#jon deserves the iron throne

[reireichu]

my fav part of the got series finale was when jon snow did a lil stabbity stab and daenerys asks him, why jon why i loved you and he tells her: "SNOW LANDS ON TOP"

and in the story that they will tell, the songs they will sing, it will be a story about fire and ice, it'll be a story about love...

about how it is the things we love most that destroy us

anyways best finale1!!!!111ever!!!!!

[atopvisenyashill]

king bran

so i’ve lined up my theory on how bran will be king in harrenhal but i was a little lax on details about king bran foreshadowing. there’s the “bran in harrenhal” stuff i’ve outlined which includes-

bran’s connection to the weirwoods & the magical connection the isle of faces has

the whent connection

bran being a metaphorical heir to robb by ruling over the lands robb was born, fought, and died in

the importance of harrenhal as a symbol of both the wasteful excess and hope for the future

but why king bran specifically? well…

ATTEMPTED SLAYING BY THE KINGSLAYER

for one thing, bran is our introduction to the entire series (barring the prologue, rip to 3 icons). he introduces us to the brutality of this world, to the themes of justice, kingship, leadership, to the Others, and to magic. that very important lesson about how the person to pass judgement must swing the sword, and must be sure that the life they're taking is one that deserves to be taken? That comes to us not through Jon, or even Arya, but Bran:

Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

That last sentence in particular is a belief that really sticks in all the kids heads as they go about their journeys, and it is through Bran that we learn it.

But in his second chapter, Bran also introduces us to jaime, cersei, and the main plot twist of the first book which kick starts the war of five kings. before he's pushed from the tower, this is all we know about Jaime-

He’s blonde, he’s named Jaime, and he killed the king.

Then the first thing he does is attempt to slay Bran.

AEGON VI AND THE PISSWATER PRINCE

What’s most interesting to me regarding King Bran foreshadowing is that the story of how Bran survives the sack of Winterfell is very similar to Varys & Illyrio’s story of the pisswater prince. Here is Tyrion’s summary of it-

"And when the pisswater prince was safely dead, the eunuch smuggled you across the narrow sea to his fat friend the cheesemonger, who hid you on a poleboat and found an exile lord willing to call himself your father. It does make for a splendid story, and the singers will make much of your escape once you take the Iron Throne…

and some reminders about Bran, helpfully color coded-

It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller's sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. "I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me… laughed at me..."

Three times he had sworn to keep the secret; once to Bran himself, once to that strange boy Jojen Reed, and last of all to Coldhands. "The world believes the boy is dead," his rescuer had said as they parted. "Let his bones lie undisturbed. We want no seekers coming after us. Swear it, Samwell of the Night's Watch. Swear it for the life you owe me."

“Hodor must stay with Bran, to be his legs," the wildling woman said briskly. "I will take Rickon with me." “We'll go with Bran," said Jojen Reed. "Aye, I thought you might," said Osha.

Another interesting thing about Bran, the Reeds, and Aegon VI here-

“He has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."

I swear it by earth and water," said the boy in green. "I swear it by bronze and iron," his sister said. "We swear it by ice and fire," they finished together.

BRAN, THE REEDS, AND THE FISHER KING

Now first of all, quick rundown with more color coding. The Fisher King is a character in Arthurian legend, involved in a story with Perceval and the Holy Grail (so you know we’re already cooking here bc Holy Grail stories are baller). The Fisher King is the last in a long line of kings tasked with guarding the Holy Grail. He is injured at some point, usually in the groin, and is rendered barren by the wound, and his land is a barren wasteland where nothing will grow because he is connected to the land. Only when a prophesied hero comes seeking him will the Fisher King be healed. Perceval, of course, comes seeking him, heals him, and gets the Holy Grail.

Now some of the beats of that story should sound familiar-

Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some said the Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she had nursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, that all the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head.

He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" "No," Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon." But he will never run beside his wolf again, he thought with a sadness too deep for words, or lie with a woman, or hold his own son in his arms.

The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.

What was he now? Only Bran the broken boy, Brandon of House Stark, prince of a lost kingdom, lord of a burned castle, heir to ruins. He had thought the three-eyed crow would be a sorcerer, a wise old wizard who could fix his legs, but that was some stupid child's dream, he realized now. 

No," said the pale lord. "That is beyond my powers." Bran's eyes filled with tears. We came such a long way. The chamber echoed to the sound of the black river. "You will never walk again, Bran," the pale lips promised, "but you will fly."

Now what’s interesting is in twoiaf we learn about some ancient rulers called the Fisher Queens-

From such we know of the Fisher Queens, who ruled the lands adjoining the Silver Sea—the great inland sea at the heart of the grasslands—from a floating palace that made its way endlessly around its shores.

The Fisher Queens were wise and benevolent and favored of the gods, we are told, and kings and lords and wise men sought the floating palace for their counsel.

And what do you know look at who Bran is traveling with-

“My father taught me. We have no knights at Greywater. No master-at-arms, and no maester.” “Who keeps your ravens?” She smiled. “Ravens can’t find Greywater Watch, no more than our enemies can.” “Why not?” “Because it moves,” she told him.

Jojen Reed was thirteen, only four years older than Bran. Jojen wasn't much bigger either, no more than two inches or maybe three, but he had a solemn way of talking that made him seem older and wiser than he really was. At Winterfell, Old Nan had dubbed him "little grandfather."

When they died, they went into the wood, into leaf and limb and root, and the trees remembered. All their songs and spells, their histories and prayers, everything they knew about this world. Maesters will tell you that the weirwoods are sacred to the old gods. The singers believe they are the old gods. When singers die they become part of that godhood.

I like to say this about Theon, when he sees Bran's face in the weirwood and thinks, "The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name." that this is partially true - Theon is beloved by the gods but what he doesn't realize is that the old god he is beloved by is in fact Bran Stark. When the old gods weep for Theon and Jeyne, it is Bran weeping for them! So similarly, the way the Fisher Queens in their moving castle were thought to be beloved by the gods the Reeds in their floating castle are beloved by the gods because they are beloved by Bran. This reinforces Bran's connection to the Fisher King imo - just as the old greenseers and singers/cotf are quite literally connected to the land because they have become part of the the weirwood hivemind, Bran has this same connection to the land.

AND what’s more is that the Fisher King story is likely to trace itself back to a Welsh story, of a magical King who gives his sister's hand away, only to learn that she is being mistreated, and musters a host to go save her. During a battle, the King is mortally wounded by an injury in his foot, and as he dies he tells his men to cut off his head and take it to London so he can protect their people from invasion, and for several years after he "dies" his head continues speaking. If that also sounds familair, do you want to know what that man’s name was?

Bran the Blessed.

MELISANDRE'S VISION

Now staying in the realm of magic, we also have this very interesting passage from Melisandre, emphasis mine-

Show me Stannis, Lord, she prayed. Show me your king, your instrument. Visions danced before her, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive. She saw the eyeless faces again, staring out at her from sockets weeping blood. Then the towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths. Shadows in the shape of skulls, skulls that turned to mist, bodies locked together in lust, writhing and rolling and clawing. Through curtains of fire great winged shadows wheeled against a hard blue sky. A face took shape within the hearth. Stannis? she thought, for just a moment … but no, these were not his features. A wooden face, corpse white. Was this the enemy? A thousand red eyes floated in the rising flames. He sees me. Beside him, a boy with a wolf's face threw back his head and howled.

THE REGENCY OF AEGON III

So warning this is part parallelism and part prediction

The Dance of the Dragons was done, and the melancholy reign of King Aegon III Targaryen had begun.

As he was still but ten years of age, the new king’s first act was to name the men who would protect and defend him, and rule for him until he came of age.

This was a council of which Septon Eustace heartily approved, “six strong men and one wise woman, seven to rule us here on earth as the Seven Above rule all men from their heaven.” Mushroom was less impressed. “Seven regents were six too many,” he said. “Pity our poor king.” Despite the fool’s misgivings, most observers seemed to feel that the reign of King Aegon III had begun on a hopeful note.

So many lords, both great and small, had perished during the Dance of the Dragons that the Citadel rightly names this time the Winter of the Widows. Never before or since in the history of the Seven Kingdoms have so many women wielded so much power, ruling in the place of their slain husbands, brothers, and fathers, for sons in swaddling clothes or still on the teat.

The smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms speak of King Aegon III Targaryen as Aegon the Unlucky, Aegon the Unhappy, and (most often) the Dragonbane, when they remember him at all. All these names are apt. Grand Maester Munkun, who served him for a good part of his reign, calls him the Broken King, which fits him even better. Of all the men ever to sit the Iron Throne, he remains perhaps the most enigmatic: a shadowy monarch who said little and did less, and lived a life steeped in grief and melancholy.

There is also a big focus on the “tax policies” aspect of the story through these two child rulers. Much of Aegon’s regency centers around him butting heads with his guardians while Bran’s ACOK arc sees him as the ruling Stark in Winterfell and learning how to lead with mentors in Maester Luwin & Ser Rodrik Cassell. EYE also think it’s interesting how both Aegon & Bran get some focus on having a lil gaggle of companions around. Aegon has Gaemon, Jaehaera, Viserys, Daenaera, and Larra Rogare, while Bran has the Big Walder, Little Walder, Rickon, Jojen, and Meera. They both feel like very similar groups of kids that are thrown together & running amok with adult supervision that is more lax/not coming from their parents.

There's also just like, a lot of parallels between Baela, Rhaena, Jacaerys, and Aegon with Arya, Sansa, Jon Snow, and Bran. There are several good breakdowns of the Sansa/Arya parallels as well as the Jace/Jon Snow ones, so I won't dig into that here, but I think when you put all this together what you have between Bran and Aegon III is-

Two boy kings who will have a long regency

Both orphaned due to a brutal succession war

Both referred to as "broken" - aegon by munkin, and bran referring to himself

Younger - but not the youngest - brother coming into his seat after his older brother is killed

Both have names that are important in their families & frequently re-used - and in fact both share a name with their uncle

A very rare "winter of widows" where most of the houses are ruled by women due to all the men being dead and their heirs being babies is coming up in the main series

This anti parallel of Aegon being a very melancholy person & Bran being known to be “quick to laugh and easy to love.”

As for his relationships, we have-

His bastard born brother With Some Secret Paternity Going On, who is likely not going to be in the running for King at the end of the war (hopefully um, Jon Snow actually lives unlike poor Jacaerys)

His oldest brother dying at 16 during the war

One sister who is more adventurous and "tomboy"ish, who is associated with ships and travel

Another sister who is more ladylike, who has a largely political arc in the Vale

Both sisters are likely to take leading roles as political players in the aftermath of the war - I do suspect we will get some sort of “Hour of the Wolf” parallels here, just before or after Bran is crowned

SOME CHOICE QUOTES TO LEAVE OFF ON

Bran could perch for hours among the shapeless, rain-worn gargoyles that brooded over the First Keep, watching it all: the men drilling with wood and steel in the yard, the cooks tending their vegetables in the glass garden, restless dogs running back and forth in the kennels, the silence of the godswood, the girls gossiping beside the washing well. It made him feel like he was lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know. - Bran II, AGOT

Ahead he glimpsed a pale white trunk that could only be a weirwood, crowned with a head of dark red leaves. - Jon VII, ADWD

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

57 - Forcing Past our Saftey

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 19.1k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, mental duress, unspecified illness, illusions to cheating/infidelity, self inflicted self harm with a sexual basis, dark themes of sexual nature, references to past rape, mentally unstable originated toxic behavior, smut, oral (m receiving)

Notes: Just a pre warning that the reader does something in this chapter that is a form of self harm with a sexual basis for the act, that also acts as a trigger to Jons own trauma as a consequence. It's a complicated situation that happens very fast but I thought some forewarning was necessary. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

“Well over a decade he’s been positioning himself close to the Iron Throne. Why change his plans now?”

Palms braced against the table before him, Jons expression twisted downward with his jaw set tightly. He didn’t work in this manner, playing the games which other highborns all were so deeply invested in, but now he was at quite a disadvantage. He was up against an opponent who knew far more then he ever could about all over the realm, and Jon could answer the whats and hows all day. It was the why he had no idea of.

Likely just the way Petyr Baelish wanted it. How is one supposed to pin down the crimes of a man whom presents himself with no clear motive? One which used every filthy trick he could conjure up in order to deceive any who was finding out. Or worse, trick until he watched the ones in his way make their way to the executioners block. It was far easier to get what you wanted if you send those in your way to their death. And Jon knew without a doubt, it was attempted with you. Killing a respected and beloved Queen of a kingdom thousands of miles away had to be done in a complicated manner, especially as to not trace its sources back.

He had manipulated Ned Stark to the point it led to his head being taken while right in his proximity the entire time, but this was not Kings Landing. He did not have an in of power within the North, nor Jons council and closest men. The man desperately needed his key to the North to lay with Sansa, but the power of the North lay beyond one person. It lay in the responsibility of many now, and all whom knew not to trust a single word out of that mans mouth.

Jon had been back for less then a day, but already he felt the stress mounting on his shoulders as long as Petyr Baelish roamed free within his lands and home.

But silent frustration would not lead Jon to an answer, not really. Narrowing his eyes to the spot of the wooden table he happened to be trapped on, he gave the simplest start to the previous posed question by Lord Howland with your name to start. “Me and her were gone for months, he tried to get rid of her before. Now without either of us here, he thought it was a perfect time to get his hands on another land he doesn’t deserve.”

The group in the room was as small as Jon could bring together, dividing his closest allies between he and you to ensure at no times were his own people in a position to be manipulated by whatever this was. Arya stood closer to his side, her own knowledge of the man much closer then himself as she piped up. “If he didn’t know about Robb’s will, then he would think he’s right in pursuing the North through Sansa, but he isn’t. So why is he still here, he has nothing.”

Theon however, had the quickest answer with the solution closest to what sounded accurate as he gestured across the table to Jon. “Because of you.” Heads turned to Jon and then back to Theon as Jon watched with a patient silence for him to elaborate. “He’s born from a minor House, but according to most of Westeros, he’s still higher up then you. If he can find a way to delegitimize you in the eyes of the North because your a bastard, then he can push Sansa’s claim front and centre. A highborn girl with her closest advisor being a man from a minor house who used to be on the small council in Kings Landing sounds more plausible to him then not being able to overthrow one bastard.”

Arya beside him tried to argue that no one here was going to turn on him, and Lord Howland at least approached it with a little more calm then her clear growing agitation, not that Jon blamed her. “He may think he does not even need to do as much, only that he needs to cause enough instability that will cause the people to doubt your capability.”

For once, Jon didn’t feel the insecurity of doubt following him all his life. This time was different, he knew he could do this, and he knew these people better then Petyr Baelish ever would. Only this time instead of using Jons father to manipulate his way into getting what he wants, he was using Jons little sister. How much Sansa was in on these plans, he didn’t know and he wouldn’t if she was not yet willing to confront Jon.

He knew why, it was a strange position for her to be in. She expected to be welcome here with open arms to be crowned Queen, only to find her bastard brother had her crown and in the laws set by Robb himself, she had no rights to any of it no matter what. She was always a bit difficult for Jon to deal with when they both were younger, but the five years spent apart had not made that any better. It only drew them further apart, and too Jon knew he needed to tackle this in a way that was just, but also would not drive her away. What of the Starks left were all here where they belonged, together.

What she needed, was a way to be reminded she was still one of them, and yet the ones left were the siblings least equipped to handle it. Arya and her had not picked their relationship back up on anything close to a good note, Bran had been so far removed from the events of her life that on top of what was happening with him this was the least of his concerns. And Jon was the bastard brother who had taken her crown.

Only one person in Winterfell was equipped to handle Sansa, but it was the one person Jon refused to throw into such a mess yet. Afterall, Jon was not the only one who had only been home for less then a single day.

Sending you off to deal with his little sister, was the opposite of ensuring you were getting proper rest.

You were fairly certain if Jon could’ve gotten away with ordering the guards not to let you leave the room, he would have. Instead, he was far more clever then that. Send people your way after you were awake, which would entertain you enough that wanting to leave and wander become unnecessary. Currently you were sitting by a small table near the side of the room, gently picking at the food in front of you watching with a barely hidden grin at the sight.

He would argue that Olly was still technically considered your steward and he was simply ensuring someone brought you up things you needed. You had not yet considered what Jon had been doing at first, distracted too much by how swiftly you both went to hug the other.

It had not passed either you or him, how motherly it felt to pull back and instantly begin commenting on how much he had grown since you were gone. A small twelve year old boy the day he came in confused and devastated tears at the gates of Castle Black with the story of what the wildlings had done, and now at half fourteen he was closing in on your height, and the starting in his voice deepening no longer like a child.

It was odd to think now, that how he came into your life had distantly begun with a horrific day where he had been the sole survivor of a massacre. The way he told it to you that day in Castle Black when he confessed to what he had done, what Ser Alliser had used against him to manipulate him into that crime. You could recall realizing in his descriptions that Tormund had been part of that band of wildlings, but yet he was the first person you had met that morning who so quickly made you feel as if you had a true ally on your side. And how that trusting feeling had never stopped.

Though, you almost didn’t want Tormund to come to Winterfell, you imagined very much that his reaction to learning about the baby and what happened? It no doubt would be as loud and boisterous as the rest of his personality. Unlike the sweet and gentle sight before you.

Carrying him as he paced him around the room a little to settle him, little Eddard was taking to Olly rather well. Looking to the baby then you, he asked in a bit of curious wonder, “Is it normal he’s this small?”

Shaking your head lightly, you swallowed the liquid you sipped down before tilting your head a bit as you explained in the least detailed of terms. “He was born quite early. We had expected to already be in Winterfell when my time was near, but we were still a week away from Castle Black when he came into the world.” Your own eyes were soft looking at the wide green eyes on your son, dressed in oversized clothes as Maege and your mother had ensured you one of today's tasks would be having clothes made to fit him personally.

Turning to look back at you, Olly clearly looked surprised. “You gave birth out there? How?”

Not quite a shrug came over your shoulder as you slowly made your way through the food still, knowing you’d hear it the moment either Maege or your mother returned that you hadn’t even made it half through yet. “Women of the free folk gave birth beyond the Wall for thousands of years.” Olly though, was clever in pointing out that he presumed they would have people and help around, and your head dropped a little. “I’m sure they did, but, there was no where we could go for help. We could only pray to the gods that at least the little one there was born safe and alive, if nothing else.”

Ollys brows narrowed, he was too clever you knew. Picking up on the lack of emphasis on your own survival, but in the moment it was true. It was Jon and the baby you feared for, not you. Coming a little closer, it was not meant to be argumentative but likely it came out as such regardless. “His life isn’t more important then yours.” You didn’t react, nor even blink, but as Olly did it shook out the tone he had hissed out as he came closer in a higher pitched grovel. “I’m sorry, your Grace. I didn’t mean it as-”

Cutting him off gently, you gave a small smile. “I know what you meant.” Nodding for him somewhat to take the empty seat still across from you, a feeling of guilt came about. The ease which he shifted the baby to not jostle him as he sat down, you had no doubt were he given the chance, Olly would’ve been a wonderful older brother.

Sighing out, his tone balanced between his proper attempts of formality and a pleading more of reason to explain himself away, even though you both were aware you did not need him to. “I only meant that your life was not less valuable then his, or anyone's.”

Eyes flickering downward, they were a tint of heavy as you once more attempted to push away the thoughts which derived from thinking too strongly back to that day, the pain and blood not something that you could so easily discuss. Perhaps that was how you truly knew now that something had gone terribly wrong. You feared even thinking back to it when every mother you had known could speak of their own with no pain in the memory. “It isn’t a situation which has never happened before. Life or death, choosing to save the mother or send her life away to safely birth her unborn child. The gods do not often give women in that sort of pain, the gift of both.” In the ensuing quiet, did you stumble across a ping in your mind which you would’ve hated to forget.

Hidden away down in the tightly wound laces of your waist, you pulled a folded piece of paper, reaching across the table to sit it down in front of Olly, as you explained. Peeking nearly unnoticeably at the door as you did so. “When you make your leave, I need one more thing of you. Find Dalaric for me and give him that, tell him I need it to be to those exact specifications.”

“Dalaric, you mean the-”

Cutting him off shortly, you affirmed such details. “Yes. As soon as you can and that I’ll need it brought to me specifically once it’s finished.” Olly did not look to what it was he was delivering but you knew the curiosity was there, regardless of how you knew he would not presume to look nor ask. For now, it was a small project you preferred to work on in the quiet.

A small noise coming from the baby caught both of your attention as it brought out the grin in Olly quickly again. Both of you standing up in knowing, “I think, your Grace, he’s had enough of me for one day.” Lifting him up easily, still wrapped even clothed in a soft blanket, you knew until he was grown to his full proper size, keeping him warm was more important then most newborns. Draping little Eddard across your front, cupping the back of his head as you leaned down to press a kiss gentle to the top of his head, an even smaller sound almost like a satisfied hum left the baby.

“He hasn’t spent much time around any sort of crowd. I imagine getting him used to so many new faces will take a bit of time.” Olly only jested in return that with how many faces would want to see the babies, he hoped that time was short. A chuckle came from you as you shifted the little one to lay more comfortably against you should he once more decide to retire to sleep. “You are not wrong there, Olly. I’m almost shocked there isn’t a line outside my door to meet him.”

As if on a cue, the guards outside announced the return of Maege and your mother, nodding down to the paper on the table. Hiding it away, Olly gave you and both women now behind him as he turned, a small bow before leaving the room to you three.

Almost right away you yearned for him to come back, recognizing the direction both their eyes drifted towards and the lack of satisfaction found in their proceeding gazes. “What is it? I can’t take my time eating at my own pace?”

Your mother was quick as she walked further into the room, placing whatever it was in her hands down onto the furs of the bed with a shortness of a lecturing tone you were all too familiar with. “At such a rate, if we relied solely on you eating at your own pace, you’d have starved to death nearly a year ago.” The flat fallen expression was not seen by her, but you and your mother knew she could feel it as she had for most of your attitude riddled life.

Maege attempted to offer to take him to free your hands, but both of the women’s stubbornness was increasing your own as you sat down with him still. “He’s resting, he wanted to be close. I can eat with one hand, you know?”

The sheer degree of stubborn, snark, and attitude when the three of you were in the room together was almost astronomical. Clearly, the two of them had spent much time together in your absence and their individual motherly natures have now focused in on you alone, much to your dismay. Maege at the least, sat down across from you with words less lecturing. “You may be under orders to rest, but we’re under orders to make sure you rest. I’m guessing the last thing you want is to add the King into this room of lecture you.”

Your mother turned slightly with a raised brow only to notice the held back amusement in both your faces as if having a form of staring competition until you broke. Continuing to work your way through the food, you mumbled as you swallowed it down. “One could be mistaken in thinking I’m the infant in need of watching, not him.” Gesturing handlessly down to the bundle before turning to look at your mother. “What is it you are even doing over there?”

Not bothering to turn to you, she continued to put together, what you could now see, fabrics in front of her. “I took the liberty to have some of your dresses made with alterations. If you decide you wish to keep feeding him yourself, you will have a far harder time in what you normally wear.”

Your brows narrowed at her phrasing, but let it pass by. It was still too early for a back and forth with your mother of all people, let alone whoever’s side Maege was going to take. Which could be either at that point. Though you had a keen instinct as to what was going to be coming your way, and you had little patience in you that morning to tackle it.

Though, that did not stop something from slipping out, much to Maege’s amusement. “If I am to be shackled to my bed for the time being, I’m not quite sure dresses for public wear will be needed.” Your mother turned sharply, returning back that it was not her orders, you turned away with a mutter which still managed to cut her off as you spoke down to the droopy eyed Eddard laying against you. “Tell me if I begin to sound this bossy with you before it becomes a habit, alright?”

Still you thought, you could get rest and wander about the inside of the castle. You were not quite sure what it was which was making Jon want you to be hidden away. Or from what he was doing. The darkness in your stomach grew at the instance the thought entered your mind, and you begged for it to go away. Only it didn’t, it festered there as you ate. Mocking you for what you weren’t. You had hoped this fog had passed, but it was as if you woke up that morning back in a full force. Whispering things you didn’t have the awareness yet to see through as lies. And so they ate away at your anxiety.

Perhaps you didn’t want to know what Jon was hiding from you.

If judging by the frustration on Theons face, Jon could tell this day was going to go as well as he anticipated. Closing the door behind with with an exasperated tone, “Next time someone wants me to bring him all the way here, I’m gagging him.” Jons eyes narrowed in question but it was the deep set sigh on Theon that gave it away. “Loves the sound of his own voice, asking dozens of questions trying to get inside my head.”

Jon however, felt as tense as he no doubt looked. “What was he asking?”

Circling more around the table to where Jon stood, Theon begun listing many off to the point Jon wondered if the mans head was about to implode. “Then he starts asking me about how she survived that night.” Jons brows narrowed suddenly, focusing back in on the conversation he asked who, and felt even more on edge when realizing it was you the man was asking about. “How she survived at the Twins, how did she get away.”

“What did you tell him?”

Shaking his head, Theon was less aggravated as the more quiet of the study eased. “I didn’t tell him anything. Last thing I want is for him to pry into what happened to her.” That at the minimum was something Jon could agree with. Though, the phantom sensation of knives plunging into his own chest was something he at this point was sure was a story heard by many.

Lord Connington knew because Lord Varys’s many spies had word get back to them no doubt. Petyr Baelish had spies too, and Jon could only wonder what he has heard. If he had a clue what sort of place he truly had walked into. The North was a harsh and unforgiving place with little mercy, and it’s people were raised to endure as much as the lands around them. Death had only increased such a resolve in Jon.

Asking where he was currently, Theon gave an answer which Jon did not like. Though by the time he approached there, once more he noticed his little sister was nowhere to be found. Jon knew Littlefinger had come inside the castle walls to talk to Sansa, but he did not like the feeling he was getting. Arya kept track of where she was, but since he arrived back, as long as Petyr Baelish was here, Sansa seemed to avoid Jon and he couldn’t help but consider why.

He had nowhere near the closeness with her as he did Arya, but she was his sister. Jon though, was a man. Which meant he knew the sorts of things which run through mens heads, and not for a second did he like the feeling of how close Littlefinger had gotten to her. Or at least, the kind of closeness a man his age had no right having around an eighteen year old girl. A girl he’s known since she was a child.

Jon knew what you had told him, and he had not a clue if Littlefinger knew what he knew. But as he approached, the only sounds around him were that of footsteps along the crackling fire. He hadn’t been down here since arriving back, but it couldn’t be about that right now. He had to focus on what was right in front of him.

And right in front of Jon was Petyr Baelish, standing in front of the burial statue of Ned Stark. His voice spoke out loud, the echo bouncing along the walls and down into the abyss beyond them with a deep toned authority and a lack of patience. “You don’t belong down here.”

Unperturbed by his abrasive approach, Littlefinger turned with a bow and a smile that made Jon want to force off of him with something strong enough to leave a mark in its place. “Your Grace.”

Jon though, did not waver as he repeated himself. Just as firm, and his voice still projecting in the crypts as if to warn the buried members of House Stark that a rat had invaded their peace. “I said you don’t belong down here.”

A small wave of his hands as if to make a gesture lacking of ill intent, but Jon knew that smile and that glint in his eyes. He had seen that look on men who looked down on him before. It was the sort of way that Lord Janos Slynt looked at him. Though, the man before him did not yet realize such irony. “I was merely paying my respects. I had ordered the delivery of his bones myself. I presented them to Lady Catelyn as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister during the war.”

Did Jon dare confront the issue starting now? Perhaps, he thought, if he came off abrasive at the start, he might come across as quick tempered but slow minded. For now Jon thought, that was fine. Let him think he was the smartest man in the room. “A war you sided against my family in.”

He almost looked amused, which made Jon angrier. He within seconds, was beginning to understand why his Uncle Brandon had so easily accepted a duel. It must have been satisfying. But Littlefinger merely stated a simple defence. “I already served the crown before the war, to act otherwise would be treason. I didn’t see the purpose in following your father to the grave. I’m a practical man.”

“But not a loyal one.”

The two facing one another, Littlefinger was as quick on an aggravatingly clever reply as you once had made him out to seem. “And who would you have me be loyal to? Your fathers corpse?” Jon said nothing, letting him speak for himself despite the rising anger to have the audacity to speak that way about his father in front of his own burial. “I was sorry when he died, truly I was.” Jon doubted that. “Your father and I had our differences, but he was a good man. Deserved a death better then what a boy like Joffery had given him.”

It was small, but Jon had spent years in the Nights Watch. Picking up small details in the eyes of men anytime a girl was mentioned always gave something away. “My sister, Sansa. She was there that day?”

There was no egregious change in his expression, but that was the detail wasn’t it? That glint in his eye at the story of a little girl watching her fathers beheading should have elicited something far more sympathetic then what he gave. “Joffery had his Kingsgaurd hold her back to watch. I’d even go as far to say he enjoyed her pleading for him to change his mind.”

Jon kept his words short. “And you didn’t?”

“Joffery was King. I’m not a fighter, only a man of business.” Letting him stand in the silence, Jons eyes merely narrowed but spoke nothing. Forcing Littlefinger to speak all of his own admissions. “I was on your fathers side. Robert named him protector of the realm and I begged him to seize the moment and take control before it was too late. And then it was. Pardon my surprise, but I would have presumed your bride would have told you these details.”

Blood running hot, a screaming as if needing to see you here and now as the memories of the last time a man would refer to you in such a specific term. But Jon could not tell if he knew, if he called you it on purpose. How much did this man know about you? Only saying as much to not allow him to presume to demean your position in any capacity, even alone. “She is my wife, my Lord. Not my bride.” Voice rough as it forced itself through the pain which accompanied the words all over again.

“My apologies. Your wife. How did such an arrangement come about? A man in the Nights Watch, yourself. And the realm had known her to be dead for well over a year.” Prodding his mind about you, just as he had tried with Theon. It was not the direction he was going to let this take, Jon was not about to drag your name into this after everything.

Instead, Jon without hesitation, shifted the discussion back to the previous. “I’ve heard lots of stories from her. About Kings Landing, about the war. About you.” Repeating only to clarify himself, Jon gave but a single nod. “A few, none of them good.”

He seemed unphased by much of this conversation, and it only made Jon grow angrier. “You may have heard false reports-” Jon cut in, a demanding ask if he was to call you a liar, but then did he backtrack. A wider eyed look as if realizing he had taken a step which would not go in his favour whatsoever. “Not a liar. Merely mistaken. She has been through much I presume, memories can become a bit unclear after suffering a great deal as she has, and it was so many years ago. Almost as if a lifetime ago.”

If he thought Jon didn’t know what this was, he was not nearly as smart as he thought. It was a lifetime ago, for you and Jon. But this was the last person he would open up to about it. “So you’re innocent. You didn’t betray her and my father, didn’t trick Lady Catelyn into betraying her and Robb?”

Lowering his head a little as if to present himself more agreeable. “A misunderstanding, your Grace. After all, if I had betrayed so much of your family, why would I have gone out of my way to bring Lady Sansa back home safe and sound?”

Not yet, Jon told himself. Don’t press him on that yet, he told himself. As little as Jon liked hearing his sisters name coming from such an unsettling voice. His person now looking to face his father once more, but what Theon said was right. This man talked far too much.

Continuing on as if they were now chummy. “She wasn’t very fond of you, was she? Lady Catelyn. A shame, since she seems to have vastly underestimated you. Your father and brothers are gone, and yet here you stand. King in the North.”

Jon however, let part of that tenseness within him snap. Jaw clenched as he turned somewhat back to peel his dark eyes into a glare. “Why are you still here?”

His answer only made Jons glare grow even more. “We have never spoken before. I’ve known much of your family, but not you. I wished to remedy that.” It was not quite a lie, it was dressed in true clothing but what lay hidden underneath was a vast cavern of question and demands and anger which begged to be let out, as Jon gritted through his teeth that he had nothing more to say to him. “Not even a thank you? Were it not for me, your sister would have been found guilty for Jofferys murder. I would have been bringing her remains here instead of her living person.”

Attempting to placate him, Littlefinger chose a path which unbeknownst to Jon, was all too familiar from so many years ago. Playing his hand at honesty and wit far too close to a bordering edge of a wolf with a hot blooded temper. “You have many enemies, your Grace. But I swear to you I am not one of them. I care deeply about Sansa. Just as I did her mother.”

Playing the wrong hand was one thing, but playing the hand confirming exactly what Jon had feared was really behind the mans intentions was another. The exact thing Jon knew was really going on, brought out into the light for him to see. Everything his little sister had been through, and it all led to her thinking this was the only man she could put her trust in, just the way Jon knew Littlefinger wanted.

Turning on him in an instant, before he had a single chance to grasp what was about to happen, did Jon let a hand grab at the front of the mans throat. Using his strength easily to slam him against the adjacent wall enough that Jon had to readjust his grip when Littlefingers head slammed into it roughly. But not nearly as rough as the ease in which Jon blocked any path of air to come from his lungs.

Useless at trying to pry the one hand Jon was all but strangling him with, the stutters of sound trying to crack out were as pathetic as a man like him was deep down. Only catching his eye properly did Jon loosen his grip. The roughness in voice all but a growl, as he now knew exactly what it was he really wanted. That Littlefinger had put the pieces in place to trick a thirteen year old girl into thinking he was the only one who had her well being in mind, and spent the next five years keeping her as close as he could to him.

So Jon was blatantly honest for the first time since meeting the man, and he knew it. “Touch my sister, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Shoving off from him by the hand at his throat Jon turned to leave, any second longer alone and he’d do something he would regret. Leaving Petyr Baelish behind leaning against the wall trying to regain air as he realized that Jon Snow wasn’t going to be a mark the way his father was. Ned Stark had done nearly the same, but with a condescension in his voice for hiding Catelyn away in a brothel.

“You’re a funny man, huh? A very funny man.”

But then it was the appearance of the woman in question poking her head out to grasp his attention, swiftly leaving Petyr behind to pull himself together. The way which the Stark had glared at him as Cat promised they could trust him, not unlike the very glare on the son here, himself. Or the one many years before when it was Brandon Stark overlooking him with a sword to his throat, before Cat had pleaded to spare his life. But there was one thing that Jon Snow was which Ned nor Brandon Stark were not, he realized.

The Starks he knew before were violent and quick tempered, but Petyr Baelish stood there glancing up to the stern statue of Ned Stark and thought to himself. Jon wasn’t violent and quick tempered alone, he was a truly dangerous man.

Nothing but Jon Snow’s own self control spared Petyr’s life.

If you were being perfectly honest, you knew that you should have been far more mature then this. But it was too late to take it back, and the agitation was so obvious on your person it was like water clean enough the fish could be seen swimming along under its surface. Only the fish here was an insecurity marred in a stubbornness that you couldn’t make go away.

You didn’t even have a clue Jon was anywhere nearby when it happened, considering hardly a few minutes of quiet had been found before he walked in. Holding your son up high in a soothing rocking up and down to lull him to sleep after it was all said and done, knowing you likely looked somewhat a mess when he walked in, you almost felt embarrassed for how not put together you looked in front of him.

Not put together was one way to phrase it, the darker pit in your gut called it what it was. How unattractive you looked was a far more honest description, the darkness hissed at your insides. Jon though, seemed to pretend for now as if he didn’t care when you knew he did. Gesturing to the hall as he closed the door with an amused glint in his eye. “Is there a reason the wet nurse came up to me upset saying you were shouting at her?”

A hesitation in your movements, wide eyes coming over before smothering it all by returning focus back to the still falling asleep one in your arms. Just a murmur with a pinch of knowing shame of how immature it had been. “Likely because I shouted at her” Jons ask of why as calm and simple, but now you could add erratic to the list of things making you so unappealing to him. “I don’t need her help, I can feed my son perfectly fine on my own.”

Sensing Jon walking closer, you willed yourself not to tense up at the gentle hand smoothing out the more messy strands of hair down your back. His rasp was warm and amused as it was affectionate but it was all an act, it had to be. “She’s also here to help you, you know? Take care of you while you’re recovering.”

Biting your tongue, you looked down to the slumbering Eddard with a softness on your voice not often heard towards adults that day. “She was insistent they could feed him while I slept. I didn’t want that, I’d rather get little sleep and feed him myself then hand him over to someone who doesn’t know him.”

It was very difficult to figure out what Jons tone was, you felt as if the fog from days ago on the journey to the Wall had returned today and in front of Jon it was stronger then ever. His gentle mutterings followed with one hand holding you at your hip, as the other smoothed up and down your upper arm as he pressed himself somewhat behind you. “Alright, no more wet nurses.”

Nodding a small bit, you still hadn’t looked at him. But did you want to ask yourself why? No. So you spoke while still not looking away from his son. “We got him this far together, as long as he has us, that’s all he needs.”

Your heart begun to race the second the thought came to you. Did that sound as if you were trying to beg Jon to be here? Begging him to play a role he didn’t want? Forcing him into something against his will, but when you glanced up at him, you almost talked yourself out of it. Hair still up, everything he wore in place, weapons all still attached, looked not like he had not done anything your fogging mind was scared of. But in truth, he had been busy all day. Jon had plenty of time to get himself back together.

And you couldn’t even grant him the sight of a pretty, calm wife at the end of his first day back in Winterfell. Pulling you comfortably into his front, Jon playfully nudged the side of your head before pressing his lips to mutter in the same spot. “We all need each other.”

He was playing along. He didn’t need you. He needed you to raise his son. Not that you blamed nor judged him. It was your fault you had let yourself look and act so pathetic, not Jons for disliking that about you now.

Pressing a kiss now to below your ear, he rasped in a way you had suddenly wondered if any other had got to experience today. All you could hear were the things Cersei had told you to the point it took you a moment to register Jon had even said anything. “Did you want to come down to eat, or do you want me to bring you something so we can eat together up here?”

Neither, you wanted him to do what he wanted not placate your pathetic needs. So you lied. “Olly brought me something earlier, you go eat. I’m fine here.” Jon asked if you were sure, but you bit your tongue so hard you almost flinched as you nodded. An unpleasant warmth behind your face and stinging eyes, Jon tried to tilt you with finger gently under your chin likely for a kiss. So he still wanted that. You had something. Cupping the back of your head caressingly, Jon captured your lips in a deep yet still somehow chaste kiss. Pulling away only so much you felt his lips and breath warm on yours with every word. “How about I bring something up here that you can pick it, at least? So we can eat together.”

You had not a clue the degree to which Jon was picking up the very insecure manner which you were trying to shove him out the door. “It’s fine, Jon. Other people want to spend time with you too.”

But you didn’t look at him, and with one more kiss and a tender murmur that he loves you, Jon left the room. Leaving only the crackling fire behind, and a hunger in you which had not eaten since that morning. He didn’t need to have people see you at this side looking and behaving this way. And Jon was too nice to tell you, he was grateful you weren’t forcing him to. Eddard would be long asleep and gone to the world by the time Jon would return tonight.

Hopefully it would give you enough time to get ready. At least try to appear like a girl he still wants.

The advantage Arya had at this stage in her life, was that she still was far more quiet then most gave her credit for. At least in terms of sneaking up upon someone, as she was now. Hiding away on one of the more remote landings above the courtyard, the blacks and greys adorning her person were nothing like Arya had seen Sansa dress in before. It looked as if she wished to be perceived as intimidating, as was the scowl which sat upon her face more often then not these days.

The entire look reminded her too well the way Littlefinger did, and was dressing. One influencing the other, and even the style which she recognized her sisters hair in was much like ones she had seen time and time again on Cersei during their stay in Kings Landing. Nowhere even on her did see even a hint of anything even remotely looking like the Stark sigil, not even the fur around her shoulders was right. She could tell in an instant it wasn’t one made here, but whatever they would’ve used in the Vale.

Arya hadn’t recognized Sansa the last time either. By the end she dressed and wore her hair like every other proper southern girl in the capitol and not a hint of it reminded Arya of home. But even now, still as they both stood there, it still didn’t feel as if she came home. It felt like a stranger had walked in wearing Sansa’s skin. The thought would’ve felt amusingly ironic to Arya had she not been too distracted in the contrast.

For years, Arya felt like the one who did not fit in. The years Sansa would call her ugly, saying she was so hideous only Hodor would marry her. The manner in which she and her friends would look down at her and call her Arya Horseface as long as no one else was around. Arya never felt like she looked as beautiful as her mother was, as Sansa was and the later always was sure to remind her of that. Arya felt as if she never fit in, but yet, this time Sansa was the one standing out in the wrong way.

She looked out of place everywhere she went and made few attempts to reconnect or introduce herself to most of the people here. But things were not last time, Arya did not approach her sister in silence hoping to demean her or insult her, there was no use in that anymore. They did that as children. But she would not hold her feelings back, no matter how aggressive she knew she was to come off as.

“You haven’t spoken to either of them, have you?”

With almost a gasp, Sansa spun around in a startle. Looking down to Arya with wide eyes turning narrow, “What are you doing here?” Only a flat expression on her face she simply replied rather obviously that she lived here too. Sansa’s eyes dropped from their wider stance to something more annoyed right away. “I meant what are you doing sneaking up on me?”

Only a shrug came to her as Arya approached. Standing beside her sister resting her forearms along the wooden railing before finding her voice, still as jesting as it was knowingly a tone which annoyed Sansa every time. “It isn’t my fault you’re oblivious to what’s around you.” Whatever glare was sent her way, went unacknowledged for a moment. Giving her the chance to respond on her own, but the sounds of distant talking and yelling were all down below not between the two of them for a good minute.

By the time she found her words, Sansa had already started to put up excuses as if Arya had not learned to see right through them. “They only just got back, I’m waiting for them to settle in first.”

Quick though, she didn’t let that one stand. “You haven’t seen them, either of them for years.” Your name slipping from her mouth in a rising frustration. “We all spent what? A year? Two? Thinking she was still dead. You haven’t spoken to Jon since before we left for Kings Landing and after everything you refuse to go see them. Why?” Sansa tried to implore that she had just said why but Arya took none of it. “Are you too afraid to face them or do you just not care?”

That it so happened, set off something within Sansa’s own anger. Turning to her with an edge behind her raising tone. “Of course I care, Arya. Do you think I was happy thinking everyone else was dead?”

Facing her as well, even the height Sansa had grown since she last saw her, Arya was nowhere near that but did not let it intimidate her. “I don’t know what you think, you haven’t said anything to any of us about it. Any of it. You haven’t told anybody anything about you. Ask what happened to us.” The next word came from her mouth with a thick layer of spite to coat them in. “Or is Littlefinger the only one you trust now?”

“Don’t call him that-”

Twisting her expression into a disbelief, Arya almost felt herself scoff. “That’s what you got out of everything I just said. That I called him a nickname you don’t like. Instead of explaining at all why you trust a man who betrayed father, who betrayed all of us, more then once.” Her voice was raising, and knew Sansa’s too would raise with it.

“He helped us, he helped me escape Kings Landing. Whatever you think he did, it was because he had to, did things to survive to help me survive.” Jon had only been able to speculate a truth, but Arya then heard the truth that put something in her on edge. “Without him, the Lannisters would have found me guilty for murder.”

The question came out of nowhere. “Did you?” Sansa’s head jolted back a bit at the sudden change, Aryas eyes narrow but penetrating in an unnerving manner. “Did you kill Joffery?”

Yet Sansa’s answer was not what she was expecting. “Do you think I did?” Arya at first, said nothing. The girl she once knew was a firm no. That Sansa was not a killer, but she did not yet know about this one, and when this version possibly became someone capable of it. Sansa though, had inadvertently found the root of something Arya had long dug deep inside of her. “Could you have done it, if you had the chance. Would you kill Joffery?”

Arya however, for a brief moment, did not see the stranger wearing her sisters name. Nor the sister who bullied her for their entire childhoods. She only saw the sister who at some point as young girls, still felt like her sister. The one who when very small, would clamber to your side because back then Sansa so strongly adored you. The one who would remain attached to you all day long if she could. Back in the years sometimes you three could all feel like sisters together. For even just that moment, thats who Arya felt as if she was speaking too, and she was honest the way she would’ve been then. “I wanted to. Ever since that day at the Sept of Baelor, I wanted to kill him. Everyday I thought about it. Killing him, Cersei, Illyn Payne. I’d say their names before I went to sleep. Like I wouldn’t be able too until I did. He murdered father and got away with it, and I wanted to make sure father got justice, to get justice for what they all did to our family.”

With no way of knowing, Arya had not a clue that Sansa stood there in silence, remembering her own want to do just that. How close she came to be willing to throw her life away, to just push Joffery from the ledge of the walls and watch him plunge to his death the day he forced her to look at her fathers head. She knew that feeling too well, and how the only thing which brought her out of that moment was the sudden snatching from Sandor Clegane, stopping her from doing something stupid for her own sake, then covering up for what she was about to do.

Before her, Arya continued, and she was sure she hadn’t spoken any of it out loud before. And yet here she was for the first time, saying it to Sansa of all people. “When I heard Joffery was dead, part of me was annoyed. Every night for years I spent saying his name because I needed to give our family some kind of justice for what he did to us, and that was taken away. But really, it didn’t matter anymore by then. Because it still wouldn’t have changed that I thought everyone was gone.”

She refused to go back to that night, the sights, the horrors, the blood and the nightmare which outside of the tears falling as Arya and you hugged, she refused to recall. Arya stood there knowing the feeling, and did not allow the sights and sounds come with it. “I wanted it to make me happy that he was dead finally. But I just felt...empty.” Your name once again coming out without noticing the strange doubt in Sansa’s gaze toward it. “She was dead, Robb’s still dead. Joffery had finally died, but they were too. What did it matter?” Looking back up with something as held back as it was genuine in a distant pain she told Sansa, “Maybe once I could’ve killed Joffery. But by the time he died, what was the point in getting justice for a family I’d never see again.”

Something was brewing in the gaze behind her older sisters eyes, but Arya could not so easily detect it outright. It was hard to read on someone she barley knew anymore. A confused distance at within her voice as much as it was hesitant in her eyes. “Why do you keep saying she died?” Aryas brows narrowed in question, and Sansa clarified further she meant you. “You keep saying she was dead, but she’s not dead. The Lannisters lied about that. Why do people keep saying that she was dead?” Her voice dropped into something she was clearly even more confused about, which Arya realized she knew she did not have the answer to. “Why do I keep hearing people talk about her as if she brought Jon back from the dead?”

Arya still could see at least once. The sight of your corpse so bloodied, and mutilated that it was not only you which was drenched in your blood, but those who mindlessly tossed your body to lock it away and do what Arya feared she would not wish to know too. The unsettled manner in which neither you nor Jon wanted to talk about his death or how he came back. Not in a way as if he could not back up such claims as they were lies, but a memory he dared not look back on because it was still too fresh.

Arya had known you were dead, and had confirmation from more then one source that Jon had been too. Everything she learned in Bravvos, but none answered that question. She did not understand it when Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr spoke of it to her, and she still did not understand it when watching in a gut wrenching horror, the sight of what became of her mothers corpse walking with an angry vengeful spirit within it.

All this knowledge, and Arya did not understand a single bit about it. But she was still honest in the only true way she could say. “Because they were dead. Both of them. They were both stabbed to death, and now they’re not.” Sansa it sounded as if she did not believe it, but not in such an accusatory way of calling her a liar. It was more as if Aryas genuinity made the lack of beleivability of the claim come off as eerie to her, only asking how that would be possible. “I don’t know.”

Sansa had yet to really have a reaction, almost as if her mind did not know how to react as opposed to keeping such a feeling only internal in front of Arya. “Then how do you know that’s true?”

But Arya only looked at her. She should have realized what so many of them did by now. Something about them was different, it was why she could accept such a thing like what she saw from Beric Dondarrion. It was in Arya, it was in Jon, it was in Bran. They all knew it, but why would Sansa not realize the world was not what she once thought? If was as if her sister still walked the world not knowing that something in their blood was making them different, was allowing them to do things no one else seemed to be able too. Still she thought, Sansa deserved some explanation.

So she told her. She had not a clue how you returned to life, but that she did know without a doubt, that you were the one who brought Jon back. “I don’t know how she did it, or if she even knows how, but she did. And I know that they both died to get to where they are, but you haven’t even spoken to them once. Why? Beacuse you can’t see passed that you think Jon stole your crown.”

A defence begun to come up in Sansa, a mixture of anger and half exasperation. Arya could not tell if it was what she solely thought, or if it was simply an excuse for her confusion. “Jon was in the Nights Watch, he couldn’t inherit anything even if he wasn’t a bastard.”

Arya felt no need to yell anymore, just something in her expression twisting in almost a disapproval as well as her tone. “You still don’t get it, do you? You still can’t see passed that about him, as if it matters, as if Robb didn’t leave the North to Jon because he was his brother. Jon’s your brother too, but you still can’t just treat him like it.”

Whatever words Sansa tried to speak, Arya did not allow them to come into the air. “If you cared about Jon, you would’ve gone to see him already. It’s been five years Sansa. He wanted you to come home as much as I did, and ever since you got here, you’ve let a man who betrayed our family into our walls, and ignored the only Starks who are left.”

Her own voice dropped as well, neither sister quite knowing where the other stood, or even what they felt within themselves. “It’s more complicated then that Arya.”

Shaking her head, Arya was quiet. “It really isn’t. But you’ve let Petyr Baelish of all people convince you otherwise and you come home trusting him more then your own family.” Arya could still hear her fathers voice that day in her chambers, pulling her close to his side with his comforting voice saying what he knew she needed to hear, hoping if she said it now, it would be the same for Sansa. “We’re Starks of Winterfell. In the winter, we look after each other. Protect each other. But all you’ve proven since coming back is you don’t want to really be part of this. All you came here caring about was getting a crown, and now that you learned it doesn’t belong to you, you’ve avoided all of us like you aren’t still one of us.”

A held back weight notably sat in Sansa’s throat as she tried to let her words out without interruption of her own doing. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

Arya though, only told her the same truth as before. “And you have no idea what any of us have been through. Because you really still haven’t come home, have you?”

Words not spoken between them for a moment, Sansa had found the discussion to circle back around to one of her first questions before the shouting match between them. “You never answered me, do you think I killed Joffery?” Arya that time, did not hesitate to say no. And neither sister could tell if that made them feel better or worse. Almost walking away, Arya held back whatever she was going to say which would only reignite the anger between them.

Instead she turned half around to meet Sansa’s eyes again. “I wanted you to come home because your my sister. I just wish you would try and remember that for once.”

Swiftly did Arya make her way indoors to the warmth, but leaving behind the watchful gaze of her sister with a confusion still in her mind and heart. Turning to the courtyard as she had been watching out on before, did Sansa see Petyr in the distance. But with everything he had said to her that morning, the only thing Sansa could convince herself to do in that moment instead of what he said, was to follow in Aryas footsteps.

Walking off without acknowledging him any further.

In truth, the contrast of conversations was almost amusing were Jon aware of the discussion previously held been Arya and Sansa. The seriousness between them then, and yet as Jon walked beside his sister now did he find her much more energetic and enthusiastic attitude mixed with an annoyed bit of a whine familiar as if no time had passed. “I didn’t say I want to get in the way, I just want to know when I’ll be allowed to see her and the baby.”

Running a hand over his mouth, Jon felt as amused at her as he did unsure of what he should say. He didn’t want you to feel ambushed by people, not now of all times. He knew the next morning you and the baby were going to see Maester Wolkan, and Jon had begun to think he might push certain things back to the late morning to accompany you. Hear and see with his own eyes if you two were where you needed to be physically, and stay behind after you leave. A few questions of his own before it got out of hand, but he couldn’t tell Arya all of that.

In a hesitant manner he hoped his baby sister did not pick up on, Jon kept it simple. “If everything is alright in the morning, then tomorrow probably.” He could see from the side of his vision, Arya looking at him confused, asking what he means by that exactly, but Jon only muttered an honesty which he did not know how to elaborate on. “I’m not sure.”

Regardless, he parted ways and swiftly made a path towards his chambers. Hoping that he could easily persuade Maege and Selyse to leave politely. The evening was long without you, and Jon wanted to see little Eddard off to bed before finally being able to just spend time with you the way he needed.

Telling the guards that unless it was a dire issue, not to disturb he and you until morning as he stepped into his chambers. The sight though, was not the one he thought he’d be faced with.

“How long has he been down for?”

Head rising up from where you had gently been watching the baby as he finally slept soundly, you felt your nerves pick up. It thus far had been the longest amount of time you and Jon had gone not having one another in any capacity since Dragonstone, and it almost could be mistaken that you were brand new at this all over again. Murmuring quietly as you kept your eyes glancing down to your slumbering son one more time, “Not long, but he should be asleep for some good hours.”

Hearing him walk into the room, you willed yourself to turn around. The long, silk like robe draping along the floor gave not much away that you had a short, dark shift on underneath and nothing more. It would not be much, but it was the best you could do. Long before Jon was to come back did you spend attempting to put yourself together. Look the opposite of the more chaotic state you had been in prior, so he could enjoy the sight this time.

Or more truthfully, bracing yourself for what pain might you need to hide when you finally gave Jon what he actually wanted. You weren’t healed enough to be ready without physical pain, but you wanted to convince him you still were of worth, so you’d let him take you, and hide the pain for his sake.

Jons warmth engulfed your back as he wrapped an arm around your front to gently tug you close, head dropping to look over your shoulder as he rasped in your ear. “What’s this?” His free hand gently tugging at the robe while his deep, low tones sent familiar shivers down your spine. Muttering just as quiet but in a much more jesting tone you flatly told him it was a robe. The chuckle along with his breath dancing hot across your skin made those shivering feelings for once, almost feel as if they were overtaking the nerves. “I meant I’ve never seen this before, it’s fancier then what I’m used to.”

Your eyes flickering to the side as the question slipped out a bit breathless in nature. “Is that a bad thing?”

Instead, Jon chuckled again. Smoothing that free hand up and down your waist leaning down to seek past your hair and press a kiss to your neck. “Not at all. You look beautiful.” At least it worked, you thought. Only Jon couldn’t help himself, pressing another light kiss then another all to the sensitive spots along your neck. “But it’s like you said, darling. There’s nothing you could do to make me not think that every time I see you.”

The huff almost like a laugh which left you elicited a smirk from him as you somewhat leaned your head back to rest against his. “You already have me, you know. You don’t need to try and flatter me into things.” Jon pulled back a little, likely to get a better look at you as your hands gently rested along his forearm at your front. Asking a bit confused of flattering you into what, you bit your tongue for a brief second before guiding him into a safe version of your answer. “Whatever you want.”

For a moment, his tone husked rougher and deeper just the slightest. “And what do you think I want?”

You knew you could’ve answered, but Jon also didn’t like outright forward and pushy, at least not on you. Choosing instead to turn suddenly in his grasp, you barley gave him the chance to look you over as you kept close to his front. Hands reaching up to begin undoing everything, as he accepted your silence for now. You always were quiet with him doing this, starting with the belt keeping Longclaw strapped to his side, and walking away enough to place it carefully along his desk.

Moving slowly onto everything else, you realized in a moment of clarity in your mind how much you missed doing this. It had been months since you both could stand in his chambers and take your time undoing the heavy layers on him from the day. One step then the next, everything coming off always dutifully put to the side for him until only his much more soft final layers remained. The trace sensation of a hand possibly running through strands of your hair was mostly lost as you continued with his boots until only articles of clothing remained on him as yourself.

The moment you moved to stand upright, Jon gently leaned down to guide you up to your feet. A hand on your waist and the other reaching up to let his thumb rub back and forth along your neck and jaw, his forehead pressing gentle against yours as you let yours rest on the final layer on his torso. Reaching up behind him did you without needing to even look, free his dark curls. His breathing growing a tad harsher as you ran your fingers through to tame them from the days tension before returning to his chest. Almost so slowly part of you wondered had he even noticed, did your hands drop to the laces down the middle of his shirt.

Only the tightening of his hand on your waist indicated he knew what you were doing at first. Half way down did you feel him inhale deeply before moving. Not enough to interrupt your work, but his head leaned down again into your neck, leaving much more noticeable kisses against the sensitive skin. Brushing your hair out of his way before both hands slid down to hold at your hips.

It was a feeling rushing alive through your veins as if for that moment did the fog fade further and further away from your mind. Eyes fluttering but refusing to stop before you undid the laces. Palms sliding across his chest, the scars littered about you had memorized long since exactly where they were and what they looked like in detail. Tracing a small few you could reach before gently beginning to push off the material, prompting Jon to free his hands so you could get the rest of it off.

Instead though, of allowing you to turn to put it down, Jon tugged you back to his front. Keeping his lips pressing lingering kisses to your neck, only using one hand to grab the shirt from you and toss it wherever it could have landed. Rising his head up, Jon barley met your eyes for even half of a second before slinking a hand up again to grasp one side of your jaw to tilt you up. Only a glimpse of his dark eyes before yours flew closed as he captured your lips.

Slow moving his kiss was, but long lasting and deep to the point he tilted you up more to his angle, stepping closer to match it so he held much more of the power in urgency. Soft and guiding, your hands smoothing along his torso much more freely, up to his shoulders before moving back down. It felt familiar, the scars, they felt like something you could always focus on.

Refusing to let you leave his lips, Jon licked your bottom lip and wasted not a second in gliding his tongue to brush yours as soon as you parted your lips for him. The hand on your hip wrapped around to your back, pulling you closer into his front as Jon kept you where he needed to kiss you. Tasting inside of your mouth as it slow but still somehow something which made the air feel raw between you both.

Jon would pull back, but never enough to disconnect the kiss before chasing the taste of you once more and guiding you to follow him and explore him back. Thumb running what it could reach along your cheek, your hands finally dropped lower and lower. Even slower then before. You hoped Jon was distracted enough that he hadn’t noticed. Loosening the laces of his breeches, you had leaned up more to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, Jon eagerly meeting your lips with something even more needing and rough.

It was as at the same time, you pushed passed the increasing beating of your heart to slide your other down under the fabric did you feel Jons brows furrow before pulling away from your lips. First snatching your wrist tightly, yanking you just enough that your fingertips danced across his lower hips. Brows narrow with something more you could describe as angry or disapproving did he tilt his head at you a bit. Your breathing begging to catch up with the air stolen from your lungs, eyes wide meeting his so dark and grey, you could’ve let him speak first. But you played your hand a bit too out of character, Jon knew you didn’t normally play dumb. “Is something wrong?”

Expression twisting into confusion now, you swallowed down a weight of nerves telling yourself not the time, not now you had to stay on track. Jon rasped out as the disapproval was strong within his tone as well as the lecturing to follow. “You know we can’t-” Your attempt of an innocent ask of you both can’t what, did his eyes narrow more. “I can’t take you to bed like this, you’re still recovering.”

Excuse you thought to yourself, you spent time coming up with an excuse, so say it. “Maester Wolkan said I’m mostly healed in that way, it just might some discomfort for me at first-” You cut yourself off that time. Jons head jolted back at bit, no doubt as his eyes trailed what he could of your figure from here, attempting to figure out what you were doing. Tune dropping to more of a whisper, nearly in a defence as the nerves returned now dripped into a lake of embarrassment. “Only at first..”

Jon was short and to the point as his disapproval did not make him grow angry but also did not allow you to move in any capacity. “Did he tell you you’re completely healed?” Shaking your head no, he pressed again. “Did he say it would be safe for you to let me take you like that?” Another shake of your head no, dropping from his gaze more that time. “Then we’re not doing this.”

In truth, Jon had swiftly let go of your hand to drop at your side and from your cheek with the intention to both grab your hips, but all you felt in that moment was a lurch in your heart. The sudden throwing you away from where he touched you felt as if he was trying to cast you back from his personal space, not at all understanding why when you took a bigger apprehensive step back did he look at you with such wide and bright eyes doused in more confusion.

This already went a lot worse then you had planned. “I didn’t mean to presume-” Cutting yourself off once more to exhale, eyes fluttering closed to regain your breath and heart for if only a second before attempting such words in a different fashion. “We don’t have to do that, I wasn’t attempting to pressure for it.” The longer he watched you in the quiet, the more the foot between you both grew within your mind as many feet into miles away. The lack of any words spurning on the nerves to fill the air with even more rambling excuses. “It’s been so long since we’ve been together, and -”

Not anger again, but he spoke each word slow and with careful purpose as if trying to convey a point to your irrational mind. “That’s because you gave birth to our son. You’ve only just stopped bleeding.”

Was it guilt? Shame? Embarrassment? Or all three blended into a poisonous well of violence telling you that if you did not have one use then to provide another. You knew it would hurt, that it was still too soon, but you were willing to not care in order to give him that. But Ramsay had taught you one lesson you still remembered, if not one way, you had use for men in another.

Eyes softening as you looked at him, returning back to his presence you sighed out. Fingertips running more innocently along his chest as the painting in your eyes matched. Voice gentle and sincere not wanting the night to end like this. “There are other things we can do, that I can do.” Looking at you in thought for only a second before Jons expression morphed into a doubt, your name muttered low as you continued to now rest your palms higher up along his shoulders, his hands instinctively returning to your waist. “We’ve never gone this long without...something...and you still have two ways you can take me.”

Hands again tightening on your waist, his now black eyes boring into yours as dark as his voice. “I never wanted to do that as an alternative-”

But his chest moved more as his breathing grew heavier, the more your fingertips danced upward to toy with his curls as you kept the opposite end in your person. “There’s still another thing I can do. It’s like you said, we can’t do the things you normally like,” Jon attempted to interject that he never said that but you continued on knowing he wasn’t sure if you interrupted him on purpose or not. “But there are some, and you deserve to feel good.”

That was unfair, trying to be soft with him. An innocence that he could not hide worked him up, the twitch of his cock between you such a symbol. “You deserve to feel good too.”

If Jon thought something about the way you dismissed it so easily, he kept it to himself for now. “What will make me feel good, is giving you something you deserve. For everything you’ve done.” An even rougher tone as your left hand drifted downward along his torso again, asking specifically what. “For being the one to bring our son into the world,”

“I think you had something to do with that more then me.”

Again you kept your lightness in voice knowing he might not be sure if you kept meaning to not acknowledge such small comments. “For keeping him safe, for coming to protect me, for getting us all home safely. Trust in me, Jon. There is plenty you deserve to be thanked for.”

Eyes fluttering shut, Jon blindly pulled you closer with a few fingers under your chin. Capturing your lips with his only for such a cruelly short time before nudging your nose with his, muttering low. “This is what you want, right?” You didn’t answer at first, thinking the obvious answer of silence was yes but you truly should’ve known Jon better then that. “Answer the question, darling. Is this what you really want?”

The nod you gave was certainly not enough. Jon pulling back enough to narrow his eyes at yours, your shoulders deflating a bit. “I want this, Jon. I promise.” The warmth of his body so comforting and yet overwhelming so close, you felt lulled into a calm where the truth was far easier to understand within your head.

Turning you so your back faced then bed, as you went to sit Jon tilted his head with a knowing look to listen to him properly. Letting him slide the silky robe to pool at your feet, drifting hands toying with the edge of the dark shift with a raised brow. The very moment you moved to slide the thin straps down your arms though, Jon took over such a task for himself. Letting it too fall before kicking it all off to the side, staring down now with eyes dark as a black night sky. The rasp so low it almost husked like a growl as his hands toyed down your arms to your hips. “Seven hells. How am I supposed to get anything done knowing you look like this?”

Another rough swallow unsure what to say, part of you, unsure if he meant it no matter how much the clearer part of your head shoved that darkness back down. “You’re King, you can make me do whatever you want.” Not said in any sultry nor seductive manner but it made Jons cock throb more that way. Finally meeting his eyes you sat down gently, one of his hands running along your hair, fingers raking through the strands before finding a for now, gentle hold at the back of your head.

Steady as you had been all day were your hands as Jon allowed you to finish what caused the debate in the first place. Slowly pulling his pants down and off his legs, you felt now two hands properly gathering your hair in an easy hold. Your hands sliding up to rest at his hips, eyes wide looking up to him without looking as if you wanted to stare at his thick length. Dark eyes with such a tenseness in the remainder of his face as he caught you off guard. His tone as desperate as his cock was but the words not what you thought. “You said whatever I want, does that mean I can command you to keep your hair this long?”

It did not occur to you, despite how much it stood out to Jon, you smiled brightly for the first time since he had gotten you back. “Only if you don’t also force me to wear it in those ridiculous southern styles.” Jon nearly grinned himself, assuring you that would never happen. “Then whatever you want, I promise.”

Only a fortnight and already you had forgotten. Lips parting with your wider eyes once more taking in his size, his thick cock hard and begging for you to take care of it. The nerves this time flowing faster and faster the more you considered the girth of his cock, heart asking to race along with the nerves inside you. Taking him into your hand, a shaking exhale left you not quite quiet enough for Jon to not catch it. Your hand couldn’t wrap around him properly, but that was fine, that wasn’t the act he wanted.

Only guiding enough for you to lean towards his cock, eyes fluttering shut as you pressed a gentle kiss to his length, and another, and another. Only small and fleeting presses of your lips but you trailed them up his length and down then back again until the faint trace of saliva had begun to coat him, making your touch against him a little smoother, but just as light. The second your kiss had left it’s mark against his tip did Jon give out a hiss the same instance his hand in your hair already tightened.

Slowly, you refused the idea of skipping right to things. Another kiss with a small brush of your tongue and again, his hand tightened in your hair, muscles under the hand still at his side tensing. The small coating of seed already finding it’s way onto your tongue as you licked at his tip in small motions with your lips always to follow.

Your hand finally leaving him to grab at his side once more, Jon tensed heavily at that sensation alone, yet nothing compared to his strength grasping tightly as you took him into your mouth. Barley moving passed still his tip, such a sensitive spot should your eyes have opened, would’ve seen it was making his free hand clench and unclench over and over trying to give you the room to go at your own pace.

The stretch you had forgotten, the feeling of your jaw taking something of such size had trickled in a phantom ache. Tongue slowly moving along what you could reach but hardly moved yet, allowing the saliva to build before easing more of him into your mouth, only another inch and you could hear his rough exhale.

Inch by inch did you let his cock further into your mouth, only reaching halfway when you felt that feeling arise. Heart beating faster but you would refuse it access, you promised it was about him. Easing your way back only to once more take half of his cock, and a pace most men would call insufferable was what he still allowed you to go at. Mouth taking him half down your throat, a hum adding to the feeling as you moved up and down his cock with something still at ease.

But you were not yet done, you still had much to go, much to take, and he deserved a wife who could take all of him no matter what. Another inch further, the lurch in your heart returned but it did not overpower the feeling of such a thick length already so deep. Only the tip left before taking him all the way down just before last few inches remaining as you sucked his cock. Small growling sounds deep within Jons chest were let out but never did he say much.

Not with this he ever did, but the hand in your hair was tight. Very tight. And you knew he needed more, you took it slow. The pace meant to ease you into taking his size but also to flow the racing of your heart, the panic building of something being so deep despite how little you wanted to disappoint him now. Still, you knew you could take him, but you were gentle and too much fighting such an internal feeling to do it yourself. You thought little of the manner which the thought arose in phrasing or what it could mean behind the fog as it grew more again.

You needed Jon to just force you to do what he wanted.

Blindly did you grab at his free hand. Uncurling his tensed fingertips into an ease as you pulled him back behind you, allowing him to curl it around the back of your neck under where his hold on your hair was. Jon gritted out your name in warning, but you squeezed his hand and Jon could read you better then you could’ve hoped as you let yours return to his hips. His voice but a rough husk full of such a strong desire, such a thick northern accent already now as thick as his cock. “Darling, please. I don’t want to force you-”

But you nearly whined around his length, and the following swearing curses from his mouth had spoken to how desperate you were for it. Once more, it hadn’t yet dawned on you what specifically Jon could truly pick up on, but your mouth so warm and wet around him he was weak to your gentle asks. It wouldn’t be until much later would Jon realize what it was he picked up on exactly.

“If I get too rough,” Another whine vibrated around his cock and pulled a grunt from him at the sensation. Don’t finish that sentence you could beg him, be rough. Be too rough. Ignore the blood flowing fast in your veins warning of a panic following and be rough with you, you wanted.

Grasping your hair in a firm hold, Jon pulled you almost all the way off his length before sinking you right back down, only this time he pushed you passed where you stopped. The second you could feel the coarse hair around the base of is cock though, did Jon pull you off almost all the way again. Over and over he dragged you down his cock but each time he fed more of his cock to you did he go faster. Not a shred of air to be had in mercy as he bobbed your head up and down his length with such an ease behind his grip in your hair did the hand behind your neck slide somewhat. Resting more along the side closer to the front of your throat his hand moved, and tight in grip still.

That time, your head stayed in place, it was Jon who thrusted his cock as deep into your mouth as he could go, which was every thick, agonizingly long inch. Fingernails tensing into where they dropped by his thighs as if to hold on for him, and a muffled sound of need barley making its way to Jons ears. He pulled you on and off his cock quickly, but now that he moved inside of you as if a toy for his making, he was less kind.

The hand in your hair cupped the back of your head, forcing you forward to meet his cock as it slid down your throat. Soaking him as he stretched your mouth but the growling sounds of need now erupting from Jon told you he needed this. He needed to treat you roughly. Cries leaving you as did the tears fall behind your eyes still closed, the feeling washing over you of a mixture.

A warmth which you felt low in your blood but refusing to travel to where you once wanted it. But the other part didn’t want it to. Jon was rough, rougher then you think he noticed as he all but was using your mouth as a toy for his pleasure. As if you only existed here and now to feed his cock into when he needed. Moans or cries, need or panic it felt hard to differentiate if you didn’t want to stop or if you liked it. Either way, the darkness took over instead to whisper that he’d hate you if you made him stop now.

“Fuck, how were you born so perfect to take me?” He thrusted down your throat as he also begun to move you to follow his path, offering him pure obedience every single inch he shoved into your mouth. “You were born for this, for me- born to take all of me..” If that was a nod, you gave whatever little of it you had.

Feeling his cock throb hot inside your mouth, you refused to let it happen now. He needed your mouth this deep, this rough, this mean and you did what you could. Sucking his thick length in the small moments of control you could offer to his cock even more. Your jaw hurt, your lungs burned as did a racing in your heart and blood speak another story that you told to be quiet despite something in your heart telling you to stop, and stop now.

Rambling lost as Jons head fall backwards as he just pulled you down, your nose pressing against the coarse hair and Jon would barley pull out of you before shoving you back down over and over. “Can you take all of me?” You could barley understand him, his voice a slurring husk with his accent so thick you couldn’t really comprehend his words over the sound of blood racing in your own head.

Forcing you back down, Jon this time held you there so deep in your throat he nearly let the hand on your neck tighten. “Yes or no, will you let me spill down your throat?” No, don’t ask. Don’t give you the option, you wanted him to force you to take whatever he fed you.

Only an indiscernible nod he caught before his head dropped. Eyes dark and wide as his lips parted watching you barley able to move as he thrusted so shallow deep in your warm mouth. He spoke, he said words, but none which registered.

Jons cock throbbed until he moved your head roughly all the way down, holding you there at the back of your head as a mighty growl of your name left him like a true animal. The hand at the side of your neck however, moved to your throat in anticipation.

His seed spilled deep down your throat, even against his warm figure it was hot, and thick. So thick you struggled to swallow it, muffled gags high pitched and desperate as he refused air. Only when you drank all of his seed could you breathe. The hand around your neck tightened at your throat, each swallow he could feel under his hand, Jon seemed as if it made him give you more. Feed you more of such thick seed as if in this cold outside the only sustenance you needed to stay warm and fed was his seed.

Jon came more then usual, thick spurts of his seed painted your mouth and the back of your throat all pooling in your stomach for him. Letting you ease up but not yet moving you. Your own instincts took over, gently bobbing your head up and down his cock, licking and sucking every which way you could to ensure every drop of his seed was brought out in his pleasure. Hissing against you finally, did Jon have nothing left and dragged you off of him.

His breathing heavy, but nothing of yours. Hands tense at is sides, your head dropped gasping for air you felt deprived of for so long and faint traces of his spend mixed with your saliva. Hand cupping the back of your neck now, massaging the area more soothingly as his voice still as deep rasped gentle down to you. “Look up at me, come on darling.” Guiding your eyes to meet his, yours were hard to read beyond something overwhelmed and exhausted. Jon shook his head to a thought of disbelief in his own head. “Gods, you’re so beautiful.”

A flush travelled through your body at that one, but Jon just knelt down to your level. Cupping your cheeks, he pressed his lips to yours with such a tenderness that you almost thought he wasn’t even breathing. But slowly guiding your lips, sliding his tongue into your still warm mouth the second you gave him a sliver of access did you whine into his mouth. The sound gifted as music to his ears as his much more deep gutted groan had him crowed you more as he kissed you rougher and deeper.

Only tearing away when it was him who needed air, Jon tilted your head down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”

You still let him move you at eye level, his nose brushing against yours almost playfully as you struggled to touch him so affectionately back. “And I love you.” Prompting you up onto the bed, Jon turned you into his chest. Cradling the back of your head as you reached meekly onto him but snuggled into his warmth as a cat does a blanket.

With his warmth around you, and the exhaustion of such a racing in your heart still not yet simmered, but despite it all, you found a calm and did you fall asleep in Jons arms without issue.

But that was just it, you fell asleep without issue. Jon remained awake realizing the issue. Red flags had been all over the encounter with you, but it was one thing which had Jons arms around you tighten and keep you so much more protective in his chest. He knew you liked when he took control, you had never all but begged Jon though, to just force you to take him. You wanted Jon to force you down his cock, force his cock down your throat roughly.

It took Jon a very long time to finally even allow his eyes to close, to attempt sleep. Realizing exactly what had happened, but also, the same realization that you had not a single clue what you did. He never told you, it wasn’t your fault. But it was there all the same. Chest tight and nerves flowing heavily through his mind which now could not stop filling his head with such gut wrenching thoughts, that comparison had startled him truly.

By the time he fell asleep he knew. Enough was enough. He had to handle this soon before it got any worse. He refused to let you force yourself down this path that he was sure, you weren’t even aware you were setting yourself on.

Something dark in your head was afraid Jon didn’t want you anymore, and were desperately about to start offering anything you could, your safety or well being be damned to try and hold onto his love a little longer. Jon despised that even in motherhood, the world refused to ever let you catch your breath.

Because, you had been clearly very confused, not understanding why Jon didn’t want to hurt you.

A good part of you felt bad, but it was something you wanted to do without him. It wasn’t the same for him and you didn’t truly have the words to explain it, nor did you know if you should. Already it was nearly a miracle that Jon did not awaken as you slunk from his grasp. Slowly and surely you managed, wrapping something warmer around your person as you dressed before peeking back to the dark sight of the room. First, the baby awoke to your gentle touch. You wanted to feed him before you did this, and a quiet as a baby boy could be, not a sound was made.

Finally, both Jon and the baby fast asleep, you crept the door open quietly to slip out. A gentle small smile to the guards who respected the quiet with only but small gestures back as you made your way down the corridor. You knew it must have been quite late into the night as hardly a soul was to come across your figure as you walked through the castle and out the doors. Not quite dressed for the snow outside, but you had a different destination then out here regardless.

Spotting the glass gardens in the distance you had the certainty that you were indeed alone. Not a soul would be out and on this side of the yard so late. Thus, you easily made your way passed and to the steps which led and down and down into the ground eventually revealing the crypts. So many generations of Starks, so many of which stood tall with direwolves by their side as it went on and on.

A family so long existing just as this in the world, it felt minuscule to imagine your families, the contrast of here to the tombs of House Baratheon on Storm’s End. Only three hundred years did they go beyond. Another existed there before you, but you knew not what happened of their remains. Only that when your House came into existence, so did the remains of the last get wiped away.

Step by step and you could hear the faint sounds of strings as you thought of it. The dark, horrible screaming nightmare within your mind hearing the music as you considered perhaps a House only disappears from the world should the ones which ruled after be cruel enough to wipe them away. There was not a scrap of memory for House Castamere aside from a morose song which sung of their doom and lingered in your mind of an attempt at the same.

Perhaps your family was not that different. Perhaps it was why walking through the crypts here did you feel as not belonging as you did in the tomb of Storm’s End. Not enough of either to be a person whole on your very own. Just scattered fragments of families making up a malformed figure in the shape of a woman. But you already knew that, that you were merely shards of a broken person.

After all, you had a father. Living and breathing to fight the same fight in the North, but you had not even attempted to write him or ask your mother if she had. You had a son, your father had a grandson this time who had lived long enough to be born into the world and you had not thought to inform him of it. Even now, you did not know what you would even say. But there was a father you walked towards, and it was him which you went to see.

There his statue stood, tall and stern as he ever was. The sword carved into his hands tall just as Ice was, as if to symbolize that in death if not life, Ned Stark stood guarding Rickon who was buried beside him. It felt so long ago that you stood in that very spot, knowing that you would have to step forward and begin the process of making a burial spot for him. As fresh as the wound was for Jon especially, you now could look back and almost be thankful that you and him both came to the same agreement to bury him that night. The last memory of his little brother would be one not of rot or decay. He in the cold air, had remained and as if the gods could only do one thing for him, not have his body lost or desecrated in the battle which erupted around him.

You hoped he knew. That Rickon knew that in his death, Jon had not hesitated to charge towards the man who did it. That he had not wavered in what he was going to do, and that as finally Jon descended on his home, had beaten Ramsay bloody for what he had done. That the time they saw one another was so short, but that everything of that battle was for him. That Jon took what forces he had to Winterfell as soon as Shaggydog’s head arrived at Deepwood Motte. That he did not hesitate to shut down suggestions of gathering stronger forces when his little brothers life hung in the balance.

Rickon was only a boy of six when you last saw him. His hair more red like that of his mothers, so small that you could so easily pick him up to move him as if he weighed nothing. His voice still high pitched with wide and bright eyes. He had not taken it well when you had returned to Winterfell only for you and Robb to leave soon after for war. He was angry and felt abandoned even though Robb and you both tried to assure him otherwise. Bran had said the free folk woman you met, Osha, she was trustworthy. That she cared deeply about them both, and when Bran knew he had to go beyond the Wall, he trusted no one more then her to keep Rickon safe. You knew it was not her blame how it ended.

Looking to where the lay, you recalled him then. By present day he would have been eleven. His hair darkened more in their curls just like Robb and he looked so much as he did at that age too. But you felt the guilt. A dark looming feeling making your head feel as if it was suddenly filled to the brim with liquids turning to metal to weigh you down. Rickon still would’ve been too young to understand it was you fault, but as your eyes returned to the statue of Ned Stark, you knew he would understand that.

The wind against your skin as Robb spoke beside you, you could hear him speak so clearly. Standing at the border of the bridge at the Twins, knowing that you all had not the time to fight your way through, watching two riders approaching, as the time ticked away.

“Father rots in a dungeon. How long before they take his head? Father would do whatever it took to secure our crossing. Whatever it took.”

But you didn’t do that. Did you? You fought beside the men fighting for the same cause, but you did not do whatever it took to secure Rickons safety. Jon had known you would’ve left. Would’ve given yourself back to Ramsay in order to barter for Rickons safe return. Jon could still fight for his home, but you wouldn’t have an eleven year old boys blood on your hands. Ned Stark did whatever it took to protect his daughters. He had confessed to a crime he did not commit, hoping that his admission would at least give Sansa and Arya some safety with his compliance. He risked and lost his life to protect them.

Who have you protected? Ned Stark was dead. Robb was dead. Robbs unborn son was dead. Catelyn is trapped in the body of a vengeful creature pretending to be the woman who you once saw as a mother. Rickon was dead. Shireen was dead by your own hands. Renly was dead. Barra was dead as was every nameless bastard cousin you never had the chance to know.

Bringing him back didn’t change that Jon was murdered trying to protect you. Arya survived on her quick intelligence. Bran survived despite every single odd being stacked against a crippled boy his age. Sansa survived no doubt using her perception of naive kindness as a shield to protect her. You protected none of them. You protected no one ever.

Looking up to the man you had missed more then when you thought your real father was gone, you could not help but think that you didn’t belong down here. You weren’t a Stark in any way that mattered the way they all were. You stood before him, symbolizing so little. You did not matter in this place or to it’s people. You were what you were always told you’d be.

A wife to breed her husband sons and daughters. You would fulfill that duty until Jon no longer had use for you, and you would never resent him nor your children for it. Cersei had told you that no matter what, no matter how bad it got, she had her children. That they kept her alive. You loved little Eddard dearly, and you knew your purpose here was Jon. You loved them both, but you thought perhaps you should stop pretending as if you were the exception to the life Cersei warned you about.

You hoped tonight you had proven at least some pleasurable value to Jon. It was hard to say what you felt. Part of you liked it, you always did with him. But the other part of you? The panic overwhelming of what if none of it would be enough to make him still want you, and you had to play into the lie of how much your mind and heart hadn’t filled with panic and anxiety. He needed it clearly, and so you wouldn’t dare deprive him of it. But your mind the whole time screamed at you that Ramsay had been right. This was all you were good for.

Even with your son here, Jon was your life, your purpose, he was truly everything to you. But you weren’t to him, and you’d do whatever it took to at least keep this false image of love he holds for you as long as you could. Your mind had made your time together that night complicated in your heart every single time you worried about what you will do when he doesn’t even want this from you anymore.

The fog in your head promised it would happen, and you listened to it. And in the subsequent fear in your mind, forced yourself to just endure what you knew you normally, would’ve felt good doing. If not for the heart twisting fear that he already was casting you aside for a woman who he could enjoy himself with properly. At least if you let him do whatever he wants, he had reason to keep you in his bed. The fog in your head promised you after all. Promised that if you didn’t just give him what he wanted, he’d set you aside and it was difficult in that fog to tell yourself otherwise. It wasn’t Jons fault he didn’t want you. It was yours.

“Scary how well I know you.”

Nearly jumping out of your skin, you turned to the side with wide eyes and a gasp of shock at the sudden intrusion of self hatred. Hands holding out as if to tame a spooked horse, did they apologize for scaring you. Catching your breath as your heart raced, you shook your head dismissively. “No apology needed. I simply didn’t notice I wasn’t alone anymore is all.”

A nod of understanding was given, and then you both stood there. More guilt ate at you, but you also knew, guilt sat right in the bright eyes Theon had. Taking a few steps closer he didn’t close the gap much, but enough he could lower his voice to a more appropriate level. “Fine, but I will apologize for the way I spoke to you. Our last conversation before you left.”

Closing your eyes with a sigh, you let your hand drift up to pinch at the high bridge of your nose. “Theon-”

But he took another step, that time with not the hesitant waver behind his tone. “No, I need too. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Not as my Queen, and certainly not as my friend.”

Your arms dropping back down to your sides, you looked from his gaze for a moment. Recognizing at the corner of your eye, him more closing the gap. Following his lead you sensed, you both stood side by side before the statue of Ned Stark. Not the only one you were, who felt as if he did not belong down here. Theon spoke once more before you could gather your thought. “I know you don’t like being told this, but it isn’t your fault how we left things. I didn’t know how to handle you leaving, and I took it out on you instead of just saying that. No matter how close to everyone else we are, they will never get it. What being Ramsay’s prisoners was like. How he could make us forget we were even human. Only you understand that, and I was mad you were leaving.”

The silence was heavy, as was your gaze with stinging eyes looking towards the statue before you as your voice found itself. Quiet for only him to hear even in the empty halls all around. “We didn’t know if we were ever coming back.” You could see from the side of your vision, Theon nodding a little in an understanding. “It was more important to give everyone the hope that they knew we were coming back, instead of the worrying question of if. I thought I was sparing you the pain of thinking that was the last time you were ever going to see me.”

Theon for the weight bearing down on both of you, actually let out a chuckle. “You didn’t come back to life too bright, did you?” As if no pain was in your heart, your head whipped to the side with a scowl and glare he knew all too well. “You two were gone for months, you didn’t think eventually I was going to start worrying about that very thing all on my own?”

The nearly jesting glare subsided slowly, as you once again looked forward. Your tone easing a little from the far more withheld place it took previous. “Having some hope for a little while felt better then giving you none from the very beginning.” Theon however, only pressed. Asking why you didn’t just fight him on the way he dismissed you before leaving for what you feared could be forever. But there wasn’t a grand array of complicated emotions attached, you knew the truth was for once, very simple. “I didn’t want to potentially leave forever on an argument. Robert and Renly both died with our last real talk being an argument, and never being able to take that back feels horrible. I thought at least even if you were mad, I could avoid souring your last memory of me.”

Theon smirked though you did not see it. “Do you remember the day you threw a rock at my head?” Brows furrowing, you almost said no until the memory slipped in behind your eyes. Though he didn’t see it, you too begun a small smirk as you nodded once. “If someone told me then, that we’d be standing here fifteen years later saying this sort of thing to each other I might have thrown a rock the size of your head at you to avoid it.”

Hardly what any could call a laugh, but between you what was left out was all you both had in the moment. Silence came over you for a bit until it felt safe enough to broach. “Do you ever worry he’s disappointed?” Neither of you had to ask whom you were referring to. “That he looks at what you’ve become and wonders where did he go so wrong that’s led to you being on this path?”

Of all people, there was not a single point of contention between either of you that Theon felt exactly that. No matter the work you did to help him come away from it, there was no doubt he would look back and feel the same guilt that he had for months once you both were gone from it all. Not answering directly, Theon somewhat shifted the discussion to elaborate in a much more personal way. “Do you know what the first thing was my father said to me when I got to Pyke?” Shaking your head no, Theon could still hear it clearly as you did the strings earlier no doubt. “Said that Ned Stark had me just as long as he did. Took me away as a frightened boy, and what came back. So I said what I thought was true. A man, his blood and his heir. And without even looking at me he said, we shall see. Already he doubted me being there. Saw right through me the whole time and still I wanted to impress him. I didn’t have to fake who I was here. Told you and Robb to convince you both to let me go, that Ned Stark raised me to be an hourable man and I did everything he tried to raise me to not become. Of course I worry he’s looking at me wondering how I ended up this way.”

Theon never belonged back with them, you knew. He left with good intentions and Balon Greyjoy twisted him into thinking he wasn’t a man for it. But when asking what would he be disappointed in you for, your throat became dry like sands in the deserts of Dorne. All of it you thought, he should be disappointed in all of it. You knew you had many times been a disappointment to your true father, and even in his death you knew you too were a disappointment to the father who actually showed you love.

Your lack of an answer wasn’t pressed. The one which you spoke was a work around that real one you dared not speak out loud. “At least we are disappointments together.”

It was some time before either of you spoke. A long time before either of you found the courage too, but once again through the fog it was not you who was collected enough to find the words. “My sister tried to rescue me once. From Ramsay while we were still at the Dreadfort. She took a group of men to get me out of there and bring me home.”

You already knew this story, but broaching that subject was one Jon had said he wanted to tackle himself, since he did the most damage. In his words. Prompting Theon with reasonable responses, “Why didn’t she?”

Already you knew the guilt and shame she felt, but too did you know Theon had no reasonable way to know any of that. And the bitterness was evident. “I was too scared. Didn’t know if it was a trap. So she left. Came all that way and left.” Just as you wished to say anything of comfort, did Theon come to his true point. “But despite that, despite everything else that came after. I’m glad I didn’t go with her.” Why was all you could ask as he left your heart a bit strained. “Would’ve meant leaving you behind. No matter what Ramsay put us through, I’m glad the only time I escaped was when I was able to bring you with me. The night we left, I was worried come morning you would’ve just killed yourself to avoid marrying Ramsay and I had to do it or I’d lose you for good, and you were all I had left. We were all each other had left.”

Voice but a whisper, you barley would register to any ears were they not as close as Theon. “Would have spared you far more pain then you deserved though.”

Theon was as strained in voice as you, but the weight was more sure of himself through it. “My actual sister abandoned me. But you’re the sister I chose, and I wasn’t going to do to you what she did to me. And if Ned Stark is disappointed in me for that, I’m going to just have to live with it.”

The fog in your head was so heavy and so hateful, you almost felt like you truly were trapped with Ramsay still. The only moment you were a person being what little brevity you and Theon could fine, before you ascended those steps and returned to a fog which you were lost in all alone. For even just moments down here, it was a reminder of what being you felt like.

Still so late into the night, by the time you returned to the cold air of the courtyard Theon had since left to try and sleep. Asking if you were fine getting back on your own, but your answer of yes did not include that it was a lie. You weren’t sure you could handle returning to a bed you didn’t know if Jon truly wanted you in. It would be a few hours still anyways before the baby would wake in need of you again.

Standing in the cold as snow lightly fell all around you in the empty courtyard, your breath was the only sound heard as it exhaled cold in the air, beyond the night around in nature. It was beautiful beyond belief, Winterfell in such a wintery sight, and you felt unworthy of it as you stood there.

What you would do until morning dawned in the peak of the sky, you had not known. Until one single step was taken, when a voice spoke out behind you. Your name being called softly and hesitantly from a voice you had not heard in five years. Turning to see from where she had been hiding by the glass gardens in the dead of night, you almost didn’t recognize her as a woman, from the girl you left her as.

In kind without doubt, in your more whispered surprise, returned the gesture right back and spoke hers with something just as soft.

“Sansa.”

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

She is a white savior that Daenerys believes to be the Mysha of the slaves, in addition to her arrogance of thinking that she is the only savior, she has that hero complex like her brother Rhaegar had that caused a war for his prophecy, I saw the publication and it makes sense Aegon according to what he dreamed of in the long night, but for me the author invented it to make it seem like the foreigners subjugated Westeros, for me it is not fair that Daenerys and her fans believe that she deserves the credit of many people who also fight against the others.

I'm sorry, have you ever read the books? Or even seen the show for that matter? Literally none of this is true in either one.

Dany didn't create the title of Mhysa, the Yunkai'i slaves she freed did. Then the name was picked up by the slaves in Meereen and others all over Essos. It's a title; it's awarded by others, that's how they work.

Dany takes this title as a responsibility. She feels a level of responsibility and care for the slaves and freedmen that no other pov ruler does. She understands the weight of ruling as no one else does; it's a ruler's responsibility to care for the people and do justice on their behalf. She is motivated by her genuine care in all the released books and in the seasons when she's in Essos.

Where are you getting that she has a hero complex? I'm assuming since you're talking about the Others, you're talking about the events of the show's ending. Well, even with how D&D royally fucked up, Dany didn't believe herself to be the only person fighting the Others, nor does she begrudge other people their credit.

She's rightfully upset when all the Northmen choose to ignore the fact that she literally saved them. Dany brought her dragons, saved Jon's life multiple times, and brought a massive army. She did literally save their fucking lives. No, she wasn't the only one to fight, nor was she the only reason they won, and she doesn't think that.

As for the slaves, she doesn't liberate them out of a hero's complex, she does it because slavery is a horrifying institution and she had power. People who have power should feel an obligation to do good with it; Dany does. She chose to put aside her conquest for the Iron Throne for the slaves.

Rhaegar didn't start the war, nor did he do it for the prophecy. Again, I don't know where you or any of Rhaegar's antis got that. Rhaegar ran away with Lyanna because of a mutual love. GRRM literally calls Rhaegar "a love struck prince"; meaning he isn't really thinking clearly.

As for the prophecy, yes, Rhaegar knew about it; but we have textual evidence that he believes Aegon is the Prnce that was Promised. He literally tells Elia when Aegon is born that, "His will be the Song of Ice and Fire." Yeah, he said there needed to be a third child, but why logically wouldn't he choose to have a third child with Elia? Well because he's not thinking logically, he's "lovestruck", and because he didn't run away with Lyanna for a child.

No, GRRM didn't make the Targaryen conquest to reflect foreign invasion or colonization. They're literally a Westerosi house, they came to Westeros centuries before the conquest happened. It's literally a different concept all together, why is that so hard to understand?

Literally none of Dany's fans believe that she "deserves all the credit" for fighting the Others. We just want her to get the credit she deserves, which is that she saved the Northmen's lives and without her they would have failed. These are all just facts in the show. As for the books, we know she'll play a large role in fighting the Others because GRRM makes it pretty fucking clear.

[sailoreuterpe]

The question is specifically for the book only.

The question is not "who deserves the Iron Throne?" or "who would be the best ruler?"

Feel free to (politely) explain your reasoning in the comments and/or tags!

[la-pheacienne]

So let me get this straight.

If I believe that a particular character should be ruler/would be a good ruler/would have been a good ruler/deserves to be ruler/will probably end up being ruler/was unfairly deprived of their rulership, be it dany, or jon, or rhaenyra or rhaegar or arya or bran or stannis the mannis (ew) or my neighbour or your mother or whomever the hell you want them to be, I am classist. And royalist. And conservative. And going against the themes of asoiaf. Because no one can fix westeros, because there are no good rulers/there can be no good rulers/rulership is inherently bad/inherently moraly wrong/ the throne is doomed to be destroyed because it is the root of all evil-

But somehow if you believe that one particular character, coincidentally your fave, will probably be a ruler (queen in the north or in any other position of FEUDAL power- ruling is not just reserved to the iron throne btw), or that she should be a ruler or that she would be a good ruler, you are somehow not classist or royalist or conservative.

Can somebody tell me why that is? What is the justification behind your speculation in the first place? Why will she/why should she be a ruler? Because she deserves it? Because she has been through so much? Because she's strong and powerful and resilient? Okay? So, the only meaningful difference between your take and my take is that I actually (naively!) have faith in the possibility that a character that has been established again and again as a progressive and radical leader could possibly contribute to a meaningful radical collective change in the world while you just consider rulership as a prize, as a reward for individual struggle? And somehow that makes me more conservative? That makes me a classist? Besties, it is literally the other way round.

I don't even hate that character. I am pretty neutral towards her, I would even say that I am sympathetic towards her. And I actually believe she will end up in a position of power (not queen in the north but a position of power nonetheless). Yes, in a position of feudal power, that's what I mean, that's the only real power any character could ever have in a book series that is set in a pseudomedieval world. But you need to be very careful before you start throwing around classism and royalism and conservatism accusations at people for actively engaging with a pseudomedieval fantasy (fantasy!!) book series whose entire foundation is the question "what is a good leader?", "what makes a good leader?", "how does someone become a good leader?", "how could this system become slightly better?", "what are the powers that stop any real progress? how can these powers be defeated?" The answers to these questions in asoiaf are not easy or automatic. But they exist. All of these questions have answers in the text. Concrete, solid answers, whether you like it or not. Believing in the truth of those answers simply means we engage with the themes of the (fictional!) story. It simply makes us fans of the text. It does not make us stupid or naive, and it definitely does not make us conservative.

There is nothing that I despise more in this fandom than the double standard of "oh you are so lame if you actually believe someone could/will be a good ruler, nobody should be king or queen, meanwhile let's talk about my fave's ruling arc" (asoiaf version), or "oh you are so lame if you actually believe a particular character should have been ruler and not the other, that makes you a classist and we're not, all sides are bad because monarchy, meanwhile let's dedicate 99,9% of our posts explaining why one side is wrong. One specific side. Entirely coincidentally, since we do not take sides" (fire and blood version).

The meaningful difference between these two fandom "factions" is that one is honest and openly engages with the themes of the story in an organic and positive and hopeful way, while the other is just this annoying group of college kids repeating the same, holier-than-thou, pseudo-intellectual takes ad infinitum to appear smarter than anyone else while carefully concealing their obvious bias.

[visenyaism]

Rhaegar dream anon back again to say that is all very fascinating, thank u for answering. How do you think it jives with the "Mad Queen" ending for Dany? I'm personally more on team Noble Sacrifice (the end of the Targs feels like a foregone conclusion atp), and it's largely bc her snapping a burning a city of people to death doesn't feel like it meshes with her arc

well i think the snapping and setting a city on fire because she hears the bells go off is like very transparently jon connington. it’s not going to be her that does that.

i think dany’s arc is largely driven by the fact that she wants 1)to have a home like the one she has imagined she had at the house with the red door and 2) to liberate people and make the world a better place. and everyone in her life has told her that the only way for her to do both of those things is to become the queen of Westeros and sit the iron throne, and I think there will probably be a point where she sort of realizes that that’s actually antithetical to what she wants.

I have spoken a little bit in the past about what I’d want her endgame to look like which I do think will probably end up being bittersweet, where she might not get what she wants, but does leave a better world behind her. I really doubt it is going to end in a Targaryen restoration (which is like this dystopian nightmare ending that can only culminate in another girl named daenerys realizing she’s pregnant on her 14th birthday. burn it down) but I also doubt it’s going to end in her going insane like she did in the show. I’m not sure if she’s going to sacrifice herself and im not sure i would like that. I would really like to see her just realize what she wants in life and then obtain it. she deserves some peace and quiet. 

[inkandarsenic]

Ok, so expanding on this post for @heartofmortis, meet my newest oc, Nymeria Targaryen

- youngest daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, born in 283 AC, like a month or so before the sack of KL

- conceived as soon as possible after Aegon, just before the maesters declared Elia unable to have more children and Rhaegar subsequently ran off with Lyanna

- named Nymeria because Elia knew Rhaegar would’ve wanted her named Visenya, but Rhaegar ran off to have a third child with the Northern girl before he could even be informed of this pregnancy, so Elia decided to name her daughter after the legendary warrior Princess of Dorne (call it rebellion if you will — this pregnancy so soon after Aegon’s nearly killed her, and he decides he needs a daughter with the Stark girl? Fine. Elia will name her daughter from her culture, not his. Let him get his Visenya elsewhere.)

- Smuggled by her wetnurse through siege tunnels out to where Rhaella and Viserys were evacuating to Dragonstone. in the chaos after Rhaella’s death, only Viserys and Daenerys are smuggled off of Dragonstone. Stannis arrives to find a terrified nursemaid and a screaming infant less than a year old.

- Raised by Stannis Baratheon, who heard how his brother laughed at the two dead children of Elia, and refused to hand over Nymeria — Stannis is many things, but he isn’t a child-murderer yet

- She’s his ward, and technically also a hostage to keep Dorne from rising up over Elia and her children’s death — Nymeria is the last link to Elia Dorne has.

- Uses Martell name when introducing herself. Tries to distance herself from her Targaryen lineage — was raised on stories of all of the bad parts of the Targaryens as her bedtime stories and history lessons, and doesn’t like them at all.

- Oberyn and Doran work it out with Stannis so that Nymeria can be visited — under supervision, and mostly Oberyn as Doran is busier ruling Dorne — on Dragonstone by her mother’s family, and when she’s a bit older, she often spends a few months each year in Dorne. (You can pry reluctant friends Oberyn and Stannis out of my cold dead hands.)

- Robert tries HARD to get Nym betrothed to Jon — in his mind, Ned’s bastard son is more than deserving of a former princess, and what better way to keep the Targaryen spawn from rising against him than marrying her off to the son of his best friend? To his endless frustration, this goes nowhere — both Stannis and the Martells (who are actually responsible for Nym’s marriage prospects) refuse the idea — Stannis because Jon’s a bastard, the Martells because they very much do not like Robert — and Ned also refuses with no real explanation (“Jon is free to choose his own wife, Robert” when really it’s because Jon is Nym’s half brother through Rhaegar)

- Likes to help out Stannis’ maester and takes an interest in healing — both Stannis and Oberyn agree that this is a useful skill, and let her learn all she can.

- Rides out with Stannis when he goes to war; Melisandre keeps trying to convince Stannis to sacrifice her, and after Renly dies, Davos convinces Nymeria to leave, for her own safety.

- She originally intends to go south to Dorne, but comes across Catelyn and Brienne first. Upon hearing how Renly died and recognizing the account of Melisandre’s work, she realizes Dorne would be the first place Stannis would look for her — whatever Melisandre so desperately wanted Nym sacrificed for cannot be good — and she decides to go with Catelyn and Brienne to Robb’s camp instead. You can never have too many medics in a war.

- Our boy is WEAK to the pretty healers, weak I tell you, and this one is Westerosi, highborn (a princess, technically— rightful heir to the Iron Throne) and she’s a politically advantageous (the princes of Dorne would surely be on his side if he married their niece) match to boot??? He doesn’t stand a chance.

[agentrouka-blog]

Hi there! I was wondering if you think Lady’s death could symbolize Sansa’s own version of “kill the boy and let the man be born”—except for her, it would be “kill the lady and let the queen be born.”

I don't think this idea works well in the context and timing of Lady's death.

She is still new in Sansa's life and has seamlessly fit into it but she doesn't represent innocence or immaturity or carelessness. Lady's death is hugely traumatic to Sansa and it doesn't make her "grow up".

"Kill the boy and let the man be born" is a (deeply misguided) piece of advice given by maester Aemon in an attempt to steer Jon to embrace his adult responsibilities as Lord Commander without letting supposedly childish personal sentiments interfere.

"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. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne. A man grown with sons of his own, yet in some ways still a boy. Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. 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." The old man felt Jon's face. "You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is a crueler one, I fear. You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born." (ADWD, Jon II)

In effect it pushes Jon to close himself off emotionally, isolate himself from his friends and reduce effective communication and accountability to the people around him. He becomes a lone wolf. (We know what happens to the lone wolf.) He recalls this advice in the process of bullying Gilly into a traumatic loss. Jon is not a better leader for following Aemon's advice. The boy had done pretty well for himself and didn't deserve to be killed for this idea of what a man is.

In a similar vein, Lady's death is is not a "necessary sacrifice" on Sansa's way to queenship. She does not benefit from it, and all it signifies is Ned's willingness to sacrifice his daughter to his larger goals, which has a deeply negative impact on her and their relationship.

A queen is not inherently different from a lady. A lady is not a child to a queen's adult. Sansa did need to learn how to embrace the agency and power and responsibility inherent in the title of a lady. But murdering her wolf did not teach her that. Ned's example in this moment did not teach her that. Her determination to hold on to her identity and ideals in adversity will be what help her learn how to be a queen.

[juju-or-anya]

A character I deeply hate in *Game of Thrones* and *A Song of Ice and Fire* isn’t Daenerys, nor Cersei, nor even Sansa (and that’s saying something, as she annoys me quite a bit). No, the character I truly despise is Robert Baratheon.

Robert embodies all the traits that make me think: "I hate men" or "Men disgust me." His entire personality revolves around being a womaniser, a drunk, an overweight man obsessed with the ghost of a dead woman. Lyanna Stark has been in her grave for nearly twenty years, and she still can’t rest in peace because of his sick fixation.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. While Robert wasn’t the mastermind of the Rebellion, he was certainly the one who fuelled it. He didn’t do it for the good of the realm or out of any sense of justice; he did it because he couldn’t accept that maybe Lyanna didn’t want to marry him. She preferred to be another man’s lover rather than his wife, and instead of accepting that, he unleashed a war. Lyanna, though raised as a noble lady of the North, had a will of iron and wouldn’t have allowed herself to be kidnapped without a fight (not that she really had a chance to avoid it—after all, she was a fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl facing Rhaegar, a twenty-four-year-old trained warrior—but I think you get my point).

And let’s not even talk about his reaction to the murder and rape of Elia Martell and her children. Robert laughed cruelly when he heard that innocent children, some barely toddlers, had been brutally killed and celebrated that a helpless woman had been raped and murdered. He was happy about it.

Of course, I’m not idealising characters like Lyanna, Elia, or Rhaegar. We can’t sanctify or demonise them because we don’t truly know them. Everything we know about them is filtered through the perspectives of others, some positive, some negative. They’re “told” characters, like Lily and James Potter in Harry Potter, whose backstories depend entirely on others’ memories. But who do we actually know enough about? Robert Baratheon. We know he’s the kind of man who would order the murder of a pregnant girl across the sea—a girl who’d already lost her family and home because of his rebellion. Robert did all this, not because Aerys was a tyrant, but because he was obsessed with the memory of a woman who never loved him.

As for his supposed "love" for Lyanna, he never showed any intention of respecting her, being faithful to her, or actually loving her. He was only in love with the idea of having a beautiful, strong, wild wife he could mould and subdue to his will. Before he was even engaged to Lyanna, he’d already fathered a bastard daughter; and only a few weeks after her death, he had Gendry. So much for his “great” love for Lyanna—he was already fathering children with other women within weeks.

What’s worse is that half the story seems determined to paint him as "the good guy." Give me a break. The realm didn’t entirely collapse during his reign only because of Tywin Lannister’s ambition and the competence of the royal council, who worked tirelessly to maintain stability. None of this was thanks to Robert Baratheon, who barely managed his responsibilities while the realm barely kept itself afloat despite him.

For all these reasons and more, I deeply hate Robert Baratheon.

Edit: I'll stand corrected, because a comment corrected me and they's right. The real hero who kept King Landing stable enough for there to still be a King Landing was Jon Arryn, that man deserved a raise and the biggest statue in the world, as well as putting up with his idiot king.

Edit 2: Re-reading my post, I realized that I made a somewhat fatphobic comment when I talked about Robert's physique and if anyone feels hurt, I truly apologize. I will not delete it, because it will be evident and give me a reason to improve, we are in constant deconstruction and I do not want to delete something bad that I could have said and pretend it never happened, how will I learn if I do that?

[asongofstarkandtargaryen]

What do you think Sansa ending will be like?

I was thinking she could do something artsy or creative.

That's a very interesting question!

First of all, let me say that I believe that Sansa will survive the series and have a happy ending.

With that being said, I don't mean a fairy tale like ending where she gets everything she ever wanted as a kid because a. Sansa has moved from her childhood dreams, when once she was dreaming to marry a handsome prince and become his queen one day, she now dreams of her home and what it represents (aka unconditional familial love, safety etc) and b. I doubt that Martin will give any character - even his most important ones - a fairy tale ending where they will get everything they even wanted.

I have many different predictions on where she could end up with, and since there are only speculations on my end I could totally be wrong.

Could she marry Harry the Heir ( if/once her marriage with Tyrion gets annulled) and become Lady of Eyrie? It fits her arc and her anti-parallels the previous Lady of Eyrie, who was also a Tully woman - remember all Stark kids are half Tully from their mama- and she in would be a Lady of an Important House like her Mother - with whom she shares some great parallels - once was. And not any castle, but the place her father spend many years . Thus a place that connects to both her Stark and Tully heritage. The only negative in this theory is that Harry currently seems an arse and I don't want her after everything she had to endure with an asshole. Maybe he's actually not that bad? Who knows we have two more books to find out, assuming that Harry survives them.

Another option would be for her to remain married to Tyrion. And I don't mean for them to suddenly have a great passionate romance but a mutual understanding that their union could benefit them both. They get to be the Lord and Lady of Castelry Rock and visit/or even stay at Kings Landing as I can imagine Tyrion will be heavily involved in politics and probably have a place in the small council of whoever gets to become the next ruler of Seven Kingdoms. I don't think that Tyrion would have a problem with his wife following her arty talents, and Sansa could continue hosting parties - like the one in Eyrie- and be an important influential Lady popular among the other nobles- especially if she is the wife of the Hand of the King/Queen/ whoever sits on the Iron Throne. That could even help elevate her husband popularity and in return Tyrion could offer her security and freedom to pursue her talents and hobbies. It's not the ideal fairy tale marriage but it's better than most arranged marriages in Westeros- her own parents started their union with even less and they managed to be happy together.

Or she could eventually marry a Northern Lord and live close to her childhood home and visit Bran and Rickon ( and anyone else reciting at Winterfell) more often than most ladies of her status visited their family.

Speaking of Winterfell, I personally believe - and as I said before since those are only speculations I could be totally wrong- that the younger Starks ( Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon) at the end of the series need to spend some futher time on their home before they consider moving out due to marrying. Because they are still very young and I believe that they would all benefit by being close to each other.

Sure not of them is an adult and therefore they can't act as the guardians of the younger ones - Maybe their older brother Jon who is adult could temporary do that?- but they can still help each other. Like for example, Sansa who learned how to act like the sort of Lady of Eyrie - while posing as Littlefinger's daughter - could help her brother, Bran, with the ladyship duties until he's old enough to pick a wife to fill that role. And more importantly than usefulness in managing to rule Winterfell, these kids are all traumatized and they deserve to spend some time to their home in order to heal. And to get to reconnect as a family - and least those who are still alive :/.

In Winterfell, I believe that Sansa could also purse her artistic talents because I can't imagine Bran, who is not only the sweetest kid according to his family but also very observant and empathetic, stopping his sister from doing something that gives her pleasure.

And I wasn't supposed to write so much but I was carried away bc I like speculating about characters I've interested at.

( And if you noticed the lack of mentioning Sandor as Sansa's possible endgame isn't because I don't believe that Martin has given them romantic undertones. It's because I unfortunately don't see him surviving the end of the books - again my personal prediction, feel free to disagree- so anything that happens between them I believe it won't be at the epilogue of the series).

[jackoshadows]

What I don't understand is why Sansa stans, who want to get rid of Arya in Winterfell, go for the laziest fanon of Arya being a tourist - a theory that's borrowed from ultimate hacks D&D and the garbage TV show and which ending GRRM has repeatedly disavowed.

Arya becoming some kind of world explorer at the end pretty much ignores her book story, narrative arc, characterization and throws away the material in her so far written 32 pov chapters for an ending they came up with because of a made up headcanon. An headcanon which is far removed from the book character.

If one wants to get rid of Arya in Winterfell to make way for Sansa, the least they could do is actually read Arya's chapters and attempt to come up with an ending that makes more sense for the character.

Arya is a character who wants to help. From Mycah to Weasel to Samwell Tarly, Arya is someone who stands up against injustice even at great risk to herself. She's selfless and would sacrifice her personal happiness for the greater good. She wants things to be better, for herself, for her friends, for the smallfolk.

One ending could be Arya Stark as a leader of the Riverlands, helping rebuild from the ravages of war, helping the people who survived. Arya, who has the empathy and the skillsets to help them, who has listened and learned from her father on how to govern. We see Willow Heddle take care of orphans and managing an inn with a quiet efficiency that mirrors Arya's and Gendry hanging around helping her. I could see Arya and Gendry continue their relationship, fall in love, marry and settle down in the Riverlands while Arya either rules the Riverlands as the Tully heir/Cat's daughter or as Lady of Harrenhal helps Edmure Tully rebuild the Riverlands.

Or, if Jon Snow leaves for beyond the Wall as the leader of the new territories and lands there, maybe Arya goes with him. Considering their close bond and love for each other and the fact that home is where each other is - something else that is again established in the books - if she had no choice but to leave Winterfell, going with Jon Snow to help him lead the freefolk beyond the Wall could be another option.

Or if Bran does end up becoming King on the Iron Throne, then she could stay in KL to help her much loved baby brother. She wouldn't like leaving Winterfell, but Arya is a character who sacrifices and does what's right, no matter how hard it is for her to do personally. Plus, she wanted to be a king's councillor and build things. Her training and skillsets with the FM would also make her alert to any future LF/Varys types trying to plot against Bran - not that someone who can see into the past and present needs a master spy...

Or Arya and Brienne start a school for young girls who are interested in learning different things and have teachers who actually develop their talents based on what they are good at instead of being hateful for what they cannot be.

In my opinion, any of these endings is better than 'Arya, world explorer' an empty, nonsensical ending that has no connection to the character's book story and is actually contemptuous of the suffering and trauma this child has been through over several books. Meet new people and learn new languages? What do these folks think Arya has been doing so far? The girl's been traveling from her second AGoT chapter, meeting countless people. sailed the narrow seas, engaged with new cultures, learned new languages. She's been there, done that.

What's even more ridiculous is that it's Sansa stans who often engage in the oppression olympics of Sansa having suffered the worst, that Sansa 'deserves' Winterfell because she suffered the most abuse, that the only ending that makes sense for Sansa is being back in Winterfell because she suffered so much etc. And yet according to these very same folks, Sansa is going to roll up her sleeves and tirelessly work to lead the people of the North, while Arya is going on a cruise ship vacation and vlog about the new cuisine she is trying out...Hey, maybe after having suffered the most of ALL characters in the series, maybe it's Sansa who deserves the cruise ship vacation, you know?

We have the author himself saying that Arya's harrowing experiences and journey through Westeros and Essos has aged her up so much that he considers the character older than some of the 40 year olds in the books! And yet there are still people harping on and on about tourist Arya ffs.

I personally think Arya will be in Winterfell at the end of the books, either helping her younger brothers Bran/Rickon lead the North or more probably as a leader in her own right.

Arya is a central character in the series, the female character with the most POV chapters. There's no way GRRM has one of his lead female characters end up playing a supporting role in her brothers or sister's story. No way.

The author has given her the character development in the books to lead the North. She has a hulking huge grey direwolf at her side - the sigil of house Stark. She is the lone Stark who has the Stark look. Her direwolf is named after the first Dornish princess who changed female inheritance in Dorne - a big clue for a character who has chafed against patriarchal restrictions on what women can and cannot do. I mean this is how we are introduced to Arya Stark in her very first AGoT chapter:

“The Lannisters are proud,” Jon observed. “You’d think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother’s House equal in honor to the king’s.”

“The woman is important too!” Arya protested. - Arya, AGoT

It's clear to me that her arc is heading towards her being the first Lady of Winterfell/Wardeness of the North, nicely bookending her arc which started with her wanting the woman to be as important as the man, arguing for equality when it comes to their house. That's how organic story telling and building a narrative actually works.

I am aware of the principal Internet forums about A Song of Ice and Fire and I really used to look at the American and English groups. Nowadays, the most important site is Westeros, but I started to feel uncomfortable and I thought it would be a better idea not to get to these sides. The fans use to come up with theories; lots of them are just speculative but some of them are in the right way. Before the Internet, one reader could guess the ending you wanna do for your novel, but the other 10.000 wouldn’t know anything and they would be surprised. However, now, those 10.000 people use the Internet and read the right theories. They say: “Oh God, the butler did it!”, to use an example of a mystery novel. Then, you think: “I have to change the ending! The maiden would be the criminal!” To my mind that way is a disaster because if you are doing well you work, the books are full of clues that point to the butler doing it and help you to figure up the butler did it, but if you change the ending to point the maiden, the clues make no sense anymore; they are wrong or are lies, and I am not a liar. - GRRM

[mariacallous]

Every generation gets the King Lear it deserves. Kenneth Branagh, who stars in a precipitate production that recently opened at the Shed, has given us an Ozempic-thin rendition of Shakespeare’s sprawling tragedy, one that privileges aerodynamic efficiency over depth. At the heart of this staging—directed by Branagh, Rob Ashford, and Lucy Skilbeck—is the strikingly hale actor, who struggles to embody “a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less.” In a recent interview, Branagh said that “the starting point for this new version was to have an emotional immediacy, to have youth and the impatience of youth at the center of things.” He could have been describing the buzzy new Broadway run of Romeo + Juliet, which boasts a clubby aesthetic and features a constellation of spirited stars. To underscore youth in Lear, though, is to look through the wrong end of the telescope. Its last lines, as spoken by Edgar, are a paean to “the oldest,” who “hath borne most.”

The current show, presented by the Shed, KBTC, and Fiery Angel, transports us to a Neolithic Britain sparsely populated by fur-clad characters wielding spears. Designed by Jon Bausor, the set features massive slabs of stone that link up in a semicircle and calve apart, while a circular screen (or is it a lidless eye?) hovers above the stage, displaying swirling galaxies, star systems, and planets. Ironically for a play presided over by a vaguely celestial donut, the script’s commerce with the supernatural is downplayed: in his fury, Lear does not call upon “Hecate and the night” or invoke “the operation of the orbs.” The Game of Thrones–like costumes may be period-appropriate but are something of a liability: on the day I was in the audience, the actors’ fur coats seemed to occasionally muffle their microphones, resulting in uneven sound quality. So much for Dolby Atmos’s immersive audio technology.

The greatest handicap, however, is not the youth-centric vision or the spotty sound but the cuts to the text. A director who makes drastic reductions to a Shakespeare play should be prepared to compensate for the elisions through gestural or subverbal means. Unfortunately, that never happens in this production, which is reduced to two intermission-less, complexity-killing hours. The opening scene bypasses the original prologue—which helpfully adumbrates many of the play’s central themes—and leaps directly to Lear commanding his three daughters to take turns professing their love for him. Regan’s (Saffron Coomber) overture is reduced by half, rendering her protestations of adoration less fulsome, more Cordelia-like in their brevity. Gone too are the youngest daughter’s asides: in the original, Cordelia ruminates that “I am sure my love’s more ponderous than my tongue.” Absent such internal quibbles, here she verges on mere tactlessness. Any sympathy one may feel for Lear’s favored child is bullied into us by prior acquaintance with the story—not by Jessica Revell’s by-the-book performance. Omissions accrue apace. Where lines are not redacted, they are, in many cases, reordered, misappropriated by different speakers, or unwisely edited so they are leached of Shakespeare’s unusual imagery. Thus—in a subplot about a nobleman in Lear’s court and his two sons, Edgar and the bastard Edmund—instead of lamenting that Edmund “did bewray [Edgar’s] practice,” the Earl of Gloucester (Joseph Kloska) tonelessly utters, “He did expose the evil.” The result is a kind of poetic vitiligo.

A treasonous letter, allegedly written by Edgar (Doug Colling), in which he plots to overthrow his father, is read silently rather than aloud, depriving the audience of a greater sense of Edmund’s villainy. The “bastard” (Dylan Corbett-Bader) is more of a brute than an Iago-like schemer; he doesn’t offer his father the chance to obtain “auricular assurance” of Edgar’s disloyalty and is overly hasty in assenting to Gloucester’s negative impression of his brother. Lear’s eldest daughter, Goneril (Deborah Alli), and his second, Regan, are even less realized and fatally fungible in their lust for Edmund.

With other productions of Lear, it has often crossed my mind that the tragedy of the tale is raveled up in the notion that one’s children are biological prostheses of oneself. When Lear deputizes Regan and Goneril as his “guardians” and “depositaries,” he scarcely expects them to defy his requests for superfluities. Whether out of benignant paternalism or not-so-benign blindness, he anticipates that they will gladly countenance all his desires, no matter how reasonable. What accounts for the harshness of his subsequent pronouncements—Lear calls upon Nature to dry up Goneril’s “organs of increase” and “into her womb convey sterility”—has partly to do with the terrible realization that his daughters have their own spheres of existence. The interpretation only tenuously applies to this British import.

Throughout, Branagh and his codirectors have prioritized action over interiority, and the pacing intensifies the feeling of hollowness at the show’s core. When Branagh’s Lear curses Regan and Goneril for having the temerity to ask him to reduce his retinue by fifty men, then seventy-five men, his feelings come not from the marrow of his bones but from pique. “Reason not the need,” the king chastises his daughters, yet his need, especially in the context of this austere production (Lear’s train of rowdy men is as notional as the play’s deluges and “hurricanoes”), comes across more as greed. The scene on the stormy heath—which ought to be a showcase for Lear’s headlong descent into lunacy—fails to strike the right note of pathos. A platform at the center of the stage tilts up at an acute angle for Lear’s meltdown in the maelstrom (the same platform is later used for the Dover cliff episode), but rather than evoking an “extreme verge,” the awkwardly inclined surface recalls a utilitarian loading dock. Equally prosaic, this Lear never calls on thunderbolts to “singe my white head,” but does suffer from some ill-timed aneurysms.

An excellent comedic actor, Branagh is fitfully compelling in his declamations. A lighthearted tone too often prevails where gravity should; the moment when Lear meets a raving Poor Tom and asks him, “Didst thou give all to thy daughters?” should not elicit a big laugh from the audience. On more than one occasion, Branagh’s Lear is fogged by a forgetfulness redolent of Lockhart, the milk-livered professor the actor played in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Even in his final moments, as he cradles Cordelia’s lifeless body, his presentation feels frustratingly recitational, a mere quotation of more lived-in performances. To quote a line originally spoken by Regan and excised from this mutilated play, this Lear “hath ever but slenderly known himself.”

[drakaripykiros130ac]

Ok, this has to be said:

I have seen a couple of posts from desperate TG stans who are trying their hardest to find a “win” for them in GRRM’s world. Since their last greenie Jaehaera also dies, they figure that they somehow “win” through two fruitful marriages: between Aegon III and Daenaera, and the one between Rhaena and that Hightower boy.

1. According to their logic, Daenaera is Vaemond’s granddaughter, and as such that means that Daemon’s enemy (and according to them, a TG member) gets his blood on the throne.

First and foremost, Daenaera (unlike Jaehaera with Otto) has no connection to her grandfather whatsoever. She barely has a connection with her own parents. She was married to Aegon when she was six and before that, she was Baela’s ward. She is a beautiful Velaryon girl and has a successful marriage with Aegon. The Targaryens and the Velaryons are Valyrian and kin. Certain disagreements which may have happened before and during the Dance don’t change all that.

Secondly, Vaemond’s bloodline on the Iron Throne dies out with his great grandson, Baelor. That’s hardly a win.

Thirdly, Vaemond was never TG. He was not even Team Velaryon. He was Team Vaemond. Just because he got along with Otto before he died (for his own personal advantage - nothing more) and before the war started, doesn’t make him TG. Because if this is the case, we might also put Harwin, Aemma and Laena in TB. I find it ridiculous how certain people put characters who died way before the war started in either camp.

And I don’t understand the big hype greenies have for Vaemond. I guess it is simply because of the way he insulted Rhaenyra. They would like any character who hurts that girl.

Vaemond is pathetic, weak, greedy and cowardly. He was an embarrassment to House Velaryon (Corlys and Rhaenys both knew it). Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey deserved to be part of House Velaryon more than he did.

2. Now let’s move on to Rhaena’s marriages.

When she first had a choice of husband, she chose Corwyn Corbray, a valeman and a Team Black member. She clearly had no intention to “spite” her father, Daemon. She chose a good man with whom she had a good marriage. Unfortunately, he was killed in the Arryn succession crisis.

Rhaena somehow ended up marrying the young Hightower boy and they had a couple of nameless and insignificant daughters. Not much is known about Rhaena’s second marriage and her children have absolutely no connection to the throne whatsoever, nor do we know anything about them.

So…Vaemond’s (who is not TG) bloodline only temporarily sits the throne, and Rhaena’s children with the Hightower are nameless and insignificant.

Rhaenyra and Daemon’s bloodline continues all the way to Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow.

Where exactly is the “win” for TG? There is none. And they really need to let it go. It’s embarrassing.

[gerlionrise]

 Reign of the Heart P1

Pairing: Jon Snow x Reader (female character) Synopsis: In a realm where duty binds hearts and crowns weigh heavy, a fragile alliance transforms into something far more powerful. Amid battles, secrets, and an unyielding desire for a better future, love may prove the most formidable force of all. But can passion thrive in the shadow of the Iron Throne?   AN: Please note that this story is a work of fiction set in the world of «A Song of Ice and Fire», but it does not adhere strictly to the canon of Game of Thrones. I have created original characters and changed certain family names, titles, and locations to fit the narrative. While inspired by the world George R.R. Martin has built, the names and events in this story are not meant to represent the original characters or lore. This is simply a new adventure within a beloved universe. Enjoy! PART 1

Fire Beneath the Frost

The marriage had been forged in duty, not affection. You and Jon Snow were as mismatched as two could be—he, the brooding king of the Seven Kingdoms, reluctant to rule or to wed, and you, the daughter of a slain lord, chosen by the council for your unassuming position and northern roots.  

The union was meant to be a symbol of unity, but within the cold stone walls of the Red Keep, it felt more like a battlefield.  

Jon had grown accustomed to the solitude of leadership, to silence and sacrifice. You, on the other hand, had always spoken your mind, unwilling to shrink in the presence of his brooding glares or sharp words. From the moment vows were exchanged, it was clear that you and Jon Snow would not easily find peace in each other’s company.  

---

The days were marked by arguments.  

“You can’t just make decisions without consulting me,” you snapped one morning in the council chamber.  

Jon looked up from the table, his dark eyes narrowing. “I am the king.”  

“And I am your queen,” you shot back. “Or does that title mean nothing?”  

The council members exchanged awkward glances, clearly uncomfortable with the tension between their king and queen. Tyrion Lannister cleared his throat, attempting to diffuse the situation. “Perhaps we should reconvene later—”  

“No,” Jon interrupted, his gaze locked on you. “This matter is settled.”  

You glared at him, fury burning in your chest, but you held your tongue. Storming out of the chamber would only give him the satisfaction of thinking he had won.  

---  

The evenings were no better.  

Jon rarely shared the royal chambers, retreating instead to his study or the training yard. On the nights when he did return, the air between you crackled with unspoken resentment.  

“You could at least try to act like a husband,” you said one night as he entered the room, his cloak still dusted with the dirt of the training yard.  

Jon paused, his expression hard. “And you could try to act like a queen instead of questioning my every decision.”  

Your jaw tightened, but you refused to let him see how deeply his words stung. “If you didn’t treat me like a figurehead, perhaps I wouldn’t have to.”  

His silence was more cutting than any argument, and when he turned away without another word, you felt both anger and a pang of something else—something you refused to name.  

---  

The tension came to a head one evening at a feast. The hall was filled with the sound of laughter and the clinking of goblets as lords and ladies from across the realm gathered to celebrate a successful harvest. You sat at Jon’s side, your expression carefully neutral as you endured another evening of strained civility.  

But then, Lord Harrick, a southern noble with a charming smile and a penchant for flattery, leaned toward you.  

“My queen,” Harrick said, his voice low and smooth, “you are as radiant as the moonlight itself. Truly, the North does not deserve such beauty.”  

You smiled politely, though his words were overly familiar. “The North has its charms, my lord. It is not so undeserving as you might think.”  

Jon, seated beside you, stiffened. His jaw clenched, and his hand gripped his goblet tightly.  

Harrick, oblivious to the king’s darkening mood, continued. “Perhaps you might grace me with a dance later, Your Grace? It would be an honor.”  

Before you could respond, Jon’s voice cut through the conversation like a blade. “My wife does not dance.”  

Harrick blinked, startled by the king’s sharp tone. “I meant no offense, Your Grace. It was merely a—”  

“She will not dance,” Jon said firmly, his gaze locking on yours.  

You bristled at his tone, the possessiveness in his voice igniting a spark of defiance. “I can speak for myself,” you said, your voice steady but pointed.  

Jon turned to you, his expression thunderous. “You are my wife,” he said quietly, his voice laced with warning. “You will not flirt with other men.”  

“I wasn’t flirting,” you shot back, your anger flaring. “And even if I were, it’s none of your concern.”

Jon rose from his seat, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The hall fell silent, the tension between you palpable.  

“Come with me,” Jon said, his tone leaving no room for argument.  

You hesitated, your pride urging you to refuse, but the weight of the room’s stares pressed on you. Reluctantly, you stood and followed him out of the hall, your anger simmering just beneath the surface.  

---  

The moment the door to the royal chambers closed behind you, the argument erupted.  

“You had no right to speak to me like that in front of everyone,” you said, your voice sharp with anger.  

“And you had no right to entertain that lord’s advances,” Jon retorted, his eyes blazing.  

“He was being polite,” you said, throwing your hands. “You’re the one who turned it into a scene.”  

Jon stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “He was flirting with you,” he said, his voice low and accusing. “And you let him.”  

“So what if he was?” you snapped, your defiance flaring. “At least he pays me some attention, which is more than I can say for you.”  

Jon’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “Again, you are my wife,” he said, his voice heavy with possession. “Do you even understand what that means?”  

You glared at him, your chest heaving with anger. “Yes, it means being ignored, dismissed, and treated like an inconvenience.”  

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with tension. Then Jon’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist—not harshly, but firmly enough to command your attention.  

“You make it hard for me,” he said, his voice rough with frustration. “Every word you say, every look you give me—it’s like a fire I can’t put out.”  

Your breath caught, the unexpected vulnerability in his words momentarily disarming you. But you quickly masked your surprise with anger. “Then perhaps you should have married someone else,” you said coldly, pulling your wrist from his grasp.  

Jon stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the chamber.  

---  

That night, you lay awake, the weight of his words pressing on you. You had fought with Jon countless times before, but this argument felt different—more personal, more raw. His admission echoed in your mind, stirring something you couldn’t quite name.  

But even as your thoughts churned, you refused to let your resolve falter. Jon Snow might be your husband, but you would not let him control you. If he wanted your respect, he would have to earn it.  

In the silence of the royal chambers, the unspoken tension between you lingered, a fire smoldering beneath the frost.

[la-pheacienne]

It is certainly true that the show has done a lot to force an unbearable climate onto the remaining book fans, but on the other hand you could also wonder - why is such a large part of this remaining book fandom so hell-bent on fanatically supporting the most stupid, toxic ideas we have seen the show to embrace? I would say as stupid as these plot points were, few of the basic, broad ideas Dave and Dan went for were really things they made up all on their own. Mad Queen theories, the distorted view of so many characters like Arya and so on, these all were echoing things a lot of book fans (the type of milieu many of the people in charge of HBO's output were bred in) always WANTED the story and the characters and their trajectory to be, regardless how well founded these wishes matched the actual text.

The show was echoing bad fanon rooted in the book scene more or less from the beginning, you can trace it directly to how some characters were presented and castings were chosen right from the start. That's also why if you listen more closely to so many of the less bearable people in the book scene, the REAL problem so many of them had with the ideas of the latter parts of the show was that it was done in such a way that the public thought it was trash and didn't accept it. The whole agenda of them is now hoping for the books to emerge as some better written version of the show that finally will convince them all that this worthless trash story that is ironically only loved and wanted by these people alone is actually the correct version of it and its characters everyone should finally accept and digest. As ridiculous as the show was, ironically the most ridiculous parts of it were in truth clumsily made fan service for the worst sentiments that were peddled by and nurtured within the book fandom.

Oh, for sure. Thank you for this ask because you have put into words something that has been turning in my head for a long time.

the REAL problem so many of them had with the ideas of the latter parts of the show was that it was done in such a way that the public thought it was trash and didn't accept it.

After almost a year on tumblr and observing the book fandom and reading the BNFs' metas and theories and fanons and briefly delving into reddit and twitter god forbid, I have to say that I agree with you. I can't say how it was in the past though, I wasn't here. But I am afraid it is exactly as you say it is. I mean, Dany's arc from a hero to a fallen hero to a villain because *she watched her abusive brother die without an emotional reaction, psychopath!*, Jon just randomly exiled beyond the Wall because *subverting expectations*, none of them becoming King/Queen of the Seven Kingdoms/KINT, not even BRIEFLY, not even during the War for the Dawn (ok Jon did), because *throne bAAAAD*, *they're not heroes no one can fix Westeros*, *monarchy bAAAAD*, *subverting expectations*, Sansa getting girlbossified because *subverting expectations*, all of these points that ****supposedly*** sucked in GoT, are the exact same theories shared by a very big and very loud part of the BNF here, if not the majority.

So, what exactly is the internet fandom's problem with the show? Is there any? I literally can't see it, except that it was done too quickly and thus made these stupid theories appear even more stupid than they initially were. I've seen a LOT of posts saying like "oh you should stop wishing for your fav to get the throne, no one will get the throne and no one is 'in the right' (especially in the fire and blood discourse), no one 'deserves' it, the throne will crush and burn, the show has done so much damage to the fandom pitting favs against each other for the throne" etc etc, but that's so funny to me because what they say will happen in the books is literally what happened in the show, at least roughly, and their vibe was the vibe of a huge part, if not the majority, of the show fandom. This super annoying nihilism that I see in (book) BNF right now is the exact.same.nihilism I remember from the show fandom. The exact same one, but with a faux-feminist rosey Stansa touch. That's it. From the "Your heros will not get the throne, losers, Littlefinger will kill them all and prevail, the end" show-only dudebro rationale we went to the "oh nobody can fix Westeros, Dany and Jon will sacrifice themselves (best case, worst case Dany will get all psycho like her daddy and bros), monarchy Targs BAD, Targ feudal system BAD, fuck the Targ lords, team small folk, only coincidentally my fav bbgrl Sansa will actually end up in a conventional and strictly feudal position of power uwu, the end". The common denominator? Nihilism and this obsession for subverting expectations. This parallel is even funnier with hotd, where the show's most non-sensical, straight up delulu plot points are whole-heartedly embraced by, again, a big and very loud part of the BNF (probably the majority). This time the concordance is direct and not even denied, and it's embarrassing when I see their half-ass attempts at criticizing the show, because they literally can't. They actually love it and it's so obvious.

So to get to your point, there are two possibilities here: either the show's nihilistic, faux-edgy, shock value-based direction irrevocably transformed the book fandom, or the book fandom was already in that mindset and the show was based on that and it could very well be the latter.