#i say this as someone who really loves sansa

[harrowscore]

another anti-dany post from someone with a sansa pfp, another blocked user 💃💅

[grandwretch]

if winds of winter comes out and Sansa and Jon's friendship was a TV show hallucination idk what I'll do. set myself on fire? drown in a lake?

[stheresya]

"I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight […]" (Sansa III, AGOT) “Wed?” Sansa was stunned. “You and my aunt?” “The Lord of Harrenhal and the Lady of the Eyrie.” You said it was my mother you loved. But of course Lady Catelyn was dead, so even if she had loved Petyr secretly and given him her maidenhood, it made no matter now. (Sansa VI, ASOS)

I find that these little passages reveal something interesting about sansa's personality. specially when you juxtapose how she's characterized in the text and her worldviews here, and how at first glance they may seem contradictory. but first, let's take two things into account:

the patriarchal society of westeros is very strict on women's sexuality. which means that not only is female virginity held in great value, but also female adultery is very firmly condemned by everyone, unlike men who are allowed to maintain public mistresses and flaunt their bastards everywhere.

sansa is characterized as the conformist, the one who internalizes her society's rules. she's very religious, she's a proper lady in every sense of the word and she often says and does exactly what she's told.

and yet, in these passages we can see that sansa does not care much about societal rules when it comes to intimate feelings. she often hails aemon and naerys' (supposed) forbidden love without a single care that queen naerys was bound by duty to a husband and aemon was meant to be loyal to his king. but most astonishing of all is her nonchalant response to petyr's (false) information that her mother was not a virgin when she married. on one hand it may speak on sansa's views towards women's sexuality, since her current friends (mya and randa) are girls who engage in sex out of wedlock, and she never judges them, just like she doesn't judge her mother for apparently doing the same, and catelyn continues to be the person she admires the most. sansa also doesn't view her parents' relationship any differently because of this, the marriage between ned and cat is still as happy as she remembers, because all that matters to her is that there was love in the home she grew up in. the thing about sansa's character is that she plays by the rules up until a certain point, but on the inside she always prioritizes emotion over societal norms, and that's why she looks more upset at petyr for marrying someone while claiming to love another, because in her mind he's being unfaithful to his heart by marrying out of practicality. we have examples that showcase sansa's prioritizing feelings in AGOT when she, the good daughter, disobeys her father for the first time because she thought she was in love with joffrey, and in ASOS where she never thinks she owes tyrion anything just because he's her husband. so it comes as no surprise that she's so infatuated with the love story of an adulterous and incestuous relationship like aemon and naerys'. one of the main themes in this series is that feelings don't care about honor. and if love is the death of duty then sansa seems more than happy to see duty killed for the sake of love.

of course this doesn't mean she'll stay that way, specially when she's already lost her so much of her innocence and is now tangled in petyr's schemes where she must set her own feelings aside in order to act on his plans. and despite her silent judgement of petyr marrying someone he didn't love, her current betrothal with harry is an entirely practical union on her part since she feels nothing for him and only sees him as a means to an end. there have been many instances since book 1 where she was able to turn off her feelings in order to withstand certain situations. so... what even is sansa's mind? an interesting universe on its own for sure.

I just think sansa's romanticism is one of her most interesting traits (for better and for worse), something that truly contributes to the distinctiveness of her character, and I really hope petyr or anyone else are unable to completely kill that in her.

[damn-stark]

Chapter 12 The Siren’s trick

Chapter 12 of Moonlight

A/N- Welcome back Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark

Warning- Swearing, talks of death, and sexual harassment, ANGST!!, fluff, SPOILERS, ser gwayne (tehe), LONG CHAPTER.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode- Only part of 2x03

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

—Cregan this might be a cold continuation from what I was previously writing, but it cannot be helped. I did not want to leave you waiting, and I did not want you to hear rumors about me. And really, you are the only person I can tell what I’m about to say.

This will be my first and last letter. I am returning to King’s Landing, to infiltrate the Greens on Daemon’s behalf. I did not want to, I had told my mother I was not going, but just tonight they sent someone to kill her in her sleep, she got saved, but I cannot stay here and do nothing when I can be on the other side and be the thing she needs to win this war.

I might be killed, or I might not. I do not know, it’s a risk I am willing to take for my Queen. And if I am killed and this is the last time I ever talk to you, thank you. For everything…

I left my mother a note, I apologized for leaving and bestowing her with even more worry. I told her that I’m willing to do anything to help her get her throne back. Yet the one thing I did not tell her was how scared I am to return.

I’m terrified. I’m truly terrified. I knew fear, I felt it when I was in labor, but this fear I feel now is new, grander, and more horrifying, but it’s my duty to leave and help my Queen even if I have to leave behind all that I ever wanted.

I hope we see each other again. Take care of your boy.

Love, yours truly, your Darling.

“I know I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you apologize to Aerion as he begins to whine after being woken up when you take him from his cradle. “<But we’re going to see your father, hm?>” You try to assure him Valyrian so the guards outside don’t hear and go alert your brother or your mother.

And even if you don’t think Aerion would quite understand what you offer him in return for waking him up, he actually smiles faintly in response before he settles against your chest as you cradle him against you.

Luckily the guards don’t question why you’re taking your child out so late at night, they don’t care that you’re dressed in a different gown than the one you just wore earlier. They watch you scurry away in a hurry without as much as a single comment which will probably get them in trouble with your mother when she finds out you're gone, but they don’t know you’re disobeying her and sneaking off Dragonstone to go into enemy territory.

No one knows, you told no one to make it easier on you

and on them, and also so nobody would try to stop you; even if not so deep below the surface you’re hoping someone will catch you rushing down the corridors and stop you. You don’t want to leave, you don’t want to be under Aegon’s rule now that he’s king and no one can truly tell him what to do. Before he would already get away with commenting stupid shit when Aemond wasn’t around you, and your friend and handmaiden Vanessa was spared from his tactics because you would tell him to leave her alone, but now that he has superior control and power?

But then there’s also Aemond. You don’t want to face Aemond. You don’t want to look into his eye and pretend you’re okay with the heartbreak he caused you and your family. You don’t want to sleep next to the man who killed your brother, and no matter the gaping hole in your chest, you don’t want to let him touch you in the most intimate way. Most importantly you don’t want to leave your family again. You want to stay, you want to fight amongst them.

You want someone to catch you mid-escape and stop you.

Someone. Anyone.

You get closer and closer to the cave's mouth where the dragons come and go, where you’ll find Astraea and Vanessa waiting, and still, no one comes out from the darkness of their rooms, and no guards question why you’re strapping Aerion to your chest as you rush down the corridors.

You’re only paces away. Moments from reaching your dragon, and finally you run into a presence.

“Grandmother,” you mouth breathlessly and finish securing your child’s straps.

Your grandmother looks you up and down, realizing your gown is not one used to sleep, and Aerion is too secure around you to just be heading for a stroll. You’re up to something and she’s the only one to notice.

“Granddaughter,” she greets and glances out the window in the distance to double-check that it is in fact still nightfall. “Why are you not abed?”

You swallow thickly and even if you hope she stops you in your attempts, you interject with your argument. “The Queen got attacked by Ser Arryk, who pretended to be his twin.”

Your grandmother nods. “I heard. That’s why I am here. Is her Grace all right?”

You nod lightly. “Shaken, but okay…I have to do this,” you continue blurting in your defense. “I have to do what Daemon told me to do in hopes that it will be my mother's path to her rightful throne.”

Your grandmother nods again but this time it’s a much more gentle nod as her face fills with concern yet also shows slivers of pride.

“I don’t want to return to King’s Landing, I don’t want her to feel like I abandoned her, but if it stops more of the people I love from dying or getting hurt, and if it gets her on that throne then I have to try,” you share without making it a question because under your hesitation you believe what you say.

“Don't stop me,” you lie and internally shout the opposite with tears clouding your eyes, but not falling because you fight them back to try and look confident. “It’s the right thing to do. And I’m the only one who can do it.”

Your grandmother holds your gaze and right away reads you like a book; she sees your fear, she notices how you plead with your eyes to be stopped, but she also sees your desperation to help, she sees your determination, and your hunger to do more. She sees a warrior, a woman she’s proud of, and she can’t say no to that because she knows that beyond all that fear you’re desperate to help.

“They’re snakes,” she speaks sweetly but with confidence so you could feel the same. “And you’re a dragon. Always remember that.”

You draw in a deep breath and nod slowly. She approaches you and grabs your face, making you look her in the eyes and see the pride she feels for you.

“If you ever find yourself in trouble send me a raven or whatever it is you can. Meleys and I will be there as soon we can, okay?”

You nod in comprehension and grab a hold of her hands as if your life depends on it.

“I love you, grandmother. I will see you again,” you muster to say with a tender smile and no tears.

“I love you too,” she redirects as she caresses your cheeks. “Be careful.”

After one last lingering look you pull away before you’re caught by someone who will stop you, and step out into the cave still hoping the same, but feeling more empowered now to leave and play your part.

The feeling of being so close to the stars does have a way of calming the nervousness that has your hands trembling and ties your stomach into knots. The sight of the glimmering sea basked by the moon's light does help you escape your terrorizing fear and feel at peace, like all you’re doing is taking a late night flight, admiring the stars from the heavens, and answering the sea's call. It's easy to find your resolution in the tranquility, now rather than panic, the belief that your path will lead you right back to Jacaerys, your mother, your grandparents, and your cousins makes you feel at ease over your choice. This is also why you’re leaving, after all, to be with them in a better world.

Yet just as your breaths are calm, and your heart eases to its normal resting beat, the moment you see the crowded and lively city, the large castle on that cliff, and notice all the eyesores that are the Scorpions aligned the top of the wall, your stomach twists tighter to the point you feel like vomiting, your heart pounds faster, and your chest tightens which is a new and unwelcoming change.

“DRAGON!” You hear the echoes of men coming from below as they all work hard to point the scorpions at Astraea calmly coming to a stop so they don’t have the audacity to shoot her.

“Vanessa,” you say and peer over your shoulder. “Wave the white flag so they know we’re no trouble.”

You then glance down at your aware child and caress the back of his little head. “<We’re almost to your father, okay?>” You whisper to Aerion before you press a light feathered kiss on his head. “<You should be sleeping though, hm?>”

Aerion has learned to blow raspberries thanks to his uncle's Viserys and Aegon, so he responds with spit all over your chest.

“<Lovely,>” you mutter, but then again it beats getting peed on. Which he has done, a lot, luckily most times Aemond is the victim of his son's incidents.

“Okay,” Vanessa steals your attention as she grabs onto one of your shoulders to wave the white flag you made sure to bring for this exact purpose.

However, in the midst of waving the flag of peace, and while some guards hesitantly drop their threatening aim, a large arrow is shot at Astraea unbeknownst to you or Vanessa. It comes whizzing at you as the flag continues to be waved in the sky, but luckily, thanks to the gods, Astraea notices the arrow coming at her from the corner of her watchful eye and jolts down before taking a sharp turn.

You let out a shocked gasp whilst also becoming alert of all your surroundings, and Vanessa throws herself on your back to keep herself secured.

The arrow aimed at your dragon's neck luckily flies past you and her thanks to your dragon's efforts, yet missing doesn’t spare your dragon's fury that mirrors yours.

“<Stupid idiots,> you grimace and snap your glare at the men who are to blame, finding them confused but also alert. They don’t see your piercing glare, but your dragon mirrors it before she lets out a loud and furious guttural roar.

“<Astraea,” you call out and lean down as much as you can to caress her side. “Calm down. Calm down, girl.>” you coo in High Valyrian in hopes she’ll listen, but she’s too clouded with anger, after all, she knows you didn’t come with intentions of fighting, and she knows that Vanessa and baby Aerion are straddled on her so she begins to circle around as she shakes her head and keeps throwing out angry shrieks.

“<Astraea,” you call again without losing your patience. “calm down. Calm down. We’re okay. You saved us. We’re okay, calm down girl.>”

Astraea finishes her circle and opens her mouth, letting out low chitters as she prepares to blast out fire at the men responsible.

“<Calm,” you coo and pat her. “Calm, my girl. We’re fine. We’re safe. Calm.>”

Astraea slowly closes her mouth and peers over to meet your gaze and assure herself that you and those with you are fine.

“<We’re okay,>” you assure her and pass her the same emotion with your eyes.

Astraea holds your gaze for a moment longer before she looks ahead at the same time you do.

“Are you okay, Vanessa?” You make sure to ask in the common tongue as you let out a deep and relieved breath.

“Yes, Princess,” she assures you. “Aerion?”

You glance down at your son and see him smiling which probably means he found Astraea’s antics amusing.

“He’s fine,” you say with relief of your own and caress the back of his head while noticing that all the guards now drop their aim and depart from the Scorpions, letting you push your handles forward to nudge Astraea down.

Nevertheless, when Astraea is descending to the ground, just past the Iron Gate, all those nervous and uneasy feelings come rushing back after you were rattled with fear and anger over acts of stupid people who don’t know what white flags mean.

When your feet hit the ground though, and you see castle guards already waiting for you by the gates, all those feelings that overwhelm you, increase tenfold. Now your blood pumps so hard that it interferes with your sight.

“I have renounced the…false Queen Rhaenyra,” you hide the strain in your voice as you say words you don’t mean, before also saying words that actually hurt you to say. “I have come to pledge my loyalty to King Aegon.”

The guards look at one another with confusion so you interject. “Where is Ser Criston Cole? Why is he not here to greet me?”

A commander steps forward and raises his head before he fills their silence without giving you the answer you sought. “Give us your weapons, Princess, and come with us.”

You shrug the satchel of arrows and your bow off your shoulders before grabbing your gown's skirt and pulling it up, making the man look away and miss the dagger you had strapped around your thigh. Once he sees the weapon land at his feet he meets your gaze again.

“I request an audience with the King, and my husband,” you demand with your nose in the air as the men pick up your weapons.

“They were alerted of your arrival,” the guard says and steps back to point ahead.

Before you walk past the gates you scoff and sass him. “Was my husband alerted of the incompetence of your men on the wall, Ser? A white flag means what?”

The man swallows thickly and lowers his head as he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Surrender or a request for parley.”

You feign a dry laugh and nod. “Yes, yet an arrow was shot at my dragon whilst my son and my handmaiden rode with me. I will have all the names of the squadron who shot that arrow.”

The guard nods and steals a glance back at your dragon still behind you, growling as she watches for any wrong moves that might be made.

“Come with us, Princess,” the guard finally guides you forward and you’re hastily helped in a carriage that rushes you inside the castle walls where you’re immediately repulsed by the green and gold banners that are plastered everywhere.

The sight of them actually saves you from your torment, but only for a little because once you’re inside you’re slammed with all your emotions and you can’t help how your eyesight only seems to focus on what’s directly ahead of you. Everything else is swallowed by darkness as all your senses falter, and your heart and blood pound.

A part of you immediately expects to get ambushed once you walk into the throne room, and another part of you fears being greeted by Aemond alone because you know he won’t delay, he would come straight down the moment he was told of your sudden and ominous arrival. You would worry over Aegon, but it’s still dark out, and you can’t imagine he dropped all his temptations because he was bestowed with a great purpose, so you know for certain he won’t be waiting for you upon the throne.

Nonetheless, when you hold Vanessa’s hand in anticipation and approach the welcoming throne room, all you actually see is an empty hall and an empty seat.

Hundreds of candles light the hall, but it doesn’t make the throne room feel less unsettling. You once used to feel unbothered by the great room, after all, this was your home, you knew the meaning this room held, but you could never say you felt awe. It was another room. Now though, you feel uneasy like, when you walk into a stranger's home. Most of the hall has remained unchanged, besides the banners and large statue of your grandfather King Viserys in construction, but besides that, it's remained the same. Yet you can’t help but feel at odds.

You don’t like the ill feeling, you don’t like that besides the guards and Vanessa, the throne room is lonely. It only works to worsen what you already feel. It only makes the Throne Room seem dark.

You’re consumed by darkness and it makes you want to run and return home where it’s warm and surrounded by those you love. You want to leave. You shift your feet to storm away without any thought, but at that precise moment, the throne room doors open once again, welcoming in a shining light that casts on the ground and rolls down to your feet.

You expect a rowdy greeting from the King, but in the silence you capture the shadow of a tall and slender figure get painted on the ground instead. Now you need no help figuring out who the shadow belongs to, you know who it is without having to look back. Just like you recognize the sound of his footsteps as they climb down the steps.

You would know his footsteps blind and deaf, by the mere vibrations that strike the ground. You could recognize him by just his alluring scent, by his breaths as they furl in and out of his body. He doesn’t need to speak for you to know that it’s your husband, it’s Aemond.

He was the light that filled this hall and unwantedly calmed down your urgency to run.

And as if attracted to the light, you look back. Every muscle in your body yells at you to not look, your mind shouts at you to avert your gaze, but your bleeding heart can’t resist, it makes you look back to see him; the man who killed your brother, your husband, your Aemond, surrounded by the very candlelight that attracted you.

He meets your gaze and you meet his, causing your heart to skip a beat, and a breath to escape past your lips, whilst you also capture the disbelief written so plainly all over his face. It's almost like he can’t believe you’re standing across from him, and how can he?

You look like a dream to him with the way the moonlight and all the stars shining through the large windows bask you in their luminous light, making you look like a beautiful deity. A divine angel sent to him from above with the blessing that is your child.

And how can he not expect you to be some otherworldly presence? He sent letters in hopes you could return home so he could explain what happened because he knows how much you love your brothers, but you never came. Not until now, here you are standing under the throne, watching him without missing a step, with betrayal, and heartbreak he can easily read off your face.

He expected anger, but all he sees is pain. Heart aching pain that sets his world off its axis.

He had hurt you before, six years ago, but not like this. Six years ago when he accidentally cut your face he saw disbelief and horror, pain too, but not like this, he never heard your silent ‘why?’ screams that your eyes shout out at this moment. He never saw sorrow droop your eyes like they do now, and his guilt for hurting you was never as tremendous as it is now.

He hurt you, the one who’s loved him like no one has before. The person who’s brought him only happiness, and a blessing in your son. That’s why he wants you to be angry because he did something he can’t take back—and he does expect you to be overcome with anger later, you’re not one to swallow it down for him. Yet right now all he sees is disbelief and agony that gets more and more painful the closer he gets to you, until finally, you rip your eyes away when he’s only a few feet away.

“Look,” you coo at Aerion with a smile and stinging tears brimming in your eyes. “Look who it is, my love.”

Aerion yawns back mindlessly since he can't pick up on your sadness, he just sees your smile that begins to fade as you pick him. When his eyes drift to the tall man getting closer to you though, that exhaustion that threatened to take him to sleep completely disappears. Instead, his face brightens the moment he sees Aemond, the father he’s longed to see since he left home.

Yet before Aemond can take Aerion in his arms, you halt your attempts to hand your child over when you catch the elegant silver armor of the Kingsguard gleaming against the candlelight as they approach from the far left end of the throne room. Only these Kingsguard members aren’t the ones from before, they’re new, younger, and probably stupider considering they’re Aegon’s drinking buddies.

You would want nothing more than to share a judgemental look with Aemond, but now that he’s closer you can’t even have your face turned his way; which is why you get the perfect view of the Usurper, the false King Aegon, trudging in after his dimwitted Kingsguard with his clothes unbuttoned, his hair unsettled, and his eyes red with exhaustion or something else you don't recognize. Either way, he doesn’t look Kingly, not even when he’s caught off guard, but you’ll give him the benefit of the doubt only because it’s the middle of the night—Unless he’s drunk that is…

“Your Grace,” you utter words that once brought you pride to say to your mother, but now bring you disgust to say to him. Even the thought of bending your knee is a struggle to think about, but you know that you won’t get far without showing the respect he wants to see, so you force yourself down to your knee to someone so undeserving.

Luckily he doesn’t sense that disgust, you mask your emotions well behind your sorrowful face set to hopefully gain their sympathy while you try to enchant them with your plea for mercy.

“So it is true,” Aegon breaks his silence while he slowly approaches you behind his Kingsguard, as if cautious that you would try anything with Aerion still in your arms. “You are here.” He scoffs and you catch a hint of amusement, but you’re left with nothing to do in the regard but pretend.

“I come to renounce the false Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen,” you swallow your pride and leave no pauses, even if you can feel yourself straining as it feels like you’re hurting your mother with such cruel words. “I come to pledge fealty to ward the King, as well as ask for his forgiveness.”

You pause and bow your head so he can feel pride and superior over your current state which is something you never once let him feel with you. Not until now.

“I come to beg for mercy and a second chance,” you go on and don’t stop even if you hear the main doors opening before two pairs of footsteps filter in to join the audience already gathered around you and your handmaiden; as if you were a spectacle to gawk over.

However, in many ways you are, who would’ve thought that Rhaenyra’s own daughter would leave her precious mother's side to join the enemy?

It was expected of you since your husband is part of the green faction, but Rhaenyra is still your mother, and you have had chances to leave her side already but you haven’t until now. Why?

That’s on everyone’s mind but yours, that’s why they watch you carefully and never let Aegon get too close.

“I saw my wrongdoings,” you continue to sing your plea with a soft and sweet voice. “I saw my mistake in trusting Rhaenyra. I cannot stand behind her, I cannot support her after what,” you swallow thickly and look up to meet Aegon’s surprised gaze. “…she did to Helaena and Jaehaerys.”

Aegon’s eyes harden and every form of amusement he had upon seeing you on one knee is lost and replaced by slow-burning anger that is so rare to see on him. Yet it does nothing to actually scare you.

“I'm sorry. Please forgive me, My King.”

Someone falls by your left side where Aemond stands as well, but you don't see who it is because you’re too focused on Aegon parting away from the safety of his Kingsguard to approach you with that same hardened gaze seething with anger.

“To your feet Sweet good-sister,” he rolls out as he also motions you up with his fingers.

You hesitate, but slowly push yourself to your feet, causing Aerion to squirm as sees his father again.

Aegon sees and his lips twitch before he smugly barks an order without letting you out of his sight. “Take the child.”

Your eyes widen and that sorrow you expressed turns to panic. “No!” You cry out and press Aerion against you to protect him from the reaching hands whilst you desperately look over at Aemond with no regard to your previous feelings that were just tormenting you and forbidding you from looking at him.

“He has no fault in this Aegon,” Aemond interjects right away, making you notice Ser Criston is the one by him since he moves in between Aemond when his sword hand twitches.

“Aegon,” you hear the Dowager Queen Alicent interject, giving away the fact that she was the second person who had walked in late.

You had wondered where she was, you’re sure she would’ve been told you were here right away. You suspected she would already be here waiting for you, but she came late.

“What?” Aegon chuckles and raises his hands. “I mean no harm to my nephew. He’s my brother's son. He’s just in the way.” He quips and makes sure to look at you with a new sense of smugness now that he has you rattled.

“No,” you remain defiant and glare at his Kingsguard slowly approaching you while also glancing over at Aemond seething and glaring daggers from the side—“I will not let them touch him. Not them.”

His Kingsguard stop as if they were listening to you and look over at Aegon in confusion as to what to do next. Especially because Aemond still stands there menacingly.

“I will take him,” Alicent volunteers instead of Aemond. “Give him to me,” she tells you and approaches you with her hands out.

You may not like her, but one thing is certain; whatever hatred she has for your mother is never redirected at Aerion, she seems to love him just as much as she loves Helaena’s children. And Aerion does love her too since he is more accustomed to her presence. It’s why after one kiss on your son's head you hand him to Alicent, and motion Vanessa with your eyes to stand by her.

“I never would have expected you of all people to return,” Aegon interjects, making you drift your gaze away from Aerion completely taken by his other grandmother, and refocus your attention on the man before you.

“Yet here you are begging for mercy.” He feigns a smile that falls quickly. “Why should I believe you?” His voice grows cold which contrasts his burning glare.

“Why…” he trails off and smiles tauntingly at the ground before he suddenly lunges at you and grabs you by the throat, but not tight enough for you to actually gasp for air. His grip is just wrapped around your throat.

Not like it matters to Aemond either way because he still reacts in the blink of an eye by trying to lunge at his brother. Albeit he gets stopped right away by Ser Criston; proving to you at that moment why Aemond hadn’t taken Aerion just now, he was more concerned about you and what Aegon had up his sleeve. And he has every right to worry because Aegon is daring now that he’s king, now that he has control and no one to really tell him to stop. He pulls out the Valyrian dagger that your grandfather Viserys would carry, and slowly brings the tip to your throat, making you fear him for the first time. Not because he’s terrifying, but because no one has threatened your life before.

“…shouldn’t I pluck your eyes out and send them to Rhaenyra?” He finishes what he was winding up to say. “Along with your head. Firstborn for firstborn, hm? That would be justice.”

Aegon is careful not to puncture your skin as he drags the tip of the dagger up your face, as if teasing you instead of threatening you.

“She killed my son, why shouldn’t I send her your head?” He sneers as he watches the way he moves the dagger up your cheek. “Unless it was you who sent them.”

The tip of the dagger is pressed against you so you're careful not to shake your head, even if you want to further get your defense across.

“No,” you immediately deny him even if you shouldn’t, you should stay quiet, but you can’t just stand quietly as he wounds you by throwing false accusations of something you would never do. “I would never hurt Helaena,” your voice quivers. “I-I love her. I would never hurt her. I would never hurt anyone’s child, I’m not a monster. I would never do that.”

Tears fall down your cheeks but Aegon wipes them away as he keeps moving the dagger up to bring the tip inches away from your eye, causing Aemond to groan and push back against Ser Criston’s arm.

“Let me talk to her,” Aemond interjects as Ser Criston digs his feet into the ground and fights back the prince's push forward. “I will talk to her Aegon.”

Said man scoffs and shakes his head. “No. Gods no. You’re too enamored by her,” he says and laughs. “She would just bat her eyes and you would let her go. You have always been too sweet on her. No. I will continue talking to her. If she behaves she will not get sent back to her mother. Do you understand?” He directs at you now and shifts his hand holding the dagger, causing the candlelight in the distance to reflect on the smooth metal, and entrapping your attention to the gleam before your focus gets entranced by the fires lit in the metal stands.

It’s just an arm's reach away, you can grab it and tilt it on him. Your hand wouldn’t burn, but he would. He would stop touching you and not be so close. It can work.

But the war wouldn’t end and you would only die or be locked away for certain. You can’t do it, you won’t. Thus you look back at his stupid smug face.

“I will spare your son's life because he’s my nephew, but you,” he presses and brings the knife back down to your throat. “You’re just another bitch—”

You clench your jaw, and Aemond grimaces, making Aegon’s smirk deepen.

“My brother would not do better, but there are plenty of bitches to choose from,” he remarks and starts to rub his thumb on your neck, making you stiffen and start to actually, deeply feel horror.

“Stop,” you plead quietly but loud enough that Aemond can hear. “Stop it.”

Aemond pushes back harder as he hears you, but Ser Criston still manages to hold his ground.

“Why should I not kill you now?” Aegon asks. “You’ve been parading about the Kingdom asking for other Lords' loyalty for your mother. You bent the knee to her. You have no real sense of loyalty.”

“I was wrong,” you repeat yourself. “I was blinded by my love for her, but I am not now. I see clearly now. You are the true King. I see that now. Besides, how could I stay over there with Daemon wanting to kill Aerion for what happened?” You throw out a lie so they’ll be more willing to believe what you're trying to sell. And you actually get Aegon to hum, but as he keeps making you uncomfortable by caressing your neck.

“You do have a dragon,” he gets a point across. “But would you really attack your family?”

“My grandfather,” you blurt in hopes that will get him to stop his threat and stop what he’s currently doing. “My grandfather is going to make Aerion heir of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides, but those efforts will be for naught if you kill me.”

Aegon glances at his side before slowly pulling the dagger away from your throat.

“If you kill him Aerion would be the next lord of Driftmark, which means that we could give you control of the fleet,” you add, making Aegon stand still for a moment as he takes in what you just said.

“We need that fleet, my King,” Aemond jumps into your defense. “With Aerion being so young we would be in charge until he becomes of age.”

Aegon nods slowly in comprehension but he then tilts his head and clicks his tongue. “But killing Lord Corlys will take time. If it happens at all.”

“I will fight for you,” you roll out as enticingly as you can to try and enchant him with your voice. “Let me fight for you, for my family. I want to come home.”

Aegon sighs deeply and stares deep into your soul without looking for help from anyone. And you look at him and lift your chin slightly to exude confidence you don’t feel at the moment.

Not like Aegon actually notices how shaken and fearful you currently are, or else he would pick on that and really make you feel small. He only sees what you want him to see, it’s why your song works on him and all the others.

“Fine,” he breathes out and finally lets you go, making you fall on your knees out of defeat as to what he was doing, and letting Ser Criston let Aemond go.

“You may return home. You will not join any of my councils obviously, and your dragon will be put in the dragon pit. If you step a hair out of line I will have you killed and sent to your mother.” Aegon clarifies.

Astraea is the way you’ll get your messages across but getting her out will be no problem, and you didn’t expect to be welcomed at the council anyway. The plan was always going to be you using those tunnels your mother used to use. Aemond is the only one you’ll actually disdain.

“You should know,” you mutter to get the last word in, which is bold, to say the least, but you can’t stay quiet after he was touching in that way. “Ser Arryk was killed by Ser Erryk because he was doing his job by protecting the royal family. That’s how I escaped…” you trail off and slowly lift your head to look at Ser Criston with a smugness playing in your eyes.

The Kingsguard briefly meets your gaze before he turns his head away without inputting anything. No one actually says anything in the regard.

Aemond then proceeds to approach you and offer you his hand, but you just glare at him before you turn away and help yourself up to go to Aerion.

“Thank you,” you offer Alicent you’re genuine gratitude before you take back your son.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m glad you’re both back home.”

You offer her a fake faint smile before you turn away and walk back to Aemond to hand him Aerion, who is immediately over the moon by finally being carried by his father. You cannot say the same, you actually make sure to turn away quickly so you wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. Instead, you address the commander who had greeted you outside to avoid a silence.

“Ser, if you would be so kind as to round up your best men tomorrow at the training yards after breaking fast. My son and I need a sworn protector with this war so rampant. If I depend on the new Kingsguard I’ll find my son sold for a flagon of wine or a pretty whore,” you say without shame and watch the knight snicker and glance over at the men you were so boldly speaking of before he looks back at you and responds with a comprehensive nod, letting you not take a second longer to finally try and leave the damn hall and these people. Yet not before you wipe that smile off the commander's face

“Oh and give the list of names of that squadron to Prince Aemond, he would like to know who the men were that shot at my dragon and our child as we were waving that white flag.” You finish and peer back with a serious look that actually turns out to be menacing.

Once you’re out of the hall, you would have liked to say you could catch your breath and find any sense of satisfaction, but the tension is quick to follow you out.

“Vanessa,” you interject after a while of striding toward the royal apartments. “Just grab a change for tonight and tomorrow morning. We can get anything else we need tomorrow.”

Aemond hears your commands and looks away from Aerion to watch you instead.

“And don’t worry about a cradle, Aerion can sleep on my bed tonight,” you continue to give orders, piquing Aemond’s attention even more, and making him forget that child so fascinated by him.

“What are you doing?” Aemond asks, but you ignore him even if you feel ticked off.

“My old chambers are available, we will both stay there. I won’t put Aerion in danger.”

You know deep down Daemon won’t try and hurt your child unless he means to hurt your mother in the meanwhile, but your hatred for him blinds you and makes you see him as a threat even though there’s no real need for such hostility.

“Yes, Princess—”

“No,” Aemond cuts Vanessa off bluntly. “You will not move the Princess or Aerion’s things anywhere. They will not be moving anywhere. They will stay where we are.”

You clench your jaw but continue to ignore his grating presence, as well as Vanessa’s brewing confusion—“Don’t worry about protection, the night will be short tonight because of how late it already is. We will hopefully have that situated by tomorrow—”

“Are you listening to me?” Aemond blurts and catches you off guard when he grabs your wrist and pulls you to a sudden halt so you can face his pointed glare.

Yet you don’t give him the satisfaction of being submissive, or looking away and walking off. Nor do you actually give him what he wants, at that moment you remember that you have to hold back for the sake of your purpose and your Queen. There’s things you want to remark and throw at him as he ruffles your anger, as you look him in the eye and stand so close, but you need to hold back, it has to be helped even if a cascade of memories follows, and have you challenging his glare for a moment before you rip your eyes away and look at your son in his arms to remind him he’s here witnessing it all.

“Vanessa take Aerion for a stroll so he can fall asleep,” Aemond interjects as he holds your gaze. “It’s past his bedtime. We can spend more time with each other on the morrow.”

Vanessa glances at you for the okay, but you don’t look back at her, you keep your eyes on Aemond even if your heartbeat picks up under his heavy gaze, letting her come to the conclusion herself and take Aerion from Aemond.

The boy does begin to whine after being parted from his father, but you don’t stop her either, knowing that there will be tension you don’t want him to see.

“I am not going to stay in the same room as you,” you make yourself clear and pull your arm away to start storming to your shared quarters.

“Do you think I am going to leave you and Aerion vulnerable and all alone?” Aemond counters, making you scoff.

“Does it really matter what happens to me?” You spat back in regards to who he killed, but he chooses to ignore that.

“Of course, it matters. You know that.”

You shake your head in disbelief and continue on quietly, letting him fill the silence for you. “You will stay where you are. It’s where you belong.”

You continue to stay quiet all the way to your shared chambers, which is unlike you, he wants to hear you argue as if that will help cure the strain made by the murder, but you stay quiet and don’t even fill the air with anything when you’re in your room. You just go and try to grab something to sleep in, but he immediately stops you by grabbing your robe and throwing it aside.

“I said no,” he hisses, but you reach for another, making him grab what you pick up and pull back.

“Let go, Aemond, I am not staying here. I am not going to sleep with you!” You bark back and grab his wrist to yank it away, but he rebuttals by grabbing your hand and overpowering you with ease.

“You are staying, and Aerion is staying here where I can protect him and you,” he makes it clear to you, letting you realize as you try to avoid looking at him that Aerion’s cradle is placed at the end of the bed instead of being in his own quarters.

“I do not need you to protect me,” you counter and let go of the robe to try and reach for another, but he crouches down and grabs your arm right where Daemon had grabbed you, and pulls you up.

“Let me go,” you fight him and ignore the ache in your arms as he presses on your bruises. “Don't touch me. Let me go, you're hurting me.”

As soon as Aemond hears those words his grip eases, letting you rebuttal by pushing him away. “Leave,” you cry out and can’t find the strength to hold back anymore, you forget the role you’re meant to play, your purpose for returning, and let your anger burst out from its confinement, resulting in you shoving him back.

“If you don’t want me to leave then you leave. Go. Get out!” You exclaim.

Aemond lets himself get pushed back again and only makes you grow more aggravated that he refuses matching your anger. “I do not want to see you. I do not want you to touch me. I do not…” you trail off and push him back toward a shelf. “I do not want you here. Get. Out.” You innouncate through gritted teeth, but Aemond doesn’t get the hint, he doesn’t care about the anger behind every shove, or the disdain behind every single word.

“He’s gone because of you. My brother is gone!” You finally express what has been stuck in the back of your throat, what really fuels your anger. You finally share the betrayal that you have harbored and that has played in your eyes since you first saw him in that throne room. “Get out!” You raise your voice and shove him back against a wall, but get no reaction in any way. He lets it happen, he watches your anger, and he lets you express it even if it brings violence.

“Get out!” You cry again and hit his chest, hoping he will move, that he will finally stop infuriating you more and react by at least stopping you, but he doesn’t fight back, like usual.

“Out! Out! Get out, Aemond!” You start to lose your cool and hit him more and more, each time your fists getting backed with more strength, while your chest gets heavy, and your eyes finally start to fill with tears as the sorrow you held back breaks out and starts to accompany your anger.

“Fight me back! Fight back you fucking killer. Fight me back!” You shout shakily. “You killed him. You killed Luke. You took my brother away from me. You…” you come to a stop and can’t yell anymore, your throat stings, and your chest starts to ache to the point it gets hard to breathe really fast. “You…”

Aemond watches you move your hands back to go and hit him again, but this time before you can make contact with his chest, he grabs your wrists and pushes you back, making you hold his gaze as he does so and not let go, even if his gaze his heavy and burns in you, even if he pulls you back to him with ease and causes a warmth to wash over you as he holds you close.

“Let me go,” you try not to mewl, but you can’t help it anymore. You can’t hold that anger over your agony. “Let me,” you groan.

Aemond parts his lips but doesn’t end up saying anything, instead he only attracts your eyes to his lips with this need that comes from deep down. You do manage to drag your eyes up after a second but find his gaze heavy and focused on your parted mouth before he lolls his head to the side, and slowly meets your tear-filled eyes.

You proceed to flicker your eyes down and he leans forward, expecting you to pull away, but you stay put as if magnetized to him. As if a slave to your need dwelling deep inside where you don’t want it to be.

“Aemond,” you whisper and his blue eyes find yours, letting you see how dilated his pupils are, but also how soft his eyes are with…distress you can read with ease.

“Why?” You ask in the intimacy of the moment where it’s just you and him, your husband, your lover, and your best friend. “Why did you do it?”

Aemond's eye falls and his lips slowly form a frown. You want to see what he feels, what he fails to say so you tilt your head down to look into his eye and get your answer, but he turns his head away and mutters. “Why did you come back if you hate me?”

“I…” you don’t finish, but you softly shake your head just enough that he notices the motion and peeks over at you.

You need to say it. You need to say what you’ve felt when you were away. He killed Lucerys, your beloved little brother. He hurt your mother and your brother. He betrayed you in the worst way possible. But those feelings you had thought of only sprung up because you weren’t looking at him. It was easy to think you hated him, but now that you’re looking at him, now that you feel his breath unfurl over your lips, and feel his heartbeat under your palm as you press your hand against his chest, you can’t muster a syllable, or conjure it in your heart. No matter how hard you try.

“I did not come for you,” is all you can muster. “I came for Helaena. Not for you.”

And deep under your conflict and your mission that is true. You did come for her in her worst moments where she needs what her family can never give her.

“Hm,” Aemond hums and welcomes a coldness to your wrists as he finally lets you go.

“You did not answer me,” you bring up your previous question. “Why did you do it? He was sent as a messenger, not a warrior. He was just supposed to deliver a message and get an answer, that's all, so why? Did he do something? Did he say something?”

Aemond swallows thickly and his gaze gets hard before he deadpans. “You and Aerion are staying here. I will lock you in here if I have to. Do not make it hard.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer before he slips away even if he knows you are waiting for an answer. Just a simple one if need be, something to give you peace of mind, but he goes to the door looking like he isn’t going to stop until you fall on your knees the moment you can’t hold strong anymore. Everything you felt collapses over you and you break down.

Aemond hears your sobs, it unsettles him, and tugs at his heart, but even if you’re the only one who can ever cause such an effect, he doesn’t go to your side even if at that moment you wouldn’t have pushed him away. He lets out a deep breath and leaves you alone.

He doesn’t return until hours later just moments before the sun could break into the sky, finding Aerion fast asleep in his cradle, and you balled up on your side of the bed. He thinks you're asleep, but you couldn’t find it, so you heard him walk in quietly.

You hear him take his belt off, and pull his boots off to be able to approach the end of the bed without alerting the sleeping babe, going unaware at that moment of you peeling one eye open to watch him caress Aerion’s cheek ever so gently as to not wake him before he smiles faintly, causing your own heart to involuntarily pick up in its speed before it jolts when he steps back.

As to not get caught you immediately shut your eye and listen, catching his footsteps go around the bed and approach you.

At first, you think he’s going somewhere else, but his scent then intoxicates you as he stops beside you, causing your racing heart to ease as if his scent was the only key to calm down. He proceeds to stare and you know that you feel that deep down, you feel his eye on your face before it leaves a burning trail down the upper half of your body.

When it comes to your exposed arms that you can’t hide anymore, he hooks his finger on the blanket and gently pulls it down before he runs the tip of his finger on the bruise marked on your flesh, and keeps it there as if the touch alone will give him the answer as to what happened.

After a moment he groans with what seems to be frustration before he lifts his fingers and suddenly surprises you by caressing your cheek before he brings his face down, letting his long silver hair tickle your shoulder, while his breath unfurls over your cheek.

You try not to hold your breath or move, but he makes it hard as he lets the warmth of his lips mingle over your cheek.

Is he going to kiss you or not?

Yes?

No?!

You wait and wait until he suddenly pulls back and his footsteps recede, letting you open your eye to catch him walking around the bed as he takes his vest off, showing how his back muscles move fluidly with him. And thanks to the light starting to peek in you can see how smooth and sculpted he looks under such a soft light.

You want to see his face, his torso, and those perfect abs, but you close your eyes and remember what he’s done, and once again you’re cast with…sorrow.

——

*LATER*

Stupid ache…

“Vanessa, could you have tea prepared for breakfast? I woke up with all different kinds of aches,” you grumble and slip on your shoes. “My head is aching, and I feel a bit nauseous.”

Vanessa hooks the last jeweled chain on your back to the golden broach on the shoulder part of your deep blue gown, and then slowly peeks out from the side with her eyes filled with curiosity. “Princess I have been meaning to ask. When you were in Winterfell…”

Oh is she trying to get the gossip? With everything that went on after you returned from the North, you never had time to tell her what happened.

“Did you…”

Before she can finish what she was building up to the door opens and Aemond walks in with Aerion, making Vanessa groan because once again she was left to hold in her question.

“I will prepare the tea for you princess, but perhaps you should see the maester?” Vanessa purposely says at the wrong time, causing Aemond to peek over—“You did not eat your dinner yesterday because of your stomach ache.”

You side-eye Vanessa, but she doesn’t care that she just blurted your troubles for Aemond to hear, she slides behind you to fix the jeweled chains on your back.

“What’s wrong?” Aemond interjects in your silence.

You drop your eyes to avoid looking at him in the mirror and with your fingers trace the gold design that swirls with the wave patterns on your blue gown.

“Nothing,” you deadpan.

Aemond stays quiet for a second before you hear his footsteps approach you. “I saw bruises on your arms,” he doesn’t hold back from bringing up. “What happened?”

He will ask Vanessa, and she will tell him, so you just answer him in the most serious voice so he knows that his presence bothers you. “Daemon happened. He wanted me to leave and he was not kind about it.”

There's a second of silence before you hear a deep and frustrated sigh. You dare yourself to look up and catch Aemond’s gaze on your arm before he blinks and tries to meet your gaze, but comes up empty-handed when you look at Aerion instead.

“<Did you have a good time, my little dragon?> You speak to him in High Valyrian and watch him wave his hands excitedly.

“My grandmother says he could start eating solids when he’s 5 months old,” you direct at Vanessa, making her step away and nod with a happy smile.

“Yes, it’s possible, he’s starting to sit up alone, so he’s almost there.”

You grin at your child and caress his chin. “<Hear that? We will get you nice and plump in no time. As of now…” you trail off and take him from Aemond to walk away from the mirror. “How would you like to go with Aunt Helaena and your cousin Jaehaera, hm?>”

Aerion responds by reaching for your dangling earrings, so you lean your head away and shake your head, only getting him more intrigued.

“I’m heading to a council meeting,” Aemond says as you continue avoiding him. “I will talk to the maester to come see you later.”

“I can seek the maester myself,” you quip and scrunch your nose at Aerion to try and make him smile.

Aemond stays still and quiet before he walks away. When he reaches the door you peek over and see him stop again before he turns his head, but not completely. He just stands there for a moment with his gaze in the corner of his eye before he just walks out of the room.

“I do not know how I will do it,” you mumble to Vanessa the moment the door closes and he’s walking away. “I can not…pretend to be okay with him. I know I must try, but…I see…what my mind thinks what happened that day, and I get angry and sad.”

Vanessa walks to you to take Aerion and face you with a pitiful frown. “It will be hard, but you will not get anywhere if you do not try. Just take it step by step.”

You sigh deeply and nod softly. “I will leave now too to listen in to the meeting,” you change the subject. “I should make it back for breakfast with Helaena, I should not take long. That’s not my intention anyway.”

“Be careful,” your handmaiden warns you. “Try and remember your way back. Good luck.”

You giggle and pat her shoulder. “I will be alright. I do wish my cat was here though. He would make it easier to make my way around. If anyone asks for me just tell them I went for a stroll to catch my breath.”

Vanessa nods hesitantly and seems to want to input another warning, but she just bites her tongue and watches you walk out the secret door hidden in your quarters

At first, you admit you feel a bit turned around, all the damn tunnels are built almost identically. Plus there’s only the torch that you light as a form of light until you reach small windows, but those aren’t everywhere. Luckily though, you manage to remember where the council hall is. You do arrive a bit later than you hoped, but you got there all the same.

And it seems Ser Criston just arrived too, going off his greeting.

“Forgive my lateness,” you catch Ser Criston interject as he seems to sit down.

“Important business, no doubt,” you cringe at Aegon’s grating voice.

“You appointed new knights to the Kingsguard, Your Grace?”

Ser Criston is barely asking that? They were with the King last night.

Some commander he is.

“To replace those we lost,” Aegon remarks.

“The last one needlessly, some might say,” a man comments quietly but full of judgment. You can’t say you can place a face or a name to the voice though.

“Ser Arryk was awarded the great duty of ending Rhaenyra’s challenge,” Ser Criston argues pointlessly. “He failed to discharge it.”

At least he recognizes that error.

“He failed because the scheme was rash,” you hear the Dowager Queen interject before getting countered by the Commander of the Kingsguard.

“Perhaps, Your Grace but we cannot all hide in our castles waiting for war to come to us.”

You have to admit that it is true, but that does not excuse the stupid act they sent Ser Arryk to do. The Kingsguard protecting your mother aren’t bad at their jobs like he is.

“As now it surely will,” Alicent quips.

“As, now,” Aemond interrupts the bickering, managing to catch your breath in your throat at the mere sound of his voice. “It already has. House Bracken took it upon themselves to attack the Blackwoods who declared for the pretender. Lord Samwell Blackwood himself is slain.”

“Good,” Aegon says. “First blood in our name.”

Ugh, idiot.

“Both sides took heavy losses, Your Grace,” you recognize Ser Tyland made a point the King failed to see. “I-I’m not entirely certain we can declare this victory—”

“The Blackwoods and the Brackens had feuded for centuries. This is nothing more than an excuse for them to indulge their ancient grudge. It’s no true war.”

A sudden pound against the table shuts the speaking Lord up and makes you press yourself closer to the wall.

“Call it what you will,” Aegon follows by saying, making him the one who pounded whatever it was on the table's surface. “I call it war. And so will Dragonstone. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

What is there to do? It was a stupid squabble between feuding families. There’s no significant point behind that bloodbath.

“We send a raven to Lord Tully,” you hear the maester come up with a solution amongst the other heads around the table. “These houses are his vassals, are they not? He must control them.”

“Lord Grover Tully is a flaccid, old fool who couldn’t control his cock in a cunny,” the Lord you don’t recognize cuts in with a hint of judgment. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”

“Do you have any better suggestions, Lord Jasper?” Aegon asks and once and for all brings a name and face to the voice.

“Your Lord Uncle Ormund marches from Old Town at the head of a great host, Your Grace,” the Lord rebuttals. “And your brother Daeron’s dragon nears fighting age. Call on them to suppress the Riverlands.”

Yes with Caraxes and Daemon going to the Riverlands? Tessarion would get ripped to shreds, he’s no more experienced than your dragon.

“At least they are months away,” Ser Tyland interjects. “My Lord brother Jason is raising a great army at Casterly Rock. In a matter of weeks, he will be able to harass the Blackwoods from the west—”

“Should we not aim to unite these armies?” You’re surprised to hear the maester give his opinion. “And then strike as one?”

He has a point. One big army is better than small ones.

“Ah,” Ser Tyland interrupts as he laughs mockingly. “The great military mind of the Citadel. Do remind me—”

Oh gods can this get any more childish?

Here instead of questioning the ruler they bicker with each other.

“This council must rediscover the discipline it lately had if its to be of any use,” Alicent thankfully shuts them up.

“The Riverlands are the key to the war,” Ser Criston moves the meeting forward over his rattling armor. “Harrenhal is the key to the Riverlands. I will ride out with those I can muster here. Men I know, men I’ve trained.”

Your interest finally piques and you push yourself off the wall to lean your ear close to the gaps on the wall that look in the council room.

“You need time to raise the numbers to challenge the Rivermen,” Alicent makes a smart point, but Ser Criston doesn’t seem to see it that way.

“Speed is my ally. I will turn the Crownland houses who declared for Rhaenyra to our cause. We will add their numbers to our own then turn west. Where I will enlist the Brackens, subdue the Riverlands, and take Harrenhal.”

Well, that’s a mighty goal. Smart yet a bit far-fetched.

“So impatient to ride with so few men,” Alicent says. “So like to be destroyed by the first stronghold you meet. A bold scheme indeed.”

Yes, especially because Daemon is also currently going to take the Riverlands as well.

“Well, the gods favor the bold,” Ser Criston quips a stupid comment that Alicent thankfully strikes down.

“They did not favor Ser Arryk.”

Ser Criston chuckles before he turns to get the favor from a war-thirsty mongrel. “What say you, my King?”

“And you’ll take Aemond and Vhagar?” Aegon asks, making you hold your breath out of anticipation as to what the response will be.

“Vhagar will remain here,” Ser Criston immediately lets you breathe, and doesn’t let the running thoughts that were building up, rush out and make a mess in your mind—“to defend the city.”

“Good. To war then,” Aegon exclaims, making Ser Criston hum in agreement and get the approval he was seeking for from the king.

“I’ll come, too, with Sunfyre,” Aegon continues making your lips twitch.

“Aegon,” Alicent calls out in protest.

“Your Grace.”

“You’ll need a dragon,” Aegon quickly throws out, making Ser Criston argue back.

“My plan is not to draw attention.”

“And-and what will you do if you encounter one or more of Rhaenyra’s dragons?” Aegon asks and you can’t help but answer in your mind that he’ll hopefully die.

“She’ll want to answer for Ser Arryk,” Aegon adds.

“We will be more like to encounter one if we field one of our own,” Ser Criston tries to make it clear to Aegon.

“That is precisely why you must remain, brother,” Aemond says calmly which actually surprises you. You would’ve thought he would volunteer to fight with Vhagar. “It’s a brave thought, but we cannot risk your loss.”

You smile in amusement at his words obviously not laced with genuine care.

“I’m as fearsome as any of them,” Aegon argues, making you stifle your laugh during the short and awkward silence that follows.

“We must also raise the matter on…” Lord Jasper interjects hesitantly after. “The Princess’s arrival. It is ominous, to say the least, and suspicious considering how much Rhaenyra coddles her children. We must press her for what she knows. If it’s true that she has switched loyalties—”

“No,” Aemond counters, making your heart skip a beat. “You will not do such a thing. I will talk to my wife.”

“We have already discussed all the matters with the princess herself,” Alicent interjects. “Her dragon will be put in the dragonpit, and we will keep a watchful eye on her.”

No tongues rise on the matter because no one wants to face Aemond’s wrath because he, unlike Aegon, has proven himself to be fearsome.

Nevertheless, you use this as your cue to leave and return to your quarters before you can be caught, finding it a much easier venture back than when you came. You surely do relieve Vanessa of any stress she harbored as she dramatically over-worried herself that you would get yourself lost.

“We should head out now,” you don’t take a moment to catch your breath or write the first letter to your mother about what you just heard.

“Is everything all right?” Vanessa queries.

You take Aerion from her and nod. “Things are as good as they will be at the moment. I need to send a letter to my mother to let her know what Ser Criston is going to do. Hopefully, Aemond is not clinging today.”

“We can always find a way to part from him,” Vanessa looks at the bright side. “It does not seem like he will be around much with this war needing constant attention.”

You scoff as you walk out of your room. “You would be surprised,” you mutter in return.

The moment you are out of your room and head to Helaena’s new chambers, you feel a sense of nervousness knot your already nauseous stomach, and rush through your veins to the point your hands begin to tremble at the thought of facing Helaena; seeing her grief, and seeing her pair of twins be left to one child.

It was not so long ago when you would both escape to your little Island with your dragons and her children. Now those are tainted memories of what she doesn’t have anymore.

What if she thinks you betrayed her and hates you for it?

You would understand, you would obviously try and explain that it wasn’t you so she knows she’s not alone in her grief, that she has you in the same way she has had you for the past year, but ultimately you would not blame her. It was Daemon, your family, your infamous side who killed her child.

Yet no matter how much your thoughts pester you, or how much you want to turn tail and return to your quarters, you’re more daring when it comes to her. You do hesitate a moment as you stand outside of her door with Aerion in your arms, but after beating down what’s making you hesitate, you knock and let your presence know.

Silence passes for a few minutes making you think you came too late, but then a few seconds later the door is opened by one of her ladies-in-waiting, leaving a clear view of her to you, and you to her.

“Good morning,” you greet softly as you walk in, seeing her put down what she’s sewing before she slowly meets your gaze with puffy eyes, but no tears brimming within. Her grief is clearly painted but it does not seem to bring her down like you thought it would. Still, you don’t feel any less guilty or sorry.

“Good morning,” she greets in return and then finds your son in your arms. “Good morning to you Aerion.”

The baby watches her before his eyes dart to Jaehaera and he becomes instantly infatuated with the little girl, so much so that he throws himself back against you out of glee.

“Someone’s happy to see you,” you direct at Jaehaera approaching you.

“Me?” She points at her chest and then flashes a grin that grows wider when you crouch so Aerion can be at her level.

“Hello Aerion,” she tells the baby and gently grabs his hand, making the baby firmly grab onto her.

“I missed you,” she tells him and shakes his little fist, making him slowly try and bring her hand to his mouth.

“He’s strong,” she comments with a giggle before she pulls her hand away and looks at you. “Can I play with him?”

“He’s a babe,” Helaena points out to her daughter, making her sigh.

“Well,” you try to console her. “He can sit with you and he can happily watch you play while he plays with some of toys of his own. You have to wait until he’s older so he can play with you.”

Jaehaera frowns, but she doesn’t argue. “All right then.”

You flash her a smile and stand to your given height to give Aerion to one of the wetnurses, so they can take the children to a different corner of the room while you talk to Helaena before your breakfast gets here.

“I planned to have breakfast a bit unexpectedly, I hope that’s all right,” you direct at Helaena who is watching her daughter for a moment before her eyes drift back to you.

“There’s no problem,” she assures you, making you nod gently before you grab your hands and fiddle with your fingers as you carefully think of what to say.

“Helaena,” you whisper, making her hum to probe innocently.

Before you can continue you briefly glance at her sitting on a couch before you go and sit next to her, making her turn to face you as you continue to struggle with how to tell her everything you feel in the bottom of your heart.

“I…I’m sorry,” you say what you have already told so many people, yet it’s not something you will get tired of saying because you can’t help or ignore your guilt, nor does this grief end. It keeps coming and coming.

“I’m sorry for what happened to Jaehaerys,” your voice quivers, and tears, the one thing you are tired of, well in your eyes, making them sting. “I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

Helaena’s eyes fall on her hands, and her lips fall to a small frown that only tears at your wounded heart even more.

“I know it must be hard, but I cannot be here and not come tell you that I am deeply sorry,” you continue as she stays quiet, and slowly reach for her hand. You know she’s not fond of intimacy, but you don’t overstep, you just drop your hand on hers, and she doesn’t move it away at that moment. Her hands stiffen but she lets you hold her hand.

“You and your children did not deserve that, he did not deserve that. I’m sorry,” you add softly, making her trail her eyes up to meet yours.

“But it is not your fault,” she says and surprises you. “You did not do it. Why are you sorry?”

You part your lips but can’t muster a thing, instead, you drop your head and lick the salty tears that roll down your cheeks and fall on your lips.

“Because it was not fair,” you bring up what you feel. “Because…it was a cruel thing to do, and agonizing to go through. Because…I know who sent those killers to you.”

A silence follows where Helaena slips her hand over yours and carefully wraps your hand with hers, making you blink repeatedly in disbelief before you meet her gaze with that same emotion in your eyes.

“It was still not your fault,” she presses ever so sweetly. “You did not send those killers, nor did you commit the act. I do not blame you, nor do I hate you.”

Your breath catches and a smile slowly tugs on your lips as your tense body eases with the relief that washes over you.

“I’m here for you, you know that? If you need someone to talk to, or a shoulder to cry on, I’m here for you. Always. I love you Helaena.”

She nods softly and offers you the sweetest smile that reminds you of the sweetest spring days. “I know,” she whispers.

You don’t expect her to say it in return, but you know her true feelings with the hand still wrapped around you.

“Why are you here though?” She suddenly blurts.

“I-I,” you pause out of confusion, but give her a clear answer. “I’m here for you.”

Helaena shakes her head and pulls her hand away. “You are not listening, why are you here? You should not have come.”

Your tears dry, and your confusion leaves no trace of the joy you were just beginning to feel

“I see it,” she presses and leans towards you. “A crown on a black veil.” She nods as if that helped you in some way. It only leaves you lost and a bit concerned.

“Okay…” you just give her the satisfaction of an answer to not leave things awkward. “Breakfast should be—”

And just as you’re going to finish, the doors open and servants with breakfast come in.

“I think Aemond missed you,” Helaena interjects while the breakfast is being placed. “And Aerion. He had his cradle moved after what happened with Jaehaerys.”

“Yes,” you mumble. “So I saw.”

Helaena gets off her seat and you mirror her to follow her to the round table, finding that breakfast looks unappetizing. The food looks good, but the nauseousness you feel is still lingering within you.

“Helaena I was thinking perhaps you could accompany me to select my new sworn protector,” you fill the silence as you take a seat. “I think getting out of your room and taking some air would be nice. Besides, I think a nice stroll in the gardens afterward would be nice, the weather is agreeable.”

Helaena sits beside you rather than in any other empty seat and looks at you before she queries. “What of the new Kingsguard that Aegon appointed? Why don’t you pick one of them?”

You meet her gaze and giggle before you look at the tea you requested getting placed in front of you. “No,” you put it simply. “One, that would be pretty foolish and Aemond would never allow that.”

She hums and the corner of her lips twitches. “I’m sure if Aemond could, he would be stuck to you like a shadow.”

You laugh softly and nod. “He tries.”

“I hope you and him reconcile,” she says. “It’s nice seeing him laugh with you.”

You swallow thickly and answer honestly. “I think it will be hard forgiving him for what he did.”

She hums and says one last thing. “Just do not wait too long, okay?”

Your heart skips a beat and your eyebrows furrow but you offer her a soft smile and nod. “Okay.”

She holds your gaze a second longer before she reaches over to serve herself some food. You try and do the same, but your stomach stops you from really desiring anything.

Helaena notices your reluctance and interjects as she leans toward you. “You should eat, it’s not good for the babes if you do not.”

Your eyes widen and slowly meet her gaze expressing only utter disbelief. “What?” You deadpan.

All Helaena does is offer you a simple smile before she starts eating, leaving you overcome with confusion, even if deep down what she said starts to make sense; Your over-exhaustion, your stomachaches, and headaches.

And it would track, Aemond and you did have sex before you left for Dragonstone, but…Cregan and you…

No…that’s a possibility you do not want to think about, and he’s always careful, and you…did not take Moontea this time, but it can’t be true, him being related is especially not true.

IF what Helaena said was true the babes are Aemond’s. And that’s even if Helaena is telling the truth, sometimes she has the tendency to say things that don’t make sense. Just like this, it's all just a jumble of words.

You will choose to believe that until you talk to someone who can actually prove it. Until then you pay all your focus on your breakfast with Helaena and keep yourself even more busy with choosing your sworn protector already discreetly picked by Daemon of all people.

You did not think he would care that much as to pay someone to keep you and your son safe, but here you are now standing on a balcony over a courtyard, hearing metal sing over the chaos playing all about the castle as men prepare to go to war with Ser Criston.

Usually, men just line up, and someone shares their achievements and a summary of how they became so high ranked and so on, but that all sounded so boring and you have lacked fun so you chose for a not-so-commonly picked choice and had them just demonstrate their skill.

“Perhaps there’s no need for such a show of violence,” Helaena gives her opinion as she stays back in her seat. “Go with the man Aemond wants you to pick.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head. “No,” you deadpan and cross your arms over the railing to lean your head over and watch as a man with short black curly hair suddenly pulls his cloak off to hurl it at his opponent and blind him.

You grin at his quick thinking and watch this tall, well-built man kick his opponent back while he’s blinded and trying to take the cloak off his face, resulting in the cloak to slip off but a few seconds too late because the intriguing man pulls out a dagger and thrust forward.

Albeit the opponent blocks his attempts with his arm, making you unfold your arms to press your hands on the cold stone and push yourself forward out of excitement.

The man proceeds to use his arm to dismantle his opponent's block by shoving his arm away, before he quickly grabs his arm and spins around him to be able to wrap his other arm around his opponent's neck, and point the tip of his dagger at an artery; with that finishing the last match, and making you beam and clap.

“Well fought!” You exclaim, causing the man to let go of his opponent so they can both face you and bow their heads. “What’s your name Ser?”

The man you called on lifts his head and you meet the most mesmerizing blue eyes that remind you of the bluest sea water.

“Ser Jason Waters, Princess,” he announces, making your grin twitch as you realize that this tall man below is the man Daemon hired for you.

“A bastard from King’s Landing,” the commander beside you whispers in your ear as if that affects his quick thinking or his battle experience—“Go with Ser Aldous from the Crownlands. That’s the man your Lord husband thought capable. He has battle experience, and he is well-honed.”

You scoff and give him the same attitude you just gave Helaena. “I do not care what my Lord Husband wants, and bastard or not that does not affect Ser Jason’s skill. Tell me his triumphs.”

The man hesitates but responds with what you asked for. “He fought at the Stepstones when he was ten-and-six with Prince Daemon until the war ended.”

You look over to flash the man a smile as you hit your palms on the stone. “See, he has battle experience too.” You look back at the man and focus your eyes on the scar that travels from the right corner of his forehead and all across his face to end on the left corner of his jaw.

“Tell me, Ser Jason, how did you get your scar?” You probe with genuine curiosity. “My grandfather Lord Corlys says a scar is always a story. What is your story?”

Ser Jason huffs lightly and glances down with a small smile that carves adorable and deep dimples on his cheeks.

“I,” he clears his throat and bats his lashes before he faces you. “I fought a Dothraki Screamer after I departed from the Stepstones.”

Your eyes widen and you quickly poke him for more with a bit too much excitement. “A Dothraki Screamer? Really?!”

He nods. “He almost took my face but I ended up winning,” he boasts with a shy smile. “Not that I am saying it was easy. It was…it was difficult.”

Your smile widens at his stumble of words before you look at the Commander. “Has Ser Aldous fought a Dothraki screamer and won?”

The commander sighs and argues. “But Prince Aemond—”

“I will make sure Prince Aemond does not take his anger out on you. I made this choice, I am capable of choosing a worthy protector for me and my child,” you interject to assure him, but then Helaena breaks her silence by calling your name before giving her opinion.

“Maybe you should listen to Aemond. I do not think Ser Jason is a wise choice.”

Her eyes snap to the man she can see through the gaps of the railing, and draws in a deep short breath before meeting your gaze and breathing out.

“You worry,” you tell her. “Just like, my Aemond. It’s okay.”

Helaena holds your gaze for a second longer with a very hard and pressuring look before she drops her head and nods stiffly.

“Let me just close this matter up and we can go for our stroll,” you assure her and return your attention to Ser Jason. “I will see you on the Morrow for your first day, Ser Jason. Thank you. And thank you to the rest of you, do not worry I am sure your skill will still be needed, I will make sure to recommend you to good positions.”

The other knights bow their heads to express their gratitude, but you focus on the man in the middle and understand now why Daemon chose him of all people to protect you and Aerion while you’re here in the jaws of the enemy. He’s well-traveled and has been holding a sword since he was a boy.

You have to give Daemon his flowers for this one thing.

“Thank you, Princess,” Ser Jason speaks up with his head raised and a crooked smile on his lips. “You bring me a great honor. I will protect you and yours with my life. I will not let you down. I will guard you even from the shadows that lurk in the night, and the cowards who call themselves men.”

You offer him a faint appreciative smile and as his crooked smile falls to a soft and gentle one, his blue eyes seem to deepen more, bringing this innocent look on his face that slowly pulls your smile down as you’re reminded of your sweet brother, Lucerys.

He would have been Lord if he had lived to be older. He could have had many different dangerous experiences like this man, he could have grown as sweet looking as this man, and held great achievements like this man, but he can’t. He was taken before he could really live a life of his own. Now you’re left just looking at this man below and getting reminded of what can’t flourish because Aemond made sure to kill it.

“Thank you, Ser Jason,” you offer the man softer than before and give him one last smile before you turn to try and leave. However, before you can you catch this certain familiar gleam in his eyes that steals your attention for a lingering second before you rip your eyes away and finally give Helaena all your attention.

“Now my Sweet aunt,” you probe as you hold your hands before you. “Why do you doubt Ser Jason?”

Helaena glances at you with a bit of surprise because you’re asking her for her thoughts that others would have disregarded.

“I just,” she says and turns her head away as she holds her hands. “I have a bad feeling about him.”

You take in what she says and quickly try to reassure her. “It’s normal to doubt people now more than ever, we are at war and tragedy has befallen everyone, but we cannot live our lives paranoid. But I will tell you what, I will be cautious, okay?”

Helaena nods softly and you add a remark. “Plus, the knight Aemond picked was old don’t you think?”

Helaena giggles and nods. “He was.”

“I’m sure it was done on purpose,” you comment on your husband's jealousy.

“You think?” Helaena asks, making you nod with a teasing smile playing on your lips.

“I know so. Now,” you change the subject to something she likes. “Tell me what have you caught as of late?”

Helaena’s shoulders release from their tense hold and her eyes glimmer for the first time. “I caught fireflies the other day by the pond, but I think they’re too beautiful to keep, so I let them go.”

You hum and feed her interests. “They are quite fascinating, they’re like little stars.”

She hums and carefully holds some of your fingers, making your heart happily skip a beat. “Did you know that they flash their lights for different stuff? Like when they’re trying to attract a mate, or deceiving others,” she muses. “And many people mistake them for flies or bugs, but they are beetles in truth.”

You hum. “I did not know that,” you share.

“Well, now you do.”

You giggle and nod. “Yes, I do. Now I think if I could be any insect I think I would be an orchid mantis. They are very beautiful.”

Helaena laughs softly and lolls her head towards you. “You’re funny.” She says, making you smirk.

You end up taking the long way to the gardens and find yourselves walking through the training yard that is flooded with men all preparing to go off to war, but halting the moment they all spot Queen Helaena walking by. All except for one man in bulky silver and green armor; he walks away from his horse with a half-smug smile on his face. And it's only when you get closer that you start to predict who he might be just going off the flaming tower on his chest plate.

“My Queen,” he finally pays his respects and bows his head. “And…” he leaves room for you to introduce yourself, and you do, making his eyes brighten and the smile turn more smug.

“Ah, the Realms Golden Girl, how nice it is to meet you at long last,” he rolls out of his tongue with a sense of cheekiness, but not filled with deceit, more so like he’s trying to seduce you.

But, as charming as he does speak, he can’t reel you in. You smile, but you also glance at Helaena in confusion, yet she doesn’t seem to understand you asking for help, so the man before you bows his head at you before he finally introduces himself; “I am Ser Gwayne Hightower.”

Ah, Alicent’s brother.

“It is an honor to meet you. I have heard a great deal about you,” you just say out of respect but you could care less even if he is a bit handsome for a Hightower.

“Hm,” he hums with a growing smirk. “In all my comings and goings never have I met such an enchanting beauty,” he flatters you and you can’t help but show off a shy smile—“my nephew is a lucky man.”

You scoff softly and he leans closer. “I am going off to battle with the Lord's Hand…”

You scoff at the title given to such an unqualified man and he seems to catch your drift and matches your mocking smile before he continues.

“I would fight more fiercely if you granted me your hand,” he speaks smoothly, but you still don’t fall prey to his attempts. Albeit you do give him your hand and watch him gently bring your hand up to his lips to press a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

Once he lets go of you his smug smirk deepens.

“I wish you well in your travels, Ser, I hope to see you again,” you offer him even if deep down you do not mean it at all and you pray and hope for his and all their downfalls. “Now if you will excuse me, the Queen and I have to go.”

“Of course.” He bows his head at you before drifting his attention to Helaena one more time. “My Queen.”

She offers him a faint smile before she pulls you away with her to finally get away from the clustered place and walk through quieter spaces until you both find joy and peace in the castle gardens.

Winter is coming, like the Stark’s like to say, but the garden does not lack life. It’s a lively contrast to the chaos ascending everywhere, and a peaceful escape where you can admire the vibrant autumn flowers that show their beauty off like stars at night. The trees are bare with the leaves rusting and breaking away, but the vibrant leaf colors that litter the ground steal the attention from its emptiness. The only thing that does make the garden feel lackluster is the lack of roses. They don’t bloom like they do Winterfell.

“Look,” Helaena calls for your attention and makes you tear your gaze away from the calm sea in the distance. “An orchid.” She shows off the beautiful light pink flower before she drops it on your lap. “Now you’re one step closer to becoming an orchid mantis.”

You burst out laughing and she giggles with you.

“You know,” you add after you catch your breath. “I have this gown I have been meaning to wear. It has blue winter roses embroidered on the corset and on the borderlines of the skirt. It is very beautiful. We should have a gown designed for you of your favorite flower so we could show off together.”

Helaena hums and nods. “I would like that.”

“Good.” You say with a smile and stand back up to continue down the gardens, coming to find Lord Larys Strong wandering around the pond.

“Your Grace. Princess,” he greets and bows his head.

You offer him a faint smile in return and steal a glance around before addressing him. “Enjoying the kind weather?”

He hums. “Making the best of it before winter comes.”

“All we will get is light snows and bitter winds this far South,” you bring up and walk closer to him with Helaena falling behind. “We will live.”

“I suppose winters here don’t compare to those in the North,” he says, and you shake your head lightly before peering back to watch Helaena slowly make her way to you.

“I would just like to say that it is odd seeing you and Prince Aemond be so estranged,” he says and slowly drifts back to him. “Not long ago you were almost inseparable.”

You avert your gaze and purse your lips together before you mutter your comment. “Well, sadly there are matters that create a strain.”

“I am sorry to hear about your brother's passing, it was such a tragic affair.”

Your eyes snap up and rather than expressing gratitude, you hardened your gaze to pass him a warning glare so he can tread carefully.

“Marriage is a complicated thing, more so with a war that tears your gaze between two sides, and secrets that lurk beneath the surface,” he doesn’t listen, he’s bold, so you lift your chin and make your glare more menacing.

Lord Larys catches the threat behind your glare and checks that Helaena is distracted by what’s in the pond before he quietly brings a point to this babble.

“I just hope Prince Aemond’s frequent brothel visits are not the secret truly keeping you apart.”

Your heart drops and every attempt to be seen as menacing falls flat. Instead, anguish begins to surface, it takes your attention and leaves you lost in thought for the rest of the day.

And you know you have no reason to be upset after you lay with Cregan. You shouldn’t care because you hate Aemond after he killed Lucerys, but knowing he went to see other women, imagining him kissing another woman, and picturing him looking at them the same way he looks at you; like there’s only you and no one else, like you’re all that’s beautiful in the world, crushes your heart.

You don’t want him touching anyone else with the same gentle touch he blesses you with. You don’t want someone else tasting the sweetness of his lips, or seeing how completely vulnerable and loving he can be. You don’t like that someone else is seeing parts of him that are only meant for you. You don’t want him to admire someone the way he admires you.

You want to be the only one he finds beautiful, you want him to only love you, just like it always has been. You don’t want to share him.

Yet you also can’t be so selfish. You know what you did, and the bad thing is you don’t regret it. You shouldn’t expect loyalty when you broke it first. You can’t be seething in jealousy when you were the one who kissed another man and became intimate with him. That’s selfish too, and you can’t be selfish.

But oh!

You can’t stop tormenting yourself with images of Aemond kissing other women, and other women kissing him. You see it in the books you try to read to keep yourself distracted and hear the sounds of his pleasure in the crackle of the fires that gives light to your chambers and also keeps it warm. You’re tormented by the ugliness that is jealousy, and also getting torn apart between not deserving to be jealous. And him coming into the room does not make it easier because now you’re also plagued by memories of what he did.

You’ll probably find yourself broken down soon enough.

“Where’s Aerion?” Aemond asks first as he takes some weight off him by putting his sword aside.

“With your mother,” you deadpan and flip mindlessly through a different book. “She wanted to spend time with him and Jaehaera.”

Aemond hums and he then approaches you to lean over the couch and try and give you a peck on the cheek, but you lean away, leaving his lips to meet a cold emptiness.

He proceeds to linger the way you left him before he purses his lips and steps away with a deep sigh.

“I see you are still playing at that game,” he says boldly and pulls your attention away from the book to lift your head and focus on nothing in particular as you run over what just came out of his mouth.

When you know you heard him right a crease carves in between your eyebrows as they pinch together, your eyes narrow and almost seem to emit flames with the rage that makes you forget the purpose you really came. That’s all meaningless now as you shut the book and throw it on the couch before you get up and spin around to snap back. “Game? Is this some jest to you, Aemond?”

Said man slips his eyepatch off and throws it on the table, choosing not to feed the dragon he already stirred awake.

“Tell me? Was killing my brother some game to you?” You don’t hold back and march around the couch to get closer, but he keeps getting away as he works to take his leather vest off.

“Is my grief, my guilt, some game to you? You know I-I couldn’t even face my mother, or-or Rhaena, because of what you did? I blamed myself!” You throw at his back which moves further and further away. “Is that funny? Do you think I can just forget and pretend everything is alright? Like-like you did not break my heart in the worst way possible?!”

Aemond finally stops walking away, but he doesn’t turn around or speak, and that only triggers your anger to get more heated.

“Aemond?” You call out so you can get something, a hum if that’s what he wants to give, whatever, you just want a response to let you know he’s paying attention.

“Tell me. Is all I am, is all I feel is some game to you?”

His head slowly lowers, and angry tears form in your eyes while you start to believe what you’re accusing him of in his lingering silence.

“Tell me…because if I am…” you trail off and don’t finish because you fear accepting that it will be true. “Aemond,” you call out again in a broken voice and with a burning glare that falters while you storm over to him and stop halfway. “Aemond,” you whisper before your nose furls and you cry out desperately and with frustration laced within. “Aemond!”

Said man slowly turns on his heels with his eye glossy and downcast, his lips out in a pout, and his eyebrows formed in a shaky furrow.

“No,” is what he says under his breath but doesn’t dare look you in the eyes, he’s like a wounded boy filled with fear. Not of what lurks in the shadows, or of some great fear; he’s afraid of what will come out of the scolding, afraid that he will be received with disappointment and a cold shoulder.

“No what?” You press to know and step closer. “No I’m not some joke to you, or no you did not mean to betray me in that way?”

“Bloodshed was inevitable, if not me, it would’ve been someone else,” he brings out his first excuse.

“Okay,” you whisper and nod in understanding while you turn away and hold your hands as you take in what he said. “Okay.”

“You are not a joke,” he responds to your other question as he finally breaks away from the spot he was stuck to. “My intention was not to hurt you. You know that. You of all people in this fucking world is all that matters to me. Ever since I was young and got pushed around for being different. You,” he makes that word clear with a sense of a deep meaning, no deceit, devotion and passion. “I did not want to hurt you. I did not mean what I did…” he trails off in a whisper that wouldn’t have been audible if the room wasn’t cast in silence.

Yet does that really mean anything now that he did it? He can’t take back what he did, he can’t bring back Lucerys because he did not mean it. It still hurts and he can’t take that pain away with those words.

“All those times,” your voice quivers as your heart speaks for you. “…I spent missing you, wanting to come back home to you, and for what?” You say to the tension in the room and hear his lips part before his steps hit the ground louder and louder as he makes his way before you.

When you’re face to face, heart facing the others heart, his long and slender fingers reach for your face, but because of the violence done to you in the past days you pull your head back, making his hands freeze and tense for a second before he tries again and this time makes contact with your warm cheeks, providing more warmth that you can’t help but melt into.

You do hesitate looking into his eye because you know what you will see will only make your heart sing, but he demands your attention and tilts your head up to meet his gaze. At that moment letting you see the sweet man you have always loved, a soft and enamored man who shows his tender affection in his eye that gleams like the full moon itself.

“I sent you letters,” he brings up softly and glances at your lips as his breath catches.

You part your lips and feel a desire slowly take hold of you, but you are not done, he can’t just shut you up with sweet words, so you quickly rebuttal with an icy quip. “Full of empty words.”

You resisted what you otherwise would have fallen trap to and reel away from Aemond to face him with a serious look that falters between anguish.

“But what could I expect? You only wrote for 1 year when I was in Winterfell…”

“That again,” he mutters and drops his hands on his thighs as he shakes his head.

You scoff and nod angrily. “Yes, this again! Because I waited, you were my best friend! And I was alone! All I wanted was reassurance from you, and you left me alone…and now all I wanted was you to tell me what you feel, I would have loved the truth, but,” you pause and feign a laugh. “You led me on like you did nothing. Like you were doing nothing when in reality you killed my brother and lay with whores,” you spat out. You did not mean to. You wanted to hold it just for the sake of not sounding bitchy and hypocritical, but it hurts not knowing why HE did what he did.

Was he looking for just one little excuse to be with someone else? Have you not been enough? Were you not giving him enough attention? Enough love? Are you not beautiful enough for him?

It’s true you talked to Cregan in your year here, but only as friends before and after you married Aemond. You missed him but only when you felt alone here, but after Aemond made you feel loved, Cregan was a sweet memory of a first love. And now? You were hurt, you wanted to feel loved after getting your heart torn from your chest. You do not regret because that will tear you apart, and you do not want to deny what you did. You did it; you take responsibility for it, you won’t regret it especially because you felt happy in a dark tormenting storm…

But Aemond?

“Who told you?” He demands to know and at that moment proves Lord Larys’ accusation right.

“It does not matter who told me,” you sneer through gritted teeth. “You did it…You do it.”

Aemond drops his eye and his lips curl to a snarl before he answers firmly. “Not since you returned.”

You shouldn’t but you feel like someone is just crushing your heart.

“No…then what about last night? When you left.” You press for more even if the little voice in your head is telling you to stop fishing for more.

“You did not want to see me, remember?” He sasses you. “Was I supposed to stay here just to have you glaring at me?”

You snap your eyes to him and narrow your glare, making him avert his gaze and answer quieter.

“I was with Ser Criston for a time before I took care of those men that shot at your dragon while our son was strapped on your chest.”

The corner of your lips twitch, but that does nothing to win you over.

“And the other times,” he continues and takes a step forward to close the gap left between you by grabbing your face and forcing you to meet his gaze. “Meant nothing. It was nothing but comfort while I was tormented. I did not touch her the way I touch you, I did not kiss her in any way, my heart, my lips are yours. I am yours. It meant nothing,” he makes clear by pouring out his heart, and bringing tears to your eyes.

Yet your tears aren’t out of relief that he gifted you the confession that his heart only yearns for you. You start to cry out of guilt and…regret.

You did not want to feel regret. It was a cemented knowledge, but you are the bad person here. You are horrible for becoming one flesh with another man, for feeling love and appreciation for someone else who is not your husband. Perhaps what Aemond did was bad too, his affair was emotional, but that night your heart belonged to Cregan, and now…if what Helaena said was true then your sin might come to life.

How could you be so horrible?

Why did you have to dig for the truth? It would have been better if you just simmered in your jealousy, but now?

Gods.

You turn your head away to not face him, but he just moves his head in search of your teary eyes. And when he finds your gaze he wipes the tears off your cheeks and parts his lips. Yet nothing comes out but a punctured breath as his eye grows tender and bright like the stars and the moon that reign the sky, but infinitely more beautiful, and just for you to admire and cherish.

Profound enamourment also fills his eye and only works to make his confession of love louder without any need for words.

If only you could give it all in return. You can’t share that intense love because resentment and hatred are still very much alive in your heart. Besides, now guilt for what you did takes a space within you, only further pushing that affection.

“Come with me,” he beckons, much to your surprise.

“Where?” You ask.

“Out,” he only surprises you more. “In the city.”

You scoff. Is he being serious? Or is this some jest? He says the city at night is for delinquents to rage, you always have to force him out with you to do something fun.

“We shouldn’t, I—”

“Now it’s you who’s protesting,” he cuts you off with the corner of his lips perked. “Just come with me for the night. Please.”

You lower your face and remark. “You do not like going into the city. I always have to beg you to come out at night. Then again you have been out, so.” you remark bitterly.

Aemond slides his hands down to hold your shoulders and even if he is annoyed at your remark he insists. “I…just want to show you some fun,” he uses your own persuading words against you purposely.

“Aemond,” you protest and he grabs your face again to pull you towards him, making your eyes flicker to his lips just a hairsbreadth away, calling for your warmth and taste to reunite and mold back together like a missing puzzle piece.

“Please,” he insists softly and pulls away to offer you his hand.

You glance at his hand offering you an attempt at a rekindle and then look back at his eye and the sapphire glimmering against the candlelight, and it's almost like it's giving a hopeful glow in the same way his eye, his lips, and eyebrows express the hope that you will accept.

A part of you says no, you will worsen your guilt, and it won’t be fun if you’re bitter and hold resentment with each word, but also another part of you is too curious and intrigued by the fact that he's the one offering you a night out first and not the other way around.

Both sides fight a short bloody fight, with one choice coming out triumphant. But deep down was it so hard to choose?

As if attracted to a dark calling of temptation you give him your hand.

.

.

.

.

A/N- No don’t take us out into the city Aemond, you’re so sexy and smitten aha 🫣

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @callsignwidow @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104

[rayshippouuchiha]

Juuuust stopping in to say? Your 9/10ths AU? Legit was my Yandere Aizawa awakening! Never knew how WELL it fit until that moment but holy sh*t! :D so much red! All of it flags! Delightful~☆!

I legit can not WAIT for that precinct to fall apart? They are so sh*t to Izuku and yet rely so heavily on him? Have come to expect and take for granted a truely EXCEPTIONAL level of Analysis that honestly? At their level they would never be able to afford for even a FRACTION of the cases they get him to do it for.

He is a blessing from the gods. Ten thousand winning lotteries. Should be their best kept secret and most beloved staff member. But WHERE is he? A dusty closet.

Aizawa is gonna watch them fall apart and laugh. Oh boo hoo, reap what you sow. Izuku is his now. Good luck finding another analyst willing to take the same literally insulting, bordering on illegal, pay you had Izuku on! No one will take it!

NO ONE. Not even amateurs. Your budgets is f*cked, your case load just got countless times more dangerous and difficult, and? Words gotten out through a VERY unhappy Grand Torino (and Scheming Nedzu n Aizawa, but really can you PROVE that?) to the older and retired generations of Heros that you are "unreasonable bastards" who are "impossible to work with".

You know! The parents, grandparents, mentors, and bosses of all those promising young Heros you want to work with you! Huh. Wonder why they suddenly don't want to return your calls. Won't pool resources and Intel.

Gasp! If it isn't the consequences of our own actions! >:Dc

Just? Izuku merrily scribbling away back at the apartment. Finally full and freshly... rested. Having the first peaceful afternoon he's had in YEARS. All while his old workplace metaphorically burns to the GROUND. Aizawa brought Marshmallows. Isn't even gonna eat them. Just wants these f*ckers to know who started the fires.

BURN.

Like? Izuku thinks Aizawa just want out on lovely lil patrol. How peaceful! New apartment, freshly laundered clothes, dinner prepped and ready to go, music playing, the weather's nice~ mmmmm. Yes. He should look up cat toys for their future cat!

Smash cut to "I am the wrathful fist of god" Aizawa. Nedzu is cackling.

As always I am thrilled to be a gateway for you darling!

Ohh the precinct! It is going to be a major case of "don't know what you've got until it's gone" for that entire building only so so much worse because Aizawa and Nedzu are both going to end up involved.

Because yeah, they're never going to find someone of Izuku's skill level to replace him, and especially not with the pay/hours/abuse he tends to put up with. So, like you said, workload/budget/etc all that would have to take a hit to replace him.

And that's before Nedzu puts a black mark on them as a whole and then Gran finds out just how bad shit is because you called it, he's also gonna be pissed.

Like, RIP Tsukauchi and Sansa, you both might want to straight up move.

Once Aizawa is able to get Izuku home with him? Oh Izuku is gonna settle into this new domesticity (with some anxiety but full enthusiasm) meanwhile Aizawa has a kill list and no regrets.

[cellsshapedlikestars]

ok so I don't get involved in fandom drama, but I saw a post that got me thinking about one of my favorite jonsa moments in the books that I feel like is a bit overlooked?

I'm putting it under a cut because my thoughts are scattered and possibly confusing but whatever lol

so I found the post on my for you tab (why do i even go in there?) and it was about how Sansa is super classist for this part: Sansa sighed as she stitched. "Poor Jon," she said. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard."

(Don't worry, the poster did point out that all the Starks are classist to some degree, but Sansa is the most, and how Arya just thinks of him as her brother. gotta love people who try to bury their Sansa hate lol. like there was no other point to the post. it didn't even make me mad cause it was just kind of a dumb, very surface level take that was clearly just meant to point out how Sansa's such a meanie)

now, if you follow me, you probably know that I'm not someone who reads a ton of metas or even believes jonsa will be canon, but if it is, I think this is such an underrated moment.

Because Sansa sees him in a way none of her other siblings do, because she doesn't think of him as her true brother.

Arya thinks of Jon as her brother. For her, she and Jon are the same, but they aren't, and she doesn't see that - because she's 9 years old and for her, Jon is an outsider like her, and that relationship is such a safe space for her. (ugh I actually love the Jon & Arya relationship I really don't get to write it enough because I do tend to focus more on Sansa's relationship with Arya). Anyway, Arya doesn't really understand the implications of Jon being a bastard. Like, that isn't going to change for him, except in a very extreme circumstance. But she will always be trueborn. (we're taking gender out of the equation here, which is its own beast that has been talked about a ton so I won't go into it)

Arya is blinded by her love and adoration of Jon. Robb doesn't see it at all because why would he even consider it? (and even if he did, we don't see it cause there's no Robb POV). Bran and Rickon are probably too young to think about. But Sansa sees Jon for who he is, and what she says is a fact. Is it a nice thing to say? Maybe not, but it is 100% true, and she's clearly emotionally intelligent enough to see his circumstances and understand how that effects his actions.

I think that's why I found the post so funny, cause I'm like - and? Jon IS a jealous bastard. He spends the entire Winterfell feast being soooooo salty about Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen and even Robb (radiant Sansa gets a pass tho) even though there's literally no other reason for it. He spends the rest of the books trying so hard to suppress how much he wants to be Lord of Winterfell. He loves Robb, but he's jealous of Robb, and he struggles a lot with that and feels guilty for wanting what Robb has.

Anyway, this is one of my fav jonsa foreshadowings (if it ever becomes canon) because to me, it just means that Sansa can see through his bullshit better than a lot of other people. And I like the idea of that, that she sees him.

meanwhile Jon's just over there like "yeah yeah yeah, Sansa's radiant, but have you seen how insipid Myrcella is??"

[hamliet]

Hope you are having a wonderful day! Just wanted to ask, what's your take on Rhaegar Targaryen? What kind of person do you perceive him as? GRRM has so many characters praise him but many of his actual actions were so shitty

Good question! My interpretation: he's a person.

No, but really. I think he is neither the conniving groomer many view him as, nor the heroic, romantic prince with a heart of gold. But I think he started out more as the heroic, romantic side than the other.

Do I think Rhaegar loved Lyanna? Yes, I genuinely do. I realize that take isn't popular but my guess is that it fits better with Martin's view of a Romantic world, and also fits better with Lyanna's character. That said, I also don't think Martin will ever clear it up and will leave the idea of whether this is love or not up for debate--because it can be debated. I guess I should say I think Lyanna and Rhaegar both believed they were in love and felt that way until they died. However--

However, love doesn't magically make the world better. This is the part where Martin's view takes a melancholy semi-deconstructionist look at Romanticism. Martin's MO in doing this, through other characters like Sansa, is showing us that fairy tale logic-- "knights are brave and faithful" "love saves the day" and "true power is kindness"--doesn't work on a daily level, but it doesn't mean there is no value to the ideals it teaches.

Idealism seems to be at the root of Rhaegar's character, honestly. He's kind of like Sansa, but if Sansa was still unwise as an adult with a lot more power and agency. Idealism of romantic love. Idealism of being a brave heroic king who fulfilled the prophecy to save the world. He fully believed in these things, and they made his life and the lives of everyone he loved worse.

Rhaegar is married to Elia and essentially ditches her and their two kids to run off with Lyanna, who is a teenager facing a marriage she doesn't want with someone who claims to love her but isn't faithful to her during betrothal, much less marriage. The tragedy of it is that Lyanna runs off with someone essentially doing the same thing to his wife that Lyanna didn't want to be done to her as Robert's wife.

Still, I think Rhaegar was probably genuinely fascinated with Lyanna when he found out she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree and promised not to reveal her. Thus, true love was all that mattered, right? Except... that's not how the world works.

But did Rhaegar really love Lyanna or was he just using her for the prophecy? Again, I think why can't it be both? I do think the prophecy idea played a role in Rhaegar's motivations to pursue Lyanna. He wanted a third child and thought he had to have one for the prophecy, but Elia could not have more children physically without killing her.*

So, my thinking is that grinding to determine whether his motives were prophecy or purely love miss the point and negate the tragedy of the situation. He loved Lyanna but yes, he also saw opportunity and assumed destiny would guide him. And that hubris ensured that both Lyanna and Rhaegar died.

Rhaegar is an idealistic man who believes so strongly in his sense of purpose--a purpose greater than himself that genuinely will save people--that he forgets to look down and look around him at the life he's actually living and the lives around him in favor of the potential lives he could save. His hyper-focus on prophecy is his tragic flaw that brings about his downfall and death of so many people, and it didn't need to happen this way.

In focusing on a dream idealistic forbidden romance and coming child, he neglects his living wife and children, who are then assaulted and brutally murdered. Instead of true love idealistically triumphing, he actually loses to the man whom Lyanna did not love but who was betrothed to marry her, since Robert kills him. In his belief that the prophecy would be fulfilled through him, he forgets that he is himself human and all humans have weaknesses and die.

Rhaegar had the best of intentions but the worst of the worst of implementation, in other words. Or maybe more accurately Rhaegar was all about theory, and he forgot practice and everyone around him paid the price, particularly the innocents like Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys. The questions that stem from this drive many of our characters and are at the heart of the questions Martin wants his readers to ask.

And: his life wasn't entirely in vain, because his son Jon lives.

*(Aside--to his credit, Rhaegar does not force Elia to have sex and have another child even though he could have. Like, bare minimum yes, but it's also not a coincidence that we're told that Aerys the Mad King routinely brutally assaults Rhaegar's mother (and one of these attacks leads to Daenerys's birth) because in Westeros it's not assault if you're married. Side note: also not a coincidence that what isn't seen as assault but is leads to Dany while what is publicly seen as assault but isn't leads to Jon.

Even throughout Fire & Blood, we read about husbands who unquestionably love their wives having sex with them and conceiving kids strongly against medical advice--Robert and Alyssa, Jaehaerys and Alysanne, etc. Rhaegar doesn't do this, showing that he's trying to do less harm to others around him. But, he still humiliates Elia by taking off with Lyanna--and his actions do lead to her death and the death of their children. And even if they hadn't, there's an emotional toll. So, did he really do less harm, or more? These are the sorts of questions I think Martin wants his readers to ponder more than answer.)*

[pixiecactus]

so in that fandom confessions post, of how people that like sansa and elia tend to depict lyanna and arya as wild and ugly when it's a canon fact that both of them were considered pretty.

there's a stansa claiming that they have never seen any elia or sansa stan do this. and i remember that old saying that goes "no hay peor ciego que el que no quiere ver" (sorry for not putting a translation, but i think that i'm pretty done with posting altogether, and i really hate this time of the year, so i couldn't care less right now)

so i went through their blog to see what content they reblog, and i find it so interesting how this is one of the tags they wrote.

i can only talk for myself, as someone who doesn't like sansa that much (i really appreciate that later on in the books we don't see her judging other girls or women for being sexually active; look at her go! she's growing and learning to be more accepting; i'm a little bit impressed)... actually i think it has come a time in my life where i really pity the girl for the fandom that she has; they don't like her canon personality, and they only use her as a vessel to project themselves into a "pretty, young, and naive maid" archetype in a fantasy setting.

but i want arya and sansa to reunite; actually, i even see them sharing a desperate hug because they need to confirm that the other one is real by touching them.

where the problem lies for me is people trying to erase the fact that arya and sansa don't have a good relationship. and meanwhile, i agree that arya loves her sister, because (i can't stress enough this next part) family is one of the most important things for arya. i can't say the same thing about sansa, for this girl, the most important thing is herself, and she doesn't like arya, simply as that, because her little sister dares to rebel and not conform to what is expected of her because she was born a girl. 

sansa can't connect to arya at all because she doesn't understand her; and instead of coming to terms with this fact, sansa wishes that arya was different and then later on when sansa thinks that arya is already dead, she thinks that

"arya had been entirely unsatisfactory as sisters went" (copy it up and google it, if you don't believe me, this is actually a book quote coming from sansa's pov)

let's add to the fact that sansa is one of the stark's golden children. sansa is praised all the time around by pretty much everyone. don't you think that sansa seeing this and seeing arya be reprimanded at the same time couldn't translate into sansa being entitled and holding the belief that she's always in the right and arya is a disgrace to all of her family?

they can bring that part, in which sansa prays for all of her family (arya included) all they want, but as someone who grew up catholic, when i was a little girl, i used to pray for people who i almost never interacted with, like my neighbors, and even the ones that i didn't like, because i was taught that was the way to be "a proper little girl under the eyes of god", so as a person with that past experience behind me, i'm simply not convinced of this act being significant enough.

i have major problems with sansa dreaming about having a daughter that looks just like arya too, because i can't get out of my head the thought of if this were to actually happen and sansa has a girl that looks like the girl's aunt, every time that child misbehaves or fails any of her duties... i can see sansa resenting arya even more, because sansa would blame arya for her daughter being this way.

i do really want them to reunite (hopefully this reunion is one of the last ones to happen because i want arya to be around people that had always loved her, you know, like jon and bran and even rickon) but sansa has not matured enough to be able to recognize that she hurt her little sister badly, and i'm pretty sure she could (and would) hurt her again easily, because she had so little growth as a person. so what it comes down to is that i don't trust sansa to be around arya.

and i'm so scared of the possibility of arya forgiving her sister way too easily because sansa hasn't shown almost any remorse for the things she said to arya. and let me be clear: in any way, shape, or form, arya never did anything to deserve to be treated this way. arya always deserved better from her older sister. and arya doesn't owe sansa any kind of forgiveness just because "they're the sun and the moon."

with that particular rant from me over and done. i saw this reblogged in their blog as speculation for arya in the future.

and this next type of posts are the things they reblog for arya.

and i'm going to let those posts and tags speak for themselves.

like this person is a stansa, a jonsa, a "stark sisters" stan, a dany anti and a green stan... like "girl (gender neutral), pick a struggle for real"

[seejayseattle]

You, Therefore

Sansa Stark x fem!reader

summery: The first time Sansa sees you is in the Sept and she cannot help but feel like you do not belong somewhere so solemn.

warning: !TW! implied non-con/SA (non-descriptive + mentioned very briefly), language, time-period homophobia, violence and gore, angst, implied smut

word count: 9.13k

The Sept in Winterfell is always quiet. Sansa never had known it to be anything other than quiet and uninhabited. She thinks that none of the other southern wives visit because of its nature. A gift to the newly wedded Lady Stark from her greener-than-summer grass Lord husband. Or mayhaps it was not a gift at all, but an apology for bringing a bastard home from war.

Sansa does not think of faith often, but she has always dreamt of marrying a southern prince, and following his gods would likely please him. So, here she kneels on the cold hard stone and listlessly watches wax tears roll down the candle as it melts.

Her eyes start to grow hazy and her hands that were firmly pressed together start to go limp, but then-

“Do the gods bore you?” 

Sansa goes rigid. She turns her neck so sharply that the tendons and muscles pull tight and strained. She is expecting someone she knows, a serving girl or a bannerman’s young wife. You are neither. You are unfamiliar. A stranger lurking in the dark, only the light of a dying flame allows her to see your face. 

You are very pretty, she thinks to herself. Your hair is braided in an elaborate way she had never seen before, and your clothes are made of a fabric that her fingers had never touched.

Still standing far enough away that your presence is not towering, you take a step forward and tilt your head in a way she had seen hounds do. She suddenly remembers you had asked her a question. 

Do the gods bore you?

She ponders the question with the same lightness it was asked with. Sansa has no obligation to answer you, let alone speak to you. Although, there is something interesting about you. The two of you are the same age, she’s sure of it, but you have an air of flippancy that she has never seen any woman wear.

Sansa hums before she speaks. “How could they not? They never say anything back.”

“Mayhaps they do and you do not listen well enough.” 

Sansa feels her face go hot at your teasing tone. She scoffs, looking away from you while mumbling, “You should address me as ‘my lady’.”

Your brows pull together in confusion. “But you are not my lady.” squinting your eyes at her, you huff a laugh. “You are not a lady at all really, just a girl.” 

She has decided that she dislikes you greatly.

Do you not know that she will be queen one day? The King and her father are brothers in all but blood. The golden prince will whisk her away South to wed her and the people of King's Landing will sing songs dedicated to their love and beauty. Moreover, you seem to be oblivious that she's a Stark, highest birth in the North. 

Pressing her palms together and clenching her eyes shut, Sansa feigns quietude whilst attempting to disregard your presence entirely. 

You laugh, and she decides that she truly hates you.

“May I kneel with you?” 

She opens one eye to peek at you from the corner of it. Your own eyes blaze with amusement, so bright that she thinks they might burn her if you are any closer. Without waiting for the invitation, you walk to her side.  

Your boots make a horrid gritty sound when you drop to your knees and Sansa winces as it scrapes against her ears. This close she can see your dress properly, pink silks with detailed orange and yellow embroidery. She has to resist the aching desire to run her finger over the intricate pattern of each stitch. 

It is something one would never catch eye of in the north and Sansa is struck with the realization that you are likely a Southerner who has traveled here for trade.

Even though she finds you rather annoying, her curiosity of the dress's origins and the excitement of conversing with a true Southern girl makes her speak.

“Are you from Dorne?” She questions, feeling as though the vibrancy of those colors would likely come from there. 

You simply smile, “Sometimes.”

“Something?” She repeats incredulously.

“Aye.”

Sansa feels a strong urge to do something unladylike, like calling you a name or shoving you. But she is a lady and will not deign herself. She is about to say something haughty to put you in your place, the way she often does with Arya, but you speak first. 

“What do you pray for?” You ask, eyes fixated on the few unlit candles in the sentry of the Sept. Your grin is so wide, Sansa notices. Although you two have only just met, she feels as though the giddiness on your face is genuine.

She shrugs. “I pray for what every lady prays for.” At your encouraging look, she continues. “To marry the prince and give him many healthy sons.”

Your smile dampens and you shake your head, but you say nothing else.

After a few moments of silence, Sansa wished to quench her curiosity.

“What do you pray for?” She asks.

You turn, fully facing her. She is truly caught by how beautiful you are. Sansa should feel envious, for she has always been the most comely in Winterfell. 

The grin on your lips turns sly, countering the whore-Ros that Theon favors. Secretive and inviting. 

“Nothing.” You say, “I do not follow the Seven.” 

Sansa cannot help the girlish giggle that burst from her mouth. You laugh along with her, and she is even more sure that you do not belong here.

°°°

She sees you around Winterfell. Sometimes trailing after a man who looks much too young to be your father and other times she sees you gallivanting around the courtyard as if you are Lord Stark himself. 

Robb seems to enjoy you, well he enjoys the crumbs you throw at him now and then. Her older brother always seeks you out when he goes to the yard to practice his sword skills and he laughs a bit too loud when you jest. Jeyne has been practically tearing her hair out with envy because of it.

Sansa cannot find it in herself to comfort her friend, for she should have known that Robb could never marry a steward’s daughter.

Even with his constant attention, your eyes always find hers. You always come find her, in the keep or the dining hall or in the yard. It would be quite the inconvenience considering Sansa’s dearest friend despises your very existence, but she thrives on attention. Her Lady mother used to say that praise to Sansa was sunlight to a rose.

The library is not a setting she can imagine you in, but you rarely achieve predictability. She watches you for a moment in hopes that you have not noticed another presence. 

You sit curled up against a shelf with a book in your lap. You pinch the corner of the page and lightly roll it between your fingers. It's as if you are already anticipating turning the page. 

“Do you intend to join me? Or is watching from the darkness something you enjoy?” You ask while finally flipping that page. Eyes never straying. 

Sansa sniffs and walks forward into the golden light. Her dress glides too close to the hearth and for a small moment, it looks as if the flames from the fireplace are reaching out to grab the fabric, crackling in anger when Sansa jumps away from it. Looking up, your eyes meet hers.

A blaze of yellow and orange glows against your pupils. 

You smile and tilt your head in that strange knowing way. “You should be more careful, Dearest. The fire has few masters and you are not one.” 

The words are strangely shrewd for the teasing tone, but Sansa waves her hand at you dismissively. She rarely listens to the odd things that pour from your mouth like soured sick. Unlike Robb, who will grip onto every word with snow-white knuckles. She walks to the space in front of you and sits down gracefully. 

Sansa reaches forward and uses the tip of her finger to lift the book away from your lap just enough to see the cover. The book is one she has seen Jon reading as of late, although she has no knowledge of what it's about. 

“Whatever are you reading?”

“Tis about Old Valyria.” You say while shutting the very book and placing it beside you. She hums because she has nothing else to say. She has never cared for history or sums or anything other than the pretty things of being a lady. Her mother worries but she will have a council of Lords to do the boring things for her when she is queen. 

Readjusting her position, Sansa clears her throat. “I came to find you for a purpose.”

“Oh, how flattering it is to be sought out.”

She pinches your leg. “Quiet you.” Waiting until you stop laughing, she continues. “I wished to speak to you about Robb.”

“What about him?”

“He is besotted with you.”

“He is a man, next moon he will be besotted with a barmaid with big eyes and bigger teats.” 

Sansa gasps and pinches you again. “Do not be crude!”

You laugh and she finds herself restraining her own giggle. It is moments like this that Sansa is so very glad you are a friend. Jeyne is lovely but Sansa would never dare share a true secret with her, as it would end up in every young lady's ears by the time the sun dies. Arya is simply awful and quick to anger. 

Father always smiles fondly and says wolf blood. She wonders if she looked more like her dead aunt if father would indulge her tantrums just as often. 

Their laughs subside and Sansa takes a breath, “As I was saying. Robb wants you but I encourage you to deny him.”

You tsk. “And why should I deny the next Warden of the North?” 

“You are not a highborn lady, Robb cannot marry you.”

“That only makes me want to marry him, Sansa.” 

She huffs. “Out of spite and stubbornness?”

You shrug and smile at her easily. “There is little other reason I would wish to marry him. I find him rather foolish.” Sansa opens her mouth to defend her brother and mayhaps reminds you of your stature, but you quickly press your hand over her lips.

“Hush, I meant no offense.” You say swiftly. You slowly drag your hand away from Sansa’s face and place it in your lap. She is almost shocked into silence at your words. You say many unorthodox things, but an apology has never tumbled off your tongue. That was the closest thing akin to one. 

“Besides, Robb is not mine.”

Her curiosity peaks. “Oh, and who’s is he? Do not say Jeyne, he finds her plain.” While teasing, it is the truth. Her brother only entertains Jeyne’s affections out of politeness and boredom. She waits for you to say something, but you are silent. 

You stare at her, then blink, open your mouth, and close it. 

“He will be the strangers.” 

You blink again, shake your head, and smile brightly enough to blind. Sansa watches your odd actions with a scrunched nose. She would ask, but instead, she starts to talk about how horrid Arya had been while they were at lessons.

°°°

The prince will be at Winterfell in just a few weeks. Jon Arryn's death brings her father heartache but she cannot help the feeling of her dream being on the horizon. Sansa feels sick with nerves and anticipation. Her hands are unsteady while she stitches the details of her new dress. 

She stitches lions around the neck, to win the Lannister queen's favor and express loyalty. When she told you of her plans, you had told her that gold would look horrid with her hair and gray direwolves would look lovely embroidered on her dress collar. She had not listened. 

So, the two of you sit in silence while she carefully constructs the snout of a lion. Sansa hisses and drops the needle when she pricks her finger once again. In truth, she is starting to believe that this dress will never be completed. That thought makes her even more frustrated. 

With a huff you reach over and take her shaken hand, cradling it between your own. “That is the fifth time you have done that. What ails you?” 

Sansa lets you caress her fingers while she wills herself not to burst into tears. 

“The prince will be here very soon.” 

“Yes.” You respond as if that means nothing.

She lets out a cry and smacks her hand against the floor. “That is the problem, silly girl. The prince will be here soon and I'm dreadfully unprepared.” Tears start to track down her cheeks and her breath shutters like the winds of winter.

You move yourself closer to her, where your knees are touching and she can feel your warmth. “No need to be upset.” You say. “Even if you are betrothed, a wedding shall not take place until you are of age.” 

“That is not what upsets me!”

“Then tell me what does.”

Sansa sniffs and wipes her wet nose with the back of her hand. “What if he does not like me? What if he has been with other ladies, older ladies that are more experienced than me?” She cries miserably and hides her face behind her hands. The thought of not being enough for the golden prince makes her cry harder.

You sigh, annoyed, then she feels your hands prying hers away from her face. Your pursed lips and incredulous expression make her feel a bit childish even though you are the same age as she.

“Sansa.” Your voice is stern and demanding of attention. “If the prince does not like you then he is a fool.”

“But how can I be enough? I have never even been kissed. What if I'm no good at kissing and he hates me!” She yells in your face. In the back of her mind, she knows she will have to apologize to you for being so rude.

“I’ll kiss you.”

Sansa’s breath stops altogether and stares at you utterly flummoxed. You stare back unflinchingly, eyes never straying from hers. She could not have heard right, but then again you are rather crude and unpredictable. Pressing her finger against her eyes to dry the wetness, Sansa opens her mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, beautiful hair swaying with the motion. “You are not hard of hearing, dearest.” 

Denying the offer would be the most sensible, the most ladylike. She would deny you for many reasons, you are rather opinionated, you give little knowledge about your life even though you know every inkling of hers, you do not respect titles nor the people that hold them, but most of all, you are a girl.

She wonders if you have been kissed by many. Sansa watches your big smile turn a bit more earnest. Knowing that it is wrong can be avoided with her distress of wanting to impress the prince. 

She nods, thinking about how much her embarrassment can be quelled with just one minuscule lesson. “Alright, kiss me then.”

“Are you certain?”

“I said kiss me, did I not?”

It seems you do not need to be told a third time because you lean forward and kiss her. It’s nothing more than a brush of lips really, a whisper of what a real kiss should be. It makes Sansa blush red hot all the same. You pull back sharply as if her mouth stung

So, here the two of you are. Sitting on the floor of her chamber with flushed faces, cloth and string scattered around and Sansa's dried blood on both you and her hands. 

A moment of quiet, then-

“That was hardly a kiss!” Sansa says loudly, then shrieks at her volume. She turns to make certain her chamber door is shut and lets out a long-suffering sigh of relief when she sees it is. Facing you again is much less intimidating when she hears you start cackling. 

You laugh and laugh until tears run streams down your cheeks. They drip off your jaw, one after the other. She watches, bewildered and terribly confused but she finds her own laugh begins to rise up her throat.

°°°

You leave only 3 days before the king's carriage arrives. She cries fat bellowing tears, you kiss her cheek and tell her that you will meet again. You also gift her one of your dresses, the one you wore during that first meeting almost a year ago in the sept. 

Sansa starts stitching the direwolves onto a new dress. Her blood had stained the lion's mouth and made it unsalvageable. 

“What are your favorite flowers? I'll stitch them onto the dress since I am already using your brilliance.” She asks you as your brother says his goodbye and thanks to her Lord father.

“Red fennel flowers.” 

“Whyever would those be your favorite?"

“It is what they signify.”

“And what do they signify?”

Your brother calls your name while he climbs onto the wagon, but you seem keen on pretending he does not. You reach forward and take her hands, leaning as if sharing a secret.

“Victory.” You whisper.

Later that day, Jon places a direwolf in Sansa's eager arms.

°°°

When Joffrey kisses her for the first time, she thinks of how thankful she is to you for preparing her.

And a moon later, in the hours after her father’s head tumbled to the ground, she thinks about how thankful she is that Joffrey was not her first kiss.

°°°

Margaery reminds Sansa of you. Tis a foolish thing for the two of you are not alike. Margaery is nothing but a mummer's mask, a beautiful venomous snake covered in honey. While you were raw and still sweet to the bone.

But as she walks in the Redkeep's garden with the soon-to-be queen arm and arm, she thinks the two of you would get along well. You would both talk endlessly about all the strange things you know and how you know them.

She catches Sansa staring at the side of her face, she must feel the burning of her eyes.

“What is it, sweet girl?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I did not mean to stare, it's just..”

“You remind me of an old friend, is all.”

“Oh, how lovely. Well, you must tell me of her.”

She does. She talks about your buoyancy and terrible insolence. She talks about your beautiful dresses and the one you gifted her before you left.

Margaery does not interrupt, allowing Sansa the freedom to speak openly about the girl she has not thought of in moons. She regrets it later, while she lays in a featherbed that feels like gravel against her back. She regrets pulling you from the depths of her mind. Regrets dragging you from the black water of memories and tugging you onto her ship. It's painful, remembering how much she misses you.

She briefly wonders if you are even alive. That would be quite the jest, wouldn't it? If her closest friend was simply no more. Dead. Mayhaps someone heard her speak of you to Lady Margaery and is out trying to find you.

Joffrey would jump with glee to find something to punish Sansa with. She thinks of all the things he would do to you in her name.

Sansa vomits in her chamber pot while Shae holds back her hair and coos sweet sentiments.

°°°

Ramsey says your name once. He calls you a ‘little pet’ and thanks Theon for telling him all about yours and Sansa's companionship.

She tries to refrain from reacting but cannot withhold the shudder when he tells her of all the things he will do to you.

In that moment, she wishes to never see you again, she prays to any gods listening that you are already dead and the only thing Ramsey can torment her with is your bones.

He never does bring you up again, most likely angry in his fallen attempts to find even a whisper of you.

°°°

Once, while she is at castle black, she hears one of the wildling women speak of bedding another woman. The woman is crude with her words and detailed with the actions they two committed between their furs.

The old Sansa would find it horribly disturbing. Two women together. But now, all she can feel is envy of women finding pleasure in bed and bitterness for all the pain she has gone through. She feels bitter most times when she sees two people happy with one another. She wants so desperately to feel that, feel anything good at all.

While the dreary castle sleeps, Sansa trails her icy fingertips up her thigh, between her legs, and feels.

She thinks of your pretty face behind her closed eyelids. And when she comes, there is not a shred of shame in her chest.

Sansa laughs hysterically when breath returns her.

°°°

The wind carries like a sweet sigh, a whisper against the skin of her cheek. Sansa watches with careful eyes as the dragon queen trots along on her horse. The woman is much smaller than she would have anticipated with all the roaring praise Tyrion's ravens are loud with.

Jon swings over his own steed, boots sloshing into the snow beneath him. His bottomless Stark eyes peer into Sansa’s and she is quite astonished to see him grinning. Tis a silly boyish grin she remembers from when they were children and he wanted to show her a game.

Something with rocks or sticks. Something she turned her nose up at.

Her brother does not help the dragon queen from her horse, nor does he wait to greet his family. Jon is before her and sweeping her into a crushing embrace before the Targaryen’s boots make temporary marks in the snow.

His mouth is cold when it presses into the shell of Sansa's ear but his breath is warm when he whispers, “I have a gift for you.”

Pulling away, he leaves her with a kiss pressed into her hair and moves on to engulf Bran in his arms. It’s like he might just hold their brother until they are nothing but bones and ash.

There is scarce time to taste his words, less to chew them. Raising her chin, she watches as the Targaryen walks unsteadily to her.

She can see the unease riddling this woman, precarious and glancing at Jon for guidance he does not have. This woman must discern that Jon willn't give her what she is seeking, for she swallows down something Sansa could call bitter and smiles kindly at her.

She should not leave her face so vulnerable, so susceptible to having her grievances and sorrow torn into like one would pry open a clam to find the pearl.

A mummer's mask is the only way to survive court, the only way to win this torturous game.

“Lady Stark.” She says, rather personally than diplomatic. This woman speaks her words and molds her face as though they know one another, sweetly and sisterly and for a fleeting moment, Sansa wants to believe in it.

It's been so long since she has believed in anything other than herself, and it would be oh-so lovely to put faith in another.

Daenerys tilts her chin to peer around the stone and snow. “Winterfell is as beautiful as your brother claims,” She faces her again, smiling tenderly. “As are you.”

Sansa can see these pleasantries for what they are, an olive branch. She knows what her position must look like, desperate for allies as the dead march with little regard for the North's readiness. This woman must feel as though she is reaching forward to offer a hand to Sansa as she balances on a damp plank of a sinking ship.

Fortunately, Sansa learned how to swim in angry waters long ago.

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.”

Crestfallen, her silver brows crease, and Sansa almost feels the clams insides wet her harsh digging fingers.

Jon’s hand reaches out to grip Sansa's shoulder. “Let us move into the hall, but Sansa, I must tell you-”

Bran says your name with the same eerie coldness he does everything else.

Her breath catches in her throat and suddenly she sees you.

You sit upon a sand-colored horse that is littered with white spots. You are already watching her, she realizes. You have been watching the entirety of this exchange.

She feels her own face crack open, tongue spitting the pearl into your hands like she had done at the green age of three-and-ten.

You've changed. The purity of youth has been shaven off your face, your hair is different than it once was and there is a scar that drags down your lips as if it's trying to sew them together.

It frightens her, that you are no longer the ungraspable thing that she can look to for comfort, that you are no longer just a memory she keeps on a throne.

“Yes, She is an adviser of mine, my Lady of Whispers.” The dragon queen says softly, and Sansa feels as though a blade has just sheathed into her gut. She does not turn away from your gaze, even when your lips curl into a smirk that she can only describe as predatory.

You do not look away, not even when Bran tells them of the rogue dragon and the shattered wall.

°°°

The halls are silent as she walks to her bedchambers. Although approaching doom has become a recurring presence in her life, Sansa has still not become accustomed to it. Nervously twisting around the ring on her finger she arrives in front of her door.

It's open, just enough to put her finger between the door and framing but not nearly enough for her to peek into. She glances around, but there is not a guard in sight, all most likely sleeping before they see battle.

Placing her hand on the heavy wood, she wrenches it open with a horrid ear-stabbing creak.

You sit on her bed. The dress you wear is black, with beautiful Stark gray embroidery. Sansa noticed the color when you scurried into the hall with the others; now, she sees what the stitching is. Detailed patterns of wolves, all connected by the same stitch, seem to prance across your breast to your back.

The dress itself is rather strange, with sharp pointed shoulders that counter the beast that had flown over Winterfell. The skirt parts into a cape-like thing at your hips, trousers wrapped around your crossed legs and boots cover your feet. You do not meet her eyes.

“You took your Lord Father and Lady Mother's chambers.” You speak with no true inflection, only a soft slyness that reminds her achingly of her girlhood.

The tip of your boots moves in union with your head as you greedily take in the decor of her chamber.

There is something unsettling about you, she thinks there always has been, truly. Sansa remembers Jeyne being envious of you, but she had always forgotten how perturbed she was with you near.

“Yes.” She agrees. Sansa brings her hands behind her back and raises one eyebrow at the woman lounging on her bed. “Why are you here?”

You blink, eyes fluttering as though you did not expect the question. “I wished to see you,” you tell her, words slow like falling snow.

You say it with an obvious tilt like Sansa is simply supposed to know one single thread in the mess of your mind. She imagines it to look like Arya's old stitching basket, a clutter of silk ribbons, furry yarn, and fine threads all crumpled into one pretty woven basket.

You do not seem to understand that you are a stranger now, another foreigner who has invaded her home with intent to snatch it from Sansa’s dying grip.

She parts her lips, and says, “How flattering it is to be sought out.” Instead of voicing her grief with you.

A loud surprised laugh jolts from your mouth, it sounds a bit like someone has squeezed it right from your chest. Fingers digging into the soft linen of her bedding, you shake your head. Sighing long and loud, you look up at her with starry wet eyes.

“Fuck, I had forgotten what a rude child I’d been.” You gasp out, something caught between a laugh and cry scratching your voice.

Sansa watches as you bring your hand up to your face and wipe at the wetness beneath your nose. One of your fingers is missing on that hand, all the way down like someone had plucked it from the bone. She pretends not to notice for her own sanity.

Grimacing, Sansa makes a disgruntled noise. “Yes, well, I can see little has changed.”

Again, you laugh. “Too much has changed, dearest. Too much for even myself to understand.” Your voice trembles into a whisper, like the wind against the glass of her window. She says nothing, for there is nothing she knows how to say. You have always been shrouded in mystery.

Gracefully leaping around any question of your life, but bearing your heart wide open, prying it apart like an overly ripened fruit and gifting the mush mess to Sansa.

Swinging your foot, you lift yourself from her bed. She is close now, like when you were girls and only sat with brushing knees and fingers twisting in one another's hair. You do not step forward, studiously keeping distance.

“I missed you.” You tell her so earnestly she feels sick.

She steps into your space and practically collapses into you.

“I missed you too.”

°°°

There is very scarce time to speak when the army of dead march, though you and Sansa seem to steal time between bearing the weight of Lady Stark and the Lady of Whispers.

Stolen moments like now, as she follows you out into the snow after you insisted she must meet your steed. It amuses her greatly that you have not grown out of that petulant way of demanding things instead of asking. It reminds her of Robb.

You glance behind at her many times as if to make certain she is still following.

“You have been rather quiet.” You say softly after approaching your speckled horse. You give him a firm pat on the snout. Sansa chooses her words very carefully when she converses with you.

The Lady of Whispers is not a person she can afford to trust. No matter how much she aches to.

“The dead are very close. All words seem wasted, don't you think?” She responds thinly. Sansa is aware that you can sense her distrust like a hound can sniff out blood, but it seems you are willing to eat any words Sansa feeds you. Even if they are terribly cold.

The timidly hopeful look on your face washes away into something incredulous. “When would words matter, if not now?”

Sansa huffs through her nose, “Foolish words could be your last.”

“That is for all of time.” You tell her with a haughty flick of the wrist. “Death has no bonds. The Stranger is greedy and constantly reaching out to take.”

A memory clings to her mind, when she was a girl and you had interrupted her prayer. You had confessed to not following the seven gods, and somehow Sansa cannot fathom that you have found faith in your years of travel.

Staring at the side of your face, she says, "I did not think you followed The Seven.”

Startling her, you throw your head back and cackle as if it is the most humorous ridiculous thought. Snow falls into the tendrils of your hair, melting instantly after it touches your warmth.

“Oh dearest, I do not.” You reach up and press your fingers into your eye. “You do not need to follow something to know it is real.”

“And how do you know it is real?” The query is spoken lightly, but she is truly curious. She wishes to know how it is you simply know. How you say things with such certainty that she has no choice but to believe.

She longs to know you. Not the girlish giggling memory she has held close for so many years, but the woman who stands before her. She longs to know you as you are. She thinks that you wish to know her as well, for you are the one who has always sought her out.

You do not answer her, strangely solemn and quiet as you pet your horse. And then she sees it, a tear rolls down your cheek. Without thought, she is touching your skin and caresses the drop of salt and sadness away.

The wet clings to her thumb.

“Do you know what a greenseer is, Sansa?” Your voice is much like the tear that fell, like the snow that drops from the sky. Serene and sad and twisted with the approach of something dreadful. She cannot recall the last time she heard her true name on your tongue.

Her hand does not leave your face. “I..” She hesitates and is reminded of Bran. Her brother who is not her brother at all, but a hollow-eyed creature that wears her brother's flesh.

“Yes. I- I believe I do.” The words are small and breathy. Akin to confession to the gods. You smile, a true smile with no slyness, no cajolery hidden in the curves of your teeth. It pulls on a thread of desire she had not known was left in her.

“Is that what you are? Do you see all, know all?” She asks, with less caution than she had with Bran. He had been thoughtlessly cruel, intending to tell her something only she and Theon could possibly know.

But you are only cruel with purpose, only sharpened your words when you intended to pierce.

You laugh wetly, nose scrunching up with a sniffle. “Goodness, no. Truly, I believe I know very little compared to some.” Your hand reaches up to where hers cradles your cheek.

You place your atop hers, completely trapping her in warmth. “I am not like Bran. My dreams have never been clear. Tis like reading a book through torn out crumpled pages.”

Sansa suppresses a sigh when you remove her hand from your face, but smiles when you continue to hold it tightly. In truth, Sansa does not know what to say. You are not one to take pity without feeling sour, and she is glad for that.

Rarely is she content with a secret shared with her,

Jon and his true parentage, Arya’s whereabouts over the years, The raven that speaks through her brother's voice.

But this, you. You she can accept. You she can continue with as if the secret had never been one at all. She had always known you were odd.

Mayhaps if she was not so consumed with herself as a girl, she would have surmised this. You never hid it from her, simply never spoke the words.

“That must be confusing.” Is all she says. If you are relieved by her nonplussed response, you do not show. You swing your and her connected hands.

“T’was, but I find that trying to make sense of it is a futile task.” You lick your lips and look up, gazing into Sansa’s eyes like you are searching in her soul. “Although, there has been one clear thing in all my years alive.”

She does not look away, intent on seeing your soul as well. “And what is that?”

“You.”

Sansa blinks, “Pardon?”

You sigh, “Oh dearest, it's always been you. Before I knew me I knew you.” Stepping closer, your breath makes a fog against her mouth. “There was no other, no gods, no words that I knew before you.”

Sansa can feel tears welling in her eyes and her chest shake with the weight of confession. The moment is happening so fast, but she has waited so long for something that it does not feel fast at all.

“How..”

You bring your hand up, pressing it against her cheek and caressing her bottom lip with your thumb. It's a mirror of what she had just done to you, but it makes her gasp all the same.

“I have always known your name, Sansa Stark. I know not what entity has given me this sight, mayhaps the stars, mayhaps the gods, but they told me your name when I knew not else.”

And then you are kissing her. Sansa gasps into your mouth, caught between kissing you back and crying out for a reason she knows not. She brings her hands up, placing them on your neck, feeling the thunderous pulsing of your heart.

She's kissing you back. The kiss is rushed and messy and desperate, both of you seem to be gasping for breath whilst diving in for more. She has never been kissed like this, and she thinks of her first kiss.

She wonders if you had known then, if you had felt this against your lips instead of a soft brush of curiosity. She forgets her thoughts when your tongue curls around hers.

It feels so good, Sansa never wants it to end, never wants to come up for air. Drown me please, let me swim in you forever, she thinks and moans when your hand flutters down to her waist, tugging her closer.

A throat clearing behind you and she makes her pull apart.

Jon has his hand covering over his eyes and Daenerys Targaryen’s lips are pressed together like she is desperately trying not to smile.

Daenerys is the first to speak. She clears her throat and pats her chest with a gloved hand. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting. Please, continue." The dragon queen giggles at the end of her words and Sansa hears you huff in what she assumes annoyance.

Jon squawks, “Dany! They cannot-you cannot!" He waves his hand wildly between the Targaryen and the two women beside the speckled horse.

Daenerys seems keen on ignoring him and says your name instead, “Please find me when you return. There is something we need to discuss.” She says and then she picks up her skirts and turns to walk the way she came. Jon does not move, looking humorously betrayed as if he has caught his closest friend with a hand up his sister's dress.

Mayhaps his feelings are justified, she has always known that you and Jon were close but she never thought much about it.

The dragon queen calls over her shoulder. “Come along, Jon. Leave them be.”

He begrudgingly follows after her.

“She will be a good queen.”

Sansa glances at you, bruised mouth and blushing cheeks. She imagines she looks quite similar. She does not answer you, it feels rather futile to argue after what you have just confided in her.

Leaning forward, she presses a sweet kiss against your mouth and pulls away when you try to deepen it.

“Go to your queen.” She says, patting down her dress as she walks back toward the Keep.

Sansa feels strangely at ease. Everything is changing, falling apart, and growing all at once. But she feels sure and content in a way she has not since her father was alive. She can not imagine you would kiss her if she were to die. It gives her a comforting reassurance.

Your taste is still on her tongue when the horn blows.

°°°

They lose many in the battle of dead and living. Good men, good women, bad men, redeemed men, Sansa has stopped counting the corpses. She looks through the bodies, looks for your face, wide-open eyes and lips bluer than the fresh morning sky.

She does not find your body, nor anything that would indicate you have fallen. In the midst of her search, a hand curls around her arm. When she turns, she comes face-to-face with her sister. 

Arya has blood crusting all over her face, and the rest of her is covered in soot. Arya must see her crestfallen face, for she chuckles. T’is an unnerving sound Sansa has not grown accustomed to yet.

“Are you not pleased to see me, Sansa?” Her sister tilts her head with the query. Sansa swallows her unease and bile, the smell of death too strong. 

“Of course, I am. Do not be foolish.”

Arya hums, "I am not the one you were looking for.” It is not a question, but Sansa feels as though she must disagree. It feels sinful, to be less pleased with her sister's survival than she would be yours. But Arya is a child no longer and does not need Sansa to water down truths in fear that it will be too strong for her little sister to swallow. 

“No.” She whispers, “No, I was not looking for you.” The confession makes Arya let go of her arm. The younger takes a step away and hums once again. Sansa feels her skin crawl under the Stark grey gaze of her sister, but she does not cower.

Instead, she strains her chin up and shows some lion-like pride. “Well done, NightKing Slayer. Allow the maesters to look after your wounds after you bathe." She then picks up her dress and moves to walk away, but Arya’s voice cuts through.

“I saw her, she is alive.” The younger says, voice smooth like the finest silks. Arya seems to have absorbed an accent from her days in Braavos. Sansa wonders what that would have been like, to shed the gown of girlhood whilst under the warm sun and splash in the sea as a woman grown.

It sounds like a lovely sentiment, something she might have longed for in the prison of the Red-Keep.

“She is well?”

Arya scoffs, “I believe I said ‘alive’. She will need to see a maester, and she will have scars.” She raises a bloodied battered eyebrow. “I know you have always been quite vain bu-” 

“You do not.” Sansa interrupts. She does not intend to, truly, but the words slip off her tongue and she cannot remember the last time she allowed herself to speak so freely with anyone other than you. The younger says nothing in clear expectation of more. 

“You do not know me. Not anymore, Mayhaps you never have.” It is calm and even, not quite cold but never warm. Sansa does not mean for the words to pierce, but for a moment she thinks that Arya’s mummer's mask of indifference slips.

Big steel eyes stare up at her, a telltale shine of hurt pooling in her lashes. 

She nods, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “You are right, I…I do not know you. The girl I knew would never have been in love with a woman.” She says it with a playfulness that she has always reserved for Jon. Sansa smiles back.

“As I said, mayhaps you never knew me.” Because she has always loved you. When she was a girl as green as summer grass, she would get on her knees and pray for a sweet love. The gods sent you to her. Right there in the sept, they gave her what she prayed for. No matter the tribulation she endured, you had always been there. Kept close to her beating heart.

“It has always been her, always.” She repeats in attempt to quell the prior baleful words. 

Arya stares at her, as though she is witnessing her again for the first time. “Then go to her, Sansa.” She steps forward, clutches Sansa's hands in her own and squeezes. “Go find your knight and dress her wounds, kiss the battle from her brow, and sing her songs of victory.” 

She moves closer and presses a kiss on Sansa's cheek. “She’s a lovely knight, Sans. I’m happy you get this dream, I am truly sorry for what others became.”

The younger drops her hands and turns, walking in the blood soaked sludge towards the Keep. 

Sansa never quite knows what Arya is thinking, cannot read her mind the way she can do others. But at this moment, she thinks that Arya understands her much better than she imagined. 

She thinks that her sister finally understands the appeal of what poets have named love.

°°°

The door of Sansa’s bedchambers is ajar, once again. There is much less finesse than the first time you pushed through her door. She speaks not as her feet carry her through the sanctity of her room. There is warmth, the hearth crackles over her thundering heart. 

She had prepared her hurt in lest you chose to abandon her for another queen. But you sit in front of the flames, red stained and leather bound. 

“Have you not bathed?” Sansa says and feels frivolous for it. You throw your head back and let out a gritty laugh. She shut the door, sliding the lock in place before she carries on. There is leftover water in the basin, and a cloth somewhere in her oak chest of fabrics. 

She can feel your eyes follow as she pulls a thin net cloth from the chest.

“Whatever are you doing?” Your question is so very soft, it makes her smile. Collecting the water in an iron chalice, she comes to you and sets the cup near the fire. Looking at your face so close, she can now see all the cuts and bruises. 

“Do you have any other wounds?”

“Nah.” You scoff “Those ice fucker only got in some blows. Nothing that will not heal on its own.” 

There is something wrought in your cavalier retort. The delight of victory does not quite reach your eyes. She hums and dips the cloth into the water, bringing it to the burst of blood congealed on your lips. When you were girls, you would squirm like a caught rodent while the 

Septa tried to brush the tangles of sleep from your hair. 

As she swipes the blood from your mouth, you are unmoving. Tranquil in your contentment. If only Septa Mordane had allowed Sansa a try then mayhaps they would have been to lessons sooner.

She can see much in your eyes this close, the love, the quiet, the melancholy.

Sansa scrubs at a partially dry flake of blood on your cheekbone. “War is not over, is it?” She asks, not ceasing her ministrations. 

You do not look away from her, “No.”

You give her no other explanation, and there is nothing in your manner that would inflict worry upon her. It is calm and faint just as the chamber's atmosphere.

Whilst serene, there is a thick tension that has consumed the air like smoke. Sansa feels no wariness for she could simply sooth the taunt if she pressed her lips to yours.

She does not.

“Will you go to Kingslanding?” She breaks through the silence, “Will you follow Daenerys?”  

You do not respond with an instant denial and she feels a petulant anger bubble up in her core. She wants you to not need to think. She wants you to know which queen you would follow. She wants you to seek her out like you have always done.

She wants you.

With a hesitant sigh, you open your mouth. “I…I wish things were simple, though they never are.” 

Hearth glowing against the pits in your eyes, you stare into Sansa’s.

“What would I be?” You ask, a hysterical thread of desperation sewn into your voice. “What- What shall I be if I stay?” 

“Mine.” Sansa says, “You shall be mine.” And she dives forward, head first into warm waters. Sansa Stark learned how to swim in thrashing frigid water long ago, but now she thinks kissing you is akin to swimming in the balmy Dornish sea. 

You taste of blood and peach and home. 

The two collide atop the furs in front of the firelight. Between kisses, Sansa tentatively tugs at the laces of our leather jerkin. You disjoin your mouth from hers, but your hands stay put in the tendrils of her vibrant hair. 

Swallowing, she watches the fast rise and fall of your chest. She moves her hand to press against the motion and feels the heavy rapid pound of your heart on her palm. Your eyes flutter as you sigh, she is so close that she feels every move you make. 

“I love you.” You whisper into her. 

She gasps, “Yes, yes, I love you as well.” And bears up to kiss any other words from your tongue.

“I covet you.” The words are slid into her mouth and she wants to taste them forever. The kisses become frantic and your hands are digging into her skin deliciously.

Sansa pulls at your laces until she can see your lovely skin peaking out. “So many words, too many words.” She moans into the kiss and only breaks apart to continue, “So many things to be said, let us say them on the morrow.”

“Sansa-” You breathe against her throat and she shutters. Her whole body feels not unlike a piece of flit being scraped against steel, desperately trying to catch spark.

“Show me.” She says as she unclasps her cloak. Sansa lays down on her back against the furs. 

The fire reflects against your skin, and she remembers all those years ago in the sept when the candle made you glow and she thought about touching your dress. 

“Show me,” She whispers, “Show me how you covet me. I want to feel it.” You are above her, your hand pressed flat beside her head.

Pulling apart your jerkin, she presses her hand on your naked breastbone and drinks in the sigh you let out. It sinks into her skin and settles in the marrow of her bones.

Sansa likes this, that you are letting her spread you open with no uncertainty. 

You dip down and press delicate kisses against her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and then her mouth. Your tongue twists against hers as your hand digs underneath her to tug at the laces of her dress. 

The fire burns hot and she knows what it is to be coveted. 

°°°

You stay. 

°°°

The Dragon Queen's reign is fleeting and not without madness. Sansa knows not what has happened between her and Jon, but she does know that he stuck a knife into her belly. She knows that he loved her.

Her brother sits solemnly in the snow, staring up at the Weirwood tree as though the face in it shall speak its wisdom to him. She walks over and sits on one of the ancient trees protruding roots. 

He does not glance away from the face in the wood. “Do you think there was another way?” He asks, and she does not know if he is speaking to her or the gods. Jon turns his head and she is struck with a sadness of how much he looks like father. 

“Do you think I could have saved her?” He says again.

Sansa has no thoughtful answer for him, for she is rather glad Daenerys is gone. She thinks the woman caused more harm than good, but she is well aware that Jon is not alone in his mourning. You had shed many tears when you heard of Missandei’s demise.

She has a strong inquiry that you knew then. You knew what the Dragon Queen would become.

“She was going to be the greatest who ever lived. She who was promised.” You had whispered to the dark starry sky as Sansa dragged her fingertips up your arms in tries of comfort. 

“No.” She decides. “You cannot save someone from their own madness, Jon. You cannot reach into their skull and pull out the rot piece by piece.” 

Jon says nothing, but he starts to smile in a pained way. 

“When did you become so wise?” 

She laughs, “Mayhaps I have always been wise, and you never took note.”

They are both smiling and she feels this lovely bittersweet moment soak into her like sunshine. 

She will most likely never see her brother again, but was that not always what she was meant for? She was always meant to leave, to fly away and only speak to her family through ink and parchment. 

For that is the life of a woman. 

Jon stands, smile never ceasing. “I am surprised you are here with me, and not letting your lover fawn over you before your coronation.” Reaching her, he takes her hand and puts it in the crease of his arm, linking them as they walk the old path of childhood to the rest of their lives. 

Sansa hums, “She will be pleased I am here with you.” She gently knocks her shoulder into his. “She loves you, you know.” 

Those words seem to make Jon choke on a sob, for he turns his face away from Sansa's watch. “She is my oldest friend.” Is all he says in return. 

“Well then, I shall send her when I need your council. I will be quite busy as queen, you see.” She leans her chin up in mock of your particular haughtiness.  

“Ah yes.” He chuckles. “The men of castle black will learn respect in lest she eat them for sup.” 

Her coronation is close calling by the sudden falling of the sun. They come close to the Keep, still gripping one another tightly enough to leave a remembrance in bruises. Jon’s steps come to a halt.

“Well, won't you look at that.” He conveys in awe. Sansa looks to where his eyes are gazing.

A little patch of green grass under the wet sludge of ice and snow. The flowers are long blossoms that are connected but thin stems. The plant is a rather bronze color, and she feels as though she has seen these flowers before but cannot place where.

“Red fennel flowers.” 

Sansa blinks, startled. “Pardon?”

“Red fennel flowers.” He repeats, light with a buoyancy that comes with the start of spring. 

“Those signify-”

“Victory.” Sansa whispers. 

She stitches bronze blossoms into the lining of her dress only moments before she is to be presented as queen.

When she sits on the Northern throne, a Direwolf crown on her head, she looks for you in the crowd and suppresses a smile when she sees tears flowing down your face.

You always knew, in life and death, you always knew it would always be you and Sansa Stark.

End

[shirotaangel]

࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚˖𐦍˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔ Babies

- KOZUME KENMA × READER

- SYNOPSIS: you just want to have your Kozume's babies but you're too fucked up.

tw : attempted murder (?), sexual tension, mentions of sex, angry sex at the bottom.

╰┈➤ YOU WERE WITH HIM in the empty classroom when you thought of the question. The rest of your class went down to the canteen but Kenma insisted on the both of you staying here, mumbling something along the lines of people become savages at lunchtime in the canteen.

He said you wouldn't like the lunch being served today.

"And that is-?" You smiled, raising your fine brow.

"You don't like anything," he leaned backward by the elbows in the window, sunlight striping his forehead, "Don't matter what the canteens are selling."

You were writing on the blackboards, scribbles both of your names and faces of cartoons. You drew a pink cat since there's no red chalk. Kuroo would normally be here, slacking off, but midterms got him by the leash.

Now it's you and Kenma.

And your great question.

"Kozume," you turned to him. His body was halfway through the window, balancing, closing his eyes. His bleached hair fell behind, shifting in the light breeze.

Summer looked pretty on him, you thought.

He asked, "what."

You thought about it at first, if you should ask him since it's not really what he would hear from you everyday, or generally from someone with a decent mind. But you're curious of his answer.

"Would you fuck me, Kozume?" She asked, almost bored, "get me pregnant."

His head lolled to your side of the classroom, his slanted eyes opened, "what kind of question is that?"

"Nothing much," you shrugged, "would you?"

"Huh," he says, unbothered, proceeding to think. He never answers a question of yours without giving it good pondering, "do I fuck you just to get you pregnant?"

"Yes . . . Just for that sole benefit," you inspected your acrylic nails, "squirting inside to get the baby in me. What do you think?"

He frowned a bit, his head lowering down the window, "if you'd ask for it, then sure."

You were surprised. Hardly anything surprised you nowadays, especially if it's Kenma. Actually it's him who hated the surprises - saying he didn't like the way it it made him contemplate.

You remember arguing that some questions didn't need to be deep. He answered that you were a trickster - and he needed to dissect everything that comes from you to the very bone of it.

"You would?" she says, turning back to the board. You picked the blue chalk, starting to draw small penguins, whales, dolphins, "even now?"

He doesn't budge from his careless position, "if you ask."

"Let's say we did," you wondered, squinting as you added some scales to a chubby fish, "right here, right now. You fucked me hard. You cummed."

"Go on," he muttered, barely there.

"Suddenly, I'm carrying your baby, a boy maybe," you trailed off, thinking pink waves would look pretty, so you took the pink chalk and drew, "what do you think he'll look like?"

"You decide," he said, glancing at you momentarily, the blowing curtains brushing his shoulders softly, "you already know what I'll say."

"You'd have our baby boy look like Baldur, or maybe even Sean Bean," you turned to him, glaring a bit, "You're a horrible father."

"Why, I thought you'd want it to look like Sean," a small, amused grin tilts his thin lips, "we can cast him in some new medieval franchise somewhere in the future."

"I don't like those films," you sighed, disturbed, "I already rejected HBO - I didn't want to play Sansa."

He hummed.

You paused, imagining your baby boy, your little prince with Kenma. You're the more beautiful one between you two, but you'd actually like the kid to have his father's face - golden eyes, sharp features. You want all that is Kenma in your boy. You'd love him more than anything in the world.

"He can have your face," you put the chalk down, padding slowly towards Kenma. He's your best friend, your quiet baby boy. You stood between his legs, leaning down the window until your chests were pressed together, "our precious baby."

The third year classroom was in the third floor, reaching the top branches of the tallest tree on campus. Leaves were nearby so you plucked a few, tucking them in Kenma's blazer pockets.

"Why not yours?" he raised his head slightly, but not much, just to look at you face, brushing his finger on your jaw.

"Because I want our baby boy to look like you," you rubbed the tip of her nose lightly against his, smiling, "is that too much to ask?"

A small chuckle rumbled from his throat, his brows raised, "poor kid."

"What do you mean?" You asked softly, lacing your fingers through his and placing a small, quick kiss on his lips, "that's why I wanted you to make me pregnant, no one else."

"Yeah?" He slung an arm over his forehead.

The sky was a sweet blue above you, with barely any clouds. A little bird flew past, darting into the branches and leaves near.

"I want you to be mine forever," you breathed.

You two dangled a part of yourselves across the window, between what you could compare to life and death.

You could rise and nudge him back to the classroom, or in a little tilt you could send you both to Hell.

We deserve it so damn bad, you thought, playing with a stray streak of his hair.

"I want him to be fat, chubby, small, has your eyes," you took the hand of his you held, kissing those tan knuckles tenderly, "I want you to fuck me, Kenma, give me your babies."

He chuckled, his brows creasing together, "pump you full with my kids, huh?"

You laughed, kissing his lips once more. A small, precious kiss, "My Kozume."

He sighed, amused, "you'll be the death of me."

"And you're the death of me," you whispered, twirling of strand of his hair. It's almost dried from the bleach down deep to his roots.

You pressed yourself further against his chest, getting heavier and heavier, slowly tilting you two lower . . . lower.

Kenma grimaced, sternly saying your name. You don't listen.

"What the fuck are you doing," Kenma's narrow eyes were wide, breathless. He gripped your arm, pushing you back. He kept saying your name, each one more agitated than the last.

You kept silent.

You and him were slipping over the window sill - you deepened your body on his when you pressed your mouth on his jaw, pressuring his head downwards and downwards.

Kenma tried to grab on the rails but, he gasped against your lips when you threatened to push yourself lower down -

You curled your arms around his neck, abruptly pulled him back into the classroom. You landed on your back, Kenma on top.

Breathless as he is, Kenma pulled his head from you, his eyes wild. You knew he was cursing you, wanted to kill you in the most brutal ways. Maybe like stoning you to death naked in the middle of Shibuya. You'd like that death.

He did something much worse though. He gripped your wrists and fucked you. He fucked you hard, fucked you well.

The grudge in that? He didn't give you babies.

copyright belongs to @shirotaangel

[yanderes-galore]

Yan!Sansa Rom. Headcanons?

I must warn you, I have not seen all of GOT or read the books fully. As a result, Sansa's character may seem off. However, I researched certain events, so I have some ideas I'd like to write down for the poor woman- I might return to this later or rewrite it if I feel my thoughts have changed.

Yandere! Sansa Concept

(Focuses more on Show! Sansa)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Heavy themes of abuse (Sansa's history, Darling is "fine" for the most part), Manipulation, Overprotective behavior, Soft yandere, Isolation, Delusional behavior, Dubious relationship.

Sansa, in both books and show from what I've seen, has gone through a lot.

She used to be privileged and seemed to lack empathy due to that.

However... Once she's been treated poorly, she doesn't want anyone else to go through the same.

This makes me think that Sansa, after everything she's been through, would not want to harm her obsession or push them too hard.

Let's think about the trauma she's gone through.

Several forced marriages, misogyny, manipulation, being held captive, family members killed, many other things I'd rather not say.

By the time she'd meet her obsession, she'd hate to put them through Hell.

She's gone through many abusive husbands.

She doesn't want to be an abusive partner to you.

By the time she meets you, she's already gone through the pits.

Sansa, no matter what version or how much power she gains, she may want to be softer to you.

She'd be friends with her obsession, someone who has been an ally where she's had none.

Sansa really does need someone who won't have ulterior motives.

Sansa is a character who is trying to survive.

She needs someone who can aid her through all the abuse, manipulation, and trauma.

You no doubt know what she's gone through due to being her friend.

Not in the same way (Hopefully), but you'd be the one she cries to every night.

Sansa would not want to be like her abusers to you.

Which, I feel, would make her a softer yandere to you.

She wouldn't kill people in front of you, she wouldn't force you into anything, she wouldn't want you to hate or fear her...

She wants you to love her... mutually.

She used to fall for fictional tales of love and romance... ones where love is soft...

She never got that with any betrothals she got.

So... while it may be childish... she wants that soft kind of love with you....

She'd never force you into marriage.

She'd wait for you to be ready... even if she feels jealousy towards other potential suitors.

Sansa, by the time she gains some freedom, wants to love only you.

Even when she becomes Queen of Winterfell (In the show), she doesn't really wish to control you... much.

The most I can see Sansa controlling her obsession is subtle.

She'd say small lies or manipulate a system for your benefit.

She'd never hit you, never make you bleed, never harm you...

She isn't Cersei, Joffery, Ramsay, Littlefinger... none of them.

She's her own person and she'll never harm the one she loves.

She tries not to, anyways.

But... Everyone fights for what they love at some point.

She'd never harm your family or those close to you unless pressed.

Unless you're hurt or they try to hurt her... she won't harm a soul.

Sansa would be very soft with affection.

Her touch is gentle, she often asks how you feel.

She'll stick to hugs or gentle touches if you wish... only ever kissing you if you ask and only trying something further when you're comfortable.

Sansa wants your love, yet she'd never take it.

If you love someone else, it hurts...

Yet Sansa will be patient.

She may not take your love by slaughtering those around you, but she's still capable of lies.

She tells herself this isn't hurting you.

Exposing dirt on those you're close to... won't hurt the bond between you.

As a victim of what she's gone through, she doesn't like the thought of putting you through what she went through.

She doesn't put you through what she went through... but you're still manipulated in some way.

Who isn't in the Game of Thrones?

Sansa knows you trust her.

She's had that trust before.

She cherishes your trust.

Which is why, when she has to do the dirty work, she does it out of sight.

She wants you to view her in a positive light.

She wants you to experience that fantasy type of love with her.

The one with soft kisses and sweet words.

The one where you feed one another and hold each other in your arms.

She's tired of all the hurt... which is why she can't let you go.

Surely you'll enjoy Winterfell with her, right?

It may be cold... but she'll keep you warm.

Sansa no doubt genuinely loves you.

She has no motives to harm you compared to others.

She doesn't own you.

You are your own person, just like her... she just tends to... influence your surroundings.

She gives you an illusion of freedom... unintentionally most of the time.

Those you talk to are those she approves of.

Anyone overly friendly or trying to court you is removed.

This is her fantasy...

No one can interfere.

What I'm trying to depict is Sansa is seemingly a "better" yandere than most, but still has her selfish flaws.

She's still not the best for you due to her jealousy and ambition to create a fantasy love life.

She wants the love life she lost.

While she tries not to force you into anything, she wants marriage.

Even if you are a fellow woman, she will only ever take your hand.

Sansa, due to all her trauma, wants a fantasy life to retreat to.

Anyone who falls by her hand is out of sight from you.

She'll get that fantasy life she's always wanted... and you'll be happy...

You must be happy... she could never hurt you... right...?

[dailyheadcanons]

Sansa loves having her hair braided. She can do it on her own but she prefers someone else to do it.

Ned was actually pretty good at it but was always neverous when she asked him. He also sometimes braided Catelyn’s hair when she was pregnant or just wanted to. It calms him down to braid hair.

Robb is actually really bad at braiding hair but is slowly getting better as he keeps trying and praticing.

Jon is the best of them all and she usually chooses him. Sansa was hesitant at first to ask him to, scared that he would say no or do a bad job, but he actually is naturally good at it. (Sansa cried the first time he braided her hair after reclaiming Winterfell, it reminded her to much of how Catelyn braided it).

Arya used to braid her hair at night in their chambers sometimes. Though she threatened Sansa that if she told anyone she would coem to regret it.

Bran never really tried but he was about the same as Robb, but he had no desire to practice. Though Sansa knew if she ever asked then he would try to make her happy.

Rickon was too young to try before Sansa left for the south, but he loved her hair. After he got out of the stage of pulling it harshly, he would bury his face in it when she would carry him or lye him down for bed.

Theon was actually really good at braiding her hair (and actually loved doing it) , but would never admit it and would usually never do it. He broke down the first time she asked him to do it after his escape from Ramsey.

(I didn’t add Catelyn because she was obviously the main person who braided her hair!)

[alicentflorent]

Teen Rhaena reminds me of young Alicent in a way. Besides both being Rhaenyra’s handmaidens and having bad fathers, Rhaena is never involved with the plans everyone’s making about her life like Alicent. People won’t see it this way because Luke was her age and it seems like they got along well but Rhaena (and Baela) was betrothed without her consent to further the ambitions of others for the throne. She wasn’t asked prior to the agreement by Rhaenyra and Rhaenys.

Their feelings are constantly disregarded by those around them because they don’t have dominant personalities. While the other kids/teens (minus Aemond) were being playful and joking around at the dinner table in S1Ep8, Rhaena was sat there very mature, ladylike and proper. When the fight broke out, Rhaena was breaking it up along with the adults. It just reminded me of Alicent’s dynamic with Rhaenyra when they were young. Alicent was always treated like one of the adults by the adults around her , while Rhaenyra was still called “a child” and got to act her age. Her immaturity is taken into account by writers and viewers.

Teen Alicent and teen Rhaena’s grief is minimized by the writers because their grief isn’t loud, angry or rebellious. Again they are mini adults, Alicent doesn’t get the same grace as Rhaenyra despite losing her mother very recently too and we see Baela speak about the loss of Rhaenys to multiple people throughout the episode. We even see Rhaenyra shed tears for Rhaenys (odd because neither woman really liked the other). We see Corlys grieve, we see the smallfolk grieve the damn Dragon. Only one brief scene is given to Rhaena and her grief and it’s not even the focal point of the scene.

Their grief takes the back seat to others and the grief of those others becomes more important than their own. The general audience isn’t going to give much thought to the impact of this loss on Rhaena, just like most of them forget that young Alicent lost her mother too.

Anon, how can you say something so controversial yet so brave?

I definitely see parallels between them. You've listed some perfect examples. I also think Rhaena and Young Alicent both have parallels with Sansa Stark. I sometimes think of Sansa as a character that breaks the cycle Alicent couldn't break and I think the key difference is that Sansa had a family who loved her and who cared about her as more than a political pawn. Her parents tried to save her from her situation in kingslanding. This is a key difference between Rhaena and Alicent too. Rhaena has a support system and a family that loved her she'd never get sold off to an old man to be raped and used as a broodmare and even if daemon tried to arrange a marriage like that Rhaenys and probably even Rhaenyra would likely try to stop it. Baela at her young age would probably kill someone before she allowed her sister to be married off into a horrible situation. Alicent had no one in her corner.

[she-wolf-of-highgarden]

You know what is kind of odd. There have been a lot of fights over the years about Sansa, Arya, and sewing. And usually, Sansa is characterized as someone who loves it. What’s odd is that other Arya mentioning it, Sansa never does. Even while she’s trapped in King’s Landing there is never mention of her passing her days by sewing or something. There is nothing that says she embroidered with Margery & co. or with Myrcella. You would think it would get mentioned she does it in the Vale, but there isn’t any. 

I’m not saying she isn’t good at it or talented at it, but I’m not sure she likes it as much as the fandom or Arya thinks she does. And even then, Arya doesn’t say if Sansa really likes it, she just says Sansa is better than her at it.  In fact, Sansa seems a lot more interested in learning the high harp. 

The two people who talk about sewing the most are Cat and Arya. Cat because she does it so often and Arya because she can’t seem to do it all.  

“They met in the lower bailey of Riverrun. When Brandon saw that Petyr wore only helm and breastplate and mail, he took off most of his armor. Petyr had begged her for a favor he might wear, but she had turned him away. Her lord father promised her to Brandon Stark, and so it was to him that she gave her token, a pale blue handscarf she had embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. As she pressed it into his hand, she pleaded with him. "He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother. It would grieve me to see him die." And her betrothed looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her.” - Catelyn VII, AGoT

"You are most welcome here, Your Grace." Catelyn had been sewing, but she put the needle aside now. “ - Catelyn III, ASoS

“Hours later, she was sewing in her bedchamber when young Rollam Westerling came running with the summons to supper. Good, Catelyn thought, relieved. She had not been certain that her son would want her there, after their quarrel.” - Catelyn IV, ASoS

“ Arya knelt in the dirt among the scattered clothes. She found a heavy woolen cloak, a velvet skirt and a silk tunic and some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her, a silver baby bracelet she might sell. Shoving the broken lid out of the way, she groped inside the chest for Needle.” - Arya IV, AGoT

Arya, meanwhile, will never let anyone forget the fact she is bad at sewing. Sansa confirms in the fight in Sansa III AGoT, but I think words spoke in anger only count for so much. 

“Arya's stitches were crooked again.” Is literally our first intro to Arya.

And we here about it again and again. Even while joining a death cult she doesn’t let it go. 

“Even sewing was more fun than tongues, she told herself, after a night when she had forgotten half the words she thought she knew, and pronounced the other half so badly that the waif had laughed at her. My sentences are as crooked as my stitches used to be. If the girl had not been so small and starved, Arya would have smashed her stupid face. Instead she gnawed her lip.” - Arya II, AFfC 

I think sewing is less of an Arya-Sansa problem and more of a Catelyn-Arya problem. 

[musing-and-music]

Masterpost - My 2024 in fics

I didn't do my masterpost in 2023, but this year I decided to take the time to do so!

This was a very Jaime/Brienne year, with many exchanges, but I'm happy that I wrote some FMA fics (all of Royai week!), and even a Faramir/Eowyn one-shot along the way.

The presentation of this post will be like in 2022: fandoms, then the NSFW fics

I'm kind of sad that I haven't made covers for everything I wrote this year, but I'm still pretty satisfied with what I've done!

Have fun!

Fullmetal Alchemist

Royai Week 2024:

Day 2 - Silent gratitude: Rating T, 2524 words

Three times Riza and Roy help and support the other, who can't express their true gratitude for it

Day 3 - Expected news and unexpected announcement Rating T, 2239 words

When he finally entered the office, he already looked tired, although Riza couldn’t tell if it was because of their short night or the many questions of his soldiers. He greeted his men and asked her to come to his private office.

“Did they say anything?” was his first question as soon as he settled at his desk.

“Did the soldiers ask about the next commander of these headquarters?” Riza retorted.

Roy laughed. “Alright, Major, I asked for that. So, we wait for the end of the day, as planned.”

“As planned, sir.” Riza smiled back at him.

Day 4 - Building up her facade Rating T, 1026 words, Major Character Death

1954: Roy Mustang, former Fuhrer and President of Amestris, dies at sixty-nine of a heart attack.

Irene helps her mother prepare to face the world on the morning of his funeral.

Day 5 - Symbol of my love and loyalty Rating T, 739 words

Roy and Riza celebrate five years of shared love with perfect gifts

License for good behavior, Rating G, 1875 words

Edward decides he should learn to drive, and despite Winry's doubts about the use for a driving license, he goes to East City to ask the best person he knows to teach him

Part 29 of Amestrian chronicles

Mourning sun, joyful rain, Rating T, 642 words

As far as he remembered, rain had never been part of Roy’s grief.

So, the day it rained on a happy day of his life, Roy didn’t hate rain as much as he had during his life.

(Or 5 times Roy grieves while the sun shine, and one time he finds happiness in the rain)

25th one-shot in Royai : a OS Compilation

A Song of Ice and Fire

In a crowd of thousands Rating T, 3313 words

As Daenerys is crowned for good, great houses are called to swear fidelity to her. And Jaime is called to be judged

Still, he can count on Brienne's righteousness and support to protect him in a trial that… might not really be one?

Each step of the way Rating T, 744 words

When illness strikes, Jaime and Brienne know how important it is to stick together and support each other

6th one-shot in my collection A few nights in Westeros

You make me feel like I deserve this Rating T, 2447 words

"Who's there?" Brienne's voice cut across the mist, strong and wary. Jaime smirked.

"Someone who thinks Harren the Black never thought about the cold of the Long Night when he had his castle built. Is there some place next to you, wench?"

Aren't we oath keepers, sweetling? Rating T, 2702 words

“Ser! Ser Jaime!” At Podrick’s frantic cries, fear seized his heart. The boy was running between the trees toward him, panic written on his face.

"Podrick? What happened? Is it your lady?”

The boy stopped next to him, out of breath, and took a few seconds to recover. “Ser, lady Brienne is leaving,” he announced, grief in his eyes. “She said she was giving up the search for lady Sansa, that she’d marry ser Hyle and go back to Tarth with him.”

Through the fog, under the sun, in the light of the moon Rating T, 4553 words

The invitations to Robb Stark’s wedding came: one for her, and one for Jaime, since he was one of the only Lannisters the Starks tolerated. Catelyn insisted that if she didn’t bring a plus one, she would introduce her to some of her children and nephew’s friends. “It’s sad that you stay alone, Brienne, and I want you to meet some worthy men.”

Brienne talked about it to Jaime, expressing her desire not to be used for matchmaking purposes. Jaime’s immediate reply was “let’s fake it, then.”

The name was a knife, twisting in her belly Rating T, 23k words (on-going)

Brienne grows up in Tarth with the pain that Jaime Lannister's name inflicts her each time she hears it. She grows up hating her soulmate for his actions and for the pain she feels because of him.

In the dungeons of Riverrun, she finally meets him, and lady Catelyn charges them both with a quest that will change her pain into something different.

The Lord of the Rings

A few days wait Rating G, 785 words

Eowyn has just given birth to her first-born. However, not being pregnant anymore doesn't mean she can't immediately go run and ride around Emyn Arnen as she wishes

Faramir guarantees her that this wait will not be for nothing

“We won’t forbid you to ride in the hills and set broken legs again, my love. However, your health comes first. I do not wish to see you collapse because you will have overestimated your strength.”

Mature/Explicit fics

To conquer frustration Rating M, 5018 words

After a few months dating Jaime, Brienne feels ready to make love with him

Jaime is eager to do it with her

However, their friends keep getting in their way, until they do what's needed to be alone

OR

Four times friends and family interrupt Jaime and Brienne, and the one time they can finally have sex

Royai Week 2024: La curiosité est un vilain défaut Rating M, 748 words

Black Hayate wakes up to find Riza has a guest. Following his nose and the strange noises he hears, he opens her bedroom door…

Up for the long ride, Rating E, 23k words

During her first eventing competition outside the Stormlands, Brienne meets the infamous Jaime Lannister. After an explosive encounter, their relationship builds up on heated moments, whether it’s during the competition, with their words, or under the sheets (and other places)

Or

Five times Jaime and Brienne have a secret wild ride, and one time they kiss publicly

Bring the storm (all your love like a flood) Rating E, 2532 words

Inside Riza's official letter, Rebecca finds Jean's secret letter. It brings back the memory of that stormy night, and during another stormy night, Rebecca relives it in the safety of her room

Part 8 of Regency AU series

[ficdraftstic]

Title: An Ironborn's Guide to Graverobbing

He looked so young. Skin pale and hair soft. Theon couldn't believe he was staring at the corpse of Robb Stark. He laid on a bed of winter roses and wore a clean grey suit with a black tie. The collar of his shirt making sure to hide the wiring that lined his neck. From the way he looked you'd have never guessed the boy died in a drunken car accident that separated his head from his body a week after their spat. He couldn't think of a more gruesome death for someone who deserved it the least.

Contrary to what you'd expect of a Northerner, Robb rarely drank. He drove safely, never went above the speed limit and always wore his seatbelt. Every time they'd go on a trip he would always nag Theon about the laws and hazards they should follow for simply being in a car. Small good that did him.

"Who would have thought that you'd get here before me," he whispered, barely audible. As if it was just another one of their sleepovers and Mrs. Stark had just told them to go to sleep. "The gods tell the cruelest jokes, don't they?"

There were so many things he wanted to say. His guilt, gratitude, anger, sorrow and regrets. How much he wanted to see his eyes, feel his skin, and hear his laugh. Theon wanted him to nag him about road safety again. He wanted tell Robb the secrets he kept from him and take back all the horrible things he said. I love you, he kept himself from saying out loud.

And if he stayed he probably would have. But he knew he was not welcome. Hell he wouldn't want him here either. Not after what happened during the incident that might have played a part in Robb's death. Even now, every so often Catelyn Stark took a moment from her grief to stare daggers at him when she didn't think he'd notice. The fact that she kept Bran close to her ever since he arrived was telling enough.

Though he supposed he should be grateful that he could at least see Robb one last time before he was gone forever, buried amongst his ancestors in the Starks' private cemetery. Not even Jon Snow, who was still in custody, was allowed that. His lawyers, the police and Catelyn all thought it best Robb's potential murderer didn't attend his half-brother's funeral.

Sansa, now the heir to the Stark wealth and the one who had invited him for no other reason than courtesy, was busy talking to reporters and wanted guests. Her perfect as usual makeup barely concealing the stress she was under. Rickon was inconsolable and Bran was too though he was better at hiding it. Arya had not even attended the wake out of anger for both her older brothers, believing that Jon was framed and that Robb's death was no incident. She left their house that morning with no more than a note saying she was staying at a friend's, Sansa told him.

Catelyn Stark was just painful to watch. She reminded Theon of his mother when she lost his brothers at sea. She cried far more than when her husband, Ned Stark died a few years back. If tears could bring a person back to life, Robb would be sitting next to her right now wiping it from her aged face.

Unlike Theon she did not hide her pain. She mourned like she and her son were the only two people in the world, and now she was alone. Mrs. Stark and him never got along and they really only tolerated each other for the sake of Robb. So he thought it funny that he found himself relating to her now when her son and his best friend was out of the equation.

Theon Greyjoy left shortly after the ceremony started. He saw Patrek Mallister give him a sympathetic look on the way out. "Hang in there." The Riverlander patted him on the back before going back to where his father was talking to Edmure Tully.

Outside the Starks' sept he hardly found any people in Winterfell. Robb was well loved and respected so even the servants came to pay their respects for Catelyn and her children. It made Theon feel even emptier.

Winterfell could be the warmest haven or the coldest place sometimes. He stared at the window that led to his best friend's bedroom. It still had the cracks from where Theon would throw rocks to get Robb's attention. He must have thrown a hundred stones yet the windows never shattered completely.

Staring at it he could almost imagine his dead friend watching him from the other side of the glass, cold and grim. Like a statue. Theon rubbed his eyes. Though their friendship ended on bad terms, he preferred to remember Robb Stark as he usually was. Kind, stubborn, passionate, loyal. Extremely easy to anger just as he was to smile and laugh.

Only when he was inside his car did he start crying. He turned on the engine and started driving, to where he didn't know. Maybe somewhere with a lot of alcohol and people that could distract him from the cruel reality for a while. Or far where nobody would see him or ever find him. Mostly he just wanted to go where Robb was. To a place where he was safe and waiting for him. And it'd be so easy too. Theon's hands felt light on the steering wheel. All he needed was to close his eyes and let go. It will all be over soon.

"Oh Theon."

He could hear Robb call to him. Did he die already? Strange how painless it felt. "Yes, Robb?" Theon asked.

"Theon!?"

His voice was louder, more panicked. He wondered why. Theon could hear him but he could not sense him. A bump on the road startled Theon into opening his eyes. He found himself back in the car again, with the steering wheel moving on it's own and Robb sitting next to him in the– wait.

"ROBB?"

"THEON THE ROAD!"

-

Sense finally took hold of him. He grabbed the steering wheel just as the car was about to stir towards the woods. What was he doing? Was he seriously about to kill himself? Theon breathed; inhaling and exhaling quickly to get as much air in his lungs simply to feel his organs functioning. Then he breathed slowly and deeply, savoring the fact he was still alive. Unlike a certain someone.

"Are you fucking crazy!?" Robb screamed. His friend, his dead friend who he was secretly in love with screamed at him. Maybe I am, he wanted to answer.

Theon tried to ignore him by gluing his eyes on the road. "What the fuck..." He whispered.

"Believe me I'm as shocked as you are. Can you really see me?"

The ironborn held his tounge. He really needed to see a therapist. Robb always encouraged him but he was too afraid of what his family might think.

When silence filled the car and it seemed that he really must have just imagined the ghost of his best friend, Theon sighed in relief.

"BOO!" Robb's head suddenly popped out of the glove compartment which caused Theon to scream and almost crash into a tree. Now angry, scared, depressed and just overall extremely confused he parked the car on the side of the road next to the tree that nearly killed him.

"Drowned God– Are you TRYING to kill me!?"

"Well you weren't answering my question."

"That's cause I'm trying to grapple the fact I almost killed myself and I'm seeing the ghost of my deceased best friend dipshit!"

Touched, Robb placed his hand on his chest. "You still see me as your best friend?"

"That should not be your sole take away from this Robb!" Theon screamed, briefly forgetting he was talking to a dead man.

"Heh. 'Soul' take away." Robb snorted and Theon tried very hard not to do the same.

"Oh my fucking..." He rubbed his eyelids. "I should've listened when you told me to see that shrink."

"Not that that's gonna help you in this particular situation, but yeah. I did tell you."

Theon refused to acknowledge his hallucination any further.

"This is not real. I am in extreme grief. This is just my body's way of coping..." He reassured himself.

"Hey. Hey. Theon." Robb snapped his fingers to get his attention. Theon covered his ears to block out the sound.

"Fine then! Don't listen to me. See how bloody well that worked out the first time." Robb crossed his arms. "Not like I just saved your life or anything..."

Theon sighed. He supposed the figment of his imagination had a point. If nothing else it was nice hearing the sound of Robb's voice again.

"Fine. You're here. I can see you. And to answer your question from earlier, yes I am crazy. Else wise I wouldn't be seeing you."

"Oh Theon. That is like the least craziest thing you have going for you right now."

"Obviously my own hallucination wouldn't tell me I'm crazy."

"I'm not a hallucination. I'm the real Robb."

Theon squinted at him for a few seconds then snorted. "Yeah. Right."

"What? I am!"

"Ghosts aren't real."

He scoffed. "Well apparently they are. Don't believe me? Ask me something only I would know."

"Then how would I know you're lying?"

"By the gods do I have to tell you how to do everything? Look, there's a bird behind you and I'm going to say– don't look at it idiot!"

"You just said to look!"

"Not until I told you the name of it!"

"Should've been more clear then huh."

Robb sighed. Theon did not question how he was still able to do that. "Why couldn't it have been Jon or mother that could see me? Why did it have to be the prick that left my brother stranded in the woods."

Ouch. Even fake Robb hated him.

"Let's say you are a ghost, I'm... really sorry about Bran. I– I don't really have much of an excuse. You were right I am stupid. And a coward. I shouldn't have left."

"You want to apologize? Then do so by listening to me! My death was not an accident. Jon did not kill me, Tywin Lannister had him framed to get rid of us both. We weren't even driving home! We were going to take the bus until someone kidnapped us."

"What? Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a cunt Theon! Tywin Lannister is a soggy cunt that's going to get my brother imprisoned for life and I need you to help me stop it."

"I am... so confused."