#i think about the rickon thing every day.

[attonitos-gloria]

i hate what GoT became at the end like any reasonable person but i am thinking about sansa stark absorbing her abusers' traits in order to win them over. giving up on rickon because ramsay would absolutely use any scrap of love for him against her and jon, and he did. finally becoming a good liar, enough to convince petyr she had turned against arya. being the only person with enough malice to see through cersei. she didn't win at the end. she survived. it's not the same. and it was a tragedy

[dipperscavern]

idk if you would write but i would love to see in ur style a tyrell!reader x robb. imagine being the winter rose? omg living the biggest dream by being a beauty of the seven realms, having tales of ur beauty passed on, and then being betrothed to robb as a mean of house tyrell to guarantee their safety, but still, theres no northern or southern who can resist the tyrell beauty and robb is one of them

nana.. this ask did things to me. i love this idea smsmsm & thank u for sending it in !!

tyrell beauty was never anything that could be denied — by friend or by foe.

you & your twin sister, margaery, were the greatest testimonies to that. while margaery was no doubt beautiful, tales of your beauty had spread throughout the seven kingdoms. singers, poets, servants & kings alike had all heard and contributed to the spread of the tale of the tyrell rose — not only beautiful in physical aspects, but a gorgeous personality to match.

you & margaerys older brother, loras, was also rumored for his looks. safe to say, you three were widely known.. the beauties of house tyrell.

even the north, cold and harsh as it was, was not exempt from hearing the tales of you & your siblings beauty. jokes and speculations had long passed around winterfell, only increasing tenfold when hearing about house tyrell’s rumored interest in forming an allegiance with the north. when bran, rickon, & arya stepped into the castle, covered in dirt & almost soaking wet from that days ministrations, jory only sighed seeing them, ushering them to baths with a mutter of-

“the beauties of winterfell…”

robb only laughed at the teases he heard about you & your siblings, but sometimes found his thoughts wandering to you. his mind often drifting to think about the tyrell rose, absurd childlike questions, that he should’ve pushed away as quickly as they entered his mind. do the tales do your beauty justice? what are you like in person? are you warm? would you like him? what would you think of the north?

he focused on training, doing as he was told & preparing to become lord of winterfell one day, although he couldn’t stop the fleeting thoughts about you that arose every once in a while. a child’s dream, he thought.

so you can imagine his surprise when his father & mother sat him down, telling him of the alliance house tyrell wanted to make with house stark..

through marriage.

robb felt like he was dreaming. the beauty of the seven kingdoms, betrothed to him? he could barely keep the smile off his face, wanting to not only improve stature to his house, but do his duty as a husband. excitement pooled in his gut, as theon clasped his hands on robb’s shoulders at dinner, congratulating him. theon’s hands waved in the air, saying something about-

“the beauty and the beast..”

any other night he would’ve gotten a shove to the ground, but robb only threw him a playful smile. even theon’s relentless teasing couldn’t ruin this for him. if he was to be lord of winterfell one day, he’d need a strong woman by his side — he dreamed of a relationship like his mother and fathers, and he prayed in the godswood to the old gods that night, that they would guide your union as man and wife.

in the days leading up to your arrival at winterfell, countless preparations were made. the tyrell host was large, and all of the starks had done their parts to prepare to receive it. you were to stay in winterfell for a week before the wedding, and your family would leave shortly after. you had handmaidens and a few select soldiers to stay with you at winterfell, and you could visit high garden anytime you wanted in the near future. you asked your grandmother if she would visit you in winterfell again after the wedding, but she only put a hand over your own & said it would take the Father himself to drag her back to that “frozen wasteland”.

the day you arrive, robb thinks he’s might jump out of his skin, he’s so nervous. still, he puts on a brave face for his & his families sake, wanting to be everything you need and more.

you, margaery, and the queen of thornes are riding in the wheelhouse, while ser loras is in front of it, mounted on a white mare. his armor glints in the sunlight, doing wonders to illuminate his face. he’s handsome, robb can admit, and that only makes his curiosity increase about you & your sister. & once you both step out of the wheelhouse, robb feels his heart skip as many beats as it can without killing him.

a few of your cousins step out first, giggly as they curtsy to the starks and stand respectively to the side. margaery is next, gorgeous auburn hair & a button nose, a flattering dress with the tyrell colors proudly on display, and a sweet smile to accompany it all. she curtsy’s as well, standing more in front of the wheelhouse, as loras dismounts and moves to stand next to her.

when you step out of the wheelhouse, robb’s breath hitches. his body forgets every single instinct he’s ever had, & he has to remind himself to breathe, as to not kill himself. you’re beautiful. stunning. a sight for sore eyes. he doesn’t think there’s any word in the common tongue that can be used to describe your beauty without downplaying it. it seems like nobody can tear their eyes off of you, your aura doing wonders to brighten the damp atmosphere.

you curtsy to them all, along with a smile he wishes would never leave your face. robb can’t tear his eyes from you, even when you move to offer your hand to the queen of thornes as she steps out. you meet robb’s gaze in the moment everyones attention is not on you. the corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk as he winks at you. you only tilt your head, brows lightly furrowing as you smile at him. your gaze falls to the floor as blush rises to your cheeks, retracting your hand from your grandmothers and smoothing out your gown.

pleasantries are exchanged, you and robb stealing glances to each other every so often. lady olenna & a few of your cousins go with ned stark & lady catelyn, moving to discuss the wedding, among other things. you take robb’s arm as he escorts you, margaery, and loras to where you’ll be staying at. robb drinks in every moment with you.

you’re gorgeous, soft, & warm. you have a kind heart, a love for the arts and children, and you’re very kind. your shy nature bubbles away as you grow more comfortable in each others presence.

that night, a great feast is held. everyone of the starklings is made to be in attendance, and robb prays that arya can keep her withering resolve just a little bit longer. you’re sat beside him, softly laughing at a remark ned had made. robb’s heart warms at the sight of you & his father getting along, but is quickly forgotten when he sees arya dash away & out of the hall. guards are sent after her, and robb bites back a smile at her daring antics.

he’s snapped out of his thoughts as your hand clasps his bicep, his head turns towards you as you lean into speak in his ear.

“forgive me, i must be excused. i’ll return shortly.” you say, a reassuring smile making its way onto your face as you get up. robb only nods, sighing in an attempt to soothe his frayed nerves.

it’s a few minutes later when the queen of thornes sits next to him, striking up light conversation. judging his character, no doubt. at the end of it she nods her head in approval, asking him to please find her granddaughter — wherever she’s run off to. robb stands up with an-

“of course, my lady.”

moving to follow the direction you went in. it takes him outside, and he looks around, before his gaze settles on you & a small form behind you, a guard approaching in front of you. robb was lucky to be in earshot of you.

“pardon, my lady, we’re looking for arya underfoot, ned starks daughter. ‘bout yay high, brown of hair. have you seen ‘er ‘round?”

you were stood beside a pillar, one arm behind your back as you discreetly pressed arya further behind you. one shift of your form & arya would be revealed, dragged back to the festivities she had just escaped from. robb watched you from afar, careful not to give away your position — but close enough to hear & see your response. curiosity spread through him as he and the guard both awaited your answer.

your brows furrowed in faux confusion, looking at the guard with a soft expression.

“i must confess, i haven’t seen her. brown of hair, you said?”

the guard swallowed, nodding as he eyed you up & down. you smiled sweetly at him.

“i will be sure to keep an eye out, ser…?”

you slightly raised your brows, and the guard quickly gave you his name. you repeated it to him, and the guard nodded, smiling.

“would you be so kind to escort me back to the festivities? a castle like this.. it’s so easy to get lost.”

the guard quickly agreed, not being able to resist you, & robb is enamored, having witnessed the tyrell charm firsthand. what happens next seals the deal for robb.

as you move to take the guards arm, you spot loras patrolling, his path sending him to pass on the other side of the pillar that you’re at. the eye contact between you both is minimal, and robb almost misses your eyes slightly widen & the small nod of his head. with one swift move, you’re grasping the guards bicep & using your other hand to gently push arya to your older brother, as he outstretches his hand just enough for arya to get the hint. as you walk off, loras has one hand on aryas shoulder, ushering her off with a wink — & robb watches the smile grow on aryas face as she slips away.

yeah, he thinks. you’re perfect.

his winter rose.

sorry if this was too long or not what you were envisioning, but i had sm fun writing this !! tyrell supremacy

[tell-them-the-north-remembers]

If there is one line I like to over-analyze in the ASoIAF books it is a rather famous thought that goes inside Cat's head before her death. As the steel is close to her throat Cat thinks "No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair." And this line and her entire inner monologue is absolutely heart-breaking but one thing I fixate on is the actual sentence itself.

"Ned loves my hair."

Anyone who has read the books knows that Cat holds contempt for the fact that except for Arya, she has failed to give Ned children who look like him. It is also one of the reasons she dislikes Jon so much, because the mother of Jon (who she assumes to be Ned's bastard son) has managed to give Ned a child that looks just like him while she, his lawfully wedded wife gave birth to five of his children only for four of them to come out looking exactly like her. Red hair, blue eyes. Unlike Jon (and Arya) who share Ned's dark hair and dark eyes.

And knowing that it is so interesting to me that Cat's last thought about Ned (and her last thought ever) was that Ned loves her hair.

Because Ned loved her, he loved her hair, he loved her the way she was. And every time he looked at Robb, Sansa, Bran and Rickon he saw the reflection of the woman he loved, while Cat was so upset that they weren't all reflections of the man she loved.

Every time Ned ran his fingers through their hair, he ran his fingers through the hair of the woman he loved. He never resented Cat for the fact that four of his children didn't look like him, he loved that they looked like their mother, again, the woman he loved so much. He loved that they had the same hair he loved on Cat, and judging by it being her last thought Cat also knew that Ned loved her hair (and the way she looked), whether she ever came to the realization that Ned was perfectly happy with the way their children looked at all, or if she realized after he was dead and it was too late, it is unclear. But all those years she beat herself up over nothing.

Ned loved her the way she was, Ned loved his children the way they were, when they looked like him and when they didn't. Because when they didn't look like him, they looked like the love of his life, his darling wife.

And if the books decide to go with R+L=J it also adds another layer to Cat and Ned's relationship. Because Jon's mother was always a woman she didn't know but was still competing with in her mind for Ned's love for all these years. Turns out she didn't even exist. Turns out she didn't need to feel inferior to the woman Ned loved enough to not even talk about with her, no need to feel bad about the fact that she was able to give Ned a child that looked like him while Cat "failed".

At the end of the day, all the voices in her head making her feel insecure in her marriage never needed to be there, because everything she thought of as a problem with her were not problems at all for Ned. He was perfectly happy with her and their children.

[synchodai]

for those not familiar with jacegan and fan theories, could you elaborate on what you think happened when jace and cregan met, the pact they made, the whole issue of baela and sara snow, jace’s death, black aly, etc?

Well, I did write a series about this, but time to bring back the conspiracy board...

the pact of ice and fire

Cregan and Jacaerys took a liking to each other, for the boy prince reminded the Lord of Winterfell of his own younger brother, who had died ten years before. They drank together, hunted together, trained together, and swore an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood [...] Cregan Stark and Jacaerys Velaryon reached an accord, and signed and sealed the agreement that Grand Maester Munkun calls “the Pact of Ice and Fire” in his True Telling. - F&B

Note that Munkun is basing "the pact of ice of fire" around what he knows from Orwyle's testimony and rumors, meaning that out of the three primary sources in the book (Orwyle, Mushroom, Eustace), none of them were there to actually witness what Jace did in the Vale and the North. That being said, Cregan seemed to ally with the blacks based on three things:

The oath sworn by his late father, Rickon Stark,

A promise of marriage between his heir and Jace's firstborn daughter,

And that he just really grew a liking to Jace.

The first one suffices for a lot of readers as reason for Cregan Stark to throw his lot in with the blacks. He named his firstborn after his father, so it's a logical conclusion that he wants to honor his vows.

The second one is a bit iffy since betrothals to daughters who don't exist from a guy who isn't even married yet sounds like a bad trade-off, but some have excused this by saying that Cregan Stark really wanted dragonriding blood in his lineage for some reason.

And the third one is what the shippers latch onto to, and which I believe may have weighed more in his decision-making process than #1 and #2. The reason for that being Cregan Stark himself deciding to lead an army of men whose goal was pretty much to die in battle. He had every reason not to take up command and march south:

Winter had arrived and those days were crucial for bringing in the last harvests. Cregan amassing his host and marching as he did arguably may have partially resulted in the famine in the North that we see in Aegon III's regency.

His only heir was three-years-old at the time, so if he dies in battle, the only Stark in Winterfell would be a toddler.

And it must needs be said again, the northern army was looking to die. Cregan seemed to be on the same suicidal warpath because his plan was to recklessly go scorched earth.

Others had started this war, Lord Cregan was heard to say, but he meant to finish it, to continue south and destroy all that remained of the greens who had placed Aegon II on the Iron Throne and fought to keep him there. He would reduce Storm’s End first, then cross the Reach to take Oldtown. Once the Hightower had fallen, he would take his wolves north along the shores of the Sunset Sea to visit Casterly Rock. [...] When Kermit Tully pointed out that Storm’s End, Oldtown, and Casterly Rock were as strong as Stark’s own Winterfell (if not stronger) and would not fall easily (if at all), and young Ben Blackwood echoed him and said, “Half your men will die, Lord Stark,” the grey-eyed Wolf of Winterfell replied, “They died the day we marched, boy.”

The non-shipping interpretation here is that Cregan Stark is a paranoid opportunist who wants to thin the herd, so to speak, and trusts no one because of his own childhood trauma of being betrayed by his uncle. But this can also be read as Cregan Stark as having a deathwish himself. But for what reason? He's twenty-three with a child and a whole realm to govern. Why is he so openly hostile to the blacks like Corlys who are supposedly his allies for "failing to protect the king"? You know, the same king that Cregan was ostensibly looking to kill himself?

Unless, the king he's thinking about isn't Aegon II. Maybe it was a black king instead of a green king that Corlys failed. Cregan's actions just make more sense if they're driven by vengeance than a need to "end the war" when the war is already ending and he's the one ramping it up.

Let's look at additional evidence that supports this reading.

the sara snow question

But we turn to Mushroom to find the tales other chronicles omit, nor does he fail us now. His account introduces a young maiden, or “wolf girl” as he dubs her, with the name of Sara Snow. So smitten was Prince Jacaerys with this creature, a bastard daughter of the late Lord Rickon Stark, that he lay with her of a night. On learning that his guest had claimed the maidenhead of his bastard sister, Lord Cregan became most wroth, and only softened when Sara Snow told him that the prince had taken her for his wife. They had spoken their vows in Winterfell’s own godswood before a heart tree, and only then had she given herself to him, wrapped in furs amidst the snows as the old gods looked on.

The book itself tells us to take Mushroom's account with a giant block of salt, so most people just tend to dismiss Sara Snow entirely. The readers who do like to think that she existed do so because they like that it complicates Jace's relationship with Baela and how she could possibly have allowed Jace to explore or confront his issues with his bastardy.

However, if she did exist, it raises some questions like:

Why is she a non-entity, being only mentioned twice in the book? While not the focus of F&B, we still get updates on Cregan and the North post-Dance but Sara Snow is never mentioned in any of them. She wasn't even mentioned attending Cregan's eventual wedding to Black Aly.

Why did Cregan never bring her up during his time in King's Landing? If Jace did marry his sister and she got pregnant with his child, that would explain his zeal to secure the throne for his nephew who has a claim to it, but Cregan just never mentions the marriage at all.

Why would he still be friends and so loyal to someone who deflowered his sister under his roof? Doesn't seem like a very bro thing for Jace to do.

So we split the difference between Sara Snow existing and not existing by assuming that the person Jace slept with was actually Cregan Stark.

delaying the marriage to baela

Though Baela also announced her intent to marry Jace at once, no wedding was ever held. Munkun says the prince did not wish to wed until the war was over, whilst Mushroom claims Jacaerys was already married to Sara Snow, the mysterious bastard girl from Winterfell.

This is the second and last time Sara Snow is mentioned. Admittedly, there are plenty of practical reasons Jace and Baela's wedding was postponed — foremost being that consummating their union meant getting Baela pregnant and losing an active dragonrider.

However, we add this to the conspiracy board because GRRM didn't have to include this detail. No one reading the book would have questioned why Jace and Baela never wed, but he called attention to it anyway, so it must mean something beyond being distracted by the ongoing war. Even more interesting is how this passage specifies that Baela wanted to get married at once, heavily implying that it was specifically Jace who delayed it.

It's also interesting that what comes after this is...

the gay abandon

Their father, Prince Daemon, had made many friends in the Free City of Pentos during his visits there, so Jacaerys reached across the narrow sea to the prince of that city, who agreed to foster the two boys until Rhaenyra had secured the Iron Throne. In the waning days of 129 AC, the young princes boarded the cog Gay Abandon—Aegon with Stormcloud, Viserys clutching his egg—to set sail for Essos.

I grant you that this my farthest and most tinfoil take, but mentioning delaying Jace and Baela's wedding and following it up with Jace arranging for a ship called the Gay Abandon? Wow, to be abandoned by a gay, huh?

baela targaryen

“Not even the tears of a dragon could melt the frozen heart of Cregan Stark, men said rightly,” Mushroom tells us, “but when Lady Baela brandished a sword and declared that she would cut off the hand of any man who sought to harm the men who had saved her, the Wolf of Winterfell smiled for all to see, and allowed that if her ladyship was so fond of these dogs, he would permit her to keep them.”

This is Cregan and Baela's one interaction in the book — her threatening him and him being impressed enough to back off. Prior to this interaction, other men and women have pleaded with and threatened him, but Baela is one of two people who actually get him to spare someone from getting sentenced and executed. This could just mean that Baela is a badass, which she is, but combine that with the other person who does this feat and we may see a bit of a pattern.

black aly

“A lean tall creature was this wench,” says the dwarf, “thin as a whip and flat-chested as a boy, but long of leg and strong of arm, with a mane of thick black curls that tumbled down past her waist when loosed.” [...] Though Black Aly was no man’s queen of love and beauty, her fearlessness, stubborn strength, and bawdy tongue struck a chord for the Lord of Winterfell, who soon began to seek out her company in hall and yard. “She smells of woodsmoke, not of flowers,” Stark told Lord Cerwyn, said to be his closest friend.

This is the woman Cregan eventually marries and ends his scorched earth campaign. Now, Baela's connection to Jace is obvious — she's his cousin/step-sibling/betrothed. But I argue that Black Aly may remind Cregan of Jace even more strongly than Baela did. Here are their similarities:

They are of the same age. Black Aly is 16. Jace was 15 when he arrived at Winterfell and would jave been 16-17 by the time Cregan arrived in King's Landing.

She looks like a boy.

She has thick, black curls and dark eyes.

She is the eldest sibling who is acting as de facto head of their House.

She loves riding and smells of smoke. You know...maybe like a dragonrider.

Cregan's desire to enact "justice" seems to be quenched once he secures a marriage with her — which makes little sense if his initial motivations were to get dragonriding blood into his line, to "clean up the mess" of the war, or to kill off his men and grab the spoils of war. However, if the driving force behind all of this had been grief over a love lost too soon, then it suddenly makes sense that he calms down when someone else makes him experience love anew, yes?

Anyways, Cregan is a himbo bi-icon and Brokeback Winterfell happened — it just makes sense.

(Art by Yanh Hyung on X)

[spxllcxstxr]

Being Eddard Stark’s Second Wife • Headcanon

(Gif not mine)

Request: Eddard Stark second wife headcanon? ❤️❤️❤️ -m — anon

Warnings: fem!reader, heavy canon divergence, mention of dying in childbirth (not reader, no other mention of pregnancy/having children), assumed age gap? Ned stark being THE man <3

A.N: I feel like these are a little short but I actually like this one! I love Ned so much so these were also just fun to write…I hope you like them! :) also I always struggle to find more diverse gifs along these romantic lines and I’m so sorry about that, my works are always inclusive

•

You marry Ned Stark after Catelyn dies delivering Rickon, her youngest

Ned certainly did not believe that he would marry again, he was incredibly heartbroken by the death of his wife

Additionally, he now had to look after 6 children and be the Lord of Winterfell

Even though he had servants and teachers and maesters to look after his children and keep them preoccupied, he was still stretched very thin due to stress and lack of sleep

You had been a close friend to the Starks even before Robb was born; some daughter of a lesser known Northern house who had come to Winterfell for a change of scenery

Despite your lower ranking, Ned and Catelyn became close friends of yours

When Catelyn died Ned’s grief almost consumed him; but you were his light in the deep and dangerous darkness that had fallen over his life

While throughout the many years of knowing Ned you occasionally felt a spark, not love, but it certainly wasn’t platonic, you pushed it down, never rushing anything that would harm your friendship and Catelyn in particular

Becoming Ned’s second wife is a gradual process

Ned comes to you almost every day, whether it is due to his grief or to ask your opinion on something, you become even closer than you were before

It takes maybe around 2 or 3 years of mutual pining for the two of you to really acknowledge what’s going on

Robb, Jon, and Arya definitely have a hand in this, they’re old enough to see what’s going on, they certainly drop hints to the two of you

“Tell me, my Lady, why I cannot stop thinking about you…”. He takes off his gloves, just to place his rough palm gently on your cheek. “You are the first thing in my mind when I wake, and the last thing when I finally succumb to sleep.”

“Ned…”

“If you do not feel the same tell me now, before I kiss you,”

The kiss is obviously what starts it, and the wedding comes very quick after that

Ned is very protective of you

With anything

He knows how harsh the Northern wind is, so he makes sure you have the finest furs and the warmest boots

Even if you say you’re fine he will insistently add another layer onto you

He does it with a grin on his face and a kiss on the forehead

Ned loves you so much

He will also teach you how to defend yourself

He is already teaching his children so training you isn’t a problem, he doesn’t like to think about it, but he knows there might come a day where he may not be able to protect you from the evil things of Westeros (or beyond)

His kids are mostly used to you before you end up marrying him

Sansa is really the only one to have a bigger issue with her father taking a second wife but she quickly warms up to you

You know you aren’t their mother and you try not to smother them like you are, but you are protective of them as if they were your own

Ned loves watching you help them with their studies or their interests

He’s seen you sneakily teach Arya how to punch properly

And Sansa’s needlework has improved since you moved into the castle

He adores how you treat Jon no differently than the others, Catelyn always did. He doesn’t blame her, he had to lie to her, but it warms his heart to see you act so kind to him

Ned is a loving husband and he shows that to you every day

He’s always gentle towards you and respects your opinions and what you have to say

He’s truly #NotLikeOtherMen lmao

•

[ladystoneboobs]

[Cat, to Brienne:]"And Arya, well . . . Ned's visitors would oft mistake her for a stableboy if they rode into the yard unannounced. [...]" -Catelyn VII, aCoK

ok, this is another thing that makes me feel like i'm taking crazy pills bc i never see it talked about with all the implications behind it. so if anyone is more versed in androgynous medievalish clothing, feel free to correct me here, but my thinking is if unannounced visitors mistook arya for a stableboy, would that not mean she was wearing boyish riding garb, trousers and all? bc if she was running around with messy hair and a dirty gown, wouldn't she more likely be seen as a female servant? if my reading is not wildly offbase that does not jibe with the idea of arya being terrorized all day by both septa mordane and her mother to be more ladylike. rather, this limited freedom to be mistaken for a servant could suggest that pragmatic catelyn was picking her battles with arya too, not forcing her to always appear prim and proper on days when they were not expecting any guests to see her. catelyn "despaired of ever making a lady of" arya, though neither she nor ned could abandon the goal, which could mean a more measured approach, not exhausting herself by going after arya for every unladylike move she made, especially when she was still a prepubescent child. the quote above starts a paragraph which ends with catelyn feeling "as though a giant hand were squeezing her chest" after saying she thought arya was dead like bran and rickon, after no word of her since ned's arrest. in that context of grief, i think all her words about arya should be read as coming with bittersweet fondness, just being honest about their problems, not sugarcoating any of it.

but let's compare catelyn's trials with arya, including her often running around looking like a stableboy, to arya's interactions with lady smallwood, somehow seen as an even better mother-figure than her own mother, whom arya found easier to comply with bc of her kinder manner. first of all, lady smallwood's efforts to make arya ladylike included two baths and two dresses in one day after arya and gendry ruined the first dress, before finally giving her boy's riding clothes to leave in. i would argue a full second bath was unneeded when they could have just washed the dirt off her face and hands, and, furthermore, that both the dresses were an impractical waste when she knew arya would be riding back out with the outlaws and could not look a highborn lady when doing so. idt pragmatic catelyn would have gone to all that trouble just to make arya look ladylike for a few hours when there were no other ladies around. as for the claim that arya found it easier to comply with her? no, that's just flat-out demonstrably false. the text says she was "forced" into a tub and "they insisted" she wear girl's clothes. what room did she have to refuse as a hostage in a stranger's castle? she certainly felt no compunction about fighting gendry in the acorn dress she'd been forced into, and only felt bad about it afterward when lady smallwood talked about her dead son.

now, let's move on to the only canon quotes we have from cat to/about arya in arya's pov.

"Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands." When Lady Catelyn had asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed. "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith." -Arya I, aGoT Her father had hunted boar in the wolfswood with Robb and Jon. Once he even took Bran, but never Arya, even though she was older. Septa Mordane said boar hunting was not for ladies, and Mother only promised that when she was older she might have her own hawk. -Arya V, aCoK Her mother used to say she could be pretty if she would just wash and brush her hair and take more care with her dress, the way her sister did. -The Blind Girl(/Arya I), aDwD

in the first quote we don't know catelyn's reaction to septa mordane's rude disapproval of arya, certainly not if she agreed with it. what we do know is she was not interested in only hearing endless praise of sansa and wanted to hear if arya had made any progress. although admittedly that was a vain hope, which ignored arya's true strengths and the possibility that she could never master and enjoy needlework the way catelyn did.

the second quote better shows the difference between arya's mother and her septa. catelyn does not criticize arya for wanting to hunt boar nor dismiss her interest. instead she tries to mollify arya and accomodate her desire with the promise of a future hunting hawk. that this was a promise, not just an idle thought, suggests this would have happened in due time and could have been a bonding activity for them if the plot hadn't intervened.

the third quote is definitely a backhanded compliment and doubly unhelpful in comparison to sansa, but at least it shows catelyn did not think one of her own daughters was ugly. she thought both were pretty even tho sansa was the more admired as traditionally beautiful, and she thought arya's looks were held back by her messy hair and clothes. (useful to remember for those fans who like to keep track of how many characters called arya pretty vs. how many call her ugly.)

yes, it is a bad sign that arya genuinely wondered if her mother would want her back, dirtier than ever in her disguise as a peasant boy. their relationship definitely had faults which the adult parent must bear responsibility for. but we must remember that arya also worried if robb would pay a ransom for her, and was most ashamed about the people she'd killed, and couldn't bear the thought of ned knowing all she'd done. and we must keep in mind that even ned never openly gainsaid septa mordane on-page either, and that arya desperately wanted to renunite with her mother and felt confident gendry could stay with her if she vouched for him with her mother. that confidence would seem completely unwarranted if their mother/daughter relationship was as utterly bad as some fans make out.

[eclecticqueennerd]

Confessions

Part 5

*language, violence, mention of p*rn, mentions of dr*gs, angst, smexual situations 18+ please*

Soldier Boys POV

He couldn’t give two shits about Butcher’s vendetta against Homelander. He didn’t need his help in settling the score against Payback, I’m the first goddamn supe. The only reason why he stuck around with the boys is because of y/n. He thought he was in love before with the Countess but boy was he wrong. Sure, the Countess was gorgeous and had talent, especially when her lips were wrapped around his cock, but deep-down Ben felt like she was only doing things for him out of fear, a fear he didn’t see in y/n. Y/n had every right to be afraid, he blew up her friend and almost killed her for god’s sake, that’s not my fault, it's whatever those fucking Russkies did to me. He also killed one of her friends, MM was it, family members, okay that was my fault I was so high I couldn’t see straight. To impress y/n that he’s a better man than Butcher, Ben apologized, even though deep down he didn’t really mean it.

Ben and y/n talk about some of the most random shit. She’d tell him jokes he didn’t quite understand but would chuckle at anyway. He’d talk about meeting celebrities that have long since died and which ones were dickheads. On the rare times they had an hour free, she’d explain what was happening in Game of Thrones, ‘Why didn’t the dumbass just zigzag?” “I KNOW RIGHT? Goddamn it Rickon!” She’d have him listen to different bands from various eras; Ben decided that he liked listening to Wanted Dead or Alive. They’d bond over their love for discovering new foods, however, nothing they find will ever replace his love for a double bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon.

The rest of the gang slowly warmed up to Ben once they realized how fast y/n trusted him. They understood that he was a man out of time, and he needed to be taught a few things about this day and age. What he can and can’t do, how to address men and especially women, how to work a smartphone, and how to access the internet. There was one time, okay several times, Ben stumbled across a porn website by ‘accident’ on y/n’s ipad. The loud moans on the video echoed in the living room and Ben had to remember how to turn the sound down. Is it this button? *screenshot*. Ben would continue to fumble around with the device until he decided to give up. He’ll figure it out one day, but right now he needed to crank it out.

Frenchie and Ben would talk about their favorite illicit substances, Hughie would ask some dumb fucking questions which would almost always end up with him being tongue lashed by Ben. Even MM found it acceptable to sit on the same side of the room as him, they still never interacted. The only one that appeared to have a problem with how close Ben was getting with everyone was Butcher. Ben didn’t care about that though, he can go fuck himself. Every time Butcher would try to tell Ben something shitty about y/n and how he should focus on the mission and Homelander, Ben would just go about his day and reply, “Takes a real broken man to try and bring down a woman at the top of her game.”

But after all that, Ben’s favorite thing was going on missions with y/n and watching her work, it was his new religion. The way y/n’s hips sway back and forth in her skintight tactical suit showing the world she’s comfortable in her own skin, the brutality she showed towards their victims and the confidence she now exudes, Ben likes to think he had a hand in that.

*

Y/n grabs the knife from Ben’s belt. She proceeds forward to their tied-up victim, one that’s going in and out of consciousness. This is one tough bastard. His face all puffed up, lip busted and the hinting of dark bruises forming on his face. Then, a blood curdling scream,

“Tell us what we want to know! Where are the TNT Twins?” Ben saw his knife lodged just above the kneecap while y/n shook the man by the shoulders.

“I’d tell her where they’re at. She’s supposed to play nice cop.” Y/n twists the knife and screaming rang out again.

“Y/n the bastard is gonna bleed out before we get our info.”

“He won’t bleed out, at least not as fast as you’d think. Where I stabbed him just barely misses the major blood vessels that is embedded in the synovial joint. It’s riddled with nerves so if I do this,” she moves the knife slightly, the victim screams out, “He’ll feel it. If we don’t kill him by the end of this then any infection that penetrates the joint fluid, will.” Marry me.

“I don’t know where they're at now, but I know Herogasm is in 3 days at their place outside of New York!” The man confesses and gave the address to the house, Ben left the man tied up on the chair and walked towards the entrance of the dilapidated warehouse. While the two of you were walking back to Butcher's car, Ben asked,

“Normies don’t have that much force behind them to jab a knife into some assholes knee. What kinda powers you got?”

“I was a field surgeon in the United States Army before I joined the boys, so I know my way around the human body. When I stayed with Grace, they ran me through a series of tests and realized I’ve got strength and stamina, accelerated healing, heightened reflexes and a potential for hand-to-hand combat. I’m still working on that though. When training with Grace’s men, I was be too strong for them and break a bone or something so no one wanted to train with me. That was the end of that.”

“You know, I could train you if you wanted. Will be a little harder to break my bones doll. Plus you get to be up close and personal with the nation's hero Soldier Boy.” Ben throws in a wink for good measure. Y/n giggles,

“Thanks, but no. I’d rather stick with the knives.” Y/n waved Bens knife around in the air. Ben reached out and grabbed it and placed it back in its sheath.

“Which by the way you need your own. You can’t keep taking mine whenever you feel like it.” You could take anything from me whenever you want. Shit, take me right now.

“Are you twats ready to go yet or should I circle around the block?”

*

Y/n’s scent was intoxicating, her musk mixed with the vanilla scent of her perfume, not too light, not too heavy, just right. Ben, being the upstanding gentleman he is, let y/n sit in the front seat but learned the back of Butchers cadillac was torture. The limited leg room, lack of airflow to the back of the car and the shitty rear suspension almost made Ben regret giving up the front seat. Almost. If he positioned himself just right, Ben could see y/n tits bounce up and down in her top every time the car hit a pothole. Ben had to adjust himself on occasion to accommodate the semi chub growing in his pants.

The car was placed in park, and everyone exited. Finally. Once you reached the hideouts front door, Ben commented,

“You know, you have quite a knack for that.” y/n looked up at him questioningly. “Torture. Where’d you learn it? I’m assuming they didn’t teach you that in basic training.” y/n huffed,

“No. I picked up a few things from that one there,” she points to Butcher now slamming his bedroom door shut. “I just never had the stomach to follow through. I shall never intentionally do or administer anything to the overall harm of my patients and all that jazz.” Ben poured himself a glass of whiskey.

“What’s changed?”

“I don’t’ know, but I think I like it.” y/n flicked her hair back using her hands. She was being sassy, is that what they call it nowadays? Ben poured out a glass of whiskey for y/n and they both downed the amber liquid, simultaneously let out an exhale to help rid the burning sensation.

“We’ll I’m a bloody mess, I need a shower.” Y/n went to her room and grabbed a fresh set of clothes. Ben poured himself another glass of whiskey as he watched y/n come out of her room again. She was looking right at him and had this look on her face, eyes darker. Y/n slowly walked into the bathroom, keeping eye contact and gently shutting the door. Ben downed the glass of whiskey and walked over to the bathroom. She wants to get up close and personal with Solider Boy in a different way, got it.

@butchers-girl @xmariakx

@deans-spinster-witch

[kingsmoot]

even with your explain asoiaf genetics still don't make sense to me, if it's internally consistent that the kids look like one of the parents then technically joffrey and co could be actual baratheon who just take after cersei if compared to the stark kids who are all actual starks that take after their mom? and the dayne's aren't all blonde since barristan described ashara dayne as having dark locks

also further on the baratheons if they all have special strong genes that makes the kids always dark haired with blue eyes why didn't rhaenys targaryen's, (the dance one not the conqueror) who had the baratheon look per f&b, kids take after the baratheons instead of taking after the platinum haired velaryons?

(sorry if this comes off as mean or smth that's not my intention, i'm genuinely trying to have a conversation i'm just too shy to reblog the post lol)

hey no problem man i appreciate your note at the end there 🖤

so to your first point: you are totally right. that is why there was not a general widespread suspicion of incest when all three of queen cersei's children came out looking exactly like her. because children being born as carbon copies of only one parent is something that happens all the time in westerosi great houses. the novel sets this up really easily too, because the starks and the lannisters are the first people we meet. we learn that arya and jon look just like ned, while robb, sansa, bran, and rickon look just like cat. then we learn that joff, myrcella, and tommen look just like cersei. yay!! we are in a world with end-of-any-disney-movie genetics.

MOST of westeros assumed exactly what you just said, that the baratheon children just all happen to look just like their mom. people who live in king's landing and see how cersei and jaime act, or how cersei and robert act, are either suspicious or certain of incest. people like jon or ned, who look into the history of baratheon/lannister marriage, know that the kids SHOULD all look like robert.

this also explains your point re: rhaenys. baratheon genes always win over LANNISTER genes, but they do not always win over targaryen genes. sometimes they do, tho, like with rhaenys' dark hair. but then the valaryon genes won out in her kiddos.

i mean my honest answer? rhaenys had dark hair so that rhaenyra's bastard children (fathered by harwin strong) would have a reason to be seen as possibly true-born in canon. george had already done the "they look just like their mom and nothing like their dad but don't worry :)" plot in agot. he was doing a new thing about passing off bastards as true-born. a variation of the same story. a woman takes agency in her royal marriage by cheating and passing off her children as true born. part ii.

i do believe 100% that the way westerosi genetics work is internally consistent. i would be happy to knitpick individual examples of this forever. because i like getting bogged down in details and am a naturally argumentative person. i'm jewish.

but at the end of the day, westerosi genetics work the way they do for the very simple reason that this is a high fantasy series. it's magic. it is also a very effective visual shorthand to show you who belongs to what great house. this is a series with THOUSANDS of named characters. when you meet someone new and they have blonde hair and green eyes, you know they're a lannister. when a great lord is pillaging and raping, or just eagerly sleeping around, and he wants to deny his resulting bastards, well he can't. they look exactly like him. when the lord commander of the night's watch is the secret last targaryen tenth of his name, we don't know that because he looks exactly like his BASED MAMA whose stark genes beat out every last ounce of dragon he had in him.

so. i do think it does make sense. i would happily go over more examples with you. but at the end of the day try to remember that westerosi genetics work the way they do for Plot Reasons. this is a good reason for them to work the way they do, and they remind me of a lot of well established and widely accepted scifi conventions.

westerosi genetics are good. i'd give anything to be born with box black hair and white sclera lenses.

[sailorshadzter]

remember when i said jon x alayne had struck me?

yeah. this is what came from that day lol

When the music swells, he’s already making his way across the great hall.

For the last hour, he’s done little else but stare at the beautiful, dark-haired woman with eyes so blue they remind him of the summer skies of childhood. She’s lost in conversation with another young woman, but they both turn at his approaching footsteps, both thinking he’s coming for the other. “Lady Alayne,” he greets, bobbing her a quick bow as she curtsies quite prettily, her sage green silk gown shifting with her every move. He’s never been this sort of man before, but there’s just something about her that makes him want to be something more. Something new. “May I have this dance?” Those blue eyes widen slightly and her friend gives a little giggle before she slips away, leaving Alayne standing there alone with him. After what feels like a lifetime, she gives a nod, her hand reaching out for him to take. 

As his hand encloses around hers, warmth spreads through her like she’s stepped out into the sunlight, a feeling she’s not felt in oh-so long. A pain of longing rushes through her but she smiles all the same, allowing for him to sweep her out into the center of the floor. From where he stands at the back of the room, Lord Baelish can only smile, a chuckle escaping. 

“You are graceful, my lord,” she speaks with a teasing sort of smile, rosy lips curving with a smile as they fall into the steps of the dance. She’s recalling the days of youth so long gone, days of dance lessons in Winterfell’s hall, where even Jon had learned to dance at her mother’s instructions. It’s been many years since those days and not so many less since they last saw one another- children grown into young adults, she cannot blame him for not knowing her now. He looks so much like a Stark, there wouldn’t be a single man in the realm who wouldn’t know him, and it brings her an ounce of comfort to know that at least one of her siblings still lives. 

“I learned as a boy,” he replies, recalling the very same memories as she did, ones where he and Robb had hemmed and hawed over such lessons, but now as a man nearly grown he’s thankful to have had them. “But you are far superior,” he observes as he spins her out and back in, falling into perfect step with the other couples out on the floor. However, many eyes have turned to watch the bastard of Winterfell dance with the bastard of Baelish. 

They dance until the music fades and ends, followed by a rousing round of applause from the many guests within the room. “Walk with me?” Jon asks and she surprisingly nods, taking his arm for the second time that night, walking alongside him through the crowd and out the doors into the mostly empty main corridor. But still they do not stop. Out the side doors and into the gardens, the ones she spent much of her time in upon her arrival there in the Vale. “Here,” he slips his furs from his shoulders, simply so he can drape them over hers instead, shaking his head when she opens her mouth to protest. “I’ve faced colder than this.” He grins as they take to the nearest stone bench, but as they settle into place, he finds she’s not smiling. In fact, to his horror, tears are welling in her eyes and he doesn’t know what he’s done to upset her. “Lady Alayne… I…” 

“You’ve done nothing,” she assures him, swiping at her eyes before a single tear can fall. “It’s just… You remind me of someone I once loved.” She thinks of her father, of Robb, of Arya, of Bran, and even little Rickon… All lost to her now. Once she had only dreamed of this moment, to see Jon again, bastard born or not, he was still her brother. She only wishes she could have seen this when they had been children. And now, at this moment, she cannot even reveal herself to him. Forever, she will only be Alayne.

Jon swallows, for does he not feel the very same thing for her? There was a part of him that kept screaming; he knows her, but he cannot place who she might be, for he knows almost no women but his sisters. Ygritte was the only other woman he knew, but she was lost to him now. “It is as if we’ve met in a life before this one,” he murmurs softly and her gaze snaps back up, blue eyes wide in her startled features. “I feel it too,” he admits, reaching for her hand without hesitation, without fear of what might come next. 

To his surprise, she leans in, tenderly brushing her lips against his cheek, leaving the spot warm long after they’ve parted ways. “I am glad I met you, Jon Snow,” she says quietly, her lips curving with a smile as a single tear falls, though it’s his fingertips that catch it. “Perhaps we will meet again and you will be King in the North.” She thinks of their brother, dead before his time, and the little siblings lost to them, dead or alive they would probably never know. Jon scoffs at her words but she shakes her head, the image clear within her mind. “It will come to pass, you will see.” She rises up then, his furs slipping from her shoulders as she stands, back into his arms as she sweeps him a curtsy. In that moment, for some reason, it is Sansa he thinks 0f- who once practiced her curtsies until she could not walk the next day. “Good bye, Jon.” She smiles and then she is gone, disappearing back through the doors they once had come through, leaving Jon there on that bench, snow collecting in his dark curls. 

He would leave the Vale the next morning, but he would never forget her, that Lady Alayne.

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

ch. 9 — behat (to promise)

notes: timeskip of a few months! also, guysss so ummm i really hate the last two chapters i wrote so i'll have to scratch them and start again... but im also in the middle of some pretty important stuff so yah. sorry about that.

summary: alethia meets thorunn. athelstan and ragnar talk about ragnar, promises are made.

warnings: mentions of depression, ppd and other mental health issues, ragnar is a bit of a dick tbh

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

series masterlist | general masterlist

Alethia

It was getting colder in Kattegat. The temperatures had dropped in the past week, and Alethia could not help noticing that the days were shorter as well. But, there was a prolonged sense of gentleness within the cold days. Aslaug had given Alethia proper furs, Ragnar returned an old sword to her. She looked as if she was back in Winterfell, right after taking the castle back from the Boltons.

Sometimes, her heart tugged when Alethia thought of the North. Kattegat was similar to it, though the people were not. When Alethia woke up in Athelstan’s longhouse, she sometimes thought that she was back there, in Westeros. The thought seldom filled her with distress.

Still, Kattegat was a place that she thought she could call home. And as word spread that she was taken, that she really was Athelstan’s woman, Alethia had the sort of automatic respect she never did receive in England. 

That morning, she was the first free woman to push into the Great Hall. A few thralls were already working, setting the table and cleaning the floors. Alethia felt guilty each time she met the eyes of any of them. She was saving money to free them, but she knew it was a pointless endeavor.

But she and Athelstan agreed that they would never buy a thrall, or make someone a slave.

Hvitserk bounced up to Alethia before she could see him, crashing into her. Alethia stumbled backwards, landing on her back, and Hvitserk giggled, hugging Alethia tightly. While she was supposedly just a guard to Aslaug, Alethia had quickly become caretaker to Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd. Aslaug was too preoccupied with Ivar, and Ragnar…

Alethia lost some respect for him each time she thought on the matter. His three middle sons exhausted her thoroughly every day. It was not her responsibility, and yet, Alethia reveled in taking care of them, just as she had with Clothilda, Godwin and John in England.

“Are we going to play today?” Hvitserk asked.

“Like always.” Alethia promised. Hvitserk took her by the hand, pulling her to the table. He was always hungry, always the first to eat. Alethia had given up on trying to teach him any tablemanners, not that the Northmen took those particularly seriously.

“What are we going to do?”

“I was thinking of taking you hunting. Your brother’s skills with a bow have improved considerably, and Sigurd loves climbing the trees in the woods.”

“But it’s cold!” Hvitserk complained.

“Your mother bought new furs from the merchant three days ago. I’ll bundle you up so you stay nice and warm. And if your brother shoots a rabbit, you could have stew for dinner. How does that sound?” 

Hvitserk’s eyes brightened at the thought of his favourite food, and Alethia smiled. While Ubbe was responsible, taking himself quite seriously for a boy of eight, and would no doubt make it his mission to provide for his brothers tonight. Hvitserk, however, was the sort of playful that reminded Alethia of Rickon and Arya sometimes.

He was a wolf-child. 

Alethia hoped life would be kind to him. She tried to make it as much as she could. 

And Sigurd… however little the small boy liked to admit it, he was the one that took after his mother most. Already, Sigurd was drawn to bouts of anger and frustration, the only thing seemingly able to soothe him being when his mother sung to him. But Aslaug did not do that often.

Alethia sighed, handing Hvitserk a bowl of porridge.

“Where are Siggy and Thorunn?” she asked.

Hvitserk took a bite, gulping down his food without eating, before he answered. “I don’t know. Thorunn was crying again yesterday. She’s always so sad.”

“Okay. Do you know where she is?”

“No.” Hvitserk said. “I don’t really like her. She looks scary.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“You also look like her, but you don’t scare me.” Hvitserk continued anyway. “You aren’t so gloomy all the time.”

“I’m about to be very fucking gloomy.”

Hvitserk giggled, smiling widely as he saw his brother trudge towards the table. Ubbe was wearing a frown, hands rubbing his eyes.

“What is it, Ubbe?” Alethia asked.

“Ivar was crying again. I couldn’t sleep.” Ubbe complained. He climbed the bench next to Alethia. It did not escape her that he leaned against her, his hand searching for hers. Her heart broke a little.

“I will try to find something to help your little brother. And we are going hunting today.” Alethia said. “Is it alright if Thorunn comes along? I cannot take care of all of you at the same time.” 

Hvitserk frowned. “She’ll ruin it. She’s like Sigurd when he’s angry.”

“Will she be crying?” Ubbe said.

“Maybe.”

“I want her to be happy. She is our sister-in-law.”

“That’s right.” Alethia smiled. “Good job, Ubbe.”

“Maybe we can just send her back if she is very sad.” Hvitserk suggested. “Then it won’t be so scary to take her along.

“I promise you, you will have a great day.” Alethia said. “You two finish dinner, and help Sigurd get dressed, alright? Make sure he eats too, and give him some pears for his porridge. Ask the thralls for more in case you finish all the fruit. It’s important he has some. Can you do that?”

“I can!” Ubbe said.

Alethia ruffled his hair, and the boy hugged her quickly, before he looked away. Hvitserk stared up at her from his spot at the bench, before a cheeky grin appeared on his face.

“I hope you’ve gotten better at archery since last time.” he said, sticking out his tongue. Alethia raised her brows.

“Careful little man, or I’ll have to eat all the rabbit stew in the world by myself.”

Hvitserk’s insulted gasp was the last thing she heard as she slipped out of the Great Hall again. In the center of Kattegat, around the Great Hall, merchants were setting up their stalls. Alethia took note of one merchant who displayed little trinkets. As she stepped closer, her heart skipped a beat. There, amidst mostly worthless playthings and souvenirs, was a small collection of coins with what had to be Chinese symbols.

Alethia bought one of them quickly. She slipped the coin into her pocket, turning it over in her hand as she walked. 

Perhaps she could hide it somewhere, with a message of some kind. Perhaps archeologists would find it in a century. Then, she would have been here.

No. It was too dangerous.

Alethia stepped up to Bjorn’s longhouse. She knew that Bjorn would be away. He had been sleeping at Rollo’s house for the past two weeks, taking Siggy with him. Thorunn was alone here.

She knocked. There was nothing, not a single sound from within the house, but still, Alethia waited.

She knocked again. And again, there was nothing. But then, Alethia caught a quiet sniffle.

“I’m coming in now.”

No response. Alethia opened the door slowly, but closed it behind her as fast as she could. Inside the longhouse, it was dark, but there was a rank smell that permeated the walls. Alethia lit a candle, walking towards Thorunn. The girl was a little younger than her, and so similar to Alethia in so many ways. Alethia thought that, maybe, she could understand her.

If anyone.

Thorunn was backed into a corner like an animal, and as Alethia raised the candle, she cowered away. Alethia sat down a few steps away from her, putting the candle onto the ground. Thorunn shielded the scarred side of her face, knees drawn up to her chest. All she was wearing was a shift, and that was crusted with dark red blood. It was around her abdomen, and so, Alethia guessed that it stemmed from some kind of complication with birth. She tried to ignore the smell, tried not to focus on the way that Thorunn’s hair had turned into a matted mess.

Had no one taken care of her, Alethia would have been the same.

“Hello, Thorunn.”

“Who are you?” Thorunn asked. “Are you real? Did the Gods send you to mock me?”

“I am real. I am Alethia.” she said quietly. “Athelstan’s woman.”

“The priest has a woman?”

“Now he does.” Alethia replied. “And you are Thorunn, right? Bjorn told me all about you.”

At the mention of his name, Thorunn looked away. “He does not love me anymore.”

“I think he does. I think he simply does not know how to handle… you.”

“I warned him about that when I was still a thrall. He didn’t get it.”

“Lothbrok men.”

Thorunn’s expression changed. It wasn’t a smile, not yet, but Alethia was getting there.

“Would you like to come hunting with me? I’m taking care of Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd for today. I hear you’re good with a bow.”

Thorunn eyed Alethia suspiciously. “Bjorn set you up to this, didn’t he? He wants me to feel better about myself.”

“I don’t know Bjorn very well. All I know is that he’s an angry young man with a babe he does not know how to care for. You said it yourself, you thought the Gods sent me to mock you. I came because…  I had a feeling we were similar.”

“You’re not a monster.” Thorunn whispered.

“And what makes you one?”

“Have you seen my face?”

“Have you seen mine?” Alethia countered. “You have done nothing that would make you a monster.”

“I abandoned my daughter.”

“Not yet.”

“I don’t want to take care of her. I’m scared I’ll mess things up.”

“Every mother is.”

“Do you have a child?” Thorunn asked.

“I lost mine.” Alethia admitted. “I have no child that came from my own body, but I have been raising those of others, those that are lost for many years.”

“Can you raise my daughter?”

“You can do that yourself.”

“I cannot.”

“Yes, you can. Whatever I do for those children, it is never enough. I am never quite right. That is because I am not truly a mother, only a stand-in. And I don’t want that for Siggy.”

“I cannot do it. Look at me! She’ll grow up afraid.”

“Because of what? That scar?”

“Yes!” Thorunn cried out. “Do you not see what we are? How ugly and deformed we look?”

“Rude.” Alethia mumbled. “But I am loved. I know it. And not in spite of my scar, but because it is part of me. Bjorn will love you with or without it.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a feeling.” Alethia replied. 

“And what if I don’t deserve it? He’s the son of Lagertha! He could have anyone!”

“Your beauty does not make you any more deserving of love.” Alethia countered. She shuffled closer, and took Thorunn’s hand. “And even if we are monsters, are we not still women? We feel pain just as we feel love, and hate, and anger, and happiness. We are human, and therefore, we love. Let them point fingers. Dare them in your defiance of holding your head up high. Therein lies strength some will never understand. Do not let them take your spirit.”

“Them?”

“Those that would tear you down. You are a fortress, Thorunn. It is alright to feel weak, to want to hide away and never see the sun again. But the sun is beautiful, Thorunn. Outside is beautiful. Life is beautiful, just as it is terrible. You have a daughter, and you have the chance to raise her in a way that she shall always feel safe and loved.”

“It is so much.”

“I know it is. I am not asking you to feel alright. All I am asking is that you come hunt with me and the boys today. Let me help you. Let Aslaug, and Bjorn, and everyone else help you. I know asking for that help is hard, and so I will do it for you. All you must do is accept.”

Thorunn withdrew her hand, hiding her face in her palms, and for a moment, Alethia was afraid.

“Alright.” she said finally. “But I do not know where to start.”

“I do.”

Alethia stood, her joints aching as she did, and she thought that she was getting old. How silly, considering that she was only twenty. The thought of it excited her. Growing old! She never really thought she would, not even when she had still lived in her time. A life beyond twenty seemed unfathomable, and yet, here she was. Living. Breathing.

She took the bucket that stood in the corner of the longhouse and carried it outside, filling it with water. Returning to the longhouse, Alethia opened the shutters to let some light inside. It took time, but the wooden tub filled with cold water. When it was full, Alethia helped Thorunn up. She ignored the smell, the blood, the dirt.

Thorunn sat in the water, and Alethia threw the shift into a corner with dirty bedding and molding food. While Thorunn scraped the dirt off of her skin, Alethia took to work with her hair. Slowly, the mats disappeared. They weren’t as bad as Alethia thought they would be, and she thanked every higher power that Thorunn was a blonde, and not a brunette, where her hair would have been thicker, and likely impossibly tangled.

Alethia wanted to shriek as lice crawled onto her hands, and her scalp felt itchy while she flicked them off, crushing them under her boot. Using a comb, Alethia tried to rid Thorunn of the rest of them. Finally, she handed the other woman a towel, letting her dry herself while Alethia set out new clothes.

When Thorunn was dressed, the sun was considerably higher in the sky, and she looked like she was going to be okay. Hopefully.

“We’ll take care of the house later, but the boys are waiting for us. It’s almost noon already, and they’re likely fighting.” Alethia said.

“Thank you.” Thorunn replied. “I don’t know if I…”

“It’s nothing. I had help as well.”

“Can we be friends?” Thorunn blurted out. “I don’t really have… friends. I don’t think Bjorn counts – he’s more than that after all.”

Her eyes were so wide as she grabbed Alethia’s hands again, holding them in the space between the two of them. For the first time since they’d met, Alethia saw Thorunn smile. It suited her. As Alethia looked at her, she felt like a girl again. God, how she loved that. 

“Yes. I would like that.” Alethia replied.

Thorunn linked her arm in Alethia’s, strolling out into the street as if she was alright, and Alethia felt her heart beat in her throat out of happiness. She had a friend! How she’d missed that.

And Thorunn looked like she felt the same way.

Athelstan

Ragnar sat on the beach, watching as Athelstan drew up the walls of Paris. When he looked at Ragnar, Athelstan knew that his friend was somewhere else in his mind. Somewhere where there were no children, no wives, no kingdom, only Ragnar and the boat.

Then, Ragnar hissed through his teeth. “Tell me about Paris.”

Athelstan rolled his eyes. Paris, Paris, Paris. Since they’d returned from England, Paris was all that Ragnar wanted to talk about. “Again?”

“Please?”

Athelstan shook his head, smiling lightly. “I only went there once.”

“Continue.”

“I was visiting a monastery in Frankia, right outside of Paris, and one day, the monks there took me to see it.”

Ragnar had closed his eyes. He looked like he was sleeping, but Athelstan knew exactly what to say so that he would pay attention again. “But what I remember more, is the beautiful women.”

He had a feeling Alethia would not have liked those words. Alethia. Athelstan wanted to disappear into his mind, but then, Ragnar leaned forward with so much interest that Athelstan had to continue. “I almost… questioned my vows of celibacy.”

“You never told me that part before.” Ragnar said. And then, a wolfish grin appeared on his face. “Speaking of celibacy…”

Athelstan sighed. “Yes?”

“You and her… hmm?”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Athelstan lied.

“She lives in your house. You have to have done something . Or did you get a second bed, you sad, sad man.” Ragnar teased. Athelstan considered his choice of words for a moment.

“What do you think?” 

Ragnar squinted, blue eyes disappearing momentarily. “Two weeks ago.”

Athelstan could not help but laugh, and Ragnar’s eyes widened. “You did not tell me?”

“The night we returned to Kattegat.”

“AND YOU DID NOT TELL ME?” he shouted.

“I thought it unimportant.”

“Next you’ll tell me you plan to make her your wife.”

“I am, actually. Planning it, I mean.” Athelstan mumbled. Ragnar’s eyes widened slightly, before he huffed.

“Why? Why bind yourself in such a way?”

“Because I love her.”

“I love Lagertha. And yet, I never should have married her.”

“You and I, Ragnar, we are not the same.”

“I know.” Ragnar replied. “Then you have my blessing. Though Kattegat does not have a church, so I do not know how…”

“She would refuse to marry me in a church. The Christian way, it binds her too much.” Athelstan shrugged. “It would have to be a Norse marriage ceremony anyway.”

“Good. Good. And now you have to tell me, what did you do when… you know?”

“Well, we uh…” Athelstan began. He knew he was reddening. At the same time, there was the warm feeling of satisfaction at the base of his stomach when he thought back to that first night. And all the nights that followed. “We did it, and then we did it again.”

Ragnar rolled his eyes. “You are such a Christian sometimes.”

“What is it precisely that you wish to know?” 

His friend’s eyes gleamed, and Athelstan regretted ever saying anything. “Has she ever gotten on her knees for you?”

Athelstan’s mouth turned dry. “I’m not- I am not answering that.” He stuttered out, and Ragnar laughed.

“I knew it. She’s corrupting you! My Athelstan, corrupted by some godless girl from England!”

“She is not from England.”

“No? Where then?”

“It is… complicated.” Athelstan sighed. “I suppose the land is comparable to Eastern Frankia.”

“Perfect. Then she’ll know how to help us with Paris.”

“Ragnar, no.” Athelstan said firmly. Ragnar froze, before he turned to stare at Athelstan.

“What do you mean, no?”

“Do not involve her in your raiding plans. Don’t. Do not offer her to plan it, to come to Paris, or to fight. I will not be your friend if you do.”

“You’re afraid she’ll die.” Ragnar mused. An itch of annoyance spread through Athelstan. Ragnar was being too unserious about this.

“No. I know her body would survive. But… if she goes to Paris, she will not come back the same. She has fought enough, Ragnar. And I suppose, in that way, you and her are the same. I know you take no joy in it anymore.”

“I am a Northman, of course I take joy in it.” 

“You do not have to lie to me, Ragnar. And I know I do not understand, but she will. You can talk to her. Many soldiers have.”

“What does she do with them? Some magic ritual? Or maybe she is a witch, and sleeps with them to wipe their memory and make them her slaves?”

“You’re trying to rile me up. You don’t believe in any of that.”

“Well maybe I do.” Ragnar said, raising his hands in mock defeat.

“Stop it.”

“Alright, fine. What does she do with them? Why do they go to her if not for… her womanly charms?”

“I hear she listens to them. Not that you need that, Ragnar. You talk so much anyway.”

Ragnar snorted, but Athelstan could see the emptiness behind his eyes. He knew that Alethia would be talking to him tonight.

Then, his friend scratched the back of his head, quickly changing the topics again. “So, marriage. What comes next? Children?”

“I haven’t thought about that.”

“But you want it.” Ragnar noticed. His eyes bore into Athelstan’s, and it felt as if he could read his mind.

“I do.” Athelstan said. There was something in his heart that ached when he thought of it. His own family.

“Perhaps your sons will fihgt alongside mine one day.”

“I want daughters.” Athelstan blurted out. “I want them to be like her, like Lagertha, like Siggy when they grow up. Like Aslaug and Judith.”

“Why?”

“Because they are stronger than we are.”

Ragnar paused for a moment, before he looked down at the sand. HIs hands dug into the ochre, disappearing below the surface that rippled like the ocean.

“If I do have a daughter…” Athelstan began. “I want to name her Gyda.”

When Ragnar looked up again, there were tears in his eyes.

Alethia

Thorunn was smiling by the time that dinner was being served by the thralls. Alethia watched as she talked to Aslaug, Sigurd tugging at her hand. Alethia was glad that she had gotten to help her. The look of deference slowly disappeared from Thorunn the longer she spoke to Aslaug, and, when Bjorn entered the Great Hall, trailed by Lagertha, who had Siggy in her arms, Thorunn did not turn away.

Alethia sighed with relief, picking up Hvitserk, who was attempting to fight Ubbe over her shoulder.

“If you want to hit your brother, try not to hit my head as well.” She told Hvitserk. He had the audacity to pout, crossing his arms before his chest.

“And why are you two fighting anyway?

Hvitserk only shrugged, stomping his foot to emphasize his point. Alethia tried to bite down the laughter that bubbled up her throat.

“He’s your brother, Hvitserk. I know Ubbe can be overbearing, but he means well.”

“Fine. I won’t hit him I guess.” Hvitserk complained. “I’ll play with Bjorn instead.”

When Athelstan walked into the Great Hall together with Ragnar, Alethia could not help but smile at him. Athelstan turned her way almost immediately, as if he was a dog that could sniff her out.

Ragnar followed Athelstan as he made his way towards Alethia, and now, Alethia was a little concerned. Ragnar never bothered talking to her.

“Hi.” Alethia said, and Athelstan hugged her without another word. He was uncharacteristically quiet, even for him. 

“He’s planning a raid.” Athelstan whispered in the hug.

“It’s okay. Thank you.” Alethia replied. She let him go, smiling amiably at Ragnar.

“Your sons are admirable hunters.” She said.

“I’d hope so.” Ragnar replied. His tone was so dry, so flat, so uninterested, that Alethia felt reminded of her own father.

“It wouldn’t hurt to take some interest.” She hissed. “They notice that, you know.”

Ragnar raised a brow, looking over to Athelstan as if they were sharing some kind of inside joke. Alethia was glad that Athelstan did not try to reciprocate his all-knowing smirk.

The king of Kattegat stared at Alethia a moment longer, as if he was trying to read her soul, eat her heart. Alethia tried not to look away as best she could, but when Ubbe tugged at her hand to gain her attention, Alethia did not care enough to continue their little contest. 

Ubbe was holding out a bowl of stew, filled with the prizes of their hunt today.

“Thank you Ubbe.” Alethia said. “Would you like to eat with me and Athelstan today?”

Ubbe nodded shyly, and Alethia patted the free space next to her. Athelstan sat, taking a bowl of stew out of the hands of one of the thralls. Alethia ate quietly, waiting until Athelstan had finished his quick prayer. It was the kind of domesticity they could only begin to afford.

Alethia’s hands found purchase in Athelstan’s and as she looked to him, she had a moment of peace between lifetimes of war. Athelstan was quick to kiss her cheek, before anyone could catch them in their little display. Alethia’s hand stroked his jaw automatically, and Athelstan smiled at her with such adoration that she thought she might die.

So much, for her. God, had there ever been a sweeter joke?

She ate her stew, and Alethia knew that, months earlier, she would not have tasted it. But there it was, and it satisfied her. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

There was a thought in the back of her mind, one that Alethia had not thought explicitly, but one she thought she’d known about for a while. She smiled at Athelstan, who did not know.

Later, Alethia helped Aslaug settle Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd down. The hunt had exhausted them, but they were brothers, and in such, always found a reason to fight. Aslaug had only a tired smile to spare Alethia as the three of them had finally fallen asleep. Ivar was still in Aslaug’s arms.

“Thank you.”

“I enjoy taking care of the boys.” Alethia assured.

“I meant Thorunn, and me. We did not want to ask for…” Aslaug began. “You have a place in my queendom.”

“And I shall defend it as if it were my own.” 

Aslaug smiled, nodding at Alethia as she made her way out of the Great Hall. It was starting to darken in Kattegat, and Alethia’s hand was never far from her belt. Athelstan’s longhouse was on the outskirts of town, where it became quiet. Alethia knew it was there not only because of the tranquility, but also because the forest reminded him of home.

Out of the corner of her eye, Alethia caught Ragnar, staring at her from afar. His eyes were unfocused, and Alethia knew he wanted something from her. Comfort, perhaps. 

In Wessex, Alethia would have opened her home to him. But Hagar had been nothing, had had nothing, and Alethia had used up all of her energy today already. She wanted to go home, to Athelstan. 

“Tomorrow.” Alethia called.

Ragnar jumped, as if he had not expected Alethia to speak to him. Then, he nodded through the fog that had to cloud his mind. Alethia closed her eyes, breathing out. Whatever Ragnar carried with him, Alethia knew it hurt. She had watched the king enough to know he felt about his crown the same way that Jon had. 

She did not feel guilty forgetting about that when she stepped into her and Athelstan’s house. 

And there he was, sitting at the desk, charcoal scratching over parchment.

“What are you drawing?” Alethia asked.

“You.” 

Alethia smiled, hugging Athelstan while leaning over him. She put her chin on his shoulder, her own face reflected on the parchment. It was her from a few days ago, hair still wet from swimming in the bay of Kattegat. Alethia knew that it would be the last swim she would take for a while. It was getting too cold for her to swim.

Winter was coming.

The thought of House Stark’s words no longer made her heart ache for Jon. There was the dull echo of a boy she’d loved as a girl, but no more. Not when Athelstan was right there with her.

Athelstan seemed to read her thoughts. “When it gets cold, we’ll be forced to spend more time inside.”

“The boys will be a lot.” Alethia sighed. 

“I was thinking… with all the time we’ll be spending inside,” Athelstan began. “Could you teach me? Your language, I mean.”

“Why?”

“I want to love you in your language.” Athelstan said. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before he pushed his chair back and stood in front of Alethia. There was a trace of fear in his eyes as he looked at her. 

“What is wrong?” Alethia asked.

“Nothing.” Athelstan replied. “Nothing at all. But, the truth is, my reasons for learning your tongue are more selfish than not.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I want to sing to my children in the language of their mother. If she’ll have me.”

Alethia’s mouth turned dry, and suddenly, her heart was beating in her chest. It was kissing Athelstan the first time all over again. “What are you saying?” she whispered. Athelstan’s hands grabbed hers a little more tightly, and he let out a shaky breath.

“Will you marry me?”

The sound Alethia let out was a half-laugh, half-sob, half-squeal. She threw herself around Athelstan’s neck, laughing. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you, and I’ll have you. Just as you are, speaking my language or not.”

Athelstan enveloped her, hands holding her tight, safe, warm. His lips brushed her cheekbone, dusting a kiss there where a scar split her face. Alethia felt loved.

[hiatuswhore]

♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ sǝuoɹɥ⊥

♕ A/N: Ahhh I always get so happy when I complete these little mini stories because I have a terrible habit of not completing them despite have a full story ready to go. Send me any questions you have! I have already been gathering some of them and I am going to do one large overview and answer them all in a post. That will be posted in a few days. Sorry for the wait I didn’t realize how long it had been this definitely could have been ready days ago. Anyhow here is The Prince and the Street Rat—A Game of Thrones, the final chapter—well more like an epilogue.

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 2.3K

♕ WARNING: None

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♕ TAG LIST: @jasontoddorjasongrace @luluga @mizfortuna @ellathefriendlyalpacaaa @out-of-life @dark-night-sky-99 @graykageyama @lepoulpe-blog @s0urmarvel @singitoutgirl26 @buttercup-beeee @omega-horus @linkpk88 @millies0bsimp @ly17 @hydrationqueensworld @skinmittensgoblin @herfantasyworldd @burningshewolf @reneehillary69 @minttea07

The young Stark walked without words, the taunting words of the Kingslayer still fresh in his mind. His slow gait through the icy corridors muted, offering curt nods to those who pass him. The air somber, the walls knowing. He opens his sister's chamber door without warning, the steel beneath the cloth in his hands nearly weightless.

“Septa Mordane says I have to do it again. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. Who cares how they’re folded. They’re going to get all messed up anyway,” Arya scoffs, throwing a cloak into the wooden case, a deep frown across her features. Jon glances at her white and grey direwolf pacing about, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s good you’ve got help,” He says, his tone low and gruff with a boyish hum, a gentle reminder of his youth. The amusement in his words reaching his sister but likely being lost on a stranger.

“Watch. Nymeria, gloves.” Arya’s frown falls, a smile taking her lips as she squares her shoulders. Nymeria stops in her tracks, taking a seat as she stares with a blank expression. The silence persists for a few seconds before Jon turns back to his sister.

“Impressive,” He says, a smirk ghosting on his lips as Arya tells him to shut up. She tries once more, but Nymeria merely tilts her head. “I have something for you. It has to be packed very carefully.”

“And I you,” Arya says, rushing across the room. She tosses several things onto her bed. A blunted wooden sword, an incomplete knitted cloth with a sloppy direwolf sewn atop, and many parchments. Her grumbles fill the room before a chuckle supplants it before returning before her brother with furs covering her hands. She places it on the bed, nodding toward him, “You go first!”

“Close the door,” Jon instructs, chuckling as Arya practically skips across the room. Her eyes never leave the cloth in his hands. Barring the door, she says no peeking. He removes the fabric, assuring her he will not look as he turns, holding up the dainty steel. Arya beams as she steps forward while Jon removes the sword from its sheath, “This is no toy. Be careful you don’t cut yourself.”

“It’s so skinny,” She takes it from his hand, her eyes traveling up the blade.

“So are you. I had the blacksmith make it for you special. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re quick enough,” Jon says, smiling as she gently waves it in the air. Her eyes locked upon her sword. She says she can be quick. “You’ll have to work at it every day. How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”

“I think so,” She fiddles with the base before looking up at her older brother. The two with the most Stark likeness besides Bran and Rickon. Jon leans down, placing his hand on the side of Arya’s face.

“First lesson,” His eyes lock with her own he speaks as though a sensitive secret sits between them. Small Arya clinging to his every word, so enthralled she fails to notice the smirk that threatens his lips, “Stick them with the pointy end.”

“I know which end to use,” Arya rolls her eyes as Jon hums a softness to him that the gods would soon wipe from the earth. He leans back up, dropping his hand, taking in every little detail of his sister as his future looms beyond the walls.

“I’m going to miss you,” He says, a silence sitting between the two before she steps forward, arms out wide. Jon flinches back, calling out careful as Arya’s sword swings ahead on his right. Arya places it down on her bed, looking up at her brother before jumping up. Her arms around his neck, he holds her from the ground as the two embraces. Jon mutters, “All the best swords have names, you know.”

“Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I’ve got a needle of my own,” She squeezes Jon a second time. Silence takes the room as the two hold each other. Arya pulls back first, Jon gently placing her back on her feet as she announces she must give him his parting gift. She nudges him to the side, removing the furs revealing a book. The cover shows beautiful sketches of dragons above a skillful drawing of Kings Landing. Jon’s eyebrows furrow, his fingers running over the title, Lady Calamity.

“Do not mistake my confusion for lack of appreciation, but why have you gifted me a book of—Targaryen history, I think?” Jon says, flipping open the cover sits a faded sketch. His eyes bounce over the assiduousness of the drawing. Many people appear to scatter around the couple at the center. A Targaryen cradling a bride in his arms, a dying woman.

“When people speak of the Dance of Dragons, we hear the same names and the same stories. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Black Queen. Prince Aegon Targaryen II, the usurper. Prince Aemond One-Eye, and Princess (Y/n) the beloved. The tales never speak the full truth. This Northern Sept dedicated his life to studying this through journals and parchments at the Citadel. Did you know Princess (Y/n) was a bastard from Flea Bottom?” Arya’s eyes shine with excitement as she speaks with nothing but confidence. Jon’s head snaps from the page to his younger sister, who beams at him. “No one can say for certain the relationship between the Princess and Prince Aemond, but there was a parchment from Queen Alicent to her father of an unbecoming friend of the Prince years before the war. The book believes it was the Princess. Some say they were friends and loved each other, and some believe the Prince to have an obsession. The reports are conflicting, but she is known in history as the third person to die in the Dance of Dragons. Hers and Prince Lucerys’ deaths sparked the war. Aemond one-eye torched Riverlands, the people rioted, and the realm became one of violence.”

Jon's eyes flick to the bottom of the drawing, the words staring back at him. The final moments of Princess (Y/n). The bells rang that of the swan song.

“Who killed her?” Jon asks, his eyes flicking back to the dying Princess. The drawing puts more emphasis on their faces rather than the movement around them.

“No one can really say. Many Septs challenge each other’s recounting of this history. At first, the realm blamed the Black Queen for the assassination of their Princess and the butchering of Aegon the Usurper’s eldest son. Sept Umberais debunked this in his research. While officially, the Black Queen and her forces are still credited, Lord Otto Hightower was executed by his grandson for the murder. It was incorrectly reported that Otto was beheaded during the fall of Kings Landing, but Queen Alicent's private journals reveal otherwise. The book goes into far more detail, but I think you should really read it. Sept Umberais found everything he could on the Princess. A bastard who shaped history. I do not wish you to die shaping history, but I do believe you will do great things, brother.” Arya flips the pages of the book, landing on another sketch, one of a statute. “During all of this madness, a statue was made in the Princess’s honor where she was laid to rest. Many believe her place of rest is one of misfortune if not given the proper reverence. I am going to visit it when I arrive at King's landing. Maybe receive a blessing for our family. Even King Robert was too afraid to desecrate it as he did the other Targaryen emblems.”

Arya flips to the final page, her brother’s eyes widening at the sight. The line work reflects an unmatched talent, the detailing almost intimate. Jon frowns, his chest aching as his eyes study your features. He cannot remove his gaze from the soft smile that nearly negates your forlorn eyes, “Princess (Y/n) Targaryen.”

The departure from Winterfell arrives with a heavy fog of naivety. Every Stark oblivious to the storm cloud lingering high above their home. Jon’s face of stone keeps all who travel around him without an inkling of his thoughts. When the opportunities arise, he opens the book, clinging to every word of the limited information on your life.

He cannot explain it, nor can he shake you from his thoughts. Besides his father, Jon cannot find another name that sparks this move in him. The journey to the wall consists of him wondering if you knew when it all began for you—if he will know. Your stories stay close even within Castle Black. It’s nothing like he imagined and everything Tyrion Lannister warned him of. Many nights, tales of your short life make the cold watches warm and the long days tolerable.

Arya’s journey south, her eyes bounce along the tree lines and hillsides. Her curiosity childlike and eager. Sansa rolls her eyes, sitting with perfect composure, a clear divide between the Stark girls. Their days in Kings Landing persistently absent from the others’ company. Arya walks the corridors picturing moments in history she’s read more times than she can recall. She treats the Red Keep more like a museum than a current resident to many, including herself.

“Must you always talk of a dead Targaryen Princess? Do you not fear slighting the King?” Sansa questions. Arya rolls her eyes, telling Sansa of the crown’s respect for the Princess. Septa stops their bickering, commending Arya’s knowledge while scolding her unladylike behavior.

She focuses on her dancing lessons and fails to convince her father to take her to your statue. Lord Stark, only hums, nodding his head to all her reasons but never answering the question. She’s sure it’s merely amusing to him, a laugh threatening him. The days blend into a smokescreen of routine, blinding the Stark girls from how swiftly the walls around them concave.

Arya’s heart hammers through her body with a ferocity that rattles the entirety of her entire body. She steps out into the road, the ding of the bells and chatter of the streets nearly nauseating. The few who pass her move with urgency leaving her in the dark.

“Hey, where’s everyone going? What’s happening?” She calls out. The two little boys who speed past her skid in their tracks, talking over their shoulder with glee.

“They’re taking him to the Sept of Sorrows!” The boy continues rushing up the stairs, Arya’s inquiry of who almost not reaching his ears, “The hand of the king!”

Arya drops the pigeon from her hand, rushing with the rest of the crowd. A few become many, and the back of their heads becomes her main view. The unfamiliar courtyard does little to halt her movements. She steps onto the side of the statute, not sparing it a single glance as her fathers brought out and escorted through the crowd. The mob screams words of malice, waving their weapons, but Lord Stark’s eyes lock with his daughters. In the group, many faces blend, spitting insults. At the pull of guards, Eddard scans the crowd warily. His eyes land on Yoren, bumping into his chest. He yells, “Sorrows. Sorrows!”

The moments fleeting, and the air stale. Silence consumes the crowd as Eddard’s voice booms throughout the courtyard. The gruffness of his tone clear and paced. Despite his lies to appease the few, the public still grumbles with resentment.

“As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of Gods and men. He has confessed his sins before the Sept of Sorrows. He has given reverence to the resting place of a girl given to this world by the Gods. She is a reminder of the poison in treachery but also the failures of acting without mercy. What is to be done with this traitor, your grace?” Arya frowns. She cannot grasp why this occurs here and now. The Queen mother shifts uneasily as the young King grins like a madman. It’s all so wrong.

“My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night’s Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father. So I bring you all here today. A sad day for a very sad excuse for a man. In this place lies dead a woman who could not be protected by her husband nor her King! Today I mark a new beginning, a King who will protect those deserving, one where no treason shall ever go unpunished. Ser Illyn, bring me his head!” Joffrey’s words fill the ample space, following a roar of excitement like no other. The cries of Sansa and the pleas of Cersei falling on deaf ears as Arya’s eyes sweep the crowd in disbelief. Arya climbs off the statute navigating the crowd with quick feet, her tiny stature bobbing and weaving without pause. It becomes less dodging and more pushing as her throat and eyes burn ceaselessly. A hand wrapping around her wrists, jerking her back, forces a gasp from her lips. Arya squirms to no avail, her father getting further and further away as her vision blurs and refocuses.

“Let me go!” She screams, blocking her view from the front. He forces her head toward the statue. Her struggles do nothing against his rigid grip. The indiscernible chatter of the crowd and Sansa’s screams fill the air. It lasts for seconds before a swift silence sweeps the crowd, and everything stills. Arya grows as straight as a pencil. She stops fighting Yoren’s hold her stare shape. The lump in her throat nearly suffocates as everything numbs. A part of her wants to laugh at what captures her eyes, a sick irony—a cruel one. The blue sapphire gem sparkling and vibrant, unlike the bleak air that lingers.

Princess (Y/n) Targaryen Rivers

[asongofstarkandtargaryen]

Jon Snow and jealousy (AGOT I)

Jon's first pov chapter begins with this quote: "There were times - not many, but a few-when Jon Snow was glad he was bastard". There is not a single time we've witness Jon being glad he's bastard as this status of his isn't something he benefits from - instead it creates more trouble for him ( remember the " bastards have to grow faster" quote). He's certainly not happy being bastard during the first chapter of his, where he's not permitted to the main table alongside the rest of his family.

Jon is lying to himself that he feels better for not being included making up reasons such as 1. No one supervises how much he drinks 2. No one cares he brought his direwolf to the feast. However, in reality Jon would like to be on the main table meeting the King ans his company. And why wouldn't he? It's not like they get visitors from the South every day on Winterfell and it's the first time someone as important as the King visited them. The only reason Jon isn't included is because of his bastard status, he's punished for something he's not to blame.

That's why, while Jon is pretty objective when he describes the King's company and his own family's entrance, he is also salty when describing Myrcella, Robb and Joffrey. The latter two are the boys closer to his age, so it's natural he feels antagonistic that they were on the main table unlike him. Especially when it comes to Robb, Jon's jealousy is pretty evident and in my opinion totally justified. Those two have been training together, taking lessons together - it's not that Jon lacks on any area Robb excels at. And yet because of Jon's bastard status, he always gets the short end of the stick. It's not really fair.

Here is Jon's thoughts as Robb enters the feast:

Close behind came Robb, in gray wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn't even have the chance to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool.

Some observations on the above passage:

1. Robb- Jon's best friend and rival - is not only allowed to be on the main table unlike Jon but also wears the Stark colors Jon would like to wear as well.

2. Robb is probably not "grinning like a fool" and it's unlikely he returns the crush of the 8 years old princess. He's probably simply happy they have important guests and a feast on Winterfell. However, Jon's view is clouded by jealousy and drinking.

3. I remember some fans making a big deal out of Jon calling Myrcella insipid inside his thoughts. Even proclaiming he's a misogynist. The thing is that the little princess - who imo is absolute adorable- will never find out what Jon thought of her. Not only because Jon is not a cruel person to voice his most unpleasant thoughts but also because Jon will never be allowed to associate with the royal kids. So rest assured , the Royal Princess will never be hurt by the thoughts of this "nasty misogynistic bastard"!

On a more serious note, Jon's opinion of Myrcella isn't really about her, as he doesn't know her enough to say whether she's stupid or not. Again, it is clouded by his jealousy of Robb who gets to be on the main table unlike him. Since that little girl has a crush on his brother, Jon directs some of his frustration towards her, too.

It's similar how he thinks about Myrcella's older brother, Joffrey. The prince is taller than both Jon and Robb and for that "offence" he also gets an unpleasant description.

Notice, how the younger prince Tommen and Jon's younger siblings ( Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon) don't get an unpleasant description. That's because unlike Joffrey and especially Robb, they are too young for Jon to compare himself with them. So he simply objectively describes their entrance, like he does with the adults.

To sum up, I don't believe that Jon has moments where he's glad he's a bastard and instead I do believe that his bastard status is making him jealous of highborn people at times. This isn't an attack on Jon though, because I do believe he's justified. Jon deserves as much as any other teen to celebrate on a feast sitting among his family and the fact he's not permitted something as simple as that shows how much unfair is the classist system of Westeros. Which reminds me that some folks say that Jon had a privileged life for a bastard. Well, I guess this scene proves that he wasn't privileged enough to be treated with the same decency his siblings were.

[raybyanothername]

This is a very worldbuilding specific headcanon and will be a bit rambly, but... Has anyone else ever considered how years could be 'longer' in the ASoIaF world?

Before we start, I know GRRM has said their years and our years are the same, so this is entirely a headcanon I constructed entirely out of my own preference/to make certain things vibe better in my head.

When I first read GoT I was surprised by how young many of the characters are stated to be (not a unique experience) and in many cases I didn't think the ages made a great deal of sense for the actions some of the characters managed to make given the typical physical abilities of people in those age brackets. Not to mention how much knowledge/expertise they have in certain areas that would typically take years to gain.

Like, is it possible for a young teen to do the things Dany, Robb, and Jon do? Yes, but it's not likely. And they're not exceptional when it's apparently the standard in Westeros from the information we're given. People (in text and in fandom) hype the mains up, but like, most of the teenage characters we are aware of are doing extraordinary things for their age in these books, and it gets even more eyebrow raising for the younger characters.

But! All we know is their ages in years. We are not given a proper ruler within the canon text for how long a year is in Westeros/on Planetos compared to our own. Not every culture measures time the same way after all. Despite what GRRM said, many are marked by seasonal shifts, but in A Song of Ice and Fire, the seasons are years long and can be fickle.

So who's to say their year can't be longer than ours?

What if a 12yo in Westeros would be the equivalent of a 16yo by our standards? If their 16 is our 21? This would explain why their age of maturity in Westeros is lower than the actual medieval one its meant to be based off of.

Personally, I use Rickon as my yard stick. He's suppose to be 3 when the series starts and he's 4 the last time we saw him in the books. Behaviorally I'd say he's closer to an average 5-6 year old. But if the years are longer, than the difference would stack. Plus they may not even have a standard length of time in the same way as we do now. Technically, even our solar years are not 'static' because we add a day every 4. Lunar years are a whole other ball game even, but I don't think Westeros is on a lunar calendar.

The calendar starts with Aegon's coronation in Oldtown. That's a static 'date' the maesters *could* use as a new year. Given the importance of constellations and celestial bodies we see at certain points, and the verbage used to describe time in text, I like to think that 'years' are measured by how the constellations move across the sky. Just like how they have the hour of the wolf and hour of the owl, they could have the month of *insert local constellation here* and the year changes when the sky matches what it was the day of Aegon's conquests.

This is vaguely based off how agriculture planning onced worked (or does in some places) and given Westeros is a largely agrarian society I think it fits quite nicely.

Plus it lets me age the characters up in my head so their scenes are less squicky sometimes.

Once I started playing with this idea in my head, it made a lot of the most frustrating bits (how is everyone traveling so far so quickly?! how are all of these long and drawn out plans taking place in a single year when communication is meant to be by ravens?) less frustrating. Maybe their year is closer to fifteen months than twelve, maybe their year is anywhere from an 11-16 month equivalency. We don't know how their planet rotates or what's going on in their solar system. We know at least one culture (Qarth) has legends about a second moon that no longer exists. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't, that's the fun!

If GRRM can hand wave distances for plot purposes, I am going to hand wave time to make my brain happier. ^^' And for fic plotting, because sometimes I need more time between major events. XD

As I said, entirely a headcanon, but one I find very enjoyable to play with in the background. I don't think I've ever gotten to properly explain it before and I felt like sharing. The idea of worldbuilding through the definitions of time is a concept that greatly interests me and I wish fantasy played with it a bit more. Though I do understand why they don't, it would be a huge headache to properly incorporate something like this, even if it would be cool~

[starwarsprincess1986]

You know nothing, Jon Snow

For @nattyslove22

Ygritte is NOT the only character that can rightly be associated with “you know nothing”.

We associate that line with Ygritte ALONE because she says it ALOT! But this might not be the only person that Jon has heard these words from, behind the scenes, and how Ygritte’s words are a reminder of someone, or someones, that could very well have said it to him too. (Just because we don’t get a POV narrative doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. There are MANY clues regarding other characters that we don’t get all the information about, but we get hints everywhere!

So “You know nothing, Jon Snow” are words he very possibly could have heard from Catelyn, the ONLY mother figure he’s ever really known (and he desired motherly affection from) and from Sansa, a sister who tries to live up to the image of her mother. The two most important feminine figures in Jon Snow’s life.

An interesting thing is that we see Catelyn Stark use this phrase in ACOK before we ever hear it from Ygritte in ASOS.

Here is the one from Catelyn Stark:

[She opened her hands to look down at the scars across her fingers. His dagger’s marks, she reminded herself. His dagger, in the hand of the killer he paid to open Bran’s throat. Though the dwarf denied it, to be sure. Even after Lysa locked him in one of her sky cells and threatened him with her moon door, he had still denied it. “He lied,” she said, rising abruptly. “The Lannisters are liars every one, and the dwarf is the worst of them. The killer was armed with his own knife.” Ser Cleos stared. “I know nothing of any—”

“You know nothing,” she agreed, sweeping from the cell. Brienne fell in beside her, silent.]

-Catelyn ACOK chapter 45

But the most interesting thing is, the FIRST time we see Ygritte says these words, they are in a different order, AND they are the chapter JUST before Sansa’s chapter where she is thinking these words.

The FIRST we see Ygritte say it, she says Jon Snow’s name first. ALL the other times AFTERWARDS she says his name last.

[“Are all crows afraid of gooseprickles? A little ice won’t kill you. I’ll jump in with you t’prove it so.” “And ride the rest of the day with wet clothes frozen to our skins?” he objected. “Jon Snow, you know nothing. You don’t go in with clothes.” “I don’t go in at all,” he said firmly, just before he heard Tormund Thunderfist bellowing for him (he hadn’t, but never mind).]

-Jon II ASOS

THE VERY NEXT CHAPTER is Sansa’s POV:

[“Alyn said her favor made him fearless,” said Megga. “He says he shouted her name for his battle cry, isn’t that ever so gallant? Someday I want some champion to wear my favor, and kill a hundred men.” Elinor told her to hush, but looked pleased all the same. They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They’ve never seen a battle, they’ve never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her father’s head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.”]

-Sansa II ASOS

Do you think it a coincidence that the the very first time we see Ygritte use these words, it is immediately followed by Sansa thinking the same words? Nope. It’s not coincidence.

It gives a whole other perspective to Jon’s thoughts before he gets stabbed near the end of ADWD.

[Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … ‘]

~ Jon XIII, ADWD chapter 69

1. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. (This is Jon’s last memory of Robb, when they said farewell before Jon left for the Wall. The last time he saw Robb)

-Kill the boy and let the man be born.

(Jon is associating Aemon’s words with his last memory of Robb. Why? This is why I think he does:

“Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel,” the old man had said, “the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time......Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born.”

-Jon II ADWD

2. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. (Here Jon doesn’t have ANY thoughts he associates with Bran)

3. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. (Again, no thoughts in connection to Rickon.)

But then:

4. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow.

(Why does Jon associate Ygritte’s words with Sansa? Curiouser and curiouser...)

Followed by:

5. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest.

-I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …

(These are the words from the Pink Letter from Ramsay Bolton who married fArya. Direct connection/association with his thoughts of Arya.)

But, isn’t it Arya who Ygritte reminded him of? Not Sansa. Or is the reader missing all the subtleties of how Ygritte actually reminds Jon of Sansa, he just doesn’t mention her name in his thoughts? Ygritte’s singing, and tears, and weeping, and her red hair kissed by fire, these are all things that are associated with Sansa’s character!)

Here are some book quotes:

[One was asleep, curled up tight and buried beneath a great mound of skins. Jon could see nothing of him but his hair, bright red in the firelight.

On the ground the sleeper sat up beneath his furs. Jon slid his dirk free, grabbing the man by the hair and jamming the point of the knife up under his chin as he reached for his—no, her—His hand froze. “A girl.”

He was so close he could smell onion on her breath. She is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. “Will you yield?” he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn’t? “I yield.” Her words steamed in the cold air. “You’re our captive, then.” He pulled the dirk away from the soft skin of her throat.]

-Jon ACOK chapter 51

[Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he’d thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions. She looked plump as she crouched there, but most of that was layers of fur and wool and leather. Underneath all that she could be as skinny as Arya.]

-Jon ACOK chapter 51

[“Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft … the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.]

-Catelyn ACOK chapter 55

‘The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte’s hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons.

At a lord’s court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he’d seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn’t seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling … well, that stirred some things as well.

-Jon II ASOS

She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore.

Do you know ‘The Last of the Giants’?” Without waiting for an answer Ygritte said, “You need a deeper voice than mine to do it proper.” Then she sang, “Ooooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth.

Tormund Giantsbane heard the words and grinned. “The last of the great mountain giants, who ruled all the world at my birth,” he bellowed back through the snow. Longspear Ryk joined in, singing, “Oh, the smallfolk have stolen my forests, they’ve stolen my rivers and hills.” “And they’ve built a great wall through my valleys, and fished all the fish from my rills,” Ygritte and Tormund sang back at him in turn, in suitably gigantic voices.

There were tears on Ygritte’s cheeks when the song ended. “Why are you weeping?” Jon asked. “It was only a song. There are hundreds of giants, I’ve just seen them.” “Oh, hundreds,” she said furiously. “You know nothing, Jon Snow..”

-Jon II ASOS

Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? He had never truly been a Stark, only Lord Eddard’s motherless bastard, with no more place at Winterfell than Theon Greyjoy. And even that he’d lost. When a man of the Night’s Watch said his words, he put aside his old family and joined a new one, but Jon Snow had lost those brothers too.

-Jon III ASOS

She bit his neck and he nuzzled hers, burying his nose in her thick red hair. Lucky, he thought, she is lucky, fire-kissed. “Isn’t that good?” she whispered as she guided him inside her.

-Jon III ASOS

“There’s naught to eat in the dark but flesh,” she whispered, biting at his neck. Jon nuzzled her hair and filled his nose with the smell of her. “You sound like Old Nan, telling Bran a monster story.”

-Jon III ASOS

“Were you a maid?” Ygritte pushed herself onto an elbow. “I am nineteen, and a spearwife, and kissed by fire. How could I be maiden?” “Who was he?” “A boy at a feast, five years past. He’d come trading with his brothers, and he had hair like mine, kissed by fire, so I thought he would be lucky. But he was weak. When he came back t’ try and steal me, Longspear broke his arm and ran him off, and he never tried again, not once.” “It wasn’t Longspear, then?” Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways. She punched him. “That’s vile. Would you bed your sister?” “Longspear’s not your brother.” “He’s of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

-Jon III ASOS

“Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.”

-Arya I AGOT

He woke to the sight of his own breath misting in the cold morning air. When he moved, his bones ached. Ghost was gone, the fire burnt out. Jon reached to pull aside the cloak he’d hung over the rock, and found it stiff and frozen. He crept beneath it and stood up in a forest turned to crystal.

The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice.

So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all.

-Jon III ACOK

So:

Jon thinks that Ygritte reminds him of Arya because of her stubbornness and her tangled hair, and how skinny she is, but the things that Jon likes most about Ygritte is her singing, her tears, and he thinks of her red hair on multiple occasions. There really isn’t anything else that sticks out to him besides these three things during the time he is with the wildlings.

Ygritte =Arya= tangled hair, skinny, stubborn

When they looked nothing alike.

But on an unconscious level:

Ygritte =Sansa= singing, tears, red hair

These are what Jon fell in love with. The ONLY things that stirred him.

He thinks of Sansa singing while she brushes Lady’s fur. Then, you know nothing...

[ladycatofwinterfell]

🌧🌧🌧

Here’s more kind of angsty modern au. Catelyn discovering the Lysa abortion situation

Catelyn had been oddly quiet ever since she came home. It was understandable, her father was very ill, though it hadn’t been the same as the other times she had visited him at the nursing home. Something that happened more and more often.

She had not brought anything up, so Ned had let her be. If she wanted to talk about it she would talk about it, he had to give her time. Trying to fish it out of her wouldn’t do any of them any good. Though he so wanted to help her with whatever it was, do what he could to make it easier with her.

He had planned to leave her to it, he really had, but after she had snapped at Robb over dropping his fork on the floor as they had dinner he couldn’t help himself. Something was bothering his wife and he needed to know what it was.

“How’s Hoster?” he asked as he began taking plates from the table.

The kids had all left the kitchen, she was still seated by the table. She sat with her face in her hands, had just let out a deep sigh.

“Bad” she said, her voice muffled behind her hands. “He’s barely lucid anymore.”

They had planned on bringing the kids to visit him sometime soon but Catelyn had hesitated just because Hoster wasn’t always lucid. She didn’t want them to remember him that way, almost delirious, and was afraid it would scare Rickon. Ned agreed with that, though he also didn’t feel like it was his decision. It wasn’t his father that was dying, and if Catelyn would have wanted to take all of them to the nursing home he would have gone with her.

“That’s not good.”

He began rinsing the plates, placing them in the sink one by one.

“The nurse says he probably has some time left, though it’s not him. That’s not my father. It’s just an anxious old man that rambles about nothing.”

Ned knew he was supposed to say something, try to comfort her, though no words came. He was worthless at things like that, and as so many times before he despised himself for it. He was a pathetic excuse for a husband.

“I’m sorry” he heard himself say.

He turned the tap off and walked over to open the dishwasher. He just had to put everything away and then he would hug her and never let go. He was better at that than at words, he could help more by just holding her.

“Ned?”

When he turned to look at her he found that she had raised her head and was looking back at him. She wasn’t crying, there were no tears in her eyes, but it was an agonised face all the same.

“Yes, darling?”

Catelyn hesitated, doubt flickering over her face. She turned her eyes to her hands, they were flat against the wooden surface of the table.

“I think he forced Lysa to have an abortion when we were teens.”

“What?”

Wherever had that come from? He couldn’t have told her if he wasn’t lucid enough to understand anything. Was it something she had carried with her for years and just never said? Not that it was any of Ned’s business, but something made him believe she would have told him.

“Today he thought I was Lysa” Catelyn began in a low voice, still staring at her hands. “Which has happened before, and every time he keeps apologising. And I never knew for what, but now he talked about babies and having kids later and that she would be happy for it. At least that’s what I think, it was hard to piece everything together, I could barely hear what he was saying.”

She stopped and took a deep, shaking breath. It was hard to watch her, to see her so. Ned felt his chest ache.

“That doesn’t mean anything, he doesn’t know what he’s saying” Ned tried. “Or maybe it’s an attempt at comforting Lysa because of how much she struggled with having kids.”

“Except for that Lysa had an appointment at the hospital once. They said why, I can’t remember, but it was something really routine. Nothing to be worried about. But it took longer than they said it would and when she came home she was really upset. Cried for days afterwards, was angry with Dad, and wouldn’t tell me why even though we told each other everything. I never got to know and eventually I just kind of forgot about it. But now he wants to apologise and goes on and on about waiting for babies. And we all how much Lysa had to try before actually getting a baby, I don’t even know how many times she miscarried before Robert.”

“Five miscarriages and two stillbirths” Ned said before he knew he was going to talk.

Jon had told him, though he hadn’t realised he had memorised it. That he knew it instinctively. He had felt a little guilt at how easy it had been for him and Catelyn to get pregnant when Jon sadly came to him and spoke of how much he and Lysa struggled.

Catelyn looked up at him. If she was surprised by that he had known it didn’t show. She was sad and nothing but.

“It doesn’t feel like something my dad would do, but I really think he did it to Lysa.”

If it was true it had been inevitable that it came to the surface, hadn’t it? What was hidden in snow reappeared when it began thawing.

[kingsansa]

not really a prompt for pp but could you write something from when they were younger/teenagers

maybe if you let me be your lover

word count: 887

tags: pre pp, modern setting, high school, sneaking around

-

It’s a game of numbers.

Her parents are practically nonfactors; 17 years with five kids ensures that sleep isn’t something they take for granted, and the 15 minutes it takes for them to go to sleep is practically nothing. Robb doesn’t go down without a fight—it takes him anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, and that’s only after they say goodnight. Bran, Rickon, and Arya, are three wildcards too many, and only when an entire 45 minutes goes by without a single from any of their rooms, whether it’s a bed spring or the murmuring of the tv, is it actually safe.

He’s been here so often growing up, almost as much as her, that he knows exactly which floorboards creak quietly enough to be drowned out by the motor of her dad’s snoring. He knows how to turn the knob of any of the doors without making a sound. Somehow, he even knows how to close them the same way, in a house where she knows for a fact that every door has been slammed a minimum of 50 times throughout her life. Sometimes, she’s aware of the fact that it should bother her, how integrated his presence is in her life, what exactly they’re putting on the line by doing…whatever it is that they’re doing.

It’s dangerous, the routine they’ve fallen into.

10 minute moments before school, crowded in the back of his car behind the supermarket just starting to come to life. Eight minute bathroom breaks almost every period spent underneath a staircase. Stumbling around in the dark of the woods just behind the school after a game, a serial killer’s wet dream with how far away they stumble from the bonfire just so that they can get their hands on each other.

Sansa is 15 years old and she’s only starting to understand why people do the things they do just to be close to one another.

Part of her likes that it’s a secret.

She likes that her knowledge of him is something that nobody else knows. She knows the taste of his mouth right after he’s brushed his teeth for school, and she knows how his hands fit over her bra and she knows how to make him shiver when she drags her fingers through his hair and what his thigh feels like between her legs.

She likes these secrets; likes that they’re her secrets and that nobody knows she has them. But sometimes, she thinks she’d be willing to give that up if it meant he would hold her hand underneath the lunch table.

But Jon isn’t like that.

They aren’t like that, and that isn’t something he has time for, anyway. Neither does she. So she’ll take this. She’ll make it work. She’ll color in the spots where it isn’t quite enough.

It’s hard on nights like these, where he comes to her room and they don’t really do anything at all. His hand doesn’t linger underneath her pajama bottoms and her mouth is only a little swollen and tingling from his, and they watch a movie. Sansa curls up into the cradle of his stretched out arm and she listens to the inevitable evening out of his breathing.

“I’m starting to think you actually come in here to sleep.”

His response comes at the end of an exhale, followed by a small stretch of his torso. “Hm?”

She doesn’t even remember what she was talking about, to be honest. Something about the movie. Fast and Furious is playing, just because she remembered that he liked it, and was hoping that would make him stay a little longer, longer than he should.

But he only fell asleep. He does a lot of that these days. Practices are only growing more grueling. Sansa understands that. If anything, her practices are the same. Still. She makes an effort to stay up for him.

Sometimes, when they’re texting, she can’t even tell if he likes her.

“Am I boring you?”

It comes out small, even though she tries to phrase it as a joke. It’s no less pathetic, and she wants to take it back as soon as it comes out.

If Jon notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“No,” He mumbles then. “It’s just easy to relax with you.”

Her heart beats so hard in her chest that it hurts.

He has to be able to hear it when he noses at her throat, mouth ghosting softly over her pulse. His free hand is warm underneath her shirt. She turns into his hair, just underneath her cheek like this, even though it’s dark and he can’t see how flushed her face has gotten.

But maybe he can hear it in her voice, the quaver there that betrays the way she’s trying not to beam. “I don’t talk too much?”

There’s a nip at her neck, a reassurance as much as it is an admonishment. A yawn bleeds through her skin.

“I like the sound of your voice.”

Sansa wants to hold him tighter, even though he’s already so close to her that that isn’t possible. She settles for running her fingers through his hair the way he likes, and a soft kiss to the crown of his head that he probably doesn’t even feel.

But that’s okay. It’s just for her.