the court. He was famed for his bravery and strength, his reputation as a fierce fighter preceding him. Many of the court's ladies had been captivated by his charisma, and his name was spoken with a blend of admiration and infatuation.

As Damon chose Robert Baratheon as his opponent, the excitement in the air grew palpable. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, eager to witness the clash between two of the realm's most formidable knights. Rhaenyra felt a flutter of curiosity and interest, eager to see how Robert would perform.

Cersei, having regained her composure, now watched the scene with a focused gaze. "Lord Robert Baratheon," she said, her voice thoughtful. "They say he's as wild and untamed as the storm that bears his house's sigil."

Rhaenyra agreed, her eyes following the two knights as they prepared for their joust. "He has certainly earned his reputation. But Damon is equally skilled. This promises to be a clash of titans."

As the knights readied themselves, the crowd fell into a hushed silence, the tension mounting as the two warriors prepared to face off. The outcome of this joust would not only entertain the spectators but could also potentially shift the balance of power and influence within the court.

The two lords took their positions, lowering their visors and readying their lances. The air was thick with anticipation as the crowd fell silent, the only sounds being the rustle of banners and the distant call of a horn. Then, with a thunderous burst, the horses charged, hooves pounding across the arena.

Rhaenyra held her breath as the two lords closed in on each other. The impact was spectacular, the clash of lances ringing out through the stands. For a moment, it was unclear who had the advantage—both Damon and Robert remained steadfast in their saddles, their lances splintering from the force of their collision.

Robert Baratheon, with a roar of defiance, urged his horse forward again. His lance, now broken, was discarded as he readied himself for hand-to-hand combat. Damon, quick and agile, dismounted gracefully and drew his sword to meet Robert's challenge. The two lords circled each other, the crowd erupting in cheers at the unexpected turn to melee combat.

Rhaenyra's eyes were locked on the duel. Damon was precise and controlled, his movements strategic and fluid. In contrast, Robert fought with raw power and unbridled energy, each swing of his sword like the charge of a bull. It was a contest of finesse versus might.

Cersei leaned in, her voice a soft murmur. "Robert fights like a man possessed. He's relentless.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her heart racing as the fight grew more intense. Damon managed to parry one of Robert's mighty blows, using the momentum to land a strike of his own. Robert staggered momentarily but quickly recovered, his face set in fierce determination.

The battle seemed endless, each lord pushing the other to their limits. Finally, with a masterful maneuver, Damon disarmed Robert, sending his sword clattering to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers, their admiration clear. Damon's victory was met with enthusiastic approval, the display of skill and strength leaving a lasting impression on all who witnessed it.

Robert, breathing heavily, stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. "You've bested me, Lord Damon," he said, his voice tinged with grudging respect.

Damon, ever the gentleman, extended a hand to Robert. "It was an honor, Lord Robert."

The two clasped hands, and the crowd erupted in a roar of approval, their cheers resonating through the arena. The display of mutual respect between the combatants was met with admiration from all corners.

As the dust settled and the lords made their way back to the sidelines, Rhaenyra felt a deep sense of admiration. The tourney had been filled with unexpected moments, but the clash between Damon and Robert stood out as the highlight of the day.

Cersei, her eyes still focused on the departing males, seemed pleased with the outcome. "It appears that Lord Damon has made quite an impression today," she remarked, a note of admiration in her voice.

Rhaenyra smiled, her gaze following Damon as he returned to his place. "Indeed, he has. But it's not just the reputation he's earned. It's the honor and skill he's displayed that truly matters."

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden light over the tourney grounds. The final events of the day had come to a close, and the air was charged with anticipation. The crowd fell silent as Lord Damon Strong, the day's victor, dismounted from his horse and made his way to the base of the royal box.

Rhaenyra, seated amidst her family and court, felt her heart quicken. The honor of being named Queen of Love and Beauty was a rare and coveted accolade, and she had watched many of her peers receive it before—Vivienne Hightower had been crowned twice in the past year alone. But now, as Damon approached, Rhaenyra found herself the focus of attention.

Damon's armor gleamed in the dying light, bearing the marks of his arduous battles. Despite the sweat and dust, he carried himself with an air of pride and confidence. As he neared the royal box, Rhaenyra's gaze met his, and in that fleeting moment, the world seemed to fall away. She saw not merely a knight but a man of remarkable honor, skill, and grace—qualities that had been evident throughout the tourney.

At the base of the royal box, Damon paused, holding a crown of flowers delicately woven together. His eyes never wavered from Rhaenyra's as he spoke, his voice carrying across the hushed grounds.

"Princess," he began, his tone both respectful and earnest, "it is with great honor and admiration that I present to you this crown, in recognition of your beauty and grace. You have been the true queen of this day, and it is only fitting that you should wear this token of our esteem."

The crowd's collective breath seemed to hold as Damon extended the flower crown towards Rhaenyra. Her heart swelled with a mix of emotions—surprise, joy, and a hint of something deeper. As she reached out to accept the crown, the setting sun cast a warm glow around her, making the moment feel both magical and timeless.

The evening air was filled with a palpable sense of excitement and wonder as Lord Damon Strong stood before the crowd, his voice ringing clear and strong.

"My lords and ladies," he began, his tone carrying a weight of sincerity and respect. "Today, I have fought not only for honor but for the admiration I hold for a woman whose beauty, grace, and spirit are unmatched in all the realms. It is my privilege, my honor, to name Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen as the Queen of Love and Beauty."

The announcement was met with a thunderous applause, the cheers and clamor of the crowd echoing through the twilight. Rhaenyra sat momentarily frozen in her seat, the unexpected honor leaving her stunned. However, the excited nudges from Vivienne and Cersei—both practically bursting with enthusiasm—soon jolted her into action. Rising to her feet, Rhaenyra ascended the steps to the royal box, each step feeling both surreal and momentous.

As she reached the top, Damon awaited her, the crown of flowers held delicately in his hands. With a gentle, yet ceremonious touch, he placed the crown upon her head. The lightness of the flowers was a stark contrast to the profound emotion she felt. The gesture carried a depth of meaning that transcended the mere act, and as their eyes met, Rhaenyra felt a soft, genuine smile form on her lips.

"Thank you, Lord Damon," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that reflected her gratitude. "You honor me greatly."

Damon bowed deeply, his gaze remaining locked with hers. "The honor is mine, Princess."

With Damon stepping back, the crowd's cheers grew even more exuberant. Rhaenyra glanced around the royal box, seeing the pride in her father, King Aerys's eyes, the soft smile of her mother, Queen Rhaella, and the mixed emotions of admiration and perhaps envy from the other nobility.

But it was Damon's gaze that she returned to. In that moment, with the crown of flowers resting upon her silver hair and the cheers of the crowd ringing in her ears, Rhaenyra felt a connection to him that went beyond the simple gesture of the day.

As the evening sky darkened and the stars began to appear, Rhaenyra knew that this day would be one she would remember for the rest of her life. The title of Queen of Love and Beauty was fleeting, but the memory of Damon's gesture—and the way it had made her feel—would stay with her forever.

< masterlist > < next chapter >

[elegantwoes]

The clans have grown bolder since Lord Jon died,” Ser Donnel said. He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. '

The chapter starts off with us being reminded of the Vale knights and Mountain Clan conflict and how the tension between them is growing.

She liked that less well. Without Bronn she would never have reached the Vale, she knew; the sellsword was as fierce a fighter as she had ever seen, and his sword had helped cut them through to safety. Yet for all that, Catelyn misliked the man. Courage he had, and strength, but there was no kindness in him, and little loyalty.'

Catelyn’s wisdom is visible in this part. Competence is a good thing in a person, but more often than not moral compass and integrity is more important. What use is skill if you cannot use it for good?

'She says yes, provided she finds a man who suits her,” Brynden Tully said, “but she has already rejected Lord Nestor and a dozen other suitable men. She swears that this time she will choose her lord husband.'

I almost want to say something but I will keep my mouth shut.. for now.

'Tyrion Lannister glanced up doubtfully. “And beyond that?” Brynden smiled. “Beyond that, the path is too steep even for mules. We ascend on foot the rest of the way. Or perchance you’d prefer to ride a basket. The Eyrie clings to the mountain directly above Sky, and in its cellars are six great winches with long iron chains to draw supplies up from below. If you prefer, my lord of Lannister, I can arrange for you to ride up with the bread and beer and apples.'

Brynden is ruthless. It seems like sharp wit is a Tully trait. #Tullysforthewin

'My brother is undoubtedly arrogant,” Tyrion Lannister replied. “My father is the soul of avarice, and my sweet sister Cersei lusts for power with every waking breath. I, however, am innocent as a little lamb. Shall I bleat for you?” He grinned.'

I can give credit when it’s due. Tyrion is actually funny here.

'It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard’s name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned’s bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply.'

Call my crazy but I always interpreted this part as Catelyn remembering what she said to Jon in his second chapter and her feeling guilty at her outburst.

'She remembered what her uncle had said of baskets and winches. “The Lannisters may have their pride,” she told Mya, “but the Tullys are born with better sense. I have ridden all day and the best part of a night. Tell them to lower a basket. I shall ride with the turnips.'

And it’s because of this why the Tullys will survive but the Lannisters will not. Again #Tullysforthewin

'It had been five years, in truth; five cruel years, for Lysa. They had taken their toll. Her sister was two years the younger, yet she looked older now. Shorter than Catelyn, Lysa had grown thick of body, pale and puffy of face. She had the blue eyes of the Tullys, but hers were pale and watery, never still. Her small mouth had turned petulant. As Catelyn held her, she remembered the slender, high-breasted girl who’d waited beside her that day in the sept at Riverrun. How lovely and full of hope she had been. All that remained of her sister’s beauty was the great fall of thick auburn hair that cascaded to her waist.'

I don’t really like how Lysa is described in here. George RR Martin’s contempt for her is too strong in this passage.

'My quarrels?” Catelyn could scarce believe what she was hearing. A great fire burned in the hearth, but there was no trace of warmth in Lysa’s voice. “They were your quarrels first, sister. It was you who sent me that cursed letter, you who wrote that the Lannisters had murdered your husband.'

Catelyn’s outrage is so obvious in here. If there was one picture that could sum up her mental state right now then it’s this.

'Quiet!” Lysa snapped at her. “You’re scaring the boy.” Little Robert took a quick peek over his shoulder at Catelyn and began to tremble. His doll fell to the rushes, and he pressed himself against his mother. “Don’t be afraid, my sweet baby,” Lysa whispered. “Mother’s here, nothing will hurt you.” She opened her robe and drew out a pale, heavy breast, tipped with red. The boy grabbed for it eagerly, buried his face against her chest, and began to suck. Lysa stroked his hair.'

The way Lysa coddles Sweetrobin is unsettling to say the least.

'Even if they could bring an army through the mountains and past the Bloody Gate, the Eyrie is impregnable. You saw for yourself. No enemy could ever reach us up here.'

If you consider how many times this line is uttered throughout the book series you know it will be disproven at some point. Will it happen in the form of the mountain clans invading, or worse, in the form of a dragon?

'Catelyn wanted to slap her. Uncle Brynden had tried to warn her, she realized.'

Catelyn is really funny when her temper flares up.

''Make him fly,” Robert said eagerly.' Lysa stroked her son’s hair. “Perhaps we will,” she murmured. “Perhaps that is just what we will do.'

Don’t make false promises you can’t keep, Lysa. A woman like me will be disappointed.

Next chapter we are at our reluctant detective: Ned Stark.

[ladycatofwinterfell]

🥶

More hunger games au! Ned and Cat’s interview pre the quarter quell games

“Now I know you have an obvious ally in a person that’s not from your own district. Catelyn, would you come down here again?”

Catelyn gives the interviewer a quick smile before with ease making her way down the stairs again. It doesn’t seem to be an issue despite her long skirt. Flowing blue and sea green that ends in white tulle that’s like foam. She carries the colours of a wave and moves with the elegance of one.

Donella gives up her seat, makes a quick bow towards the audience and instead walks towards where the other victors are standing. They give her a lukewarm applause, more interested in Catelyn. For a short second Ned feels sorry for that she has to be in Cat’s shadow, he’ll have to apologise for it afterwards.

Catelyn takes the chair with ease and her hand finds Ned’s before he has time to think of it. His world is crumbling around him, but at least there’s the familiar feeling of her cool hand in his. He looks at her and loves her. She’ll win, she has to.

“Hello, my darling ally” Catelyn says, a soft smile on her lips.

She’s so good at that. Smiling even as there’s rage and grief behind her eyes. He can feel it, she’s squeezing his hand harder than usually.

“Hello, wife.”

With her free hand she begins arranging her skirts around her, only then he notices that there’s several layers. Her stylist spared no expenses, it seems. Though who can blame him, she’s gorgeous. And every inch a winner with her red hair braided into a crown around her head.

“How long is it this alliance has lived now?” asks the interviewer.

“We met 27 years ago, the year after Cat’s game. And we have been married for almost 24 of those” Ned says. “In a few weeks our 24th wedding anniversary would have been.”

The games had been the beginning of their time together and the games would be the end.

The interviewer sighs, but smiles.

“Don’t we all remember the news of Catelyn Tully from District 4 marrying Ned Stark from District 9?”

“I certainly remember it” Catelyn says.

It draws a laugh from both the interviewer and the audience.

Ned remembers it as clear as if it had been the previous day. She was so beautiful. She’s always beautiful, but it seems that day was special.

“We’ve never seen you in a game together before, but considering how long you’ve stuck together for I imagine you’re quite the team.”

“I suppose that’ll be our strength in the arena” Ned says.

They’ve never fought together before, but if they could manage five children between the ages of a few months and eleven years while also being mentors then they could do the hunger games. In the end it would lead to the end of at least one of them, but they could survive for a while.

“Though we’re not the only ones with close ties to other tributes” he adds.

He glances at where the victors that have already been interviewed stand. From 1 all the way up to 9, his own. There’s Cat and her uncle, as well as the Lannister twins. While they’re all friends, or at least aquatinted with each other, not all of them have family ties. He knows every face standing there. Most he watched win, he’s among the older ones. Donella, Brynden and Robert are the exceptions.

“No lovers from different districts there, this love is unique” the interviewer insists.

As sweet as it is to think of Cat as his lover it makes them sound like as young as when they met. As if he isn’t almost 50.

“I don’t think it is, I think it’s very normal.”

Apart from what they went through in their youth, apart from all the games they mentored it was normal. Years ago they agreed to make it that way so that’s what it has been. When she came to 9 with Robb they decided that they wanted him to not live with their fears, that he would have a very ordinary life. In hindsight it was easy to see that they were foolish to think that would happen, but it feels good to know they tried.

“Just like any young girl I laid my eyes on a cute boy and ended up falling in love” Cat says, and there’s something very soft in her expression then. “And now I have a husband that’s upset with me every morning because I steal all the blankets in my sleep. This despite that he throws them off himself because he’s too warm.”

It doesn’t seem to matter how many blankets they keep in the bed, they always end up with her while he gets none.

“The life of a victor isn’t as glamorous as they want you to think” he says dryly.

That earns him a laugh. He hates their laughter, it sounds strange. It sounds as fake as everything else about them.

“Of course it’s a tragedy to all of us that these years must come to an end now.”

Ned wants to say something. He knows Catelyn feels the same, her hand is squeezing his very tightly. Though they can’t do a thing, can’t say a thing. Because the consequences are not theirs to bear, it will fall on their children. Every punishment will be inflicted upon them.

“We had 27 years together. They were 27 good years” Catelyn says in a low voice. “It could have been worse.”

It isn’t true, several of those years were far from good. It has been so very dark at times that it feels like a wonder that they’re still alive. Even with the kids. Ever since the games it’s been a long tunnel. Sometimes there’s a window that lets in some sunlight, then the darkness returns.

A single tear runs down her cheek. Perfectly executed.

“I only worry for our children. Our youngest is only twelve, not nearly old enough to be on his own.”

[emilykaldwen]

Have a beefy clip from Chapter 9 of The Maiden and the Drowning Boy that I worked on today during my writing sprint today. I really do get a lot done when I sprint.

His mother stood above it all, a beacon at the high table and his fear caused his steps to dalter. She looked so young next to the ancient Lord Tully seated beside her. The green of her gown shone emerald in the light and he could make out the embroidery that made it seem like she had scales of her own. Her hair was in a low bun at the nape of her neck and the silver tiara she wore rested gently in her hair. Rubies the size of his thumb were fitted along the delicately wrought crown, each one lined with little sparkling emeralds. Fire of the Dragon. Fire of the Hightower. Of Castamere, Aegon thought, noticing the lion broach on his mother’s bodice. Rubies for house Targaryen, rubies and silver for House Reyne. The house of the grandmother Aegon had never met. Was it always the loss of a mother and a wife that turned people cruel and cold? The loss of grandmother turning his grandfather into the cruel man he was, Mother into the fearful creature with her lion claws, his own sire too caught in the memory of the woman he’d ordered to die for the promise of a son. Would losing Abrogail do the same to him?

Fuck him, he hadn’t had a proper drink in weeks and the wheel of his thoughts that he worked so desperately to avoid was threatening to derail him before he could even reach the dais and present himself to his mother’s hidden ridicule. What’s worse, was how he’d actually looked forward to it had Abrogail been on his arm than her uncle’s.

Better than being touched by that Vance prick, who had entered behind him but steered clear. Good.

A hand slipped along his right arm and Aegon startled. Helaena hummed and gave him a slight smile. Her silver hair hung freely down her back with a braid wrapped around her head like a crown and woven with a strand of rubies and chips of dark dragonglass. She wore no veil, her dress the same twilight blue as Abrogail’s, although low cut across her shoulders and dipped across her chest. Black embroidery crept along her bodice in the shapes of dragon flame. A simple gold and sapphire necklace hung about her throat, and her lavender eyes were curious and searching his face.

“Do you think I look pretty as well?” she teased him softly and Aegon rolled his eyes.

“You look nice,” he said softly, their heads leaning towards each other while they walked towards the dias. “Mother will have a fit. Who have you dressed up for?” He might have asked if she dressed for Aemond, but after the display in the garden the prior day, Aegon thought that would not be the wisest question to ask. They may not have discussed it, but it hadn’t escaped Aegon’s notice that while Aemond was the one who discussed future marriage with Helaena, how their love was so insufferably true, Helaena’s feelings on the matter were noticeably absent. Little more than agreeable hums and nods and changes of the subject.

“For myself. Some people think their breasts are worth showing off and need to learn their place.” Arching an eyebrow, Aegon followed his sister’s gaze to where Cassandra Baratheon was speaking with some other lord, those breasts of hers drawing his gaze once more. He snorted and Helaena pushed his arm good naturedly. “I’m right, you know. What is a doe to a dragon? No need to give her delusions of grandeur more than she already has.”

“Thought about this a lot this week, have you?”

“Of course. I do not like how she speaks to little Floris so, and Abby-” Helaena paused and squeezed his arm. “You both look terribly upset again. Not that I don’t enjoy making Mother’s face look like she’s sucking on lemons again walking in with you, but what’s happened?”

[pricklypear1997]

I have a genuine question for some of the people that make ASOIAF art, why do some of you draw Arya with features that resemble mixed Stark and Tully, despite the fact that she’s literally describe as having zero physical resemblance to her mother? Like, part of the reason she’s so self conscious is because she doesn’t have red hair, not even red-brown. It’s literally brown, a dark brown according to art that GRRM approved of officially. She doesn’t have freckles, and her eyes are dark grey, like Jon, and like Lyanna. Why do people wanna draw some future Arya being taller than sansa also? Why can’t Arya just be short? Is there something wrong with being short? Is Arya just not allowed to be herself? Why does it feel like everyone is trying to change Arya from who she really is and what she actually looks like? Even the show runners completely obliterated her personality since episode 1. Like wtf? Arya is 4’0” by age 10, she has dark brown hair, sad grey eyes and grim stark face. A 4’0” 10 year old isn’t going to grow up to be 5’7”-5-9” later on. That’s just unrealistic. She’s short. It’s part of what makes her, so distinctly Arya! Part of the reason she’s so self conscious is because of her appearance and the fact that she has zero resemblance to Sansa. I want Arya to grow as a character and to learn to love herself as who she is! Short and stark as ever! I want her to accept herself as she is, and I feel like the people who try to change her, to the point that she’s not even recognizable anymore, just do not appreciate as her as a character. At most she’d probably be 5’3”. Even 5’5” is a stretch. She’s like a tiny angry kitten with messy fur lol. I think it’s adorable and idk why some of y’all wanna change that so badly 😭

“She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face, or her coloring”.

As a 5’3” woman with 2 older sisters, and one younger, and a mother who are all taller than me ranging from 5’5” to 5’7”, I love the fact that I have a character I can relate to that looks different from her mom and sister and is also the short one of the family. It’s just so nice to have that lol, so yeah it’s definitely personal, and some people might find it silly, but yeah, I get mad when people try to draw Arya in a way that doesn’t even fit her description, physically wise, and personality wise. Like people do not respect her. It makes me sad honestly. Just like in the books, where people like her sister wishing Arya was different lol. Some of you are irl Sansas and it shows lmao. Let Arya be her short skinny little tomboy self who likes picking flowers and can make friends with literally anyone who’ll show her basic decency.

[chillyravenart]

SER EDMURE TULLY 💙🐟

I'm not saying I stan a ginger bearded man, but I definitely stan a ginger bearded man.

[lunwil]

sometimes I think about burgundian sansa stark - actually I think a lot about burgundian sansa stark

[jackoshadows]

There was already a post about this, however, to reiterate:

The First Men are white. Canon Starks are white. Nowhere in the text does it imply that canon Starks are poc. The comparison between Jon and Robb - ‘dark where Robb was fair’ - is about hair color.

Ned is white. Jon and Arya are white. It is explicitly mentioned in the text for Arya.

“No." Her face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. - Eddard, AGoT

She wished she could take off her clothes and swim, gliding through the warm water like an skinny pink otter. Maybe she could swim all the way to Winterfell. - Arya, ACoK

"It takes no matter." Even if the Titan did eat juicy pink girl flesh, Arya would not fear him. She was a scrawny thing, no proper meal for a giant, and almost eleven, practically a woman grown. - Arya, AFfC

She stood on the end of the dock, pale and goose fleshed and shivering in the fog. - Arya, AFfC

Down in the vaults, she untied Cat's threadbare cloak, pulled Cat's fishy brown tunic over her head, kicked off Cat's salt-stained boots, climbed out of Cat's smallclothes, and bathed in lemonwater to wash away the very smell of Cat of the Canals. When she emerged, soaped and scrubbed pink with her brown hair plastered to her cheeks, Cat was gone. - Arya, AFfC

The Starks are considered less good looking than other families by non Northern houses in Westeros. The looks of the auburn haired, blue eyed Tullys are often favorably praised compared to the long faced, brown haired, grey eyed Starks by some of the characters in the text. One should therefore think of the implications in interpreting the Starks as darker skinned in fanon. Often times the Tully looking Starks are colored brightly while Jon, Arya and Ned are drawn in darker, duller shades.

These people are also in the North, one of the coldest places in Westeros. They are not getting a tan. Even if they were, there’s no reason for why Jon, Arya and Ned alone get a tan and not the others.

I am sure that, for the most part, artists doing this are not implying anything when Jon and Arya are drawn with darker skin compared to their siblings who are canonically praised for being more good looking.

As a poc, I would love for my favorite characters to be brown. Maybe artists think it’s canon, maybe they think it’s representation. However keep in mind the implications here considering eurocentric standards of beauty and colorism.

Just be aware and spend a few seconds thinking about why you are drawing the ‘plain looking’ Starks in darker shades, when this is not true in canon.

It’s funny that this fandom gets up in arms every time we state that Arya is pretty or all the complaints about her fancasts being too pretty. And yet, there is no discourse about how the so called ‘ugly’ Starks are a lot of the time drawn in darker shades compared to their more ‘beautiful’ Tully looking siblings and Catelyn in fanart.