#lance is death au

[ethereance]

Au where Lance is "secretly" the Grim Reaper (it could be either like Lance being very obvious about it but everyone thinking he's a theatre goth nerd until the very end where he reveals himself, Or it being kinda like Pidge situation where Lance thinks he is hiding it very well but everyone in the team (save for one person) knows it and go, "well he doesn't seem like he wants to hurt us and besides it might be helpful to have Personification of fucking Death itself on our side")

(I think the reason behind it is that Voltron's reawakening is destined to bring a lot of death and new beginnings and he has to be there to see it all through. Besides Zarkon and Honerva have been running away from him for far too long)

Ooooo, cooking up an intriguing au there anon!! It’s food for thought. Lance being literal Death would certainly change things. The plot, him as a person (how much of him is a mask, a role, how much is genuine?)

-A big part of his homesickness for Earth stems from his family. Being Death—do these people still exist? Are they simply souls now of those who passed long ago (souls he still can communicate with being death and all). How did he become Death? Did he always exist as Death from the very beginning, or is it a role passed down through his family, randomly appointed, did the OG Death make Lance take on his duties for a deal to bring someone back—did Lance lose someone like one of his family members? Was Lance his original name, a name he goes by when he’s faking human? Is Death a separate entity that fuses itself to people and forces them into this position? Are his canon family just random people he inserted himself into the lives of in an attempt to feel normal? Reincarnations of people he’s cared about in the past? Do other reapers exist to collect other souls when Lance is preoccupied? Does he send out projections of himself to do that? Did he not mean to become a human, somehow bound to his human form (and souls are stuck as ghosts, unable to move on)?

-Is he Death for everywhere? Are there Deaths for different planets and cultures? One person from every planet has an assigned soul made into Death?

-If you go the route of being super old ™ what draws him to the garrison? Does he still have those dreams of being a pilot? And this is him enjoying what spare time he has with a hobby, of seeing how far humanity has come with going to space, of living a dream maybe he once had? Is he there on a dare? Did he join because of what happened with Shiro—didn’t sense his death—and felt something big was afoot? Or what you said about Voltron’s reawakening drawing him there? Or is it all coincidental? Did he know Blue was nearby but it wasn’t yet time? Has he bumped into Keith around the cave?

-Lance could be homesick for another time, another place (his dynamic with Coran would intrigue me in this sense). Also, if he was older, his level of maturity would be different. Not personality altering—this is still Lance, he’s still gotta have his playfulness—but in his eyes he’s Death in space with a bunch of kids causing chaos. Some holiday, right?

-Being Death—maybe Melenor, or the part of Alfor’s soul that isn’t with Haggar, is tied to the castle of lions still. Either parent would want to watch over Allura, and wouldn’t feel ready to move on without that. Maybe it’s that determination that keeps them from losing sense of self.

-Or maybe there’s no ghost and he mentions off hand about their current incarnation. Maybe Allura asks to see them again—and she knows it’s not them but. Are they happy?

-Maybe he knows other worldly entities like Bob. Just imagining beings like them having semi-regular meetings in their sleep on an other plane of existence. Lance shows up in full paladin armour and the others are like ‘what did you do this time?’

-He would be extremely confused at Shiro’s death in s2. He can sense he’s departed from this world, but where’s the soul to collect??? It’s gone. Poof. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s still not yet his time. When Clone Shiro shows up, he knows he’s different, but where’s the original soul? Something is blocking him.

-Zarkon has met Death before. When he tried to collect him. But his soul was elsewhere, and what was left of him was clinging on, tainted. There’s a strange familiarity when he encounters Lance.

-Lance just having. So much beef with Zarkon and Honerva. He doesn’t really want them in his domain, but they’re annoying him. Can’t they just die already?

-Shiro has a morbid sense of humour to cope ™. Lance offers him a high five every time.

-Lance says that ordinarily he’d feel like Shiro not crossing over was cheating the system (and Keith instantly had to ask if he was planning on taking him back) but Haggar’s the big fish. There’s more to worry about. So stick it to the system for once.

-He lets Keith and Krolia see Keith Dad one more time in a shared dream. It’s all he can do. But Keith appreciates it.

-Lance’s body is human but he is Death and therefore cannot die in the same way others do as Death is eternal. Catch him being a little reckless with his life in the eyes of others.

As for the reveal:

-Him just. Not hiding it. And all these things being ‘just Lance’ things.

-‘I am Death.’ Will get mistaken for ‘deaf.’ Hunk started learning ASL for him.

-Hunk: “We’re all gonna die!!” Lance pulling out a sand timer out of nowhere as he’s trying to be encouraging: “Not yet you’re not.”

-they bump into some alien who just. Sees him and knows. Instantly. “No!! I’m not ready!!! Don’t take me!! I can’t die yet!” Pidge, rolling her eyes “Lance have you been scaring the locals?”

-Has met many celebrities upon collecting their souls. No one believes him.

-Often after battles no one can find him for a while. He’s helping out the departed.

-No one picks up on this because why would they? Lance being Death simply never crosses their minds. He’s not exactly what you’d thinking of when you say grim reaper. Where’s the grim? He’s too. Well. Lance.

-And then it happens. Maybe they get some undeniable evidence, maybe it’s because of the Shiro situation. I don’t know. *Insert however you imagine it going down here anon*.

-On one hand it’s Lance and ‘what the heck do you mean you’re literal death’, on the other, to them at this point why not. Pidge is a girl, Keith’s part galra, Shiro’s a clone, Lance is death, sure. Okay. They’ve seen it all. Hunk it’s your turn to share, what’s your secret?

-And he just shrugs and says he wasn’t hiding it.

-At least Hunk’s ASL came in handy as a skill

-BUUUT if you go with your other option. Of no one knowing.

-Identity shenanigans are always fun

-Coran confronts him about the scan he took of all the paladins to understand more about their physiology. There is something off about them. And whoops he tried his best with a human body but you do miss some things. He just laughs and says he’s built different. A+++ save.

-Blue knows and therefore all the lions end up knowing

-Allura learns through the mice (though at first she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Because Lance??) They’re her information network.

-The biggest slip up is through the paladin bonding exercise wherein they connect minds. For a second—his family look like skeletons.

-His bayard turns into a scythe which he glares at until it becomes a rifle. It’s not like he’s used a scythe in years. He much prefers being a sharpshooter.

-Shiro goes in s2 and Keith immediately tells Lance to bring him back. And he’s all what??? And Keith goes ‘I know you’re Death. If he’s gone, bring him back!!’ ‘It doesn’t work like—how do you know I’m Death?’ Queue everyone realising that everyone knew. Like it was some big open secret.

[jiveyuncle]

Keith cringes at the hiss of the bedroom door sliding open and the unforgiving hall light racing in to fill the darkness. Still, Lance doesn't stir from where he lays sprawled out across the mattress, hair mussed in the pillow and foot hanging off the edge. Keith feels a twinge of guilt at encroaching on his space as he slides his jacket off to hang on the coat rack next to Lance's.

It's not that Keith isn't welcome here - he knows he is. This little back and forth pattern of theirs has been going on long enough that these motions should be as easy as sliding into his own bed, but it's not. Instead, it makes his heart ache just that little bit more, makes the pit of his stomach open up to swallow his insides and leave him feeling empty even as Lance pushes into his space each time to fill it. Because the problem is Lance is comfortable with Keith. He's comfortable with Keith because he is comfortable with everyone. It's who Lance is. Inviting. Open. Caring. He gives himself freely. And after the first few times of bumping into each other wandering the ship in the middle of the night in hopes of exhausting themselves into sleep, then actually falling asleep on the common room couch next to each other only to wake up with achy necks, Lance started boldly dragging Keith to bed and holding him in place to prevent him from wandering until morning.

“There's no way I'm letting you in bed with your shoes on.” Lance mumbles. A precautionary hand appears from under the sheets and flops down over the blanket to ward off any attempts to climb under them.

Keith lets out a huff of air that's just light enough to be considered a laugh. “I was going to kick them off.”

“No, no. We're civilized. Put them away.” The hand guarding the covers lifts and shoos him towards the wardrobe before dropping lazily.

“I wake up before you. You won't even see them.” Keith argues even as he crosses the room to oblige. The cabinet to the wardrobe cries out in protest as he opens it, and Keith winces, yet again, at any sound that disturbs the peaceful quiet. He makes a mental note to bug Hunk for some oil to grease the noisy hinges. If he's going to start putting his shoes in here, it's going to need to be quieter.

“I tripped over them when I got up to piss last time.”

Keith smiles to himself as he slinks back over, Lance already peeling the sheets back to invite him in. Keith slides down into the space to lie on his back and has to fight the urge to swallow hard when Lance's arm lowers down with the covers over his chest and never draws back away. “You're awake?” he says instead.

Lance hums quietly. “Brain won't shut off. The usual stuff. I was actually thinking about heading your way before you showed up.” Lance peeks an eye open, squinting through the exhaustion in the dim light. “You came in day clothes.”

“Walked a couple laps around the ship first. Didn’t know I was coming over.”

Lance lifts his chin in the hint of a nod before letting his eye fall back shut. “Glad I waited, then.” His fingers tug lightly near the collar of Keith's shirt, fiddling with the fabric in the mindless way he does with anything he can get his hands on - sometimes it's a leaf plucked from foliage as they trek through forested pathways, sometimes it's a pen spinning endlessly between his fingers during long diplomatic negotiations, sometimes it's a spoon that never settles back on his plate even an hour after he's taken his last bite and the conversation is flowing, and other times it's Keith’s shirt or hair or fingers at 3am when neither of them can sleep and whatever tension that is sustained in the daylight slips away.

And, as always, it sends a mixture of unwanted hope and desire through Keith's veins that quickly burns away to leave guilt in its destructive wake.

This habit. This closeness.

It means something different to each of them, and it's getting harder and harder for Keith's heart to remember that.

Keith reaches up to still the moving fingers on his chest, but Lance's unquestioning thumb seamlessly, innocently, agonizingly slips up along the side of his hand to trace over his knuckles instead.

Keith controls his next exhale and tries to ignore the gentle movement, but his mind can’t help supplying a word with each tender pass of a thumb: maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe there’s a chance. Maybe these things don't mean something quite so different to Lance. Maybe, if Keith offers a hand, then warm fingers will be there to take it.

Maybe.

He doesn't move again until Lance's breaths deepen and the soft brushes eventually slow to a stop.

When Keith rises in the morning, he bypasses the squeaky wardrobe, tugs on his jacket, and slides out into the hallway with only his socks to fight off the chill of the castleship floors from seeping into his feet. The warmth of a decision burns in his ribs as Keith settles into his lion 20 minutes later to start the early journey out to pick up a member of the Blade. Red senses the change, and a growl of approval rumbles through their bond, deep and affectionate and proud.

Keith’s mouth twitches up at the corner. He sends back his appreciation.

Dead Keith/Red Paladin Lance AU (Part 4/?)

Too bad he came to that decision a little late. Now, he’s kinda stuck not wanting to initiate something that he can no longer start.

Excited for y’all to spot where little nods to this snippet pop up in future chapters.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

You can now read this on AO3 as:

Empty Spaces You Left Behind

[medicated-death]

1/3 of my klance heartstopper au

Y’all im losing my mind over this like it has consumed me they such goobers

[lewishamiltonstuff]

Idk what part this is 😭 (will update the caption later)

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

My toxic red flag is that everytime I make a post s8 au, Allura always ends up being a woobified poor little meow meow

[areazeromybeloved]

Lance week day 2: Family

“When I was young, Me and my parents would come to this cave draw ourselves to show we were there.”

“W-what happn’ to thm?”

“Well when my sister was just born, my village was under attack by team rocket and my parents came in to fight them off. But the battle killer them both. Leaving me and my sister orphans.”

“So like me?”

“Yes, little Rai, just like you.”

Prompt by @lanceappreciationblog

[mylifeisfruk4ever]

Klance Time Loop Au

Lance dies. Sometimes it's the Galra's fault, sometimes it's his own teammates' fault. But even if there are slight differences in how, the blue paladin always dies. And Keith is the only one who remembers. But he only remembers later, when Lance is dying. Keith vows that next time will be different, but he continues to make mistakes, some more unforgivable than others.

On the twelfth loop, on the way back to Earth, Keith accidentally accesses some videos in the Black Lion. Videos made by him, in the previous loops, and a warning: if this time he doesn't save Lance, the paladin's death will be definitive.

@astralscrivener what do you think of it?

[solaceinthesand]

HEAR ME OUT PLEASE HEAR ME OUT GUYS GUYS PLEASE

i have no idea if it's already been done but vat7k soul eater au. I LOVE AUS I'M SCREAMING

but basically, the idea i have is that varian is a meister and hugo is a weapon. i had the thought that hugo could be some form of gauntlets or mechanical arms (as a reference to the popular headcanon he has a mechanical arm).

on top of this: nuru as a meister and yong as a weapon!!! i was thinking he could be a flamethrower LMAOAOAO (in all seriousness, he'd probably be something else. some sort of firearm though)

and of course for eugene and rapunzel. i was thinking eugene as the meister, and his old weapon partners used to be those two really big guys who i forgot the names of, but he left them for rapunzel. as for her, i was thinking like. a mace almost? a mace (i do not think this is the right word LMAO) attached to a chain with spikes on it that looks like a sun (as a reference to her long as fuck hair and her whole sun thing HAHA)

i have ideas for cassandra and lance (+kiera and catalina) too but i wanna think about those a bit more

[copper-skulls]

some of my doodles on @findmeabowlofundertale 's whiteboard!! was very fun :]

[one-thousand-and-one-fandoms]

Klance AU Idea: Childhood friends + Ghost/haunting

Lance and Keith grew up together and were best of friends. Keith's dad was a firefighter, his mom wasn't in the picture. Lance's dad was a mechanic and his mother a teacher, and he had lots of siblings. Often times Lance's family would babysit Keith, so they constantly had sleepovers and Keith was a beloved honorary member of the McClain household.

When they were ten, a fire broke out in their school. Most kids were evacuated. Lance and Keith got lost. Lance's mom worked as a teacher there but in a different classroom. Keith's dad's brigade was called to put out the fire. Lance was successfully rescued but when Keith's dad grabbed his son, the ceiling gave out and both Keith and his dad couldn't make it out.

The tragedy shook the McClain household so much, that in the summer they moved to a different town/city. Lance had nightmares for years after the fire and developed an accute phobia of it. Keith's name became unmentionable as it would make Lance inconsolable.

Back in his hometown the school continued to operate for a few years until it was relocated due to strange occurrances and accidents. There was a rumor that it was haunted.

Keith woke up in the school one day but didn't remember how he got there. He looked for his pops or Lance or any of the McClains but couldn't find anyone. He wandered back home, but it was dark and empty. He knocked on the McClain's house, but it was also dark and empty. Not knowing what else to do, he walked behind those three places because his pops and Mama McClain always told him that if he got lost, he had to wait at the place where he got lost until they found him.

And so he waited.

Next

[cheemken]

“No one could deviate from that path. Not even Iris herself could deviate from that path.” KNIGHT THIS DAMNED LINE

She is just SO convinced that she’s destined to be someone she’s not. God I love it when the good characters eventually fall into madness

Also, I would like to hear about Iris freezing people and forcing them to tell Diantha and Lance what they’ve said in the past

Imagine Iris threatening their families lives or threading to kill their Pokémon, like having Haxorus or Hydregion hold down that persons Pokémon while getting ready to maul it to death, if they don’t start talking and explain to her parents what part they played in her descent to insanity

Please Iris needs therapy at this point too😭🤣

Homegirl really fucking lost it na and she's there making sure everyone knows it's their fault and just cjdmbd ough™

But like omf yeah can you imagine cbmdbd the Shadow Triad taking them off the Frigate, down with the others, and god everything suddenly felt colder, everything went quiet, and then Iris looks back to the Triad, telling them to watch over Bianca within the Frigate, make sure Hilda and Hilbert won't come back, kill them if they must. And just chdmdb imagine the other Champions being so wary now that Iris is down there with them, B. Kyurem at her side and god imagine how that'd fuck up the rest of the Unova kids tho, that Iris managed to take Zekrom to fuse with Kyurem. And ofc, the Dragon is there glaring down at everyone, waiting for its hero's commands.

Then Iris approaches this man, fighting off Plasma grunts, she calls out Haxorus, pinning down his Krookodile with a snarl, the man was petrified when he saw Iris, and the grunts took it as an opportunity to also grab him, forcing him to kneel before his god. He looks up at her, terrified, pleading for mercy, it make Iris grin. She then crouched down his level, grabbing his jaw as she forced him to look at Lance and Diantha, "you've always been one of the more.. opinionated ones," Iris began, voice almost sounding soft, then she chuckled, "so go ahead, why don't you tell my parents all the bullshit you tell every goddamn person about me." She sneered, her grip on his jaw lowered down to his neck, her hold on him was tight, his vision almost obscured by black spots. His own words caught in his throat, tears fell from his eyes, the words that came out his mouth were pleas of mercy, which did not appeal to Iris. Growling, she grabbed the man and threw him to the ground, stepping hard on the back of his head, slamming his face to the ground, and an unsettling crack rang in their ears.

"tell them!" She growled, ignoring the cries from Lance and Diantha for her to stop, then she crouched down, grabbing him by his hair, forcing him to look up at her parents again, his face was covered in blood. Iris chuckled now, eyes half lidded as she stared at him, "tell them. Tell them every single one of your thoughts about how fucking pathetic I am. Tell them how much you hate their daughter. Tell them, or I'll make sure you watch your Krookodile die a cold and painful death."

And he finally did, as his tears mixed with his blood, he finally spoke about his hatred for Iris, even before she became Champion. Told them about how he thought she was an incompetent Gym Leader, how she was just a child, doesn't matter she was a prodigy. Told them how she doesn't take her job seriously, even tho she really did. Told them about how he thinks she just got lucky to have beaten Alder, it should've been Hilbert that's the Champion. Told them about every spiteful thing he ever thought about Iris, about how he thought she wasn't fit to be Unova's Champion, how he never gave her the respect she deserves, how he never saw her as a Champion, how he wished she could've lost immediately on her first battle as Champion to be replaced with someone he thinks is more competent. He told them how Drayden should've just left her in Blackthorn. He told them everything. He told them how much he hated a child who only wanted what's best for their region.

Imagine how that'd mess up Dia and Lance tho, cause hearing it first hand now, it fucked them up. This man hated Iris from the start, from the time she was still Gym Leader, thinking she was incompetent. How their daughter had to endure this kind of hatred for so long, since she was young, since she was still a twelve year old kid suddenly thrusted into a world where failure to meet expectations would be met with more spiteful words of discouragement from the masses.

And god just cjdmbd imagine Iris throwing him back to the ground, and he's there crying out for mercy, for forgiveness, but Iris looked at him devoid of any emotion, her eyes almost gleaming with an ominous light, she spoke, "kill him." Then she turned to Haxorus, "both of them." And she went back to Lance and Diantha's side, not sparing a glance back at the man, his and his Krookodile's fate sealed by Haxorus' Guillotine.

Imagine her then smiling wryly, "well.. was that enough? Or do you want to hear more? I'm sure there's a lot of them who wants to tell you just how shit I am." She laughed as if it's some sort of twisted joke, not giving them the time to process the way the grunts and Haxorus killed the man and his pokemon, as Iris dragged them somewhere else, making them hear more of just how the people of Unova see her.

[mysticaltwoface]

Why would dark!Jade would be a feared a Ghostface

If she is on a rage beyond her control she would literally drink some of her victim's blood to calm herself and easy her adrenaline

@prettycutepsycho

[jiveyuncle]

Keith never believed he'd have a long life. He always figured he'd die young and that his death would serve some purpose. He'd die taking a hit for a teammate. Or go up in the flames of a violent explosion while dragging a civilian out of a targeted building. Or crashing his ship at Naxzela to prevent an entire system from being incinerated.

Keith was going to die. He was going to die young. His death would mean something.

He thought these things were a given - facts inscribed on the essence of his being - as unavoidable as a dream, programmed into him the way sleep always eventually demanded dragging creatures to realities outside their own.

Keith was reckless, not because he didn't value his own life - that value could be measured by what he did with it and what he could achieve by risking it - but because he valued others’ more. He was reckless because he cared too much - about the success of the mission, about someone left behind, about everything and everyone else - and that caring was going to be what got him killed. His paladin teammates shouted it at him after every rash decision. His blade comrades acknowledged it with approving nods after each close call. He would easily give up his life if his death meant someone else was saved.

So, when he wakes inside Red, blinking his eyes open only to come face to face with himself in the pilot's chair, things don't click right away. It's not that Keith is dead - that part he accepts instantly, understands on some subconscious level in the same inexplicable way the astral plane connects minds and quintessence links paladins to their lions - but it's the how that his brain isn't processing. It's not that he is staring at his own slumped lifeless body, but it is the trusted Blade member he'd been tasked with transporting to a location to disclose the latest intel on Galran troop movements simply dislodging their blade from Keith's neck, tucking the knife away in their armor, walking to the exit, and leaving as if nothing had just happened. It’s Pidge joking into the comms of Keith's helmet, and Lance joking back, completely unaware of the fact that in a moment, without fight, without reason or warning, without some big sacrificial act, Keith just ceased to exist.

It takes them 15 seconds to write off Keith's lack of a response to the joke as him being peeved about being the butt of it.

It takes them 5 minutes before Lance starts offering lighthearted apologies in the form of backhanded compliments.

It takes them 15 minutes to discover that Keith isn't at the meetup location at the time they agreed on and to realize something is actually wrong.

They find Keith's body cold.

There's a lot of panic that feels much too sudden and extreme after drifting through space with his own corpse in the quiet cabin for so long - too many emotions in his friends faces, loud cracking voices, shaking hands.

Lance presses a palm to the gash in Keith's neck and grabs a control arm with the other, begging Red to take them home. He can't feel how cold Keith's skin is through the climate-controlled gloves of his suit, but he has to recognize there is no pulse beneath his fingertips. “If you've ever loved Keith,” he pleads anyway, as if he doesn't already know.

They rush his body out like getting him to a pod will be of any help.

Keith can’t feel his body, but he feels tears on the floor of the cockpit and the vibration of feet down Red's ramp. He doesn’t sense pain, but he tastes his own congealed blood in the chair and, later, the antiseptic Coran returns with.

This is how Keith dies. Quietly. Without purpose. Alive one moment, and then not - wiped away with a cleaning rag beneath clenched fists, secret shuddering breaths, and a mouth whispering his name for the first time alongside words of regret.

Dead Keith/Red Paladin Lance AU (Part 2/?)

The event that set things in motion.

I’ve always wanted a canon story where the main character dies in some anticlimactic way, but I don’t ever see it because I assume it would really anger a fanbase or just feel really dissatisfying. The big question of, “For what reason? What purpose did that death serve?” And the reality is, death doesn’t usually come in the form of sacrifice or to satisfy some narrative. I’m obsessed with the idea of someone so important, a character who has lived through so many close calls just dying in such a simple and unexpected fashion - of dying without anyone knowing. It has to really fuck with Keith’s teammates extra bad - suddenly not knowing who they can trust, wondering any time there’s silence on the comms if one of their other friends just died without them noticing. Them each picking up little habits to signal to the others that they’re okay - Lance humming, Pidge tapping her fingers near the mic, Shiro clearing his throat, Hunk popping his lips. Uhg.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

You can now read this on AO3 as:

Empty Spaces You Left Behind

[theklancecollection]

Not Even Death Can Tear Us Apart - bbazzy

Word Count: 732

Summary: Lance gets turned and the emotional wreck that is Keith has to put him down

Rating: R

[novaursa]

The Wolf Who Challenged Fire

- Summary: A short story where Brandon Stark steals you and starts the Rebellion.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Brandon Stark (The Wild Wolf)

- Note: Lyanna Stark does not exist in this AU.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for the death scenes)

- Next part: extra chapter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The crowd's roar of excitement feels almost suffocating as you sit upon the high dais, a living ornament of regal grace and Targaryen beauty. The silk of your gown, dyed a deep shade of crimson and embroidered with silver thread, glints faintly in the sunlight. Beside you sits your father, King Aerys II, his nails clawing into the armrests of his ornate chair. His pale hair falls in unkempt strands over his shoulder, and his violet eyes dart between the two knights below with a mixture of irritation and suspicion.

Your mother, Queen Rhaella, sits on the other side, her hands trembling as they clutch the edge of her cloak. She looks far too frail to be attending a tourney, her pallor nearly blending into the ivory silk she wears. Her gentle whispers to you earlier—pleas to keep your head down and avoid catching undue attention—linger in your ears.

But avoiding attention has never been your gift, not when your lilac eyes gleam like polished amethysts beneath the sunlight and your hair catches the wind like a cascade of molten silver and gold. The eyes of the realm are always on you, including, it seems, those of Brandon Stark.

You try not to meet his gaze as he sits astride his stallion, his broad shoulders and wolf's-head cloak making him look every bit the Stark heir that he is. Yet, the air crackles with unspoken words as his gray eyes flicker to you once, twice, before shifting back to his opponent: your older brother, Rhaegar.

Rhaegar looks serene, as always, the perfect picture of a prince. His armor is brilliant in the sunlight, polished to perfection, and his hair silver falls in elegant waves. His hands grip the lance as if it were merely an extension of himself. The dragon and the wolf, facing each other on the field, as if the gods themselves had orchestrated this moment.

“Do you see how the Stark boy stares at you, daughter?” Aerys mutters, leaning toward you. His voice is a rasp, low and sharp like a dagger drawn across stone. “He thinks himself worthy of what is mine.”

Your chest tightens, but you do not answer. You know better than to draw your father’s wrath in public, even though your heart hammers with dread at what he might do later. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the jousting field below, willing yourself to stay calm.

“Brandon Stark is a fool,” Aerys continues under his breath, though his tone is low enough that only you can hear. “Like his father. Wolves do not belong in the company of dragons.”

Rhaella shifts uncomfortably beside you, her hand trembling as it rests briefly on yours. A silent plea: endure this.

The herald’s voice rings out, announcing the final tilt. The crowd erupts as Rhaegar and Brandon lower their lances and spur their horses forward.

You grip the armrests of your chair tightly, your breath catching as their steeds charge toward each other. The earth beneath them trembles with the force of their gallop, and your heart clenches as Rhaegar’s lance strikes Brandon’s shield with a deafening crack. But Brandon’s aim is truer. His lance collides with Rhaegar’s chest plate, shattering upon impact and sending your brother tumbling from his horse.

The crowd gasps. You shoot to your feet, your hands clenching the edge of your seat.

“Rhaegar!” you call, fear lacing your voice.

Rhaegar moves almost immediately, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace but no visible injury. Relief floods you as he raises a hand to signal his well-being, and the crowd erupts into cheers.

Brandon wheels his horse around, his expression victorious yet restrained. He dismounts smoothly, handing off his shattered lance and accepting the victor’s crown from the herald. It is a wreath of blue roses, the color vibrant and fresh against the dusty field.

You expect him to crown his betrothed, Lady Catelyn Tully, seated among the northern contingent. But he does not. Instead, Brandon mounts his horse once more, his wolf’s-head cloak billowing behind him as he rides toward the royal dais.

The murmurs in the crowd swell into a crescendo of astonishment as Brandon halts directly before you. His steel-gray eyes meet yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“My queen of love and beauty,” he declares, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out and places the crown of blue roses in your lap.

Your heart stops. The world around you seems to blur as the enormity of what he’s done settles over you. This is no simple act of admiration—it is a public claim, a defiance of the natural order. He has passed over his betrothed, and he has chosen you.

“Brandon, no,” you whisper under your breath, your voice barely audible. But it is too late.

Beside you, Aerys stiffens. His nails dig into the armrest, and his eyes narrow with barely-contained fury. “He dares,” he hisses, so quietly that only you and Rhaella can hear. “That wolf dares.”

Rhaella’s trembling hand grips yours tightly, silently urging you to keep your composure. Across the field, you see Lord Rickard Stark rise from his seat, his face pale and drawn. He descends the stairs quickly, presumably to speak with his son in private. But the damage is already done. The crown in your lap feels like a brand, scorching you with the weight of its implications.

Brandon inclines his head slightly, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips as he turns his horse and rides away.

The crowd erupts into cheers once more, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own pounding heart. You glance at Rhaegar, who has remounted his horse. His expression is unreadable, though his gaze flickers to you briefly before he turns his attention back to the field.

Aerys leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. “He has signed his death warrant,” he mutters, his voice laced with venom. “And his father’s. I will see to it.”

You swallow hard, your hands trembling as you clutch the blue roses in your lap. Brandon Stark’s defiance may have ignited the spark, but it is your father’s madness that will set the realm aflame.

Brandon barely dismounts his horse before his father, Lord Rickard Stark, strides toward him with long, purposeful steps. His cloak of gray wool lined with dark fur trailing behind him, and his expression is as cold as the snow of his homeland. The crowd’s cheers fade into a dull hum as Rickard seizes Brandon by the arm, his grip firm but not violent, and pulls him toward a quieter corner behind the pavilion.

“What were you thinking, boy?” Rickard’s voice is low but cutting, the tone that always made Brandon feel like a chastised pup.

Brandon shrugs off his father’s grip, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding. “I was thinking of her,” he says simply, his voice steady but firm. “Y/N deserves better than to be caged in King’s Landing, surrounded by her father’s madness. She deserves—”

Rickard cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “You crowned a Targaryen princess as Queen of Love and Beauty in full view of the court and her father, the Mad King! Do you realize what you’ve done? This isn’t the North, Brandon. Down here, every word, every gesture is a weapon.”

Brandon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “You think I don’t know that? I don’t care. I won today, Father. Me, not Rhaegar. And when I saw her sitting there, looking like something out of a song, I knew I couldn’t let it pass. She’s more than just a Targaryen—she’s the woman I—”

Rickard raises a hand, his eyes darkening. “Don’t finish that sentence. Not here. Not now.” He glances around, his instincts honed from years of navigating court politics. “You may have won the tilt, but you’ve dragged our house into dangerous waters. Aerys won’t forget this, nor will Rhaegar.”

Brandon smirks, a flash of his wolfish grin showing. “Let Aerys stew in his madness. And as for Rhaegar—he knows he’s lost her. That’s why he tilted against me so fiercely.”

Rickard’s expression softens slightly, a glimmer of concern breaking through his stern facade. “Brandon, this isn’t just about her. It’s about the North, about our family. You’ve made enemies today, powerful ones. And you’ve slighted Catelyn Tully in the process. Have you thought of that?”

The mention of Catelyn makes Brandon’s grin fade. He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “I didn’t mean to dishonor her. But I can’t pretend to love someone I barely know, not when—” He hesitates, lowering his voice. “Not when my heart belongs to Y/N.”

Rickard steps closer, lowering his voice as well. “And do you think Aerys will simply allow you to take her? That he’ll overlook what you’ve done today? The man burned his own courtiers for less, Brandon. He’s mad, yes, but not stupid. He’ll see this as a challenge to his power.”

Brandon’s defiance wavers for a moment, the weight of his father’s words sinking in. “Then what should I have done? Sit back and let Rhaegar crown her? Let her be his, or worse, left to wither in her father’s shadow?”

Rickard exhales heavily, his hand briefly resting on Brandon’s shoulder. “I know you think you’re protecting her, but you’ve made things more dangerous for her, for all of us. The court is a viper’s nest, and you’ve kicked it. Now we’ll all feel the venom.”

Brandon’s eyes harden again, his stubbornness flaring up. “I’d face a hundred vipers for her. You know that.”

Rickard studies his son for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “You’ve always been headstrong, Brandon. Too much like your mother. But headstrong doesn’t win wars, and make no mistake—war is what you’ve invited today.”

“I’ll face it,” Brandon says, his voice steady. “I’ll face whatever comes. For her.”

Rickard doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps back, his gaze shifting toward the royal dais, where King Aerys still sits, his expression unreadable but his violet eyes burning with something dangerous. The old wolf’s instincts scream at him to act, to salvage what he can before it’s too late.

“Come,” Rickard says finally, his voice quieter now. “We need to leave this place before more damage is done.”

Brandon hesitates, his gaze flickering back toward the dais. Your lilac eyes meet his for a brief moment, filled with worry and something unspoken. He nods slightly, a silent promise passing between you.

Rickard notices the exchange and sighs. “The heart of a wolf will always defy reason,” he mutters under his breath. “Let’s pray it doesn’t cost us all.”

With that, he steers his son away from the pavilion, the blue roses in your lap the only lingering reminder of what Brandon Stark has done.

The night is heavy with the lingering scents of spilled ale and crushed flowers, the din of the tourney fading as lords and ladies retreat to their pavilions. You walk alone through the dimly lit garden adjoining Harrenhal’s grand hall, your heart pounding in your chest as you glance over your shoulder. The festival atmosphere still hums faintly in the distance, but here, surrounded by ancient stone walls and shadowed paths, the air is hushed, conspiratorial.

The blue roses Brandon placed in your lap earlier remain tucked into the crook of your arm, their delicate petals bruised from your grip. You press deeper into the garden, past hedges and fountains, until you reach a secluded alcove where the lanterns do not reach. The moonlight filters through the overhanging branches, casting silvery shadows on the ground. You wait, the stillness broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant murmurs of drunken revelers.

“Y/N.”

The voice is low but unmistakable. You turn swiftly to find him emerging from the shadows, his wolf’s-head cloak blending into the darkness. Brandon moves with a predatory grace, his broad shoulders framed by the dim light as he approaches. There is no hesitation in his stride, no hint of regret in his eyes, only determination.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper, though your voice lacks conviction. “If anyone sees us—”

“They won’t,” he interrupts, his voice steady but fierce. He steps closer, his gray eyes locking onto yours. “I couldn’t leave without seeing you.”

The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch, but you quickly avert your eyes, clutching the roses tighter. “Brandon, do you have any idea what you’ve done? My father—he’s furious. He didn’t say much, but I could see it in his eyes. He’s plotting something. And Rhaegar—” You pause, your voice trembling. “Rhaegar won’t forget this insult.”

Brandon reaches out, his hand brushing against yours, his touch warm despite the chill of the night. “Let him plot. Let Rhaegar brood. None of it matters.”

You shake your head, stepping back from him even as your heart aches to stay close. “It does matter. You’ve put yourself—and your family—in danger. My father is mad, Brandon. Truly mad. He’s burned men alive for less than what you did today.”

“I’d do it again,” he says without hesitation. “A hundred times over. I won that tilt, and I wasn’t about to hand that crown to anyone else. You deserve better than this—better than being paraded around as some prize in a mad king’s court.”

“Better than being the reason your father and brothers suffer?” you retort sharply, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear. “Do you think Aerys will stop at just you? He’ll find a way to punish all of you for your defiance. And me? He’ll—he’ll—” Your voice falters, and you look away, tears threatening to spill.

Brandon’s hand cups your cheek gently, his thumb brushing away a tear that escapes despite your best efforts. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he says softly, his voice steady but laced with unyielding resolve. “Whatever comes, I’ll protect you. I swear it.”

“You can’t make that promise,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “You’re just one man, Brandon. You can’t fight a king.”

“I’ll fight a hundred kings if it means keeping you safe,” he replies fiercely, his grip on your cheek firm but tender. “You’re worth it, Y/N. You’ve always been worth it.”

Your resolve crumbles under the weight of his words, and you lean into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment. “You’re a fool,” you murmur. “A brave, stubborn fool.”

“And you love me for it,” he says, a hint of a grin breaking through his intensity.

You open your eyes, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the weight of the world fades. In the moonlight, he looks like the wolf you’ve always known him to be—wild, fierce, and unrelenting. Your lips part to respond, but before you can, he leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that is both tender and desperate.

The roses fall from your arms, forgotten, as you cling to him, your fingers tangling in his cloak. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as if he can shield you from everything beyond this moment. The kiss deepens, a silent promise of love and defiance, of everything you wish the world could allow you to have.

When you finally part, both of you breathless, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a whisper. “Say the word, and I’ll take you away from all of this. Tonight. Now.”

You shake your head, tears spilling freely this time. “And where would we go? My father would hunt us to the ends of the earth. Your family—your brothers—they’d pay the price.”

He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching in frustration. “Then what? Do we just keep sneaking around like this? Hiding in shadows?”

“For now, we survive,” you say softly, placing a hand against his chest. “For now, we love in secret. Until we can find a way to be together without bringing ruin to everyone we care about.”

His hand covers yours, his warmth grounding you despite the chill of the night. “Then I’ll wait. For however long it takes.”

You nod, your voice trembling as you reply, “And I’ll hold you to that.”

The two of you linger a moment longer, stealing what little time you can before the weight of the world presses down once more. Then, reluctantly, Brandon steps back, his eyes lingering on you as if memorizing every detail.

“Go,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Before someone sees us.”

He hesitates, then nods, pulling the wolf’s-head cloak tighter around him as he slips back into the shadows. You watch until he disappears, your heart aching with every step he takes away from you. Only when you are certain he is gone do you stoop to pick up the blue roses, their petals crushed but still fragrant.

As you make your way back to the hall, the weight of his love and your fears settles heavily on your shoulders. You know this affair is dangerous, reckless even. But you also know that for Brandon Stark, you would face every shadow in this world.

The journey to King’s Landing was supposed to be routine—a formality, Lord Rickard Stark had said, though there was tension behind his words. Aerys had summoned them to court after Brandon’s brash actions at Harrenhal moons prior. The blue roses, the crown, the whispered conversations in shadowed corners—it had all led to this.

Brandon Stark, the Wild Wolf of Winterfell, had ridden alongside his father with his jaw clenched, his mind racing. He had not shared his full plan with anyone, not even his father. But now, as the Red Keep loomed like a blood-red sentinel in the morning sun, he knew there was no turning back.

The Red Keep’s air was stifling, heavy with the weight of unseen eyes and whispered schemes. Servants scurried about like mice, their heads bowed, while guards in Targaryen black stood like statues, their hands resting on their swords. Brandon walked alongside his father, his cloak trailing behind him, the leather of his boots scuffing against the cold stone floors.

"Keep your head down," Rickard muttered under his breath, his voice low and firm. "This isn’t the time for your pride, boy."

Brandon bristled but said nothing. He wasn’t here to grovel, not when so much was at stake. The thought of you—your lilac eyes filled with fear as you clutched your stomach, your voice trembling as you begged him to leave you behind—gnawed at him. He had promised to protect you, and this was the only way.

As they turned a corner, Brandon's steps faltered, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword. He glanced over his shoulder, his keen eyes scanning for any sign of pursuit.

"You’re distracted," Rickard observed, his voice sharp. "What have you done, Brandon?"

Brandon hesitated, his heart pounding. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, piercing and unyielding, demanding the truth. But he couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

"Nothing you wouldn’t have done in my place," Brandon replied cryptically, his voice tight. "Just trust me, Father."

Rickard frowned but said nothing, though his suspicion was visible.

It wasn’t until they reached the small chamber set aside for them that Rickard cornered his son. The room was sparse, the only furnishings a table, two chairs, and a narrow bed. A single window overlooked the city, its sprawling streets winding toward the distant horizon.

Rickard shut the door firmly, his face grim. "Out with it. What madness have you brought upon us this time?"

Brandon leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression defiant. "I did what needed to be done."

Rickard’s patience snapped. "Stop dancing around it, boy! What did you do?"

Brandon pushed off the wall, his voice rising. "I sent her away."

Rickard’s eyes widened, his jaw tightening. "You what?"

"I smuggled her out of the Red Keep last night," Brandon confessed, his voice steady but his heart racing. "She’s gone, safe, far from here."

Rickard took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And where, exactly, have you sent the princess of the Seven Kingdoms? With whom?"

Brandon shook his head. "I won’t tell you. It’s better if you don’t know."

Rickard stared at him, his disbelief turning into fury. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Aerys will see this as treason! You’ve not only defied him but stolen his daughter from under his nose. You’ve doomed us all."

"I had to," Brandon said, his voice breaking slightly. "Don’t you understand? They would have hurt her. Or worse."

Rickard’s anger faltered for a moment, replaced by confusion. "Hurt her? What are you talking about?"

Brandon’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. "She’s with child."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking like a stone into the air. Rickard’s face paled, his breath catching. "By the gods… Brandon, is it—?"

"Mine," Brandon said firmly, meeting his father’s gaze. "The child is mine. And I wasn’t going to let them use her—or our child—as pawns in their games."

Rickard staggered back a step, his hand gripping the back of the chair for support. "Do you know what this means? Aerys will burn us for this. Both of us. And when he finds her—"

"He won’t," Brandon interrupted, his voice steel. "She’s gone, and no one will find her unless I want them to. I made sure of it."

Rickard’s eyes narrowed, his anger rekindling. "You arrogant fool. You think you can outmaneuver a king? Aerys will burn the North to ash to get to her."

"I couldn’t leave her here!" Brandon snapped, his voice echoing in the small room. "Not when I knew what he’d do to her. Not when I knew they’d take our child—use them, hurt them. I won’t let that happen, Father."

Rickard stared at his son, a mix of anger, disbelief, and something resembling admiration flickering in his eyes. He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy. "You’ve set the realm on fire, Brandon. And we’ll both pay the price for it."

Brandon’s jaw tightened, his gray eyes unwavering. "I’ll pay whatever price I have to. But I won’t let them touch her—or my child."

A knock at the door shattered the moment, and a guard’s voice called out from the other side. "Lord Rickard, Prince Rhaegar requests your presence in the great hall. His Grace awaits."

Rickard straightened, his face hardening as he turned toward the door. "This is it," he said quietly, his voice tinged with resignation. "We’ll die in that hall, you know that."

Brandon squared his shoulders, his wolfish defiance returning. "Then so be it."

Rickard hesitated for a moment, then nodded, opening the door. Together, they stepped into the corridor, the sound of the guards’ boots echoing around them as they were escorted toward the great hall—and their fate.

The great hall of the Red Keep is a cavern of shadows and firelight, its high vaulted ceiling seeming to echo the weight of the accusations hurled across the chamber. Rows of courtiers, guards, and lords line the walls, their faces painted with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and malice. At the far end of the room, the Iron Throne rises like a jagged mountain, its ominous blades reflective in the flickering torchlight.

Seated atop the throne is King Aerys II, his frail frame nearly swallowed by the massive seat of power. His silver hair falls in wild, tangled strands around his gaunt face, his violet eyes blazing with an unholy fire. His nails, long and yellowed, tap erratically against the armrests, the sound reverberating in the sinister silence.

At the base of the throne stands Prince Rhaegar, his expression carefully composed. His indigo eyes flicker to Brandon and Rickard Stark as they are led into the hall, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Brandon walks with his head high, his wolf’s-head cloak draped across his broad shoulders, his jaw clenched in defiance. Beside him, Rickard Stark’s face is a mask of stoic calm, though his eyes betray the storm brewing within. They are the embodiment of the North—unyielding, proud, and unbroken.

Aerys leans forward on the throne, his voice slicing through the silence like a dagger. "Rickard Stark," he hisses, the words dripping with venom. "You come before your king as a traitor. As a thief."

Rickard steps forward, his voice calm but firm. "I am no traitor, Your Grace. I have come to answer your summons and to demand justice for my son."

Aerys’s laughter erupts, high-pitched and manic, echoing through the hall. "Justice? Justice? You speak of justice, yet your wild wolf has stolen what is mine!"

Brandon steps forward before his father can reply, his gray eyes blazing. "She is not yours!" he snarls. The words reverberate through the hall, causing a ripple of gasps from the gathered courtiers. "Y/N is not a prize to be kept in a cage. She’s free now, far from your madness."

Aerys’s face contorts with rage, his nails clawing at the armrests of the throne. "You dare defy me, boy? You dare steal my daughter and think there will be no consequence?"

Rhaegar’s expression tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he says nothing. His eyes, however, flicker briefly to Brandon, a flicker of suspicion passing through his gaze.

Rickard steps forward, his voice rising over the chaos. "Your Grace, I came to King’s Landing in good faith, to answer your summons. My son’s actions were not sanctioned by me. I demand trial by combat, as is my right."

Aerys’s lips curl into a cruel smile, his eyes alight with glee. "Trial by combat, is it? Very well. You shall have your combat, Stark." He gestures to the pyromancers standing by the walls. "Bring the wildfire."

The room erupts into murmurs as pyromancers begin to move, fetching the green liquid that glows with a sickly light. Rickard’s calm demeanor does not waver, though Brandon stiffens beside him, his fists clenching.

"You call this justice?" Brandon spits, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "This is madness!"

Aerys’s laughter cuts him off, a shrill and terrible sound. "Madness, you say? No, boy. This is power. This is the price of treason."

Two guards seize Rickard, dragging him toward the pyre set in the center of the hall. The wildfire is poured into the brazier, its noxious fumes filling the air. Rickard glances back at his son, his eyes calm and steady. "Brandon," he says quietly, his voice firm. "Do not lose yourself."

Brandon shakes his head, his voice breaking. "Father—"

The guards tie Rickard to the pyre, stepping back as the wildfire is lit. Green flames roar to life, climbing hungrily around Rickard’s form. The heat is unbearable, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh. But Rickard does not scream. His eyes remain fixed on his son, unyielding to the very end.

"Father!" Brandon roars, his voice raw with anguish. He surges forward, but guards grab him, forcing him back. Aerys gestures with a flick of his hand, and a noose of Tyroshi rope is brought forth. It is looped around Brandon’s neck and tied to the brazier.

"Let the wolf choke on his own defiance," Aerys says with a sneer.

The guards begin to tighten the rope, pulling it taut. Brandon fights, his hands clawing at the noose, his boots skidding against the stone floor as he struggles to reach his father. His face turns red, veins bulging as the rope cuts into his neck.

Through the haze of pain and fire, Brandon’s gaze finds Rhaegar, who stands motionless at the base of the throne. His lips move, a whisper barely audible over the crackling flames and Aerys’s mad laughter.

"Y/N," Brandon whispers, his voice hoarse. The name carries through the hall like a ghost, reaching Rhaegar’s ears.

Rhaegar’s eyes widen, his composure cracking for the first time. He takes a step forward, his gaze flickering to his father, who is too consumed by his triumph to notice. The name lingers in the air, a spark in the dry kindling of the North’s fury.

Brandon’s struggles slow, his strength ebbing away as the noose tightens. His vision blurs, the last thing he sees the green flames consuming his father. With one final, ragged breath, he collapses, his body limp against the restraints.

The hall falls silent, the only sounds the crackling of the wildfire and Aerys’s quiet, satisfied laughter.

Rhaegar’s fists clench at his sides as he stares at the lifeless form of Brandon Stark. The name whispered in death echoes in his mind. Y/N.

The North will not forget. And neither will he.

The gates of Winterfell groaned open as Eddard Stark rode through, his grim face framed by the gray fur of his cloak. The chill wind of the North cut through the courtyard, carrying whispers of his return as servants hurried to greet their lord. His bannermen followed close behind, their horses weary from the long ride. At the center of the company, wrapped tightly in thick furs, was the child.

The infant stirred, his small cries barely audible over the clatter of hooves and the rustle of banners. Eddard held him protectively, his jaw clenched, his expression as cold and unreadable as the snow-dusted landscape around him.

At the top of the stairs leading into the great hall, Lady Catelyn Stark stood waiting. Her auburn hair spilled down over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the pale blue of her gown. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line as she watched her husband dismount.

The sight of the bundled infant in Eddard’s arms was like a blow. Her heart sank, dread pooling in her stomach as the truth dawned on her. A bastard. He’s brought a bastard into our home.

When Eddard finally reached her, the tension between them was palpable. He paused, cradling the child, and looked into her eyes. “Catelyn,” he said softly, his voice steady but distant. “We need to talk.”

Her gaze flickered to the child, then back to him, her expression tight with fury. “You dare to bring him here? After everything?”

“Not here,” Eddard said firmly, nodding toward the doors of the great hall. “Inside.”

The warmth of the great hall was nothing to the frost in Catelyn’s glare. She stood rigid near the hearth, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as Eddard laid the baby in a cradle brought by a servant. The child, with dark hair and pale skin, cooed softly, unaware of the storm brewing around him.

Catelyn’s voice trembled with barely contained anger. “You bring this… this boy into my home, and you expect me to accept him? To raise him among our children, as if he were one of them?”

Eddard turned to face her, his expression unreadable but resolute. “He is my blood.”

“Your blood,” she repeated bitterly, her voice rising. “A bastard! Do you know what they will say, Eddard? What they will whisper behind my back? They already called me the jilted bride of The Wild Wolf. Brandon’s betrayal humiliated me before the realm, and now this?” She gestured toward the cradle. “Another Stark disgrace for me to bear?”

Eddard’s face hardened, his voice sharp. “I will not let this child suffer for the choices of men.”

“Choices you made!” she snapped, her voice echoing in the hall. “What of me, Eddard? What of your wife? Did you think of me when you lay with another woman? When you fathered a child out of wedlock?”

Eddard flinched, but his resolve did not waver. “You know nothing of what I’ve done,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with unspoken pain. “And you never will.”

Catelyn stared at him, her chest rising and falling with the force of her emotions. “You owe me more than that, Eddard. I am your wife. The mother of your heir.”

“You are,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “And I will never dishonor you again. But Jon is here now, and he will stay. He is innocent in all of this.”

“Innocent,” she repeated bitterly, her gaze flickering to the cradle. “And what of Robb? What of our son? What will he think when he grows older and learns his father brought a bastard into his home? How do I explain this to him?”

Eddard sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You will tell them the truth—that Jon is my son. That he is their brother, no matter the circumstances of his birth.”

Catelyn shook her head, her voice trembling with anger and pain. “You ask too much of me, Eddard. Too much.”

Eddard stepped closer, his gray eyes meeting hers. “I ask only for your kindness. For the sake of the boy.”

Catelyn’s throat tightened, her nails digging into her palms. “You’ve already asked for my forgiveness. Don’t ask for my kindness too.”

Eddard’s face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of sorrow. He nodded once, then turned back to the cradle, his hand resting on the edge as he looked down at the child.

“This is Jon,” he said softly. “He will be raised as a Stark. And I will ensure he knows he is loved, no matter what the world says.”

Catelyn turned away, unable to bear the sight of her husband and his bastard child. The pain of betrayal cut deep, the wounds still raw. She knew she had no choice but to endure, for the sake of her family, but the bitterness in her heart was a cold comfort.

As Eddard stood by the cradle, the weight of his decisions pressing heavily on his shoulders, Catelyn left the hall, her footsteps echoing through the empty corridors of Winterfell.

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

Me coming up covered in blood: I have another au idea