#northern iron age

[priestess-of-the-north-west]

It's great to be able to show that runes were being carved in the Netherlands. This is one of the 23 currently known Frisian rune findings: the Westeremden (a location in the North-East of the Netherlands) yew stick, found in 1918 and dated 5th-8th century.  It can be seen in the Groninger Museum. 

Made of Yew (Dutch: Taxus, or IJf) which is not a tree that generally could be found in this area. The inscription reads like a blessing or spell for luck/happiness. To me, this is Frisian galðr:

ophæmujiBAdaæmluþ wimœBæhþuSA iwioKuPdunale:

(Source: de Gruyter.)

Elmar Seebold (in 1990) reads:

ophæmu givëda æmluþ: iwi ok upduna (a)le wimôv æh þusë

Tineke Looijenga (in 1997) reads:

op hæmu jibada æmluþ : iwi ok up duna (a)le wimœd æh þusa

(Source) Interpreted as something like:

luck (amluþ) stays (gibada) at home (op hæmu); and (ok) at the yew (iwi) may it grow (ale) on the hill (up duna); Wimœd has (æh) this (þusa)

Modern Frisians translate it into:

op de boerderij (heem) blijft voorspoed; laat het groeien bij de ijf (taxus) op de terp; dit is (eigendom) van Wimoed (Source.)

Interestingly, this 5th-8th century Frisian Futhorc differs slightly from the more commonly known elder Futhark. (Context: the Elder Futhark in the Scandinavian areas transitioned towards the Younger Futhark in the 7th-8th century).

Here are a few interpretations by different writers:

By Parsons.

By Grimmsma.

By Terpen en Wierdenland.

[quotesfrommyreading]

It is difficult to answer the question ‘what happened to the Celts?’ because they never really went anywhere. The people – and their art, culture and DNA – were absorbed into other empires, kingdoms and societies. Some areas of Britain, such as what is now Wales, Scotland and Cornwall, remained largely free of Roman influence, while Ireland was never part of the Roman empire. All later helped to reintroduce Celtic art and tradition back into what was once the province of Britannia. Elsewhere, Celtic culture fused with English, Danish and Norman influences to create a distinctive style all of its own.

It is only really within the last few centuries that the term ‘Celtic’ has taken on a more political dimension, being linked with concepts of Welsh, Scottish, Irish, Cornish, Gallician or Breton independence in the face of perceived English, Spanish or French political domination.

Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, Celtic art, culture, language and tradition have been resuscitated and used, not only as symbols of resistance, but also of identity and common ancestry, especially among those descended from emigrant groups in the USA, Canada, South America and Australia.

Although this new form of Celtic identity is far removed from its prehistoric origins, it is surely testament to the powerful nature of this most distinctive and magnificent of ancient civilisations.

  —  The Celts: Who Were They, Where Did They Live, & What Happened After The Romans Left Britain?

[dragon411keeper]

"Oh, you mean the 2 million souls thing? It took me a few literal life times to figure it out, however, I have managed to set up one or two contingencies on the off chance that I die before the needed number of souls have managed to accumulate in time, one of which is making a set of daggers specifically enchanted to land themselves in the hands of assassins, and the hearts of those who willingly torture others for their own pleasure or something along those lines, the second is premature activation, simply put, the magic activates prematurely and then I'm incased inside of the stupid amount of iron that is needed to house my skeleton."

They nod along as if they're listening, I continue.

"Speaking of which, do you have any idea how stinking expensive tungsten was back in those days? If I had that money now, I could purchase 15 islands and still have enough to renovate all of them."

Their eyes are like stone.

"Anyway, I had to get enough tungsten to make an entire skeleton, my skeleton, then I had to find a necromancer who was willing to do surgery on me to replace each and every bone in my body with that of the tungsten equivalent, which mind you had circles hammered in to mimic the natural function that bones do, make blood."

they get comfortable since this is taking a bit.

"In addition to all of that, I had to make sure that when I went forward with it, that no other religion didn't interrupt it, and trust me, there was a few who either tried to stop me, siphon off what I had done to fuel their plans, and those who thought that I wanted ALL SOULS, not the very specific minority that I was targeting."

they looked confused before muttering; "death cults."

"And don't get me started on trying to advance the study of the stars, yes, there was one or two kingdoms that had the sciences that could rival todays in terms of outer-space, but trying to locate a very specific celestial body inside a sea of literal millions is harder than you think, and that very specific celestial body was a MAGNETAR!"

again with those eyes of stone.

"I specifically chose a magnetar mostly because of its volatile nature and on fucking far away it is, good luck destroying when it is 2 million light-years away."

they lean forward "hold on, you mean to tell me that your phylactery is a magnetar?"

"that is correct, why else do you think I needed 2 million souls?"

they stare at me dumbly.

"putting all that aside, why else do you think that a painting that old still exists?"

they blink; "because you're the one who commissioned it?"

"absolutely."

"huh" they say finally leaning back into their chair. "so was there goblins back then?"

"they were more or less the same as they are today."

"what do you mean by today?"

"well after thousands of years of the home world not having magic and then suddenly a piercing purple shows up out of nowhere, what do you think is going to happen?" I say while splaying out my arms, "magic is going to return full force whether we like it or not!"

They stare past me towards our home planet, I turn my head to see the northern lights active with boundless excitement.

"and so it begins." I state before bringing out a tungsten staff from pocket-storage to lean against.

“How could you?” “I can expla-“ “No, I don’t mean morally. Logistically how could you even pull something like this off?”

[now-for-wrath-now-for-ruin]

Aragorn, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain

I based the Northern Dúnedain dress mainly on ancient Turkic peoples of the Eurasian Steppe and Late Romans, since I see Arnor as the Western Rome to Gondor's Eastern Rome, but the Northern Dúnedain have long been nomads in a cold climate. There's also a bit of medieval Egyptian and Iron Age Baltic influences.

[houseofthedragonn]

(idk if you've done this so if so, pls ignore, my bad)

COULD YOU DO LIKE SOMETHING WITH CREGAN MARRYING LIKE RHAENYRA'S DAUGHTER. idk why I'm yelling sorry. but like she's nervous to consummate because he's like kinda older and kinda intimidating and he kinda just reassures her. Thank yew thank yew 🤭🫶🏼

little sister

cregan stark x jace’s little sister

SYNOPSIS - your mother rhaenyra betroths you to the older, intimidating lord stark, who can come off as cold before warming up to one another…

WARNING - smut, pre-wedding night sex, first time

“It’s an honor to finally meet you, my Princess… my Queen,” Lord Cregan Stark kissed my hand while kneeling before my mother Rhaenyra and I that cold Northern morning.

Foolishly, I believed her when she said we were merely taking our dragons to go on tour.

Of castles held by Great Lords who supported her claim to the Iron Throne. We were, but there was also another motive. My betrothal to Stark. The two already met once. As did he and my eldest brother, Jacaerys, after they treated at the Wall, weeks ago. I thought to discuss troops. Little did I know of my mother and brother’s plan to betroth me to a Great Lord of Westeros now that I was of age. My sixteenth name day only yesterday, a couple years younger than Jace. Cregan was at least five years my senior. But he seemed even older with how intimidatingly cold he could be. Not intentionally, I observed, it was just his quiet, reserved nature so different than that of the Lords and Ladies in King’s Landing. It was refreshing.

And it did not hurt that he was a young, handsome Great Lord, a rarity when most were old enough to be my grandsire.

“The pleasure’s all mine, my Lord…” I smiled with batted lashes as he rose from kneeling before me to stand, towering over.

While the betrothal was not my idea, I was not against it.

If not but a little intimated and nervous to consummate our marriage as he was older and more experienced. But I knew my mother needed Northern troops in return for the marriage pact. As no other Westerosi fought as hard as the Northmen always have. After Rhaenyra and Jace gave Cregan both their blessings, I bid my dragon and family goodbye for now, until my wedding in a month. While I was to stay in Winterfell with my new betrothed for the time being.

To become more familiar with one another. Alone together.

It was the night before our wedding day.

We had not so much as brushed bodies passing each other in the halls of Winterfell. I was still a bit nervous of doing anything more before the big night. But knowing Cregan made me less so than before. We walked in comfortable silence. Stark gave me another tour of his castle, just as he did that first day after Rhaenyra and Jacaerys returned to Dragonstone. As now the Great Hall was all decorated for our wedding.

“Winterfell is ours, now. Not just mine, my Princess,” Cregan reassured me, both of us warming up to each other over the last month, with our words, at least.

If Targaryens were fire and blood, mine melted away Stark’s icy facade. Our little talks throughout the day he actually looked forward to. Longing to hear my voice whenever meetings went too long, or he had more raven scrolls to read or send. Longing for our wedding night, as was I, with nervous excitement.

“Thank you, my Lord. It’s beautiful…” I was breath taken by the Northern beauty of the castle as historic as my own family’s.

But Cregan was too busy being breath taken by his beautiful betrothed.

“Not as beautiful as you. Tales of your great beauty do not do you justice. Princess Velaryon, truly the Realm’s Delight… but I suppose you’ll be Princess Stark, in a few hours time,” Cregan tried easing the tension between us that lingered whenever the subject of our wedding night was brought up.

As we still slept in our own chambers, and would tonight, for the last time.

“I suppose so, Lord Cregan Stark, Wolf of the North…” I teased him by his epithet in return. “I just… don’t wish to disappoint you…” I abashedly admitted, fidgeting with my fingernails, too afraid to meet his burly gaze.

For the first time, Cregan crooked his fingers underneath my chin and he raised it, gently. Until my eyes met his Stark grey gaze, the hue of a beautiful but formidable storm.

“How could you ever disappoint me, Princess?” Cregan asked in a tone so soft, it caught me off guard.

I never heard him speak so sweetly to anyone else before. Not that he was mean, just gruffer than most. But once I pierced that exterior, I saw the kind heart hidden beneath his armor. And muscled chest, his strength only making him even more intimidating. Surely he could have any woman he wants to bed.

“The… bedding ceremony… I’ve never—not really…” I struggled to say what he knew I meant, judging by the knowing look on his handsome face.

“Than it is my honor to be your first… you need not be afraid of me… my pretty Princess. I would never hurt you… I only wish to please you… my love…” Stark eased my mind with his kind words as he held my face in both of his hands now.

I noticed how his eyes bore a deep desire burning with them. They kept flicking to my lips as he spoke. Licking his own full ones ravenously.

“Please me how… my love? Could you show me how… before we… consummate our marriage?” I asked with bated breath, hitched in my throat, taking in how he towered over me, intimidatingly.

In all his ruggedly handsome, strapping glory, draped in wolf’s fur and the finest Northern clothes. Ice as tall as his six feet, and as wide as one of his broad shoulders. The heavy Valyrian steel strapped firmly on his strong back he carried effortlessly like a feather. Boys my age not nearly as strong as he was, not even the young knights of King’s Landing. And he was all mine. All I wanted was to please him how he promised to please me.

“It would be a pleasure to show you, my love…” Cregan’s cold demeanor melted completely, giving way to his wolfish grin.

His eyes darted to my lips again. Stark leaned in hungrily. My lashes fluttered shut instinctively as he kissed me for the first time. Holding my face in his palms, Cregan’s cold hands on my burning face. But his lips were warm moving against mine. And soft. Perhaps the only part of Stark that was. Still I welcomed the rough feel of his calloused, strong hands against my skin. Shifting from my face, running down my figure, before resting on my hips he squeezed. Pulling me closer. Deepening the kiss. I felt his tongue graze my bottom lip before slipping inside my mouth. And taking claim of it. Our sweet, chaste peck on the lips turned into a wet, messy kiss as we both grew needier. Needing more of each other. Until we needed air, after ages.

“Seven hells…” I cursed for the first time in front of Stark, still reeling from our kiss after we parted, his deep laughter filling my ears once my words registered.

“That’s not all, Princess. We’ve only just begun…” Cregan whispered in my ear, craning his neck down to reach.

Before I felt his fingers interlacing with mine. To lead me by the hand from the Great Hall all the way upstairs. Until we reached his Lord’s chambers. The servants we passed greeting us, and knew better than to not give us privacy on the night before our wedding. He swung the heavy door open, and slammed it shut behind us with ease. We stood there for a moment, just taking in the sheer sight of one another, breathing heavy with lustful anticipation for what was to come. Until Stark suddenly picked me up as easily as he did Ice, and carried me over to his large featherbed, holding me tightly in his strong arms.

“You’re so handsome, my love…” I sighed, lust drunk from just one kiss with him, my head still spinning, legs wrapped around his waist.

I ran my hands through his long dark hair before he laid me on his bed, kicking off our shoes. Then he climbed on top of me.

“And you’re dead pretty, gorgeous… you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Every single day for the last month I’ve thanked the gods… for blessing me with you…” Cregan praised me, in between kissing my neck hungrily.

All I could do was lie there, a moaning mess as Stark licked, nipped, and sucked at my sensitive flesh. Wet sounds of his mouth on my skin made me even more lust drunk. He made a warm wetness pool in between my thighs from his bruising lovebites on my throat. For all to see, I was his now.

“Fucking hells… they blessed me with a loving husband, whose tongue feels like heaven…” I sighed, my hand holding his head of handsome hair impossibly closer, flush against my neck.

I felt his hands slip underneath my back. Arching it, I gave him more space to unlace my gown. While his lips never left my collarbone, as he worked his way down towards the exposed flesh of my breasts. Bursting at the seams from my corset before he removed it next. I heard my fine clothes land in a soft thud on the wolf’s fur rug covering the cold stone floor of his chambers. Last to go was my chemise underdress he made quick work of removing. I now laid bare on the warm wolf’s fur blankets on his big featherbed. Instinctively, I shielded myself from Stark abashedly. Only for him to capture my wrists gently in his firm grasp, holding them above my head. As his long dark hair framed his handsome face.

“Never hide yourself from me, my Princess. I want to see every beautiful inch of you…” Cregan commanded, before letting go, but the look in his eye telling me to stay put as he undressed.

But I could not help myself. I sat up, my hands flying to unlace his leather long sleeve and tunic. But Stark only flashed me a wolfish grin, seeing how eager I was now and not intimidated anymore. A low laugh leaving his full, swollen, shining lips. He helped me pull off his fine clothes until his strong chest was on full display. My eyes trailed down his muscled abdomen with longing, lingering on the lines making the letter V leading down to where I wanted to feel him most. I watched his large hands go to unlace his britches, before I beat him to it. Desperate to help free his aching bulge straining against his trousers. Once I did, he took off his britches so fast, nearly tearing them off as he did with my fine clothes. Tossing them all to the pile pooling on the floor, as heat kept pooling deep within me. Burning as hot as the hearth Stark always kept roaring in corner of his chambers, crackling.

“Seven hells, you’re my gift from the gods…” I gasped, utterly breathless at the sight of him standing bare before me in all of his strapping glory. “But you’re so big… will it hurt?”

I could not help but be intimidated again at the sheer sight of how large Cregan’s cock was, as long as he was thick. And I had never laid with anyone, unlike my Targaryen uncles who frequented the best brothels. Rhaenyra refusing for Daemon to arrange for a whore to take my maidenhead. But I was glad Stark was my first.

“Perhaps at first, my love… but I will do everything I can to make you feel pleasure after the pain,” Cregan softly spoke, stroking my hair and caressing my face.

He gave me another long, loving kiss. With his teeth capturing my bottom lip lustfully. Before he pulled away, replacing his tongue in my mouth with his fingers. I sucked sensually until Stark pulled them out with a wet pop of my lips. And brought his hand down between my thighs. His wet fingers met the wetness pooling out of my cunt, circling my clit. Making me cry out, a whining mess pinned under all his muscle.

“Bloody hells, Cregan! Don’t stop…” I sighed, squirming under him, my hips bucking and grinding up into his touch I starved for all month since meeting.

“I don’t plan on it, Princess…” Stark flashed his wolfish grin.

Cregan only increased my pleasure by slipping a finger inside me, and moving slowly at first, letting me adjust to the feeling. Before he added another, and after a while, a third. Stretching my walls in preparation to take all of him inside my folds. His long fingers reached spots making me mewl like an animal in heat. Only able to praise his name and curse all seven hells again and again. Until I felt myself start clenching around all three of his fingers. Stark suddenly stopped, pulling out, leaving me empty, despite his promise.

“But you promised!” I whined in protest, but before I could continue complaining, I felt his cock lining up with my walls.

“You won’t be empty for long, my Princess… are you ready?” Cregan asked in a hushed tone, caressing my cheek.

“Oh, yes! I need you now, my love…” I panted, desperate to be filled with him again, clenching around empty nothingness.

At once, I felt Stark start plunging into me slowly, inch by inch.

“If I’m hurting you, tell me… if you wish to stop at anytime, we can, love… shit! I only want to make you feel good—gods you’re so fucking tight!” Cregan groaned as my cunt swallowed him halfway, caging me in with his strong arms on either side of my head, his hair flowing like a river.

“It hurts—but feels good, gods! Please don’t stop, Stark…” I begged as he bottomed out inside me, squeezing his cock like a vice. “I feel pleasure—so much! Fucking hells…”

My arms snaked around his neck, holding onto his broad shoulders as he fucked me deep. His hips starting to snap in and out of mine at a steady pace, getting faster and faster. He hit a spot deeper than his fingers could reach, making me clench around his throbbing cock every time he did. His chambers filled with the wet sounds of our sex, moaning messes in each other’s arms as our flesh met noisily, rutting like animals, over and over. His head fell to my chest, taking each of my breasts in his mouth, sucking hard. Biting gently as his teeth grazed my nipples. And his hand came down in between my thighs again, circling my clit.

“Gods, if you could only see how perfect you look like this, Princess…” He moaned in my ear after leaving my chest with a wet pop of his full lips.

I felt the tension building deep within me like a rope about to snap. Torn in half from the sheer force of how hard and fast he fucked me into his featherbed now. My legs wrapped around his hips to hold him impossibly even closer to me. My mouth biting his shoulder instinctually, wanting to mark him as he had my neck, blooming bruises borne out of love. I could tell that pushed him closer to the edge as he did for me by circling my clit faster, harder. I clenched around him over and over until words were lost on us. Only our gutural groans and mewling moans fell from our lips when not latching onto one another’s, in open-mouthed, sloppy kisses.

“I feel… wave, crashing… close…” I could only say to describe the new, much welcomed feeling I felt inside.

“You’re close to coming for me, my love… good girl. Just try to wait a little longer for me, don’t let go yet… I’m close…” Stark ordered, and all I could do was try doing what he asked.

It felt impossible with it being my first time, but somehow I held on for him. His thrusts devolving into a sloppy mess like our kiss, shoving his tongue down my throat again. I felt his cock twitch inside me, spilling warmth washing over me from inside out. His hand never leaving my clit, or letting up on how harshly he circled it. I was pushed over the edge. I let go with him, our moans reaching their loudest point, while we came together. Cregan crying out my name and I his. Hips riding out our highs we chased, rolling against one another’s until we slowed to a stop. I felt my cunt clenching around his cock so tight I swallowed him whole, never wanting to let go. Draining him dry of every last drop of his seed dripping from my gushing folds.

“Fucking gods! I love you, my pretty Princess…” Stark kissed all over my face as he got his last thrust in deep before pulling out of my cunt clenching around emptiness again, but filled with his warmth.

“I… love you, Cregan… no one ever… made me feel as good as you do, handsome…” I panted, breathless from fucking. But hoped he felt as good as I did, despite my inexperience, “Did you… feel good?”

He collapsed on top of me, lazily kissing my neck, listening. Before my question made him hold my face in his hands again.

“Better than good. You make me feel like I’m in fucking heaven, my love… you were so, so good for me… you were perfect,” He reassured me, before stealing another long, loving kiss.

A kiss that went on for hours as we laid in our lovemaking puddle of sex and sweat, refusing to move an inch. Before we turned in early for the day, crawling bare under the wolf’s fur blankets and dozing off naked in each other’s arms.

Dreaming of doing it all again tomorrow on our wedding night.

[marmotsomsierost]

Inuit and speculation of hidden community aside, there were absolutely saami in norway outside of finnmark. This map is by Hans Ragnar Mathisen who used a ton of historical documents and resources to create this map of sápmi/sameland.

Been thinking bout how if a fandom is obscure on here, then people in that fandom tend not to post ab it bc "no one else would get it". Like, obscurity breeds obscurity ig, so there are prolly more fans of stuff out there than we can know. Actually new idea for this post: every time you see this post, make a quick post ab your least known fandom/interest

[lobselvith8]

Regarding Gaider's "Modern Elves are Partly to blame for their own oppression"

In a conversation with Christina Gonzalez and a few other people on twitter, David Gaider, the former headwriter of Dragon Age, mocked fans of the Dalish. I took issue with his statement and pointed out why people are critical of how he and the other writers handled the Dalish in Dragon Age (while Allan Schumacher of Epic Games had nothing of substance to say in response). The Dalish are nomadic as a consequence of Andrastian societies violently attacking them if they stay too long in one area. The Andrastian Chantry outlawed their religion, making them criminals as a consequence of their faith. Andrastians will threaten the Dalish with violence in an attempt to force conversion to the Andrastian faith. Templars will hunt down the Dalish, and will even torture children. Andrastian elves also suffer from Andrastian oppression as Andrastian humans can massacre all of them, down to the children in an orphanage.

Gaider postulates that one could discuss how the ancient elves were "partly to blame" for their enslavement (let's keep in mind that being slaves is what he's talking about, even though he's careful not to put that into his tweet) or how "modern elves are partly to blame for their own oppression" which is essentially what we are told throughout the whole of Inquisition and the DLCs that accompanied the game (even JoH tries to romanticize the genocidal tyrant Drakon and place all of the blame on the Dales for the elves not trusting the tyrant who was invading their neighbors, forcing conversion, and massacring the people who would not convert - like the peaceful pacifists known as the Daughters of Song).

Inquisition even rectonned previously established lore on the Dalish in order to have characters like Iron Bull denigrate the Dalish. It's a game that will side-step Celene burning thousands of elves alive in Halamshiral while it will demonize the Dalish for wanting to maintain their autonomy from what's essentially a group of colonizers who want to rule over them and force them to convert, and the white Canadian writers (who are from Canada, a place known for its long history of horrific treatment towards Indigenous people) are firmly on the side of those who think that the Dalish (who, as Gaider himself once said at the Dragon Central forums before the release of Origins, were modeled after "Northern Native Americans") are wrong not to subjugate themselves to white Andrastian rulers.

Andrastian elves similarly face hardships because of Andrastian rule. In Ferelden even the efforts of the Night Elves fighting to free the nation from Orlesian rule didn't the elves any greater freedoms once Maric came to power. The Boon of the City Elf faces a number of dire consequences unless the Warden assumes control themselves as the new Bann. Inquisition ignores the plight of the elves of the Dales entirely to focus on a white human noble as the focus of the storyline in the Dales, and you can potentially help chevalier Michel de Chevin (a white man with blonde hair who is part of the chevaliers, a group who murder innocent elves as part of their initiation rite, although this isn't properly addressed in-game) while Briala's role is marginalized in-game despite being the leader of an elven rebellion across Orlais (and she strangely became white despite her in-book description making it clear she's a woman of color, which accompanying artwork confirmed).

Whether you're talking about the slavery of ancient elves or the 'modern' oppression of Andrastian elves and Dalish elves, I don't see how you can blame either the victims of slavery or the victims of racial (and in the case of the Dalish religious) persecution for the oppression they face. And Gaider doesn't seem to understand that at all, which explains the inherent problems with how the plight of the elves is framed within Dragon Age.

[brookediamonds]

can you make an axel + miyagi-do reader where after the tournament he quits the iron dragons and the miyagi-do reader suggests for him to join miyagi-do since he just wants to be in a dojo where he doesn’t get pushed around by sensei wolf? he’s reluctant to, but he joins for her and he could have a hard time adjusting because he feels guilty for breaking robby’s knee and maybe he believes he doesn’t fit in with the others? after the training, maybe the following night he’s frustrated and the reader notices it and he just pours out his feelings to her then the reader could comfort him about it. if it’s realistic to you, maybe as the days go on he ends up adjusting and enjoying his time there, making up with robby for injuring his knee and befriending everyone else basically! sorry if the request is too long! 😭

i was raised on little light | Axel Kovačević x Fem! Reader

Summary: Axel thinks he's lost everything, his dojo, his sensei, his friends. It's been one month since the Sekai Taikai, and he's lost without the sport he loves. But what happens when you two cross paths by chance and you give him the opportunity to find that happiness again?

Word Count: 3.4k Warnings: None, angst, fluff

gif is not mine

You wipe the sweat off your brow as you make your way out of the gym sauna, and take a sip out of your water flask to rehydrate.

Trailing down the hallway, your eyes drift along the glass windows as you pass by the ongoing cycling and pilates classes.

Entering the kick boxing studio, you expect it to be empty when a tall boy with long brown-red hair stood next to the punching bag, striking it repeatedly with familiar combinations.

When he turns to see who's entered the room, your eyes went wide as you recognize those blue orbs.

"I'm sorry," you apologize immediately. "No one usually comes in here."

"It's okay," he responds curtly dropping his hands by his side. "I was just getting ready to leave."

You watch as he picks his shirt up from the side of the room, sliding it back on.

"What are you doing here?" You ask taking a few steps closer to him.

He gives a sideways glance as he picks up his gym bag from the floor.

"I mean, your team is from Hong Kong, I thought you'd-"

"I left them," he cuts you off. He isn't rude, but he states it heavily and lowly. "I was ashamed to be apart of anything that had to do with... my sensei."

You raise your eyebrows stunned someone like him and his age could just walk away from something they've known their whole life. You can see the sadness behind his eyes, and the way he carries himself.

There's a moment of brief silence when he speaks up again.

"I'm sorry for what I did to Robby."

His voice is steady, but you don’t miss the way his fingers tighten around the strap of his bag, like he's bracing for impact.

You exhale softly, crossing your arms. "It’s not me you should be saying that to."

Axel nods, almost like he already knew you’d say that. His gaze drops briefly, then lifts back to yours. "I know."

Shifting his weight, adjusting the strap of his gym bag. He gives you one last glance before stepping forward, his intention clear that he’s leaving.

You watch him move past you, something uneasy settling in your chest. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from training, or maybe it’s the look in his eyes, the kind that lingers even after someone walks away.

Before you can stop yourself, you turn around.

"What are you doing right now?"

Axel halts mid-step, glancing back at you. There’s a flicker of hesitation before he shrugs, voice unreadable. "Nothing."

You chew on your lip for a second before nodding toward the empty mat.

"Do you wanna stay? Run through some techniques I picked up last week?"

His brows lift slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting that. He looks at you for a long moment, scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out if you really mean it.

If you actually want him here.

Then, after a beat, he exhales and sets his bag back down.

"Sure," he says, rolling his shoulders. "I'd like that."

---------------------------------------------------------

It's been two weeks since you came across Axel at the gym. You learn that the day after the Sekai Taikai was his 18th birthday so he decided to stay and live in The Valley.

He wanted to leave Europe and move on from his past completely. You also learn he's not as tough as he puts on, he's actually quite sensitive and sadly, has never really had a life outside of karate.

Which is why you brought him here.

"Just try it," you beg the tall, brooding boy sitting across from you, pushing the milkshake closer to him.

Axel stares at you, unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest like he’s preparing for battle.

"You’re asking me to dip a french fry into a milkshake. It's gross."

You roll your eyes.

"It's not gross, it's delicious," you state, picking up a fry, and dunking it into the thick vanilla milkshake, taking a dramatic bite. "See? Sweet and salty. Perfection."

Axel watches with obvious skepticism, but there’s a flicker of curiosity beneath it.

Slowly, he grabs a fry, hesitates, then dips just the very tip into the milkshake like it might explode on contact.

He eyes it one last time before taking a bite. You wait giddily, watching as he chews and pauses.

His brows lift just slightly, a flash of something that looks suspiciously like enjoyment crossing his face before he schools it into something neutral.

"It’s... not bad."

A victorious grin spreads across your face. "You see, I told you!"

"It’s weird, but good. I still think it should be gross, though," Axel huffs, shaking his head as he reaches for another fry, this time dipping it fully.

You laugh, watching as he tentatively starts to enjoy something so simple, something he never got to experience before.

And it makes you want to show him more, more of these little joys, more of the world outside of training and fighting.

Which is why, after a moment, you set your milkshake down and glance at him seriously.

"Have you thought about coming to Miyagi-Do?"

Axel looks up, mid-fry, caught off guard. "What?"

You shrug. "I mean, you love karate, and you don’t have a dojo anymore. You miss it, I can tell."

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s bracing himself.

"I don’t think your sensei's would want me there," he says quietly.

"You don’t know that," you counter gently. "And besides... you’re not the same person you were at the Sekai Taikai."

He looks at you, searching for something in your expression, like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know if he can.

"You don’t have to decide now," you add, nudging the milkshake toward him. "Just think about it."

Axel exhales, gaze dropping to the table. And for a while, the only sound is the hum of the diner, the soft clinking of forks and plates around you.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he dips another fry into the milkshake.

---------------------------------------------------------

Axel sits across from Daniel and Johnny, his hands clasped together between his knees, posture tense but unwavering. You sit beside him, offering quiet support.

"You left your dojo," Daniel repeats, studying Axel carefully. "For good?"

Axel nods.

"I didn’t want to win that way. Not anymore." He swallows. "I thought I loved karate because it made me strong. But I was only as strong as my sensei allowed me to be. And he—" Axel exhales sharply, shaking his head. "He took everything from us. He controlled us. I don’t want to fight like that ever again."

Daniel leans back slightly, exchanging a glance with Johnny. His expression is thoughtful, considering.

"It takes courage to admit that," Mr. LaRusso finally says. "To walk away from everything you’ve known just because you believe in something better."

Johnny, however, crosses his arms, his face unreadable.

"Yeah, but believing in something better and being better aren’t the same thing." His voice is gruff, skeptical. "How do we know he’s not just gonna revert back the second things get tough?"

Axel clenches his jaw but doesn’t retaliate. He just looks down at his hands, something flickering in his eyes, something vulnerable.

You shift in your seat, about to say something, but Daniel beats you to it.

"What do you think, Johnny?" he asks, watching his old rival closely.

Johnny lets out a breath, rubbing his jaw. He looks at Axel again, really looks at him. And maybe, just for a second, he sees a reflection of himself.

Because Axel did what he couldn’t do when he was younger.

He walked away.

He was strong enough to leave, when Johnny had been too blind, too stubborn, too scared to.

With a sigh, Johnny leans back, arms still crossed but his stance looser.

"You did what I couldn't," he mutters. Then, more firmly: "You’re in."

Axel blinks, his lips parting slightly in surprise, but he only nods. "Thank you."

Daniel claps a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome to Miyagi-Do."

You grin at Axel, nudging his arm. He huffs softly, shaking his head, but there’s the tiniest pull of a smile at the corner of his lips.

After giving Axel his new white gi, and explaining some of Mr. Miyagi's back history, you two eventually make your way out of the small house.

As soon as the three of you step outside, the energy in the air changes.

The rest of the students are arriving for training, but when they see Axel, everything halts.

Miguel stops mid-step. Tory crosses her arms, her jaw set tight. Hawk looks between Axel and Daniel, suspicion clear in his expression.

Robby stands a little further back, his gaze unreadable, but the way his shoulders tense doesn’t go unnoticed.

"The hell is he doing here?" Hawk demands, eyes narrowing.

"He doesn’t belong here," Tory adds sharply.

Miguel looks at you, confused. "Seriously?"

Axel stays quiet. He doesn’t shrink under the heat of their stares, but he doesn’t fight back either.

He’s letting them have their moment, because he knows he would’ve reacted the same way.

But you step forward cutting everyone off from their bickering.

"Why shouldn’t he be here?" You challenge, looking each of them in the eye. "He left his dojo because he wants to change. Just like most of you did when you left Cobra Kai."

Silence. A flicker of hesitation in some of their eyes.

"No one holds you to your past," you continue, voice unwavering. "Each and every one of you have done something so despicable and yet no holds it against you. So why should he be any different?"

The weight of your words settles over them.

Miguel shifts uncomfortably. Hawk looks at the ground. Even Tory exhales through her nose, her arms loosening slightly from their defensive cross.

Robby is the last one to react. He holds Axel’s gaze for a long moment.

There’s still something guarded in his expression, understandably so, but after a pause, he nods once. Just enough to acknowledge him.

And just like that, the tension in the air starts to thin.

Axel exhales slowly, finally looking over at you. And for the first time, he really feels like he might have a shot at this.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Damn dude!" Hawk shouts as Axel scores a point by performing a roundhouse to his face. The boy with the blue mohawk holds the side of his face, clutching his jaw.

"S-Sorry!" Axel blurts out, immediately taking a step forward, his expression tight with concern.

Hawk exhales sharply, rolling out his jaw. "It’s just a spar, man. Not a tournament."

"Axel, you don’t have to go full power every time," Miguel spoke up, stepping forward with his arms crossed. "We’re teammates, not opponents."

Axel’s hands clench at his sides. "I wasn’t trying to—" He stops himself, jaw tightening.

"Breathe, man," Demetri chimes in from the sidelines. "You’re, like, radiating 'fight or flight' right now."

Axel’s nostrils flare as he looks around at the others, all of them watching him with wary expressions.

Even sensei LaRusso and sensei Lawerence have taken notice from across the dojo, their conversation pausing as they exchange a glance.

Axel can feel the anxiety creeping up, he's beginning to feel cornered as he feels everyone's eyes on him. Like a caged animal.

Without another word, Axel steps off the mat and grabs his gym bag from the bench. The tension in the air is thick as he heads straight for the door.

Just as you and Sam are making your way up the gravel path, still catching your breath from your run.

Axel brushes right past you, his face thunderous.

Your smile falters. "Axel? What happened—"

"This was a mistake," he mutters, not even breaking stride as he storms toward the parking lot.

You whip around, watching him go, confusion twisting in your chest. "What the hell?"

Sam glances between you and the closing gate, eyebrows furrowed. "What was that about?"

Your eyes narrow, heat rising beneath your skin. Without another word, you march inside the dojo, zeroing in on Miguel and Hawk, who are still standing on the sparring deck.

"Nothing crazy. He just—" Hawk exhales, still rubbing his face. "He goes hard, you know?"

Miguel frowns. "We told him it was just a spar, but it’s like he doesn’t know how to hold back."

You glance toward the door, then back at them, frustrated.

"Of course, he doesn’t," you exasperate. "Do you have any idea how he was trained? He’s been fighting like his life depended on it for years! You think he can just turn that off?"

The backyard is quiet, the weight of your words settling over them. Even Hawk looks less irritated and more thoughtful.

"He's trying, guys," you sigh tiredly. "Maybe if you stopped treating him like the enemy for five seconds, you’d see that."

Hawk shifts, glancing at Miguel awkwardly.

"There is no such thing as bad student, only bad teacher," Sensei LaRusso speaks up from the side, his tone calm yet firm.

Everyone turns to him as he steps forward, his eyes settling on Miguel and Hawk.

"It's what Mr. Miyagi said to me once when I was having trouble with Sensei Lawrence, over here," he continues, nodding toward Johnny, who stands with his arms crossed, watching everything unfold.

"Axel walked away from a sensei who only taught him how to win, no matter the cost. That takes strength. And it takes even more strength to try and relearn everything from the ground up." He glances at you. "Some of you have been in his shoes before. Maybe it’s time you remember that."

Miguel and Hawk exchange looks, guilt settling over them like a weight.

But you don’t wait for their response. You turn on your heel and push through the door, already dialing Axel’s number.

---------------------------------------------------------

It's later that night when you find his apartment, knocking firmly against the door.

There’s a long pause before you hear slow, heavy footsteps, and then the door creaks open, revealing Axel standing there, his expression unreadable.

His hair is damp, fresh from a shower, and he’s dressed in a loose black T-shirt and sweatpants, his arms crossed, closed off.

"Can I come in?" you ask softly.

For a second, you think he might shut the door in your face, but instead, he steps aside without a word.

You enter, scanning the space. It was your first time here. It was minimal, nearly empty.

A couch, a small table, a few dishes in the sink. No decorations, no warmth. Just a place to exist, not to live.

Axel leans against the counter, gaze fixed on the floor.

"Miyagi-Do isn’t for me," he mutters finally. "I don’t belong there."

"That’s not true," you frown, taking a step closer to him.

"Yes, it is." His voice is low, but sharp with conviction. "They all hate me. They think I’m some asshole who just walked in and took up space. And maybe they’re right. I don’t fight like them. I never will."

You exhale, watching the way his shoulders rise and fall unevenly, the frustration and insecurity clawing at him.

"You’re exactly where you belong," you say, firm but gentle.

His head lifts slightly, blue eyes locking onto yours with something unreadable, something vulnerable. "Why do you care so much?"

Your breath catches for a moment.

"Because…" you step closer, heart hammering. "You’re not less than nothing, Axel."

His heart sinks in his chest as he thinks back to what his old sensei told him the day of the finals at the Sekai Taikai. "You will be less than nothing."

Your voice is steady and firm as you look him in the eyes. "You never were."

You watch as his fingers twitch, as if fighting the urge to reach for you.

And then, suddenly, he does.

Axel closes the space between you in one swift motion, his hands finding your face as he presses his lips to yours.

It’s not tentative or unsure, it’s raw, desperate, like he’s grasping onto the only real thing he’s ever had.

You melt into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him just as he’s anchoring himself to you.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. His hands stay on your face like he’s afraid to let go.

"You deserve better, Axel," you whisper. "You deserve the good, life has to offer."

For once, he doesn’t argue. He lets you wrap him in your arms and hold him for the first time in his life.

---------------------------------------------------------

Axel decides to give Miyagi-Do one last try. But this time, it'll be different. He's going in optimistic and with a new plan.

As he steps inside the backyard, he gazes around the grass and wood before spotting the person he planned on talking to today.

Robby.

Setting his gym bag off to the side, Axel wipes his palms on the sides of his white gi, slowly approaching the green eyed boy.

"Hey," Axel says lowly. Robby does a double take when he see's the tall boy stood in front of him.

"What do you want?" Robby asks accusingly. It's not aggressive but it's not passive either.

Axel exhales through his nose and forces himself forward, stopping a few feet in front of Robby.

"I need to say something," Axel starts, his voice even but careful. "Back at the tournament ... what I did to you— it wasn’t just wrong, it was, it was unforgivable."

Robby crosses his arms, studying him, unreadable.

Axel takes a breath, pushing through. "I don’t expect you to forget it. I don’t even expect you to forgive me. But I was wrong. And I get it if you still hate me, but I just—"

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I just needed you to know I’m not proud of it. And I don’t want to be that person anymore."

Silence stretches between them, heavy but not hostile. Robby takes a deep breath before speaking up.

"Look, man… I get it," Robby speaks up. "You did what your sensei told you. We all did messed up things when we were under the wrong leadership."

Axel's expression softens slightly, not expecting any kind of grace he was showing him.

"What matters is what you do now," Robby finishes.

Then, after a beat, Robby tilts his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And" he says, arms still crossed, "I did get a sponsorship out of it, so… I guess we’re even."

Axel’s shoulders ease, the tension in his chest loosening just a bit as they both share a small laugh.

Robby gives him a nod toward the center of the mat. "Come on. Warm-ups just started."

Axel hesitates for only a second before nodding and stepping forward. Finally, he could start to feel the weight of the past start to lift.

You watched from afar as Robby forgave Axel and everyone around him began to let him in to the group one by one.

It was the beginning of something new for Axel. A kindest and happiness you knew he deserved.

---------------------------------------------------------

The warm glow of the apartment lights casts a soft ambiance over the space, a stark contrast to the bare, empty walls it once had.

Now, the shelves are filled with little pieces of life, plants you insisted would 'bring warmth' framed photos of scenic landscapes, and a few personal touches Axel hadn't realized he needed until they were there.

The scent of vanilla lingers in the air from a candle burning on the counter, mixing with the salty-sweet aroma of your late-night snack.

Sitting across from each other on the couch, you share a chocolate milkshake, the tall glass between you as you dip a fry into the drink before popping it into your mouth like you always do.

"You’re still making that face," you tease, nudging the glass toward him.

Axel huffs a soft laugh. "It's still weird."

"You liked it last time."

He narrows his eyes but relents, dipping a fry into the milkshake before taking a bite. The contrast of flavors hits, and while he won’t openly admit it, you can tell he kind of gets it now.

A quiet moment passes between you, the comfortable kind. Axel twirls the straw absently, gaze drifting over the space before settling on you.

"You know," he starts, voice softer now, more thoughtful, "I never really had this before."

You quirk a brow. "Chocolate milkshakes and fries?"

He can't help the small smirk tugging his lips.

"No," he shakes his head. "Someone like you.”

Your teasing expression fades, replaced by something warmer.

"Oh," you whisper feeling your cheeks warm up.

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, eyes locked with yours.

"You never gave up on me," he murmurs, his voice almost hesitant, like the words are too fragile to speak aloud. "Even when I pushed back, even when I didn’t think I belonged here… you didn’t stop."

You watch him for a beat before setting the glass down and shifting closer.

"I'd never give up on you," you say simply. "Not then, and not now."

His breath hitches slightly. He doesn't get the chance to say anything else before you reach behind his neck, pulling him down to kiss you.

The kiss is soft, and heartfelt, like he’s trying to say all the things he never learned how to.

When he pulls back, you smile against his lips, your fingers brushing over the nape of his neck.

"See?" you whisper. "Exactly where you belong."

And for the first time in a long time, Axel believes it.

---------------------------------------------------------

Masterlist

Taglist: @ggrgcribg

(a/n: i've been watching too much 'sex and the city' i feel like i sound like carrie but i kinda fw it lmfao. this was a sweet request, thank you for your patience on me getting it out!)

[marzipanandminutiae]

would you have any reading suggestions to learn more about the earrings are evil era??? I've never heard of that aspect of fashion history and I am curious

Oh man, it was wild

you saw the first stirrings of it in the 1890s, when you started to get (mostly white and middle-to-upper-class) proto-feminists arguing that ear piercing was barbaric- keep an eye on the racist undertones there; they will come up again-and forcing women to suffer for fashion. I cannot emphasize enough that, until that point, ear piercing had been pretty much normal for this race/class/gender group. For centuries. You see criticism of the practice here and there, but nothing that really stuck.

The objections slowly increased until roughly the mid-1920s, when everything reached a tipping point and pierced ears became largely taboo for most white Americans and Brits of northern/western European descent. If that sounds HIGHLY specific, it is- communities from southern and sometimes eastern Europe retained cultural practices of ear piercing, to the point where it was often used as a point against them by mainstream society. It was also associated with Latino people, Black people, and the Romani, which. Yeah. I don't need to tell you how that went down.

It also developed associations with sexual immorality and/or backwards thinking. One newspaper letter I read came from a teen girl in the 1940s, wondering why she shouldn't pierce her ears if her very respectable grandmother had piercings. The response was something like "well, they did all sorts of things in the Bad Old Days that we shouldn't do now." True in many ways, or course, but...piercing your ears? That's the hill culture decided to die on as far as antiquated behavior that we should leave behind? Apparently yes.

Earrings themselves never went out of style, which led to the birth of clip-ons and screwbacks. Ironic that the "don't surfer for fashion" crowd was so eager to embrace screwing tiny vices onto your ears, but there we are. My own mother (born 1953) remembers her mother (born 1926) always taking off her screwback earrings immediately after getting home from a party, literally in the foyer of their house the second the door shut. There had been adaptations for unpierced ears before- Little Women, published in 1868, describes Meg March hanging earrings from a flesh-colored silk ribbon tied around the base of her ear -but they'd never caught on like this before.

However, the pendulum was soon to swing back. After just 40 years of Piercing Panic, in the 1960s, girls began piercing their ears again in droves. As piercing moved from the slumber party or summer camp back to the professional jewelers whose families had been early professional piercers in the 19th century- and to befuddled doctors who had no idea what they were doing yet still received piercing requests -cultural commentators had no idea what to make of it. Some decried the new trend while most took an air of bemused neutrality. My personal favorite article expressed surprise that "Space Age misses" were adopting these "Victorian traditions."

(In 1965, my grandmother took Mom to the anesthesiologist down the street who was offering to pierce his young daughter's friends gratis, and got it done. My grandfather had strongly disapproved of the idea, but in the end it took him a week to notice the new earrings.)

As to sources...honestly, I've just gone to Google Books, specified a time frame, and typed in "ear piercing," "pierced ears," "pierce ears," etc. Tons of primary sources at your fingertips, though I'm not always great about documenting or saving what I find. There's not much written about it formally, I've found- no books or scholarly studies. It may just be too close in history to attract much academic attention, though I find it fascinating.

This little blip where something that's been normal for most of western history suddenly became taboo for a hot second.

Also my ear piercings just turned 20 five days ago, commemorating the date that I was taken with much ceremony to Piercing Pagoda (and that horrible gun; it's a wonder I didn't get keloids) to get me out from underfoot while the Thanksgiving feast was being made. Grandma got hers pierced on the same day, at age 78. Happy Birthday, Marzi's ear piercings!

[blueiscoool]

Ritually Bent Bronze Age Sword Found in Denmark

The sword, which has iron rivets in its handle, may be one of the earliest iron artifacts found in Denmark.

A metal detectorist has unearthed a long, bronze sword that was bent into an S shape during an ancient ritual in what is now Denmark.

The sword and other artifacts — which were found in a bog near Veksø, northwest of Copenhagen — date to about 2,500 years ago, during the late Bronze Age. They are thought to have been part of a ritual sacrifice, although this practice was no longer common at that time. Upon discovering the artifacts, the metal detectorist notified the Danish museum group ROMU.

"It's what I would describe as a very rare find," excavation leader Emil Winther Struve, an archaeologist and curator with ROMU, said in a translated statement.

Although such items were often deposited in bogs as sacrifices during the early and middle Bronze Age in northern Europe, "We don't know that many from the latter part of the Bronze Age," he said. However, the practice of sacrificing or killing people in bogs — leaving behind remains known as "bog bodies" — spans a longer period, from the Stone Age to the 19th century.

Ritual sacrifice

In addition to the bent sword, archaeologists found other Bronze Age artifacts, including two small, bronze axes; several large, bronze "ankle rings"; and what may be a fragment of a needle, according to the statement.

A few days later, the archaeologists also discovered a large, bronze "neck ring" just 230 feet (70 meters) away. The neck ring is only the second of its kind found in Denmark, and the archaeologists think from its style that it was imported from what's now the Baltic coast of Poland.

Bronze Neck Ring

The bronze sword's handle contains two iron rivets that may be the earliest iron ever found in Denmark. The ROMU statement described the sword as "almost a physical manifestation of the transition from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age."

The sword's design suggests it was not made in Denmark but rather in more southern parts of Europe that were dominated by the Hallstatt culture during the Bronze Age, the statement said. The Hallstatt culture thrived from about the eighth to the sixth centuries B.C. and was influenced by Europe's early Celtic culture.

The ritually bent sword was a genuine weapon and indicated a transition from more lightweight swords used mainly for stabbing, Struve said, "but now they are becoming tougher, more solid and have a different weight, so you can use them more violently and for chopping."

The Hallstatt culture had a warrior ideal that demanded conquest, war and conflict. "The sword is perhaps an image of that," Struve said.

By Tom Metcalfe.

[priestess-of-the-north-west]

Burial site Lindholm Høje at Nørresundby, Denmark. Dated between 400-1000 CE. (Picture by Bavi, source.) More information about this site at the Vikingemuseet Lindholm Høje. And here you can look around at the site the Google Streetview-way.

Interestingly, it's not only ship shapes but also circles. Picture made by the Archaeology in Europe Educational Resources Website.

Some stone ships at Lindholm are relatively young, early Viking Age, but most can be dated further back in time, to the Northern Iron Age. Stone ships, however, go back as early as the Northern Bronze Age:

Southern Scandinavia and the Baltic Sea region with important areas of ship-decorated artefacts, rock art and stone ships from the Nothern Bronze Age, illustration by Joakim Wehlin in 2022.

Besides remains and typical items for burial, archaeologists found tools, fireplaces, needles, charcoals, and other artefacts with the stone ships.

A study by Dr. Joakim Wehlin showed that some of the stone ships didn't have graves. This suggests a social use.

Wehlin also proposes that these stone ships should be related to a specific group of people in the Baltic region:

The communities around the Baltic Sea differed from the Nordic Bronze Age sphere. In the wake of these maritime groups, what could be called a Baltic Sea culture ca. 1000‑200 BCE emerged. Through establishing and sharing mutual interests, the communities around the Baltic Sea have reached a certain degree of consensus. Such a manifestation would not have been possible without an infrastructure or network, in this case, a maritime one: a “Baltic maritory”.

A tentative map of the Northern Bronze Age "Baltic maritory" by Joakim Wehlin in 2022.

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part eight

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: adult content

word count: 12.0k

a/n: the pinterest board and playlist for this series have been added to the series masterlist! i am a little nervous to post this chapter because i've never written anything like this but here it is – 

previous part | next part | series masterlist

The day prior to the trials held at King’s Landing, the young prince Aegon makes his first public appearance before the nobles at court. Scarcely has the sun peaked its way above the edges of the world when the lords and ladies are summoned to gather in the throne room, half-covered yawns and bleary eyes waiting impatiently for the presentation of their future king. Hazy morning light wanders in pale rays through the arching windows, illuminating flecks of iron upon the weapons composing the throne. Lady Tyrell has not even the energy to glare ferociously at it, barely having slept the night before. Her satins and feather pillows do little to assuage her troubled mind, roiling with concern over the arrival of her lady mother – perhaps on the morrow, more likely that very morning. She pictured all sorts of disastrous matches, weighing the probability of each one in her mind and finding that if she thought long enough, it is almost as if she can read her mother’s mind. This only served to agitate her further, for if she is indeed correct then her fate is rather sealed after all, as well as that of her sister. 

Her hands skim down the front of her dress in a nervous habit, aching to appear as presentable as humanly possible. The fabric is a dark blue, inky and soft beneath her fingers, decorated with the golden embroidery of flowers that grow within the gardens of the castle she was raised in. A gift from her mother, sent for her most recent birthday with an assortment of teardrop pearls and letters adorned with curved words imploring her to hold out against the tumultuous wartime tide and wait for an advantageous time to act. The roses blooming upon her body, spun in shining silk, bind her and remind her poignantly of her where her loyalties ought to lie. During the war, her attention had been given solely to surviving and attending to Helaena and the children – there was little time to devote to any sort of scheming, save for what her mother deemed absolutely necessary to protect their House. 

As of late, her heart has been swayed to those of House Stark and House Targaryen. Her eyes close as she imagines what her mother might say, finding the daughter she raised to be ambitious and cutthroat behind deceptively fluttery lashes instead harboring love and affection for those of other houses. Fingers dig tightly into the soft fabric of her heavy skirts, a sudden wave of suffocation washing across her body as the weighty dress seems to grow heavier. With a soft breath, she returns her attention to the head of the throne room. Many Northern guards are present, alongside what remains of the Kingsguard. Despite the exhaustion and ruffled expressions throughout the room at the early hour of the gathering, there is a hum of expectation about the hall. The coveted and damned chair of swords shall not be claimed by Rhaenyra nor Aegon II. A child shall sit it instead, only ten years of age. 

Lady Tyrell does not much care who is cursed by the crown of the Realm any longer. She has seen firsthand what unimaginable horrors and suffering it brings about. Let the nobles squabble for it like crows over a poisoned carcass. 

Yet as she looks upon the child at last, all eyes within the room locking upon the boy hungrily or with poorly concealed interest, a sense of resigned sorrow fills her chest. Doomed is he, through the blood of both mother and father and chained to a skeletal and haunted existence within these walls. It is already apparent in his face, the hollowness of his eyes as they rest sunken into his youthful countenance. With all of the division sowed during the war, she has almost forgotten that this child is not a stranger of some unknown lineage, but Helaena’s own nephew, Jaehaera’s cousin. The resemblance nearly frightens her, when her eyes meet Aegon’s across the room. Has Helaena not looked upon her with those same violet eyes, that same sense of dread, of finality?

Her gaze is violently torn away, a sharp breath clawing its way past her tongue and teeth and lips. She shall never know peace so long as she remains here within this castle. Ghosts haunt her every breath, and while one of them is always welcomed with open arms and a gentle falling to her knees, others she does not wish to see. The amount of Targaryen spirits lingering about, wide eyes still cast to the throne and the child sacrificed to it, is far too many for the Lady Tyrell. All she can hope to do is take Jaehaera away from here and ask the dead for forgiveness or at least to be ignored. But the soon-to-be boy king breathes still. Is it haunting if the figure’s blood thrums beneath taut skin, veins as purple as the eyes that unknowingly condemn? Is it haunting if the guilt from turning away rips her internal organs out with bone hands, wrapping her intestines around her neck and forcing her to look at the child whose fate she is feigning ignorance to?

By the prince’s side stand his two elder half-sisters, whom Lady Tyrell quietly hopes are supporting the child during this impossible time. As with Jaehaera, the prince has primarily been confined to his chambers whilst the North has held power at Court. She has never had the chance to converse at length with either Baela or Rhaena, given that she had been betrothed to Daeron and decidedly upon the other side of the war despite her own House’s neutrality. Cregan remains a few feet away, but his presence is far more commanding than anyone else’s upon the stairs. Remembering what he had told her of his own past, she watches quietly as Aegon begins to speak.

“The trials for those who betrayed the crown and forsook their honor will be held on the morrow,” The prince’s voice rings out clear and solemn, echoing the dullness of his amethyst eyes. It is clear that someone his elder has written the words for him to speak, and Lady Tyrell wonders if the presence of the princesses at Aegon’s side indicates that Cregan has made some sort of agreement with them. If they truly care for Aegon, the lady does not imagine it will be hard for the three to come to an arrangement that suits all of their desires for the betterment of the Realm and for the future of boy. “Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, shall preside over the trials as Hand of the King.”

If Lady Tyrell is shocked by this announcement, she is joined by nearly every noble within the throne room. The young prince is quick to depart following the brief words, the guards following him closely as he exits through one of the arched hallways at the sides of the staircase by the head of the hall. Rhaena and Baela linger within the hall of a moment to speak to Lady Blackwood, as the rest of the lords and ladies turn to each other to whisper their opinions upon this appointing quite fiercely, everyone seemingly eager to get their thoughts out at once. Many of them still regard Cregan with obvious distrust, seeing him as a foreign presence unfamiliar to their Southern customs and traditions. She need not cast him long looks, wondering upon whether he might plunge the capital into chaos or refuse to leave. The skirts of her gown brush delicately against the grey stone flooring as she nears the steps, caring little for the eyes that are drawn to her boldness.

It matters not when he is already searching the room for her, storm cloud eyes sparking as he catches sight of her approaching. The slight softening of his gaze does not go unnoticed by her, although it shall not be dwelled upon when she is sure her own eyes melt slightly as he crosses the space between them to meet her. Hushed voices murmur around them, the raising of brows at the pair of them. What might have been excused as courtesy before is now blatantly seen as it is – favoring. For formality’s sake, despite what little good it will truly do given how her public closeness with the Lord of Winterfell shall surely spread in wild rumor throughout the castle halls that night, she scoops fabric of her gown into her hands and gives Cregan a low curtsy.

“I wish to offer you my congratulations, Lord Stark,” Her chin remains tucked towards her chest, her eyes modestly lowered as she slowly rises up, shoulders pulling back gently. There is a light flutter to her lashes as she blinks up at Cregan, gazing into his eyes for a moment before a soft amusement tugs at the corners of her lips with the knowledge that many of the nobles present shall fret over how long the Warden of the North will remain and power and what anarchy he might cause. The volume of her speech decreases with a twinkle in her eyes, her head tilting slightly as she holds his gaze. “It is only a temporary position, I am sure, but I offer you felicitations nonetheless.”

Only the glimmer in her stare, scarcely more visible than a lighthouse in a midnight tempest, gives any hint at the teasing quality to her words. Cregan seems to find amusement in them, reflected in shrouded subtlety within his own eyes as he looks down at her. “So eager to be rid of me, my lady?”

The tilt of her head deepens at this, a soft breath through her nose escaping as her eyes briefly cast their gaze sideways in an attempt to conceal the delight dancing across her countenance at his low and rolling timbre and the peaking of his Northern humor. While the other nobles at court might view her as bashful and shy in the presence of the imposing lord, Cregan alone catches the humor within their exchange, the affection in her expression that softens her lips and her stance. It is exhilarating, reading her as one might a tome in the restricted section of a vast library. Giving another quiet breath, her voice adopts a sweeter quality reminiscent of their earliest conversations. “Oh, but how dreadfully boring it should be without you here, my lord.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow in almost playful scorn at this, only a fraction of an inch but enough that she can sense a teasing retort sharp on his tongue. Yet no time is spared for further conversation, as one of the Northern lords is standing so close to the Lord of Winterfell that he is practically breathing down Cregan’s neck and clearly has a pressing matter to discuss. Lady Tyrell dips her head in a demure excusing of herself, her attention drawn to the twin princesses once more as Cregan’s deep voice is heard softly behind her. Perhaps it is far past time she makes an attempt to speak to them, regardless of her hatred of their father. It is hardly their fault, nor should she allow personal feelings to interfere with a potential alliance. Her mother might have her head if she did so.

The conversation goes as well as she might hope, given the initial uncomfortable tension that stems from lingering feelings from the war. Both Baela and Rhaena seem weary from their efforts to reason with Cregan over the imprisonment of their grandfather Corlys. It appears that the Sea Snake has indeed been in contact with the lady’s mother, for the princesses mention that their families now share similar goals of bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Yet at the remarking upon the favor she has gained with the Lord of Winterfell, all Lady Tyrell can do is merely nod and brush the inquisitive questions aside, not wishing to speak upon the matter at length when Lady Blackwood is rather close. She still cannot pinpoint the nature of Alysanne Blackwood’s relationship with Cregan, but her spies brought rather comforting rumors of a romance with Lady Sabitha Frey, who additionally fought in the battles during the war. If she truly wishes to be amiable, she might invite the ladies all to tea in the gardens prior to their imminent departure, but she cannot surmise if Lady Blackwood would find it worth her time and does not wish to offend. 

A page hovering rather obviously to her right catches her attention, the young boy’s eyes widening in order to alert her of a message over which he fidgets with an anxious need to deliver. A caving pit begins to form in her stomach, sinking as if grains of sand in an hourglass that has run out of minutes, has her quite certain she is already aware of what it is he has come to tell her. Offering the princesses a soft smile and an apologetic excuse for taking her leave of the conversation, she straightens her posture and attempts to forge a steady peace within her mind before addressing the boy. Giving her a deep yet clumsy bow, the messenger looks up at her with brown eyes, straw-colored hair turning golden in the morning light streaming in from the windows.

“The Tyrell traveling party has entered the city, my lady.” The page’s voice is rather high-pitched, echoing the sharp twinge of her heart that rings in her ears like the plucking of a poorly tuned lute. Rather than allow this to show upon her face, she pinches her lips together in a tight smile, eyes lackluster as she nods in measured acknowledgement.

“I see. Thank you for informing me.” It is all she can force herself to say, her mind racing too hurriedly through the realization that her family has finally returned to King’s Landing after three long years. The boy is already scrambling to convey the news to others it is pertinent to, leaving her to clench her fists tightly as she begins to make her way towards the doors. The lords and ladies still lingering within the throne room are occupied with conversation over the trials, and the sudden appointment of a new Hand of the King, but she has banished every thought from her mind rather than how she might handle the impending betrothals her mother is certain to bring upon her today. For her sake, for her sister’s sake – she must have her wits all about her. Everything else in the throne room becomes a muffled, distant blur and murmur.

The sharp echoes of her steps are snuffed out by the ruffle of her skirts overtop, her attention solely focused on her worry and not at all upon Cregan, who takes notice of her rapid exit and draws out of his conversation quietly. His arm reaches forth to catch her softly as she passes him, the touch startling her out of her thoughts. After a brief flash of panic, unsure of who has grabbed her, she exhales a sharp breath that has the lord furrowing his brows deeply over his concerned eyes.

There is no need for him to speak his worry aloud upon his tongue, it reads as clear as a voice within his grey eyes. The depth of his frown, a tightening jaw, the soft brush of his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve. Her own expression, guarded yet yielding only to him, only at his waiting gaze, is undoubtedly legible to him as well. Lips part with practiced ease, the habit of brushing her worry aside to prevent any from seeing and weaponizing her own fear against her a hard one to break. It bends for Lord of Winterfell. The soft dip of her brow as she allows a flicker of concern to dance across her visage indicates all she wishes to convey. And hardly is there need to explain with further words when he knows her troubles already.

“My mother is arriving.” Her chin lifts defiantly as she speaks, yet she knows well her tendency to yield to the Lady of Highgarden. Cregan does not release her arm from his hold as she might have expected, but instead tightens his fingers around her slightly. As if he does not wish to let her go. After a moment of silence, the lord nods heavily, taking a slow breath.

“Let us greet her, then.”

The Tyrell banners fluttering delicately within the salty sea breeze from the bay embeds a compelling nostalgia like a polished stone into her chest. Olive fabric decorated with roses of the purest gold, the same flags that used to fly high above the whimsical days of garden girlhood, a dreamlike haze of giggles and flowers in her hair. When she had emerged from her carriage three years ago, the very one currently wobbling up the cobblestone streets to the gates of the castle, she had still retained the wide-eyed innocence of her youth. It had ended then, so she had thought, when the soft satin slippers of a baby blue shade had touched the rocks in the gated courtyard. And her days had been filled with challenge after challenge, shaping and molding her into the woman she has now become, not out of a desire to ascend the power chain of the capital but out of a primal need to survive. But it was not strife that had turned her into a woman; it was death. The loss of Helaena was the end of innocence and childhood and dreams. 

Survival is intertwined in all of House Tyrell, binding ancestral words that are less about power and more about permanence. Incessant and persistent, tangled in the history of the soil as much as the roots of ancient trees. The growth is everlasting, ever-changing, weathering the various seasons as the woods do. While many Houses suffered great losses during the war, House Tyrell remained as they were before, watching and waiting until the ideal time to involve themselves would be. As the carriage draws near, the white horses tossing their golden manes in the brilliant sunlight beaming down upon the courtyard, the Lady Tyrell straightens her shoulders with poise and intention, a slow breath inhaled like syrup into her lungs. So tightly clasped together are her hands atop her gown, she wonders if she might break a nail off accidentally.

At her side stands the Lord of Winterfell, ever the sturdy presence she might rely upon. He had offered his arm for her to steady herself upon, but she cannot accept for fear that her mother might see the genuineness with which the lady attends to Cregan. It would be a poor start to what shall likely be a stressful few days even with the absence of any additional issues. The lord does not press the matter further, eyes lingering heavily upon her visage. Even in the earliest days of their knowing each other, when he had only seen the glass figurine of a lady she had presented to him, never has Cregan seen her so uncertain. Every muscle of her body seems to be drawn tight and strained, her eyes as sharp and watchful as a bird of prey. All of this appears to leave her figure in a sudden melting as the carriage door opens and a young lady can be seen stepping out gently, a footman by the open door to hold the girl’s hand as she descends the stairs. 

Any concept of rigidity abandons her, the shimmering skirts of her dress bunched up in her fists as she all but runs to the carriage. As the girl finally steps solidly onto the ground, Lady Tyrell’ skirts are released hurriedly to fall about her feet as she throws her arms around the young lady, who gasps in soft excitement and returns the hug just as tightly.

“Sister,” It is a bright squeal, girlish and sweet with sincere delight. Cregan could have surmised as such without the word being spoken – the younger lady looks so much like the Lady Tyrell that he finds it almost amusing. The same hair, arranged in a similar manner, the same color of her eyes. A dress in a soft shade of pastel green that the lord knows he has seen Lady Tyrell wear upon at least one occasion. The lord watches with gentle patience, eyes soft as he witnesses the loving reunion.

“Oh, Cassia,” The breath Lady Tyrell responds with is one of complete relief and gladness, her eyes closing as she holds her sister tightly in her arms. After a moment she pulls away, her gaze pleased and mirthful as she beholds her sister’s face. In the three years since they last saw each other, Cassia has indeed grown into her beauty as their mother spoke of in her letters. The little girl who would race after her, always trying her utmost to keep up in the flowering fields outside the castle walls, has become quite the comely young lady. This reminds Lady Tyrell pointedly about the unavoidable fate of an upcoming marriage for both of them, a thorny reminder that nestles itself into her troubled chest.

“I had not known if you would meet us right away,” Cassia begins, her smile brilliant and delighted as she gives her sister another tight hug. A soft laugh escapes her lips, the excitement of being reunited after such long years apart evident upon her pleased visage. Lady Tyrell gives a soft hum at this, unable to prevent the easy way that her younger sister brings out the gentler side of her which she normally hides behind parapets of threatening briars. 

“How could I not be here to greet you? I have missed you so.” The reply is a breeze of spring air, as Lady Tyrell smiles in a warm manner she rarely bestows upon others. She reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, her mind instantly eased by the girl’s voice and presence. No more at home could she have felt if she had returned back to Highgarden, amidst the roses and fountains and string quartets playing elegant songs about the terraces. Cassia gives a nod at this, her eyes briefly wandering to the courtyard. Cregan seems to catch her attention first, and the girl hesitates, her gaze lingering upon the Lord of Winterfell with a soft worry. But the girl shall not stare – it is unbecoming of a lady to do so – and quickly returns her attention to her elder sister.

“I know,” Cassia speaks with a sweet cadence, reminiscent of Lady Tyrell’s when she is presenting herself to others, but with a twinge of hesitation. “It is only that mother was unsure of…”

As the girl trails off softly, her eyes once again flickering to gaze at the Warden of the North in silent concern, Lady Tyrell cannot help but smile knowingly. She is certain her mother has retained her belief of the Northerners, deeming a majority of them as violent savages who have brutally seized the castle and intend to behead all of those imprisoned. Cassia has never met anyone from the North, and likely deferred to their mother’s opinions. Her heart aches at the thought of her sister worrying over her, evident by the way Cassia takes her hand and squeezes it softly, unsure if the lady is treated poorly by the Northern forces.

If only she could tell Cassia that cannot be further from the truth.

Her attention is quickly drawn to their mother, the sunlight glittering off the pearls woven into Elinor Tyrell’s hair and the golden circlet that adorns her brow as she descends the steps of the carriage. A soft undulation of edelweiss and hyacinth swirls delicately about the air, catching like dew droplets amongst the salty gusts of wind from the Blackwater. The Lady Tyrell releases her younger sister’s hand gently, instead taking her gown into her own hands and dipping her head low as her body sinks into a practiced curtsy of the utmost grace. Her eyes remain cast to the pebbles that are scattered haphazardly throughout the courtyard, her lower lashes brushing demurely against the curve of her cheeks. The slight squeaking of the carriage steps, the light creaking of wood, and the soft rustling of pebbles all inform her that her mother is standing before her.

“Rise, and allow me to see my eldest child’s face.” Her mother’s voice is a lullaby from a distant memory, the comfort of stories told when tucked into a feathered bed, the remnants of a midnight dessert sweet upon her tongue. For all her fear over the fate of her betrothal, nothing can surmount the nostalgia over days when her mother was her entire world and the lady who stood guard between her and the monsters curling in shadowy tendrils beneath her bedframe. And who is the lady besides a mirrored reflection of the light from her mother’s shining glow, bound by blood and womanhood, made evident beneath the brightness of each full moon.

Her eyes are raised slowly, alongside her body, fluttering lashes indicating a hesitation and vulnerability in Lady Tyrell’s countenance. The sight of her mother’s face invokes a soft yearning in her bruised and broken heart, the organ giving a weak fluttering at the familiarity that trickles like a cooling stream through tired veins. How exhausted the lady has become, putting up each fight so fiercely for her survival over the duration of the past three years. A desire for a simpler time, for suns under which she would run with sparkling teardrops to her mother’s skirts and have all her pains and fears soothed, nestles its way beneath her skin. Her voice lodges itself into the sides of her throat before she is able to compel it out of her mouth quietly. “I am pleased to welcome you to the Red Keep again after so long, mother.”

Elinor Tyrell beholds her daughter’s visage with eyes that betray nothing of her thoughts, a soft ambiguity resting upon her high cheekbones and daintily arched brows. The Lady of Highgarden is a vision herself in a gown of a delicate shade of gold that reflects within her eyes. There is a youthful beauty to her despite her age, perhaps from the graceful manner in which she carries herself. “You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you.”

At the soft murmur Lady Tyrell gives another dip of her head, pleased to at least have presented herself in a manner deserving of her mother’s praise. Any further thought is skillfully hidden at the approach of the Lord of Winterfell, Elinor Tyrell’s attention turning subtlety to the man as he makes his way across the courtyard. He gives a respectful nod, standing by the lady as Cassia regards him with slight worry and her mother with quiet intrigue. Cregan’s presence at her side is that of a beacon upon a moonlit hill, ever-grounding and drawing her towards him as if they belong in each other’s orbit.

“I am honored to welcome you to the Red Keep, Lady Elinor, Lady Cassia,” His rumbling voice retains a noble quality as he extends his formal greeting, met with a gentle nod from the lady’s mother and a soft curtsy from her sister. The sun has begun to shift towards the height of the sky, illuminating rays descending from the clear blue expanse. Lady Tyrell’s attention is intentionally kept away from Cregan, not wishing her mother to catch a glimpse of the warmth he extends to her reflected in her own eyes. “I am Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. If there is anything I might do to assist during your stay, do inform me at once.”

“That is quite kind of you, Lord Stark.” A voice as fresh and lovely as field grown flowers, yet Cregan cannot say he underestimates the Lady of Highgarden to any degree. The drifting of voices from the courtyard as the remainder of the traveling party dismounts their tired horses and begins to stretch after the long journey distracts the Lady Tyrell momentarily, before she brings a soft and saccharine smile to her lips and gazes up at Cregan pointedly.

“Perhaps you might accompany my sister about the halls whilst I show my mother to her chambers?” It is a delicate question, referencing an earlier conversation they had in which the lady had asked for a quiet moment alone with her mother prior to anything else that is to occur that day. Cregan holds her gaze, seemingly searching for the truth upon her state of mind, but readily accepts her request. His arm is extended to Cassia, who blinks in soft concern and casts her eyes to her elder sister.

“Lord Stark shall be a perfect host, I assure you.” Lady Tyrell consoles the girl in a hushed tone, her hand reaching forth to take Cassia’s comfortingly. “You must be aching to stretch your legs after so long in the confines of the carriage. Go ahead.”

After a moment of gentle hesitation, Cassia agrees with a delicate nod. Her hand wavers slightly in the air but she takes Cregan’s arm as gingerly as she can and offers him a wary yet grateful smile. Both the lady and her mother watch Cregan lead Cassia towards the archways of the inner doors, his deep voice floating through the air behind them as they walk.

“There is someone I wish to introduce you to, my lady…” Attempting to not smile softly at Cregan’s leading of her sister over to the young Lord Blackwood, whose face has gone quite red at the sight of the girl approaching, the Lady Tyrell returns her attention to her mother who is staring after Cregan with a thoughtful look upon her face. With a soft breath, she looks down and does her best to conceal any traces of true affection from her mother’s watchful observation. Yet there is no need to hide physical indicators of the truth of her feelings, not when she has written the depth of her trust for Cregan all over the rocks and pillars of the courtyard in messy script by entrusting him with her sister. 

The exchange of words between the two women during their walk to the guest chambers of the castle is pleasant and easy, most of it revolving around the young Lyonel Hightower who will soon be turning four years old. The lady is filled with a soft melancholy to hear of the milestones her brother has been meeting in her absence, a flickering of regret over missing nearly all of his young life burning tightly in her chest. There had been no way to escape to Highgarden during the war, not when it meant abandoning Helaena and her children, and thus she had been unable to return to her younger siblings. Only once has she seen the little boy – with a sickening sadness she realizes that the child will likely not recognize her the next time they meet. 

As they enter the guest chambers, the door closing behind them with the softest clicking of the metal latch, Lady Tyrell lets out a slow breath. Her back remains pressed to the deep oak of the door as she watches her mother survey the chambers with a neutral expression, the woman’s hands folded delicately at her front in the very same manner that Lady Tyrell always does. Waiting eyes track each step her mother takes, studying the way she carries herself as if the lady has not done so more than a thousand times in her life. Her shoulders instinctively lower to mimic the Lady of Highgarden as the woman stops to select a single white rose from a porcelain vase, twisting the stem elegantly within her hands. Each thorn is skillfully avoided. 

“You have tamed the Northern wolf rather well.” Any sweetness from Elinor Tyrell’s voice has faded away, slipping from her mouth like dripping honey down the bark of a tree. Instead, the lady is met with low and quiet observation, certain and deliberate. As her mother’s eyes remain cast to the rose, the lady lets out a quiet huff of breath. There is an understanding of necessary practicality between them, yet the lady cannot say she has been nearly as practical as she ought to be given the precariousness of the power balance at court.

“I would hardly say so.” She breathes back in response, her gaze dropping to stare at the wooden floorboards that had been polished that morning for the arrival of guests. They shine with such pristineness that the lady finds them almost mocking as her own distorted reflection is whispered back to her. Her plan to manipulate Cregan had all but imploded, leaving in her a vulnerable situation with the Lord of Winterfell that her mother will certainly have an opinion upon. While she trusts him, the Lady of Highgarden will want insurance regarding this trust being rightfully placed and the lady cannot offer much save for his kindness to her and her own instinct. 

“Nonsense, child,” Elinor Tyrell muses coolly, setting the rose down gently among the others in the pearl vase. The woman’s gaze returns to assessing the room she shall be residing in during her stay at the castle. “I must admit I am surprised at your success in the matter. I had read your reports and yet the situation appears far better than I could have imagined.”

It is a compliment, as clear as she might hope to receive from her mother regarding the issue. Elaboration does not need to be made upon the failing of her initial plan, and so she merely taps her fingers in soft rhythm against the wood of the door she rests her back upon. While she wishes to seek after Elinor Tyrell’s opinion upon Cregan Stark, it is a matter that holds little importance when the setting sun of her maidenhood draws lower in the sky. If only her mother held more hope for Cregan, perhaps she might set her attention to a marriage pact that the lady would genuinely wish for herself. But she knows well where the Lady of Highgarden has set her sights.

Sea rather than snow.

“But that is not what you wish for me, is it mother?” A quiet phrase, spoken through heavy lips and accompanied with gloomy eyes. Her mother turns at this, a spark of amusement in her gaze at the sharpness retained in her daughter’s mind over the larger game at play. The woman observes Lady Tyrell calmly, taking careful note of the dullness of the lady’s expression regarding the line of questioning. It is no surprise to Elinor – while most young ladies would have been ecstatic to be engaged to a prince, her child had never seemed to care much for her match to Daeron Targaryen. Another Targaryen had long ensnared the innocence of her young heart, but Elinor had hoped the revelation of the boy’s true character had woken her daughter from childish notions of romance and love within a marriage. 

“You wish to know of my plans for your betrothal then.” The Lady of Highgarden purses her lips softly before she lets out a long sigh, shaking her head at her daughter. It is marginally more difficult to convince a daughter who has since reached twenty years of age to marry as her parents see fit – Elinor had been considerably annoyed when Prince Daeron had died and broken off a sixteen-year-long engagement. 

“It has been on my mind as of late.” The lady does not need to possess any fantastical ability to know her mother finds her having an opinion upon the matter of her own marriage rather tiresome. It is tradition, longstanding and binding, for ladies to have their husbands selected by their parents. The intense glare her mother fixes her with only serves to agitate her further, and she remains drawn against the door.

“If you must know,” Her mother begins with another shake of her head, exasperation written as if in stone upon her face. “I believe you shall marry Lord Corlys Velaryon’s heir. A bastard, in truth, but he has been legitimized and will be the next Lord of the Tides. Being the Lady of Driftmark would suit you, and Lord Alyn’s fleet would be an excellent ally to possess.”

Repressing a sardonic breath that threatens to escape her lips at the confirmation of her suspicions, the lady feels her nails digging into the wooden door. After a moment of composing herself, gaze remaining downcast to the floor, she speaks in a measured tone. “Have you arranged it already?”

“The matter has been proposed to Lord Corlys, but the betrothal will be solidified once he is freed.” It is said with such certainty that a heaviness pools about her stomach, her eyes closing briefly as she attempts to reason with herself over the marriage. It could be far worse – she had briefly wondered if her mother mind demand she marry Lord Corlys himself, despite the man being over seventy years of age. She knows little of Lord Alyn, save him not being a trueborn son of the Sea Snake nor a dragon rider. And while she is frustrated at this decision, her true worry is for another.

“And Cassia?” Her eyes finally meet her mother’s with a stubborn glint as the question leaves her lips, searching to find if yet another of her hunches shall prove true. 

“Lord Lyonel Hightower is in need of a wife, so it would seem.” Upon this matter, the lady cannot prevent the disapproving click that bounces from her tongue, fixing her mother with a glare of equal ferocity. She is nothing if not Elinor’s daughter after all. As she crosses the room towards the other woman, the reasoning she has spent many long nights sorting out is finally given voice.

“The Hightowers are already your bannermen. You need not vie for more power in their House, not when you have reminded them of the true strength of Highgarden,” After the realization that Garmund Hightower’s position as a ward of the Tyrells places the Hightowers in a delicate situation, the lady doubts any rebellions shall be happening in the coming years. Not when Lord Lyonel is still quite young and wholly inexperienced in battle. Additionally occupied with seducing his stepmother, whom he is rumored to be terribly obsessed with, and being altogether horrid to his serving staff. Surely, her mother cannot be eager to send Cassia to such a horrendous fate. Not when there might be more to be gained elsewhere. “If you use this rare opportunity to secure an alliance with a Northern House, it will extend our influence.”

Elinor gives a scoff at this, her stare hardening as her daughter’s stubbornness is presented to her once again. While the lady has rarely argued upon orders given directly to her, she is so very insistent regarding her sister. As it has always been, the Lady of Highgarden is both impressed and annoyed by the fierceness with which her eldest child is devoted to her siblings. “Cassia does not possess the skill needed to manipulate influence so far from Highgarden.”

“She is young, she will learn.” The lady reasons with a soft shrugging of her shoulders, her frown deepening as she attempts to persuade her mother against such a decision. As they had taken their leave of the courtyard, the lady had noticed the gentle way Lord Blackwood had lifted her sister’s hand to his lips, and the soft delight upon Cassia’s face at the meeting. After years of searching for an acceptable match for the girl, the lady will be damned if her mother sentences her only sister to life at the mercy of an ill-tempered and spoiled lordling. 

“You were fully prepared to manipulate those in court at her age.” With a look of disbelief cast coldly to her daughter, the Lady of Highgarden squares her shoulders and tilts her head in a manner the implies she does not mean to be argued with upon the topic. Given usual circumstances, Lady Tyrell would then have lowered her eyes and her voice and deferred to her mother’s wishes. But after witnessing Helaena’s marriage, and the marriages of other ladies within the castle, she knows all too well that it is not only Cassia’s heart that is in danger. The physical suffering resulting from matches made with cruel and violent men shall last the entirety of the union. Still, blatant attitude will not convince her mother of anything. The lady’s voice simmers to a softer note.

“Cassia is…she is less like you and I, mother.” There is a fondness in her voice she cannot hide, but fear decorates the edges of her words like lace stitching. The lady cannot lose another. It would surely kill her, if she is not already dying slowly from the grief that snaps heartstring after heartstring, plucking her damaged heart like a harp. Let her bear the burden of being born a daughter, so that her sister shall not.

“She is naive.” Elinor dismisses with a wave of her hand, eyes closing with weary ache as she thinks after her more tenderhearted daughter. How she birthed two girls who are so very different from herself, she could never understand. 

“I will speak to her.” Lady Tyrell’s brows have drawn together, her lips pressed together tightly as her hands are folded in front of her skirts with elegant poise. Yet her gaze remains stubbornly set, insistent and certain as carved marble. “I simply believe it to be in the best interest of our House.”

“Of our House, or of your beloved sister?” The question is wielded as sharply as a dagger, burrowing up to the hilt in the lady’s mind as her mother regards her with thinly veiled disappointment. There is a heavy silence that falls within the air of the room as the women regard each other with equally intense stares. Long gone are the days when she would hide at the sight of her mother’s cold glare, her heart plummeting at the very thought of letting down the only parent who paid her any mind. For so long has she obeyed every order to the utmost, earning her place as her mother’s darling and trusted spy at court. But the war has shown the lady what is truly frightening in this world, and no amount of lingering childhood guilt can convince her to abandon her sister to the hands of a senselessly violent man.

“Both can be true, can they not?” She speaks finally, a quiet reaffirming of her stance. Elinor’s shrouded gaze remains cast to her daughter, repressing the urge to remind the lady that their House only remains standing because of the effort she has put in to keep it from falling. Instead, she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly.

“Do not forget what a crucial time this is. I would hate to see your emotions stand in the way of our ambition.” Elinor’s voice is reminiscent of the rattle of a snake slipping through tall grasses, fangs withdrawn but always present. Venom that has been used before, to keep House Tyrell alive and strong.

“…Yes, mother.” 

The warning is as clear as any.

The matter of an imminent betrothal weighs as heavily upon Cregan’s mind as it does on the Lady Tyrell’s. Despite the flurry of tasks he is swept up in as the newly appointed Hand, the concern lingering in the corners of his thoughts does not cease nor waver. It is with no surprise that after he has finally concluded the last issue of the day, his steps carry him with a heavy quickness to her chamber door. So familiar has he become with the carvings of the wood upon it, with the cool touch of the metal latch. With the way his knocks resound in hollow bursts through the thickness of it, and the soft adjusting of metal as she pulls the door inwards to herself. Each time she gazes upon him with such soft surprise, even if she should not expect anyone else when the crescent moon is so high in the inky darkness of the night sky. 

But as she opens the door to greet him, she is given momentary pause by the intensity of his eyes, gazing down into hers with such needing questioning that she is left silent for a second after she catches sight of his stoic visage. Unsure of what has him in such an agitated state, the lady blinks up at him with a quiet wondering. Cregan could give a breath of relief at the sight of her, not already swept up into the arms of some lord who might not take note of the way she adds three sugars to her morning tea or the glimmer in her eyes when she finds something amusing yet does not wish to show it. It burns within his chest like a raging wildfire then, the crux of weeks of learning her person and finding himself taken by each detail he has seen.

“I apologize for the lateness of the hour,” Cregan murmurs, the depth of his voice sending her stomach rolling about softly. There is a certain hum to the manner he speaks when it is only them alone that she cannot quite place, but the physical effects of it have only grown stronger in the hours spent in only each other’s company. “I had wished to come earlier but there were a number of pressing matters and time soon slipped away from me.”

Lingering in the torchlit hallway, she cannot help but allow her eyes to soften at the way the edges of his noble silhouette turn gentle and golden in the warm glow. Her lips melt into the smallest ghost of a smile, her lids lowering as she gazes up at him with knowing eyes. She too has been hoping for his company, having grown used to receiving it several times a day. 

“You need not worry. Being Hand of the King is an involved position, I am sure.” Easy does the speech flow from her lips, rich and sweet as dessert wine when she presses one hand to her doorframe. Her lithe fingers curl about the wood delicately, and the crackling of the hearth can be heard from inside her ambiently lit chambers. A nightgown of ivory coloring adorns her body once again, scarcely obscuring anything from Cregan’s wandering eyes. She does little to hide herself, the hauntings of a smile widening in delighted amusement when a thick swallow is forced down his throat at the sight of her chest draped in such delicate silks. When his eyes flick up to hers again, she casts her gaze down so he might not see.

“It is,” He acquiesces, seeming rather weary from such a long day. But no amount of exhaustion or concern over the trials occurring tomorrow can keep Cregan from her doorstep, not when she might be betrothed at any moment. “And yet I still wished to see you, my lady.”

Her heart is sticky candle wax beneath a wick that has been set aflame, dripping into the cavity of her chest warmly. The Northern practicality that others might view as brashly straightforward heats her body as no other words can. There is little she can do to stop her smile from blooming fully upon her face as she steps back slowly, her eyes holding his with a quiet reflection of his own desires that she is sure he does not miss.

“You may come in, Lord Stark.” It is a hushed murmur, spoken to him before her back is turned and he is left to stare after her retreating figure once more. Taking a slow breath, Cregan finds himself closing the door as he has before. But this evening, there is a crackling of electricity in the air as there has not been during other evening meetings. An understanding seems to be on the precipice of being reached, yet Cregan cannot help but wonder if she knows the depth of his affection.

Slowly, he makes his way into her chambers. She has returned to the task she was attending to before Cregan had arrived – fixing her hair for bed in front of a full mirror the shape of an oval. With some hesitation, he follows her to the far side of the room and sinks slowly into the edge of her bed, watching the gentle movements she makes with half-lidded eyes. His gaze meet hers within the mirror, and he lowers his chin quietly as he speaks. 

“Has your mother arranged a match for you yet, my lady?” It is as direct as she expects him to be, and yet an amused breath is taken through her nose as she breaks her eyes away from his. Her hands make their way through her hair as a soft, tired smile finds its way to her mouth. The firelight from across her chambers casts the room in a warm yet dim glow. 

“She has her sights on Lord Alyn Velaryon,” The lady informs Cregan with a pointed resignation, attempting not to sound too annoyed or frustrated by her mother’s decision. Her fingers slow in their movements as she attempts to imagine a life at Driftmark, by the sea and sand. She has sent her spies out to learn more about Alyn, yet she does not imagine she shall receive information about his character until far later in the week. Whether for Cregan’s sake or her own, she attempts to reason out the circumstance. “It could be far worse. He – is of my age and has a good title.”

“Do you wish to marry him?” The quickness of the serious reply has her closing her eyes for a moment. She has half a mind to turn upon Cregan and ask if he imagines she wishes to marry a stranger she has never met nor has any concept of at her age, but it is not his fault nor is it fair of her to take out such frustrations upon him, he who is so very kind to her and has enchanted her so.  

“Not particularly, no,” She begins truthfully, unable to stop the honest words from fleeing her chest. Cregan has a way of rendering her all but incapable of lying when he has gotten her alone, which is both refreshing and concerning. “But I have evaded my fate for far too long. I must fulfill my duty to my family.”

Cregan cannot tear his attention from her, his heart striving with sharp pull in his chest as he watches her quietly accept that which she herself has said she does not wish for. Her chin tilts down, her hands running softly through her hair to arrange it delicately atop the silk of her evening slip. Gazing at herself softly, she cannot help but smooth down a portion of the fabric, her hand running across the silks that cascade over her breasts and down to her stomach, fingers embedding a slow trail down the map of her body. His jaw tightens, his lips twitching slightly as he stares at her figure, her back turned to him as she busies herself with her hair. The fierce spirit he has seen her wield to fight for Cassia and Jaehaera – will she truly not utilize it for herself? Cregan Stark is sure in this instance he is not a fool. Surely, she must know as well.

“And your duty to your heart?” His eyes do not waver. There is not need to elaborate further, not when he is sat there upon the edge of her bed, not when he has been allowed into her chambers at this hour before. As he has been allowed past the thorny towers of her heart, as he has been allowed the soft trust she has placed in him. He shall ignore it no longer. The lady’s body goes rigid, her lips parting dryly as she stares down at the curved foot of the mirror with wide, unblinking eyes. While she too has grown keenly aware of this fire they share, she had not imagined he would speak so brazenly of it. But Cregan is of Northern blood and custom, to his last. 

Cursed heart, flickering to life only to be put to the sword once again.

“It is but a dream.” The edges of her voice break upon her lips, glass and a ghostly whisper that lingers in the space in front of her as it falls from her tongue. Her heartbeat has become a steady thrumming in her ears, pulsing wildly beneath the skin of her wrists and beneath her collarbone. Her chin is softly lifted to meet Cregan’s stare through the mirror, and her breath is taken from her lungs by the intensity of his eyes. He shakes his head slowly, never breaking their shared gaze. An almost painful need to speak has lodged its way into his chest.

“If it is a dream then I do not wish to be woken from it. I cannot no longer hide what your discerning mind surely already knows when you look upon me.” The last word is spoken as a deep breath, as if he cannot fight with his own self-control for a moment longer. His brows draw lower, furrowing to show the weight of the longing and aching within his body that he cannot rid himself of. She can do little but stare at him, lips parted, a sweet wariness melting in desperate uncertainty upon her face as he continues.

“Your being consumes my every thought, my every breath. It is your eyes I search for in every room, your presence I long for at my side, you who has captured my heart and my soul wholly and without question. I came to this castle as a conqueror and instead find myself subdued completely by you, at your mercy and willingly upon my knees,” His eyes are anchored to her visage as a ship in a storm seeks a lighthouse, every word spoken with careful intent and heavy honesty. There is nowhere else he can look to, not even in a hall of thousands. It cannot be undone. “For but the chance that you consider another for your husband.”

A soft exhale of breath puffs through her parted lips, the flicker of firelight tracing the curves of her hips and thighs, nearly visible through the sheer gown. Burning fear and want has pooled in her eyes like golden starlight as a timid whisper is barely heard in the silence of the room. “Please do not jest.”

“I am not.” The words are low and instantaneous, rolling off his tongue like thunder from a long-brewing storm, clouds low and grey as the hues of his lidded eyes. Heat has spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, settling warm and aching between his thighs as his intense gaze tracks her every movement, her every breath. Each rise of her chest is watched hungrily, earning him an expression similar to that of a wolf who can no longer hide its raw and heady desire. One of his tightly closed fists is flexed slowly, fingers extending by the digit as he attempts to maintain what little control he has left. It is not enough to prevent him from rising from her bed, the plush feathered mattress indented in his wake, his steps heavy and intentional as he crosses to stand at her back. She can see his reflection in the mirror, his chin lowered as his eyes rake across her figure with such evident need that a soft heat pools between the curves of her thighs. A large hand finds its place upon her lower back, sliding itself into the slot where her hips begin to curve as she turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide and waiting. 

Cregan’s fingers curl softly into the silk, bunching up the pearl fabric within his hold as he presses his hand more firmly into her back, drawing her attention completely. Heat rises to her cheeks at the possessiveness of the action, despite the clear manner in which he is giving her room to draw away. His presence is imposing behind her, broad shoulders looming over her frame, but he does not corner her. The gesture is an asking, a sacred offering, a holy promise of the reverence he will use if he continues to hold her body beneath his hands. So hot is his touch, she expects to see a burn like a brand when he pulls his hand away next. But she does not wish him to. Caution curls in hesitant tendrils within her hollow chest, but they are waved away as mere wisps of smoke. If he gazes down at her with any more softness, his expression might melt beside the flames flickering in the fireplace. It is then that she realizes she has never been looked upon with such obvious love and devotion, by someone whose every action serves to reinforce this certainty. His voice breaks upon the whispered repetition of his own words, as if he is almost afraid of the need he betrays by speaking once more. “I am not.”

Her own palms are hesitant as they reach forth cautiously, wanting yet wary, head against heart. Curling into the softness of his clothing, she presses her hands to the swell of his chest as she turns, her back to the mirror as she faces him fully. Fear has been dissipated, scattered to the delicate night breeze slipping in through the crack in her window. Cool and fresh, laced with the salt from the sea. No sooner than when her fingers bend to take tentative hold of the fabric of his shirt, her eyes flooding with approval as she dips her head – yes, I want this, I want you – does he kiss her.

His mouth parts her wanting lips with a desperate yet constrained hunger, emboldened by the soft gasp against him and the tightening of fingers into his clothing rather than pushing him away. Her brows furrow sweetly as she allows Cregan to press his lips against her own in open-mouthed kisses, deep and messy with the overflowing from weeks of repressed desire, dispelling any sense of propriety and sensibility. As his other arm wraps tightly around her back, he solidifies his hold upon her waist by grabbing firmly at her hips, allowing her figure to melt against his as he holds her upright. As the curves of her breasts meld into his chest, a resonant hum escapes the back of his throat and lowers into a growl when he coaxes her lips further apart, sliding his tongue hotly overtop of them before it slips into the plush softness of her waiting mouth. This earns him another whine, sweet and breathless, that has Cregan hardening faster than he might care to admit. To soothe her, one of his hands pulls her in closer to him, briefly pausing the conquest upon her lips to lift her up into his arms.

It is with utter ease that he raises her from the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing as he leans in to kiss her hungrily once more. Her legs wrap naturally atop his hips as he settles her there, barely preventing them both from stumbling backwards and shattering her mirror, yet still bumping the dark wooden armoire and sending the trinkets atop it shaking. As she begins to meet his eagerness, discovering how she might endeavor to match the passion which with he moves his mouth against her own, neither one seems too occupied with the state of the furniture. His hands have settled into the plush skin of her upper thighs, grasping handfuls of fabric and flesh as he kneads deeply into her warmth. Her hands reach up to tangle in his locks of reddish hair, running through his soft strands and twisting themselves thoroughly. So long has she wished to touch, to brush, to hold. Cregan gives a small groan at the sensation of her fingers pulling his head back, momentarily ceasing his conquest once more to gaze into her eyes, lidded and with pupils blown wide from newly released lust. Her own eyes melt at the sight, at the beauty of him, at the depth of the affection and desire within her heart. One hand trails down to caress his cheek, cupping it tenderly in her hold as their eyes search each other’s for confirmation of the mutual desire for continuation. When Cregan is certain that her need matches his own, he is quick to shift her weight in his arms, crossing back to her bed in a few large strides. 

As he bends his knees to kneel upon the end of her mattress, one hand reaches up to cradle her head gently as he lays her down before him, hair spread out beneath her and her cheeks rosy from the exertion of kissing him. Her chest heaves in labored breath, nightgown skewed upon her figure as she gazes up at the Lord of Winterfell with blossoming desire. Never able to deny her, she who blooms within his world as a rose amongst the snowiest peaks, Cregan lowers his body overtop of hers as his lips find her mouth once again. 

The glowing fire burns low in the hearth, casting golden light upon their joining bodies in the soft satins of her poster-framed bed. The sheer silk canopy does little to hide the sounds of sweet and aching desire released from her lips as Cregan shifts his weight up onto his arms, trailing his lips and nipping teeth along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. At this, she tilts her head to further expose herself to his ardent kisses. The feeling of a mouth upon her skin is new, yet she feels far less anxiety than she might have expected. So long as it is Cregan Stark whose hands and mouth forge untaken paths onto the expanse of her body, lips pressing against sensitive pressure points as her pulse thrums beneath in hot pools, there shall be no fear in her heart. 

Just as it had been before, her given name is a sacrosanct promise birthed upon his reddening lips. She breathes his in return, wholly as sacred, reverent and reminiscent of a vow. 

Lady Tyrell’s hands once more find their way into his hair, raking fistfuls of soft locks into her grasp and tugging just so, earning her another delicious groan from his chest and a stuttered rocking of his hips against air. The action spurs him on further, as he pushes himself up by straightening his elbows and shifting back onto his knees. With his now free hands, he curls his fingers into the thin silk of her evening slip. The fabric gives way pliantly in his strong grasp. Another gasp falls from her open lips as the clothing tears, her breasts dipping slightly as they are exposed to the warm air of her bedchamber. Cregan does not give her a moment to consider embarrassment or worry as he immediately lowers his head, capturing one of her nipples with a deep kiss around the peaking bud. His eyes close at the taste of her upon his tongue, the other breast attended to with his hand as he kneads and pulls at the soft flesh with a feeling of near relief. 

On many an occasion his eyes have been drawn to the lowness of her neckline, plunging precariously atop her breasts that bounce as she walks and turns to speak to him. Finally, he can lick his tongue across the rounded nipples as he has been desiring to, his cheeks blown as his head lowers and raises from the intensity with which he sucks at her. Her back arches at the feeling of his warm mouth over her sensitive chest, suckling from her as he pulls her body closer. The ache between her thighs is a demanding flutter that grows bolder with each movement of his tongue, echoing in yielding moans and whines.

Cregan rolls his hips against hers tentatively – needing more yet wishing to be tender with her, wishing to treat her as devotedly as he can given the heat that has pulsated into his throbbing cock – as he switches to lavishing attention to her other breast. Lady Tyrell squirms beneath his touch, yet her own waist lifts to meet his as she feels the prominent outline of him straining against the material of his pants. The silks of her nightgown have bunched up about her hips, leaving her cunt covered only by the thin fabric of her small clothes akin to a flower whose petals have curled back to allow the sun to reach its depths. As he continues to map out each plane of her figure with his mouth, descending to the soft skin of her stomach after he rips at her slip further, his fingers slowly reach through the fabric to brush against her wet core. Her head falls back against the satin sheets, a sweet sound filling the air that only serves to encourage Cregan further.

“Cregan please,” Her whine is far more desperate than she wishes it to be, but the neediness causes Cregan’s cock to twitch within the constraints of his clothes. The dampness of his fingers, feeling the physical manifestation of her desire even through cloth, has him leaning back, wrestling to free himself of his pants and breeches. The lady presses her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the aching throbbing that has been caused by him before reaching down to wiggle her hips and slide her small clothes down the smooth expanse of her legs. But he shall not leave her wanting, not when he can alleviate the pressure with his own fingers that resume their ministrations once he gently moves her thighs apart. 

“As you wish, my lady.” An instantaneous agreement in a tone that rumbles with burning desire, pulled from his chest with no resistance. If she were his enemy, she would surely render him all but helpless – a knife to his neck at her mercy, if only to keep a tear from ever falling from her eyes, save the ones she sheds from the pleasure he might bring her. Her folds are wet and pliant as he massages his fingers into them softly, spurred on by the lovely sounds dripping from her lips as an ambrosial substance. His mouth returns to eagerly press kisses to each moan, tongue diving past her lips as he rubs small circles into her clit. 

With each movement, she is willing to spread her legs further apart for him, hips fluttering to meet the calloused pads of his large fingers. The scent of him is in every breath – heavy musk and sweet pine, hints of leather and the distant memory of fresh fallen snow. As he draws back for air, she lifts her head to his neck, mimicking the hungry kisses he had lavished upon her collarbone. When her teeth sink into the juncture of his throat, his hips jerk sharply and he drops his head, hair falling over his face. Soothing a sweet kiss to his skin immediately after, she presses her mouth repeatedly to the sensitive skin as Cregan slides his thick fingers across her wet pearl. Her hips roll as ocean waves against his touch, her mouth leaving reddening marks akin to bruises upon the skin of fresh fruit, laying claim to the Warden of the North as he has allowed her to. As she begins to feel flush across the entirety of her body, Cregan aligns his hips with hers to lower his cock to rub against the wetness of her cunt, sliding easily across her as she takes a sharp breath. His head hangs above hers, eyes longing to see every expression that flickers across her visage as he rubs himself against her, catching upon her clit and dipping into the pliant folds only just so. 

Never has Lady Tyrell been touched in such a way, but she is not ignorant of how the act is performed. Only, she had not believed it to be so pleasant nor so hot, burning as a raging wildfire within the lower realm of her stomach as Cregan groans from the feeling of his cock sliding against her wetness with such ease, a clear indicator of the pleasure she experiences from his touch. It had seemed like a chore, a burden forced upon ladies in order to create heirs. Even if she had not been instructed on the sequence of events during the process, she knows she would instinctively crave Cregan within her at the sensation of him rubbing with such strong and deep strokes against her. But he does not press inside of her, remaining atop her folds as his breathing grows labored.

“Please, I need you,” She breathes, hating the whine that escapes upon the last word, eyes nearly teary from the pulsing ache between her thighs where her body believes his cock should be. Cregan feels his self-control slipping off a precarious cliff at her insistence, struggling to deny her anything when she asks in that lovely voice, coated in such genuine desire and passion. But he is an honorable man, who cares for her far too much to claim her maidenhead before he marries her. Inhaling a sharp breath, he continues to roll his cock against her wet cunt with long strokes. “I need more.”

Cregan might die within her bed. His voice breaks as he rasps over his words.

“I cannot,” It is meant to soothe her, spoken in a deep and gentle voice, but only elicits a soft whine of displeasure from her as she begins to move her hips to match his. Each time he rubs against her clit, or her aching entrance, her mind grows hazy and soft. “I wish to, truly, but I cannot.”

For all his flourishing desire, primal and raw as it may be, the love he has come to harbor for her within his heart and his adamant desire to protect her outweighs his natural instinct to take her, to lay claim to her, to have children by her as he so desires. He cannot besiege her cunt as if some cruel conqueror, not when he has made no promises to earn him that right. Cregan Stark shall do right by her, as soon as he might be able to, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes upon the truth of her soul. One hand reaches down to rest softly over the gentle curve of her stomach, his hips jerking in a sloppier rhythm against her as the idea of her carrying his heirs fills his mind once more. To make her Lady of Winterfell, to give her the family she spoke of wanting, to protect her until the end of his days within his ancestral homeland – the desires he has been harboring in secret can no longer be denied.

Lady Tyrell does not argue further upon the matter, wholly desiring to honor his wishes and make Cregan feel as comfortable as he has made her, but the distress must show upon her face for he leans down. Pressing a loving kiss to her temple, his lips murmur softly against her forehead to calm her tenderly. “I am sorry, my sweet rose. It is only that I wish to have you as my wife.”

Her eyes widen at his voice, at the slight pressure he applies to her stomach as he keeps his hand pressed firmly to her skin. It is not long after the words are spoken that he rocks his hips forward, angling them so that he might rub against her clit in heavier strokes. When he captures her lips once more into his, she feels him groaning into her mouth as liquid heat pools between her thighs with a sudden stutter of his hips, coating her folds in his seed. Her own release is hot as it washes over her, her entrance contracting in rapid flutters as a warm burst of pleasure flutters through her nerves. 

As her pleasure simmers beneath her exhausted muscles, she fears briefly that he may simply leave her there alone, as she has heard tale of men doing after seeking pleasure. But the Northern lord slowly rolls off of her body, eyes closing briefly as he presses a soft kiss to her lips and pulls her gently into his arms. His hand brushes hair out of her face, her cheeks shining with sweat from their passion, as he murmurs sweet praises into her hair until she feels sleep claim her. 

a/n: i am going on vacation for the next 2.5 weeks so this series is going on a mini-break! perhaps i'll write oneshots while i am in the airport or something similar but i am not sure yet. anyways comments and asks and reblogs are always appreciated and thank you to everyone who has read everything so far!

[stylesonfilms]

Where The Quiet Was - One [h.s]

series summary: In the cold northern kingdom of Alderham, King Harry Styles rules with silence, steel, and a legacy he never asked for. Raised to believe emotion is weakness, he commands with distance—his crown a burden worn without question, his twin brother a shadow he’s long tried to outpace. Far south in the polished courts of Edevane, Margaret Fitzgerald is the daughter no one sees. Quiet, overlooked, and dressed in the remnants of her sister’s life, she exists on the edges of a family that prizes beauty and ambition; neither of which were ever hers. What follows is not a love story. It is a reckoning. A tale of power, silence, and what happens when two people find themselves undone not by war or betrayal, but by the quiet things no one ever dares to say aloud. Based off "Lover, You Should Come Over" by Jeff Buckley. warnings: none, will be posted with each chapter. word count: 6.4k a/n: welcome to chapter 1! sit back and enjoy. forgive me for any mistakes, i've had sleepy brain all day. please don't let me flop!! <3

Margaret woke to the hollow creak of the rafters and the soft clatter of footsteps below. The hour before dawn had always belonged to first light, when the blackened hills surrounding Edevane began to shimmer faintly with the gold of waking lanterns. From her narrow attic window, Margaret could see pinpricks of flame bobbing along the curved roads—the villagers and street workers moving like ghosts across the dark, lifting their torches high to hook them onto the iron posts that lined the sloping hills.

The house was already alive beneath her. Sharp voices floated up through the floorboards—her mother's brisk orders, her sister’s light laughter, the clatter of servants preparing trunks and parcels for the journey ahead. Another maid had mercifully taken the morning shift, sparing Margaret from having to sweep hearths and draw bathwater before she could even think to dress. A small grace, rare enough not to question.

She slipped from her thin mattress, wincing as the creaky bedframe gave a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the stillness of early morning. Her toes met the chill of the attic’s wooden floor, the boards worn smooth with age and dust. The air smelled faintly of moth-eaten linen, old stone, and something else, perhaps something forgotten, like the lingering ghost of candle smoke from nights long past. Here, at the highest point of Briarbourne Hall, it always felt like time had stopped moving.

Margaret gathered the dress she had laid carefully at the foot of her bed the night before, a patchwork of hand-me-downs and salvaged fabrics, lovingly sewn together in the hours no one cared to notice she was missing. The soft square neckline complimented the frill at the bottom. She pressed the bundle of cloth to her chest and tiptoed across the attic, careful to avoid the loudest of the floorboards, until she reached the narrow, rickety stair that led down to the servants’ entrance.

The back door groaned on its hinges as she slipped outside into the pale breath of dawn. The world was still half-asleep; the gardens were blanketed in mist, and the stones of the courtyard were slick with dew. Margaret padded barefoot across the cold, uneven stones to where a fresh bucket of water and clean cloths had been left at the corner by the kitchen maids.

Kneeling beside the bucket, she set her dress safely atop a dry patch of stone and braced herself. The water was bitterly cold, biting at her skin like needles. She splashed her face, her neck, her arms, scrubbing quickly with a coarse linen cloth. The roughness scratched at her skin, leaving it tingling and pink, but it washed away the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

The world around her stirred to life: the low hum of distant conversation, the rhythmic clink of metal as the lantern lighters worked the hillsides beyond the Hall. She could just make out their tiny figures moving against the horizon, their soft voices carrying on the crisp air as they hooked the last of the night’s lanterns onto tall wooden posts. First light was creeping steadily over Edevane now, spilling pale gold across the fields, catching in the lace of fog still tangled in the hedgerows.

Margaret hurriedly dried herself off, her fingers stiff with cold, and slipped into her homemade dress. It hung loose around her slender frame, the seams slightly crooked where she had sewn them by candlelight. She tied the thin, worn sash around her waist and smoothed the wrinkled fabric with trembling hands, willing it to look presentable—though she knew it never truly would.

For a moment, she lingered outside, drawing in the fresh, damp scent of the morning; the earth, the moss, the faint trace of woodsmoke from distant cottages. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it: the fleeting quiet, the freedom of being unseen.

But there was no time to waste. She turned back to the Hall, pulling open the back door once more, and crept up the narrow servants’ stair to her attic. The air grew thinner with each step, the ceiling slanting sharply until she had to duck to avoid the low beams. The attic was dim and cramped, but it was hers, and that counted for something.

Crossing the tiny room in a few strides, she knelt by the small, battered trunk tucked beneath the eaves. It was her secret trove, the only corner of the world she could call her own. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a neatly folded mended shawl, a handful of worn, dog-eared books, and a journal bound in cracked brown leather.

Sitting on the edge of her frail bed, Margaret let the worn journal settle in her lap, the cracked leather cool beneath her fingertips. She opened it carefully, mindful of the fragile spine, and a thin photograph, tucked between the first pages, fluttered free. It drifted down like a falling leaf and landed soundlessly against her skirt.

She stared at it for a moment before picking it up between her trembling fingers.

The photograph was aged nearly to sepia, its edges curling inward, browned and delicate from the slow burn of time. Yet the image it held was stubbornly clear, stubbornly sharp enough to sting. It showed her family standing tall before the pristine façade of Briarbourne Hall in its younger days, when the stone was still new, the paint still bright, the gardens lush and untamed.

There was Nora at the center, poised and regal even then, her hand resting lightly on Thomas’s arm. Thomas stood stiff-backed and unsmiling, a man already heavy with the expectations of legacy. Beatrice was a bright flare beside them, her hair in glossy ringlets, her small face beaming with the easy assurance of someone destined to be adored.

And there—off to the side, almost out of frame—was Margaret.

Three years old, dwarfed by the grandeur around her, her hair a wild tangle that caught the light like spun gold. Her small hand was curled tightly around her mother’s, her round cheeks flushed from play. She looked up toward Nora, wide-eyed, expectant, clinging.

A memory unspooled itself, as fragile as the breath of winter across glass.

They had been running, she and Beatrice, through the tall grasses in the field behind the house, where the earth still smelled sweet and alive and the wind tangled itself in their hair. Margaret remembered the feeling of the grass brushing against her legs, the sun hot on her back, her heart hammering in the way only a child's could—with no fear, only delight.

Beatrice, in a white muslin dress, ran ahead with all the effortless grace that would one day turn heads in every ballroom. Margaret stumbled after her, skirts hiked up awkwardly in both fists, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably from her lips. She could still hear it—the high, shrill giggle of uncontained joy.

Nora had stood by the great oak tree at the edge of the field, skirts gathered in one hand, her other hand shading her eyes as she watched them. There had been no sternness then, no sharp tongue or cutting glance. Only a laugh; light, unguarded, almost girlish.

"Margie, slow down before you topple!" her mother had called, her voice bright with laughter, the smile stretching across her usually severe mouth like a miracle.

‘Margie.’ The name hung in Margaret’s mind like a ghost.

It was a name she hadn’t heard in years, one that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a girl who had once been cherished, if only fleetingly. A girl who had once been seen.

The memory trembled like a flame in a breeze, threatening to go out. It felt brittle now, foreign, as though it had been pressed too hard against the waking reality of her life and had cracked under the strain. A dream she wasn't sure had ever truly belonged to her.

Margaret touched the photograph with aching gentleness, her thumb brushing the faded faces. She half-feared that if she looked too long, they might vanish altogether—this brief, golden sliver of a past that had long since been buried beneath years of cold glances and clipped orders.

She closed her eyes and held the photo against her chest, letting herself feel, for just a moment, the ghost of the warmth that had once been hers.

“Margaret Jones!”

Her father's voice, sharp, commanding, and utterly devoid of affection, sliced through the thin attic door like the crack of a whip.

She startled, the photograph slipping from her fingers and landing soundlessly on the worn floorboards. Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Fingers fumbling, she gathered the fragile photograph and journal, tucking them hastily back into the battered trunk as if hiding away a guilty secret.

Below, the house had roused into a flurry of activity. She could hear the heavy thud of trunks being carried down the stairs, the shuffle of hurried feet on stone floors, the clipped farewells of servants they would leave behind. First light was brushing up against the horizon now, gilding the attic windowpanes in a thin, cold silver. The carriage would not wait for her.

Margaret smoothed her dress with quick, trembling hands, feeling the rough weave catch against her calloused fingers. She squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped out of the attic.

The air grew colder as she descended the narrow staircase, the grandness of Briarbourne Hall pressing down with every step. The once-warm home of her childhood now loomed with the icy stiffness of a house grown used to her silence.

In the main hall, Beatrice spun before a tall, gilt-framed mirror, her new satin traveling cloak flaring out around her in glossy ripples, catching the light like water. She laughed—a light, tinkling sound rehearsed for the ears of courtiers—and Nora stood nearby, adjusting a fold in her daughter's sleeve, her face soft with approval.

Thomas stood apart, checking the time against his polished pocket watch, the glint of gold catching the edge of his cold gaze. He looked up briefly, his mouth thinning in irritation at the sight of Margaret before snapping the watch closed with a click of finality.

"You lot look lovely," Margaret offered into the charged air, her voice small, careful, the words as practiced as a prayer she no longer believed in. She kept her slim fingers clasped behind her, thumbs fiddling in anticipation. It had been months since Margaret had left the palace past the gates, besides for a usual gather for produce at the markets.

Beatrice turned just enough to catch Margaret's eye, her lips curling into a slow, triumphant smirk that didn’t reach her coldly shining eyes. Nora gave only the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, her fingers already back at work adjusting the angle of Beatrice’s bonnet, ensuring every ribbon and bow sat with effortless perfection.

Margaret bowed her head, murmuring another hollow compliment she knew they would not hear, and accepted the shawl a waiting maid thrust into her arms with mechanical indifference. She wrapped it around her shoulders, grateful at least for the meager shield against the creeping morning chill.

Within moments, they were ushered out into the courtyard. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the fresh scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Margaret flinched as the cold kissed her cheeks, but she kept her expression still, trained. Before them loomed the family carriage, grand and heavy, its deep blue panels freshly polished and emblazoned with the Fitzgerald crest—a bear rampant, roaring in silent pride.

Margaret climbed in after her parents, tucking herself into the farthest corner of the plush interior. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her fingers tightening until her knuckles turned white as the horses stamped and frothed impatiently at the bit, their breath pluming in the frosty air.

The carriage gave a lurch, the wheels groaning as they began their long journey northward. Margaret kept her eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look back at Briarbourne Hall, its chimneys silhouetted against the awakening sky.

The path stretched out before them—four long hours through misted hills, along roads that wound through shadowed woods where light struggled to reach. Alderham was waiting at the end of it, a place Margaret had only ever heard of in careful murmurs and wary warnings, a place of power and cold stone and royal blood.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, watching as the mist thickened, swallowing the world in a pale gray hush.

Somewhere beyond that veil of fog, Wrosley Keep loomed, patient and immovable.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The great hall of Wrosley Keep stood as still as a tomb, thick with a silence that settled deep into the stone walls. Only the occasional crack of the hearth fire gnawing at its last stubborn logs offered any sign of life, the sound snapping sharply in the heavy air. Morning light, dim and shrouded by Alderham’s eternal mist, slanted weakly through the narrow, arched windows, painting long, wan stripes across the cold flagstone floor. The lingering fog outside made even the bold banners on the high walls seem muted, their colors dulled as if bleached by centuries of waiting.

At the end of the long black oak dining table sat King Harry Styles, solitary at the head, his figure carved out in stark lines against the throne-like chair he occupied. His posture was ramrod straight, every inch the king he had been raised to be, shoulders squared beneath the heavy cut of his dark jacket. The deep blue fabric, trimmed with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar, caught the faintest gleam of the firelight. As he meticulously adjusted the cuffs at his wrist, the small movements spoke volumes—rituals of control, of composure sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed back from his brow, not a strand out of place. It gleamed faintly in the low light, the rich, natural wave of it tamed into order, like everything else about him.

Across the vast, yawning stretch of table—too long for comfort, too cold for true conversation—his twin brother, Edward, slouched in his chair with a boneless ease that seemed almost deliberately disrespectful. His ankles were crossed lazily beneath the table, boots scuffed with the dust of some unspoken misadventure, and his shoulders slumped as if the very notion of formality was a burden too great to bear.

A young maid, pale, slight, and visibly trembling, moved with silent urgency as she set down the last of the polished silver cutlery. Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. She offered a low, swift curtsey, her head bowed so low the limp ties of her apron brushed the floor. Without daring a glance at either brother, she backed out of the hall, the soft scrape of the door closing behind her like the final note of a funeral march.

Then Edward moved, quick and careless. He seized the metal lid covering his breakfast and tore it free with a theatrical flourish. It clattered noisily across the gleaming surface of the table, spinning and skipping like a tossed shield until it collided with a silver pitcher at the center with a metallic bang.

The echo rolled through the cavernous hall.

Harry’s jaw tightened so sharply a muscle leapt in his cheek, the only betrayal of his irritation. His hand paused mid-motion, fork hovering just above his plate.

"Must you behave like an ungoverned hound?" Harry said without lifting his gaze, each syllable clipped and wrapped in the kind of low, withering disdain that could wither even the boldest spirit.

Edward only chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, utterly unfazed by the rebuke. He speared a thick slab of meat with a single, cavalier jab of his fork, dragging it toward himself with a scraping sound that made Harry’s teeth grind.

"Morning to you as well, brother," Edward said around a mouthful of food, his voice warm with amusement and irreverence.

Harry returned to his meal with the same rigid, silent discipline with which he did everything else. His knife sliced through the ham with clean, efficient strokes, movements so precise they might have been measured with a ruler. Every bite was deliberate, not a crumb or smear of sauce left as evidence of indulgence.

In sharp contrast, Edward wielded his utensils with the gracelessness of a street brawler—switching hands without care, sawing into bread and meat with the same dull knife, elbows planted firmly on the table as he leaned forward like a boy who had never been taught a single table manner. He lounged and sprawled and ate without shame, his dark hair tied back haphazardly in a leather cord, the ends curling rebelliously against the nape of his neck.

After several minutes of taut silence, broken only by the muted scrape of silver against china and the distant whisper of the fire, Edward flung his fork down with a clatter that rang out across the cavernous hall. He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, the legs of it creaking beneath his lazy sprawl. His long hair, having worked itself free from its earlier binding, spilled in unruly waves over the crumpled shoulders of his shirt, the loose strands catching the weak light like dulled copper. His collar was undone at the throat, exposing the smooth, bronzed skin of his collarbone, and his sleeves were shoved up past his elbows in a careless, half-drunk sort of fashion.

"So," Edward drawled, his voice rough with sleep and sarcasm, "the illustrious Fitzgeralds are due to arrive today?"

Harry did not immediately respond. He merely gave the smallest nod, so slight it might have been mistaken for the tilt of a shadow, his attention never once wavering from the careful, measured cuts he made into his meal. His movements were slow and deliberate, each slice of his knife a whisper against the plate.

Edward shifted, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread. He tore at it absently with long, calloused fingers, shredding the crust as a hawk might rip into a hare, his posture slouched and feral despite the grandeur around him. The pieces fell onto his plate in a rough pile, forgotten as quickly as they were made.

"What’s the fuss about, then?" Edward said, tossing a scrap of bread into his mouth and speaking around it. "Bit far to travel just for tea and pleasantries, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hand paused. He set his utensils down with almost surgical care, the faint clink of polished silver on fine china disturbingly soft. Without a word, he lifted his gaze; cool, commanding, and edged with warning.

"They need our help," he said simply, each word clipped and weighted, his tone stripped of any warmth or sympathy.

Edward snorted into his goblet, the low, derisive sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He tossed another piece of bread onto his plate with a bored flick of his fingers.

"Help?" he echoed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "Why would we waste our time bailing out a family with more pride than sense?"

Harry offered no immediate reply. Instead, he resumed his meal with mechanical precision, methodically cutting into another slice of ham. The blade of his knife bit through the tender meat with a quiet, clean hiss, like the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

"It is not a matter of want," Harry said at last, his voice low and implacable, like the slow shifting of stone beneath a mountain. "It is a matter of duty."

Edward tilted his head, studying his twin as if he were some curious artifact, grinning as though Harry’s words were the punchline of a particularly dry jest.

"Ah yes," Edward said, leaning forward with a theatrical air. "Our sacred duty. To lift the burdens of lesser houses. How terribly noble of us."

For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed Harry’s face. His fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his knife, the knuckles whitening, but he gave no other sign that Edward’s mockery had landed. He finished the bite he had prepared with methodical grace, then reached for the linen cloth beside his plate, dabbing the corner of his mouth with restrained, practiced elegance.

"You will remember your place when they arrive," Harry said after a beat, each syllable sliding out slow and deliberate, like the grinding turn of a rusted key in a stubborn lock.

Edward only grinned wider, raising his goblet in a mock salute that dripped insolence. His hair fell untamed around his face, the wild strands catching the muted gray light and turning it to glinting fire.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, sharpening into a cutting stare that could have chilled molten iron.

"And for God's sake," Harry said, the words bitten off as coldly as the northern cliffs outside, "bind your damned hair. You look like some half-bred poet loitering at court doors."

Edward laughed a low, reckless sound that spilled far too loudly into the solemn vastness of the great hall. It was the laugh of someone who cared little for consequences, who had built a life on poking at the sharp edges of his brother’s patience.

Still, under the weight of Harry’s blistering gaze, Edward eventually dragged a hand through his hair with exaggerated compliance, shoving the tangled mass back from his face and tying it off with a rough leather thong he fished from his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You do love your little spectacles of propriety," Edward mused, voice full of half-hearted admiration as he slouched even farther down in his chair, the picture of unruliness disguised as nonchalance.

"And you," Harry said, returning to his meal with a cool finality, "love humiliating yourself."

With that, the room lapsed once more into a brittle, strained silence, broken only by the steady scrape of knife against plate, the low pop of the hearth, and the distant, hollow thrum of the banners outside Wrosley Keep flapping against the oncoming storm.

The Fitzgeralds would arrive by afternoon. And Harry intended to be ready.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The carriage rattled over the uneven roads that wound through the countryside of Edevane, the early morning sun now fully risen and casting pale gold across the fields. Dust and the sweet, heavy scent of wet earth kicked up in their wake. The horses' hooves clattered rhythmically against the stone-laid roads, a steady drumbeat beneath the low chatter of birds darting from the hedgerows.

Margaret sat tightly beside her sister, her shoulder brushing against the overstuffed skirts of Beatrice’s traveling gown. The silk and tulle ballooned against the cramped quarters, forcing Margaret to shrink inward all the more. She folded her hands primly in her lap, her patched dress of stitched scraps looking even sadder beside her sister’s fine lavender silks, the fabric catching the light like mist.

Their parents sat across from them, poised and straight-backed despite the jostling of the carriage wheels. Lord Thomas Fitzgerald barely moved a muscle, his gloved hands resting on an ivory-handled cane, while Lady Nora kept herself busied with small, constant adjustments—pulling her shawl closer, smoothing the folds of her gown, glancing sharply now and then toward Beatrice.

"Remember," Nora said sharply, her voice slicing through the confined air, "head high. Shoulders back. Speak with care and caution. You are not merely our daughter today, you are the future face of this family."

Beatrice gave a demure nod, twirling the end of one pale glove between her fingers with a casual grace that was well-practiced.

Margaret said nothing. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, letting her gaze blur over the endless roll of green and gold hills, the shadowed woods beyond them. Occasionally, a village boy or a weary farmer would pause to watch the passing carriage, hats tugged low over their brows, but Margaret hardly saw them. She let the rhythm of the horses, the creak of the wheels, the distant shushing of the bushes along the roadside lull her into a quiet fog.

"How grand it shall be," Beatrice said, breaking the stillness with a voice touched by barely restrained excitement. "To show my face properly this time. To be seen not as a child, but as the next heir. Imagine it… the future of Fitzgerald resting in my hands."

She smiled, the kind of smile that was all white teeth and ambition hidden behind a curtain of charm.

Lady Nora offered her daughter a thin, pleased smile in return. "You have been groomed for this, Beatrice. Do not forget it. And should fortune favor us..." She leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low and intent, "you may well have the opportunity to become Harry Styles’ missus."

At this, Beatrice's cheeks pinked with barely concealed glee. Margaret sat still, her gaze dropping to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"The more the brothers, moreso Harry, favor us," Nora continued briskly, "the better our standing. We require their allegiance as much as they require the appearance of unity. Do not embarrass us. And do not think for a moment they will forgive carelessness."

Thomas grunted in vague agreement, his eyes still trained out the window.

A sudden tap of fingers against the carriage wall snapped Margaret back to attention.

"And you," Lady Nora said sharply, her steely gaze fixing on Margaret like a hawk's on a mouse. "You will speak only if you are spoken to. When you greet the brothers, you will curtsy politely and say nothing more unless addressed."

Margaret turned her head, sitting straighter, folding her patched skirts beneath her with aching care.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

"You will stand behind us," Nora continued, voice crisp. "You will not interfere. You will not embarrass yourself, or us. Should you be asked to leave, you will do so without hesitation."

Thomas said nothing. He never did when it came to Margaret. His gaze remained pinned out the opposite window, as though she were merely another piece of luggage making the journey.

Margaret bowed her head obediently, feeling the familiar flush of shame rise up the back of her neck. Her palms, folded tightly in her lap, left small damp prints against the fabric of her skirt.

"Of course, mother," she whispered, offering a curt nod.

Beatrice gave a small, satisfied smirk and returned to adjusting the lace cuffs at her wrists, as if the matter were settled beyond all dispute.

The carriage jostled sharply over a rut, and Margaret’s head knocked lightly against the wooden frame of the window. She hardly flinched. She only turned her face back toward the glass, watching the misty hills of Alderham grow nearer with each lurching turn of the wheels.

The air seemed to grow colder the farther north they traveled, the fields giving way to long stretches of moorland, where the wind bent the grasses low and dark clouds loomed distantly along the horizon. Somewhere ahead, hidden among the hills and cliffs, lay Wrosley Keep—the seat of the House of Styles.

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to chase away the chill creeping into her bones.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The long hall of the north wing was chilled with the breath of the early morning fog, a low mist pressing against the tall windows like ghostly fingers. Beyond the glass, the fields of Alderham stretched out in a pale, colorless sprawl, the sun straining through the mist in gauzy ribbons of gold, as if the world itself was still waking, hesitant to embrace the new day.

Harry Styles stood in stillness at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly on the cold stone ledge, his eyes lost in the view that had become so familiar it barely registered anymore. His reflection, sharp and princely, stared back at him through the pale glass, the contours of his face sharpened by the dim light. His dark blue coat, cut sharply across his broad shoulders, swept neatly to the tops of his polished black boots, the fabric rich and heavy, like the weight of his title. A brooch bearing the House of Styles sigil, a lion crowned with ivy, clipped his heavy velvet cloak at the throat, glimmering faintly under the low sun. Beneath the cloak, a crisp white cravat was tied precisely at his collar, the folds symmetrical and flawless. His black waistcoat fit snug against his chest, the fabric stitched with faint embroidery in thread so dark it was barely visible unless caught in the right light, a detail most would miss but one that only added to the meticulous perfection of his appearance.

A pocket watch gleamed in his hand, the silver casing flashing briefly as he thumbed open the lid and checked the time. They were due any moment now.

The Fitzgeralds.

Their meeting had been arranged through a careful back-and-forth of handwritten letters, sealed with too much wax, and couched in the kind of formalities that Harry found irksome but unavoidable. The need for this meeting was not one born of mutual respect or kinship, but necessity. The Fitzgeralds needed money after the unfortunate, very public collapse of a portion of their estate wealth. It had become a scandal, one that could not be ignored, especially given how they had once been among the most influential families in the kingdom.

Harry, urged by Edward’s strange, persistent prodding, had agreed to this... display of generosity. At first, it had seemed like nothing more than an act of diplomacy, an arrangement to maintain the delicate balance of power between noble houses. But Edward had insisted, his voice heavy with persuasive charm, that this could be more, much more. Pity, Edward had argued, was not weakness if wielded properly. It was power: the power to bestow favor, to raise up those who could not stand on their own, and in doing so, show the kingdom that King Harry Styles was not just a ruler but a savior.

The thought of it left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It was so very... calculated. So very Edward. He had always been the one to see power in places where others saw only weakness, to turn the very act of charity into a tool of dominance. And Harry, always the more cautious, had reluctantly agreed. There was no real danger in extending a hand to the Fitzgeralds. They would remain beneath him, as all others did. Their presence at Wrosley Keep was a show, nothing more—proof of his strength disguised as kindness, as benevolence.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and steady, until a sharp voice echoed down the hall, dragging him from his thoughts.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was unmistakable. Edward.

Harry didn’t bother to turn, his expression already sliding into a mask of polite restraint.

Edward emerged from the west wing archway, his wild hair now tamed into a neat bun tied with a slim ribbon of red silk at the crown of his head. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves tucked into a black waistcoat, silver buttons gleaming, and fitted dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots. There was a rakish elegance about him, like a man pretending at courtly behavior but unable, or unwilling, to hide the scoundrel underneath.

"You’re late," Harry’s lips tightened, the words slipping out like the snap of a drawn bowstring. His hand flexed once around the smooth casing of the pocket watch before he snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. The movement was crisp, exacting, as if even small gestures could not afford to be careless.

With a slow, practiced stillness, he turned toward the direction of the voice, his frame rigid beneath the heavy drape of his cloak. His face, honed into an expression of distant resolve, betrayed none of the irritation that simmered low beneath his skin.

Edward grinned in response, wide and unbothered, his stance a study in irreverence. His dark cloak hung open and loose at his sides, the finer points of his attire rumpled with a careless charm that somehow only made him look more princely, not less.

"I’m early by my own clock," Edward said lightly, voice lilting with amusement as he strolled forward, hands tucked lazily behind his back.

Harry’s eyes flickered once, a brief roll of temper he was too well-trained to fully show. "You don’t have a clock," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Edward, as he brushed an invisible crease from the sleeve of his coat and adjusted the cuffs with slow, deliberate precision.

"All the more reason I’m never wrong," Edward replied with a shrug, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. He came to stand beside Harry, their twin reflections caught faintly in the dim glass of the window—two halves of the same whole, yet impossibly different.

The hall stretched wide around them, a cavern of stone and echo, lined with suits of armor that glinted dully in the thin, reluctant light. Tapestries bearing the ancient crest of their house stirred slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. Every sound, the scrape of a heel, the breath of the fog beyond the windows, seemed amplified by the vast emptiness.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath controlled, tempered, as he turned his gaze toward the distant outline of the main gates, barely visible through the thick white gauze of mist that clung to the outer courtyard. The carriages would be there soon, he knew. The sound of wheels grinding over gravel, the snort of impatient horses, the flutter of banners—he could almost hear it already, ghosting through the cold air.

Without looking at Edward, Harry lifted one hand, a sharp, commanding gesture, and called out, "Open the gates. They’ll arrive shortly."

His words cracked across the space like a whip. Down the hall, the guards straightened at attention, the polished steel of their armor flashing briefly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, they bowed low, the motion deep and synchronized, before sweeping away toward the outer doors with the hollow thud of boots against stone and the low, rhythmic clank of armor plates shifting.

The brothers remained where they stood, silent as sentinels.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of the empty hall, thick with waiting, and the soft, ceaseless groan of the wind pressing against the high windows. Somewhere farther off, the faint metallic moan of the gate mechanisms starting to turn echoed up through the stone like the slow stirring of some great beast waking from slumber.

Harry watched without moving, his posture a portrait of patience sharpened into a weapon. Edward, beside him, rocked back slightly on his heels, humming a soft, tuneless sound under his breath, as if the moment's gravity did not touch him at all.

As Edward rocked idly on his heels, the soles of his boots made the faintest creak against the flagstones. He tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, who stood rigid as a drawn sword beside him.

"Tell me again why we’re offering a lifeline to a family that couldn’t even keep their coffers guarded?" Edward asked, his voice low, coaxing, almost playful.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin as he remained unmoving, his gaze locked out toward the mist-veiled road. The fog lay thick and heavy, muting the edges of the world beyond the gates into little more than ghostly outlines.

"Because it is our duty," Harry said at last, his tone clipped and cool as a blade's edge. "A king does not merely conquer. He uplifts, when it suits him."

His words held the weight of a rehearsed lesson, something he had long ago carved into himself with careful precision. Yet even now, the bitterness laced subtly through his voice, a reminder that duty rarely tasted sweet.

Edward smirked, slow and crooked, the kind of smile meant to provoke. "Sounds like you’re going soft," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed mischief.

In a single, fluid motion, Harry turned to face him. His cloak snapped behind him with the sharp crack of heavy velvet slicing the cold air. The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that Edward instinctively straightened, the lazy smirk lingering but his posture subtly less mocking.

Harry’s glare pinned him where he stood; cold, searing, and honed with the precision of a dagger’s thrust.

"Say that again at court," Harry said, his voice low enough to be a warning, "and see how fast you find yourself posted to the borderlands."

The threat, though spoken softly, hit like a slap. The borderlands, windswept, treacherous, and crawling with unrest, were not where one went to bask in favor. It was where inconvenient men were sent to fade into obscurity, or die.

Edward raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, the chain at his wrist glinting faintly as it caught the dim light. Laughter flickered in his dark eyes, the easy, reckless kind that had always marked him as Harry’s greatest frustration, and perhaps his only true equal.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Edward teased, sketching an irreverent half-bow that was far too casual to be respectful. His tone danced on the edge of mockery, but there was an acknowledgment buried beneath it, a deference neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Harry said nothing in return. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the heavy drape of his cloak, adjusting the set of it until it fell in precise, commanding folds. His gloved hands smoothed down the front of his coat, each movement methodical, controlled.

Without another word, the two of them turned and began to move in measured strides down the long hall toward the main entrance. Their boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the cavernous space.

The air between them, though outwardly casual, thrummed with an electric tension—the constant, unspoken current that ran deep between twin brothers who had been raised together yet shaped by the crown to walk entirely different paths.

Outside, the ancient iron gates had begun to groan open, the sound deep and grating, like the yawning of some slumbering beast. Mist coiled greedily through the widening gap, spilling over the gravel like thick smoke from an unseen fire.

From beyond the wall of fog came the soft, rhythmic crunch of hooves meeting gravel, steady and deliberate.

The horses slowed, their breath misting the cold air in great silver plumes. A black carriage, lacquered to a mirror shine and bearing the Fitzgerald family crest, emerged slowly from the mist and drew to a halt before the steps of Wrosley Keep.

Their guests had arrived.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

WIP WEDNESDAY

from my sterek blood kink fic pink moon that i've been chipping away at for somewhere around the four hundred years mark lol.

i've not been around here, or written/arted owt in what feels like forever, due to life being a colossal bitch... but i am back, and goddamnit, i am trying!

.

Other than the Preserve's nocturnal animals, he and Stiles are now completely alone in the woods.

Hale woods.

The boy's bronze eyes are blown wider with each tongue-full of his blood that Derek swallows. Stiles licks at unbearably pink lips, slowly, purposefully, cheeks doing their damned best to match the rosy hue as Derek licks away at his arm.

Their shallow breaths are like firesmoke rising in the moonlight.

“You like it,” Stiles whispers. Knows.

Derek says nothing, just laps at the human's skin some more, sampling his prize good and proper. He only pauses to gulp down the pool of tangy red gathered underneath his tongue.

Now he has the heady knowledge, finally, deliciously, of precisely what it is Stiles's blood tastes of: sodium and iron and treacle, but also fresh earth and morning dew drops and mine.

Derek wants. Even worse than that, though, is the way he is just taking, taking, taking.

When Stiles's heart picks up the pace to a speed more Springbok than usual, Derek releases the vacuum of his blood-tinged lips with a resonating pop. The sound whips around the trees, defiantly, satisfyingly, echoing through the small glade in the northern part of the Preserve they're standing in, and Derek stupidly but unabashedly preens.

He's been obsessing over Stiles for some time now. Ever since way back when with the Kanima at the pool, truth be told. But he's always had so many reasons to hold back. Even after scenting Stiles's chemo-signals that suggested Stiles wants him too, Derek hasn't allowed himself to give into the pull of lust and fascination.

Stiles is seventeen, just a kid. With everything he's been through and seen, both before and after Derek—so much more than your average teen—and even if Derek was that age himself a mere three and a half years ago, he knows he shouldn't.

Stiles deserves a chance at something a damn sight better than Derek has to offer.

Unfortunately for Derek's resolve—and more than unfortunately for Stiles—once Derek got a whiff of this strangely new, more refined version of the boy, the primal urge to have this base component of Stiles's biology inside of him is just far too strong for him to ignore.

Stiles's blood is in his mouth, sliding like warm syrup down his throat, and Derek is starting to lose his shit.

He'll get fucked-up on wolfsbane-laced drink and drugs whenever he wants to forget, and he'll fuck his way around both straight and queer bars alike whenever the particular desire to have somebody under him strikes. But he's denied himself true pleasure for so very fucking long; how can he go back to saying no now he's had a taste?

The moon sings to him as he waits for the human to say or do something, anything, preparing himself to be challenged on what Stiles is likely thinking of as beastly behaviour.

Only Stiles doesn't challenge it.

He doesn't do or say anything at all, actually, which is kind of unprecedented. He opts only to watch Derek, carefully, as Derek continues to lap away at his blood, choosing to brutally gnaw on that unbearably plump bottom lip of his, bright eyes darkening and misting over as his chemo-signals spike and morph into something smoky-sweet that reminds Derek of incense, trailing mandevilla, and the feverish heat of sex.

In this moment, under a sky of wispy grey clouds and a full pink moon, Stiles looks, smells, and tastes like everything Derek could ever want or need.

Fuck.

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[broomsick]

List of interesting ressources pertaining to norse paganism, scandinavian folklore and history, and nordic religions in general

These are sources I have personally used in the context of my research, and which I've enjoyed and found useful. Please don’t mind if I missed this or that ressource, as for this post, I focused solely on my own preferences when it comes to research. I may add on to this list via reblog if other interesting sources come to my mind after this has been posted. Good luck on your research! And as always, my question box is open if you have any questions pertaining to my experiences and thoughts on paganism.

Mythology

The Viking Spirit: An Introduction to Norse Mythology and Religion

Dictionnary of Northern Mythology

The Prose and Poetic Eddas (Online)

Grottasöngr: The Song of Grotti (Online)

The Poetic Edda: Stories of the Norse Gods and Heroes

The Wanderer's Hávamál

The Song of Beowulf

Norse Mythology: Myths of the Eddas (Online)

Rauðúlfs Þáttr

Two of Þórr's Great Fights according to Hymiskviða (online)

The Penguin Book of Norse Myths: Gods of the Vikings (Kevin Crossley-Holland's are my favorite retellings)

Myths of the Norsemen From the Eddas and the Sagas (online) A source that's as old as the world, but still very complete and an interesting read.

The Elder Eddas of Saemung Sigfusson

Pocket Hávamál

Cassell's Dictionary of Norse Myth and Legend (Online)

Cassel's Dictionary of Norse Myth and Legend

Myths of the Pagan North: Gods of the Norsemen

Lore of the Vanir: A Brief Overview of the Vanir Gods

Anglo-Saxon and Norse Poems

Gods of the Ancient Northmen

Gods of the Ancient Northmen (Online)

Norse Mythology - The Gods, Goddesses, and Heroes Handbook: From Vikings to Valkyries, an Epic Who's Who in Old Norse Mythology (A vulgarized and fun read for for newbies!)

Two Icelandic Stories: Hreiðars Þáttr and Orms Þáttr

Two Icelandic Stories: Hreiðars Þáttr and Orms Þáttr (Online)

The Elder Eddas of Saemund Sigfusson; and the Younger Eddas of Snorre Sturleson (Online)

Sagas

Two Sagas of Mythical Heroes: Hervor and Heidrek & Hrólf Kraki and His Champions (compiling the Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks and the Hrólfs saga kraka)

The Saga of the Jómsvíkings

The Saga of King Heidrek the Wise (Online)

The Heimskringla or the Chronicle of the Kings of Norway (Online)

Stories and Ballads of the Far Past OR Stories and Ballads or the Far Past - Translated from the norse (Icelandic and Faroese) with introduction and notes

Index of the legendary sagas translated into English

Stories and Ballads of the Far Past: Icelandic and Faroese

Heimskringla: History of the Kings of Norway

The Saga of the Volsungs: With the Saga of Ragnar Lothbrok

The Saga of the Volsungs (Online. Interesting analysis, but this is another pretty old source.)

The Story of the Volsungs (Online) Morris and Magnusson translation

The Vinland Sagas

Hrólfs saga kraka (online)

Hákon the Good's Saga (Online)

The Saga of Hervör and Heidrek (Online)

The Saga of the Jómsvikings (Online)

History of religious practices

The Viking Way: Magic and Mind in Late Iron Age Scandinavia

Nordic Religions in the Viking Age

Agricola and Germania Tacitus' account of religion in nordic countries

Myths and Symbols in Pagan Europe: Early Scandinavian and Celtic Religions

Tacitus on Germany (Online)

Norse Mythology: A Guide to Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Beliefs

Seiðr & Shamans: Defining the Myth of Ritual Specialists in pre-Christian Scandinavia (online)

Vǫrðr and Gandr: Helping Spirits in Norse Magic (online)

Scandinavia and the Viking Age

Viking Age Iceland

Landnámabók: Book of the Settlement of Iceland (Online)

The Age of the Vikings

The Vikings (Online. Mind the year of publication, this source is pretty old!)

Gesta Danorum: The Danish History (Books I-IX)

The Sea Wolves: a History of the Vikings

The Viking World

The History of Iceland

Guta Lag: The Law of the Gotlanders (Online)

The Pre-Christian Religions of the North (This is a four-volume series I haven't read yet, but that I wish to acquire soon! It's the next research read I have planned.)

Old Norse Folklore: Tradition, Innovation, and Performance in Medieval Scandinavia

Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings

The Penguin Historical Atlas of the Vikings by John Haywood

Landnámabók: Viking Settlers and Their Customs in Iceland

Nordic Tales: Folktales from Norway, Sweden, Finland, Iceland and Denmark (For a little literary break from all the serious research! The stories are told in a way that can sometimes get repetitive, but it makes it easier to notice recurring patterns and themes within Scandinavian oral tradition.)

Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: A Short Introduction

Saga Form, Oral Prehistory, and the Icelandic Social Context

An Early Meal: A Viking Age Cookbook and Culinary Oddyssey

Runes & Old Norse language

Uppland region runestones and their translations

Viking Language 1: Learn Old Norse, Runes, and Icelandic Sagas and Viking Language 2: The Old Norse Reader

Five Pieces of Runic Poetry

Corpus poeticum boreale, the poetry of the old Northern tongue from the earliest times to the thirteenth century (online)

Old Norse-Icelandic Literature: A Critical Guide

Eddic to English: A survey of English translations of the Poetic Edda

Catalogue of the Manks Crosses with Runic Inscriptions

Old Norse - Old Icelandic: Concise Introduction to the Language of the Sagas

A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture

Five pieces of runic poetry translated from the islandic language: Quotations

Nordic Runes: Understanding, Casting, and Interpreting the Ancient Viking Oracle 

YouTube channels

Ocean Keltoi

Arith Härger

Old Halfdan

Jackson Crawford

Wolf the Red

Sigurboði Grétarsson

Grimfrost

(Reminder! The channel "The Wisdom of Odin", aka Jacob Toddson, is a known supporter of pseudo scientific theories and of the AFA, a folkist and white-supremacist organization, and he's been known to hold cult-like, dangerous rituals, as well as to use his UPG as truth and to ask for his followers to provide money for his building some kind of "real life viking hall", as supposedly asked to him by Óðinn himself. A source to avoid. But more on that here.)

Websites

The Troth

Norse Mythology for Smart People

Heimskringla.no

Voluspa.org

Mimisbrunnr: Developments in Ancient Germanic Studies

Icelandic Saga Database

Skaldic Project

Life in Norway This is more of a tourist's ressources, but I find they publish loads of fascinating articles pertaining to Norway's history and its traditions.

Germanic Mythology

Stories for all time: The Icelandic Fornaldarsögur

[kingnlionhearts]

Lionheart ✶ Chapter Two

Robb Stark x Taryn Baratheon (oc)

word count: 2.4k

masterlist

Robb Stark was eight when he learned what real summer felt like. In the aftermath of a rebellion in the Iron Islands led by his father and the King, Robb and his twin sister, Alys, travelled to King’s Landing with their father to attend Robert Baratheon’s Name Day celebration. Spring had passed and the snows around Winterfell were low. Robb spent half the journey complaining about how he wanted to ride his horse next to his father while their septa told him to pay attention to their lessons. Watching the country change shape along the Kingsroad did keep Robb moderately interested — glimpsing the lands outside of the North was rather novel. Alys shared Robb’s adventurous instinct and they ran amok, hiding between trees and tents of their father’s company every time they stopped for a meal. But there were only so many games two eight year olds could play.

For all Ned Stark had told his children about King’s Landing and the Red Keep, Robb found it all rather underwhelming. There was no grand welcome for the Starks when they arrived. The city streets were too busy and the air was too hot.

Robb and Alys were brought before the Iron Throne — the hideous, towering King’s Seat made with a thousand melted swords — to be presented to King Robert Baratheon, their father’s oldest friend. Robb was aware he had been named after the King (just as his half-brother Jon had been named after Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King). Perhaps Robb’s father saw greatness in his son’s future, a boy worth naming after a king. Robert Baratheon was not the formidable giant Robb had expected to meet. Robb could imagine the warrior king that had won the throne and broke the Greyjoy Rebellion and hoped he would never fight in a war.

The Starks were escorted to their guest rooms for the duration of their stay. Alys and Robb’s rooms lay next to each other. Before Robb could finish unpacking his chest, Alys snuck into her brother’s room. She laid back on his bed, Robb made a fuss when his sister got her boots on the sheets.

“I want to explore. Will you come with me?”

Robb did not hesitate before he nodded, a grin spread across his face. Unpacking was boring anyway.

The twins barrelled through red corridors, ducking under maids and Kingsguards. The castle was theirs for the taking.

The Red Keep was bigger than any of the Northern castles the twins had visited before, full of labyrinthine corridors. A maze without a centre for Robb — but Alys seemed to know where she wanted to be.

Robb and Alys were stopped in their tracks when Robb almost tumbled into a girl. She was their age, if younger by a few moons, dressed in pink and gold with dark blonde curls. A huge black cat with a grumpy expression was clasped in her arms. Alys recognised the girl first. Robb felt a winter chill blow through him, tethering him frozen in place. The girl was pretty like a colourful bloom in the snow. She looked at the twins, wide-eyed and curious. She held the kind of warmth the North only felt during fleeting spring days. Alys punched her twin brother in the stomach and Robb mimicked her bow.

Taryn Baratheon smiled, a pink glow on her freckle-dappled cheeks. “You must be the Stark twins. Father told me about you.”

“Can you take us to see the dragons?” Alys asked quickly, eagerly rocking on the balls of her feet. “I thought I knew the way but…”

The Princess paused, bottom lip pulled between her teeth. The cat in her arms jumped free — he rounded the twins, giving judgemental looks, and brushed against Alys’s legs before darting away. “They’re all underground now,” Taryn explained. “We aren’t supposed to visit them, but I know the way.”

It was evening by the time they entered the cellar room beneath the castle. Golden hour light faded, leaving the underground room in growing shadows. Robb had not been as enthusiastic as Alys and Jon about House Targaryen in all their lessons, but his heart thundered in his chest, mouth agape when he saw the nineteen dragon skulls.

The smallest dragon skulls were even smaller than direwolves, tiny dog-sized creatures but their teeth were still dagger-sharp. As the three children ventured down the room, the dragons grew bigger. Taryn explained that many of them were unknown. Robb wondered how magical it must have been to live centuries ago and see dragons patrolling the sky. The largest dragon skulls were those of Meraxes, ridden by Queen Rhaenys, Vhagar, ridden by Queen Visenya, and Balerion the Black Dread, ridden by Aegon the Conqueror. Most dragons have more than one rider, but later riders paled in comparison to the conquerors.

“This one is Vermax,” Taryn told Robb, pointing to another dragon skull halfway down the room. “Ridden by King Jacaerys, First of his Name. He married a Stark. An Arya, I think.”

Robb turned to his sister to tell her that one of their ancestors had married a dragonrider, but Alys had stepped away. She was distracted by another dragon.

“That’s Syrax,” Taryn said quietly to Robb. “She was ridden by Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

Alys touched Syrax’s skull and smiled wistfully. “She was yellow.”

Taryn tensed. “I don’t think we’re allowed to touch them. I’m not supposed to come down here after dark.”

Robb approached his sister, whose stormy eyes still gazed wistfully at the dragons, and touched her arm. “Let’s go to the kitchens. See if they have lemon cakes.”

Finally, Alys looked away and nodded. She cracked a smile. “But don’t tell Sansa — she would be upset if we had cake without her.”

Together, the children left the cellar room. Robb stared at the dragon skulls for as long as possible as Taryn closed the door. To see a dragon fly over Winterfell… He sighed sadly and wished there was more magic left in the world.

Taryn showed them to the kitchens. Alys skipped on ahead, wondering out loud about how wonderful it must be to live in the Red Keep. Taryn was happy to fuel her daydreams. They scurried up a spiral staircase, for once Robb did not challenge his sister to a race. Which was probably a good thing as Alys was ahead and she did not see him trip up the stairs. Robb threw his hands out, scraping his skin against the rough stone to catch himself. Taryn looked at him and Robb turned red, embarrassed to make a fool of himself in front of the princess.

Taryn helped him up. Blood from a small cut on Robb’s palm smeared onto Taryn’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s only a little blood. Here–” She sat them down on the step and took the hem of her dress to dab away the blood.

Robb clenched his fist and moved away. “You’ll ruin your dress.”

Taryn took his hand back, gently uncurling his fingers. “That doesn’t matter.”

She dabbed at the thin beads of blood, holding for a few seconds. They waited as the blood stopped spilling. “I’ll ask one of the cooks to help you.” Taryn stood and reached out to take Robb’s other hand. He took her hand gratefully and stood. “Don’t worry,” Taryn added, “We all fall sometimes.”

Dawn arrived with the northern sun trying to claw its way through soft grey clouds. The royal carriage crawled towards Winterfell in such a slow fashion that Taryn was growing restless. She was quite tired of these early mornings that had plagued them all for a month. Having already thumbed through the books her Uncle Tyrion had allowed her to borrow for the journey, the Baratheon Princess could tell you everything about Dragonglass but nothing about how to entertain her younger siblings who were even more bored than she was. The evenings were usually easier to sit through, when everyone relaxed after a day’s travel and Taryn could finally source a moment of peace.

Taryn had visited the northern reaches of Westeros before, but only once, when she was ten. She had travelled by herself, with only guards and ladies-in-waiting by her side — it was the furthest she had ever travelled without her  mother. That time, Taryn had taken a boat from King’s Landing to White Harbour, for a quicker journey, and made the unfortunate discovery that she suffered from violent seasickness. Her last experience was part of the reason her family was now making their journey along the Kingsroad instead of quicker paths — Taryn’s mother had insisted that her eldest daughter's comfort be a top priority — as well as her father’s love of hunting, which had their party taking frequent breaks for expeditions deep into the woods. Taryn would not have minded the hunting trips if her younger brother, Joffrey, had not brought her a rabbit that he had killed and showed her how to skin it for supper. (She had screamed then and eaten nothing but bread and vegetables for two weeks after, even when any other kind of meat was placed in front of her.)

“We’re almost there, I promise,” Cersei Lannister said as she considered the tired expressions across her three children.

Taryn stared out of the window at all the men on their horses. Even though she couldn’t ride, she wanted to be out there with her father, her brother, her uncle On horseback, Taryn could go anywhere and move at her own pace. But in the carriage, she was stuck. Her mother and two youngest siblings (Myrcella and Tommen) were never bad company as she loved them all so dearly; she almost felt guilty when she dreamed of having her own space again. But when Winterfell finally came into view, Taryn’s complaints washed from her mind like a summer storm, and she knew the long journey would have been worth it.

Robb Stark stood in line with his family to greet their King and his family. With his father on his left and his twin sister on his right, Robb was the Heir of Winterfell and he needed to prove himself worthy of his place. As stoic and noble as he tried to present himself, Robb could not calm his thunderous heart. He almost trembled with anticipation. The King’s visit to Winterfell was the greatest honour, but it also came with the promise of a new chapter and the return of the spring to his winter.

He tried not to glance sideways at his twin, Alys, as he knew she would take the piss out of his hopeful demeanour in all her annoying and particular ways. And as King Robert rode through the gates with his eldest son and second child, Prince Joffrey, and their Kingsguard and carriages, nothing could dampen Robb's high spirit.

His eyes searched as the riders and carriages poured into the confines of Winterfell, almost completely distracted from the King coming forth to greet Robb’s parents, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell: Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Robb counted the seconds until the formalities would conclude. And then he saw her again. It had been more than five years since Robb had last seen the Princess. More than five years since their fathers had decided their eldest children should marry when they reached better ages.

Dressed in pale pink silk, golden curls like sun rays, Taryn Baratheon followed her mother out of their carriage, which could scarcely fit through the gates of Winterfell. Soft as a spring bloom and thrice as sweet, Taryn had always been beautiful. Robb watched as she helped her siblings down from the carriage too, holding her youngest brother under his arms so she could spin him around and make him laugh before setting him down. Taryn’s brown eyes reached Robb's blue, and he tried to look away before she could find him staring at her, but she was too quick. Taryn gave him a bright smile and a small wave — it took everything for Robb to not break into a grin.

Finally, the introductions came to a close. Robb and Taryn’s fathers went off in the direction of the crypt and the maids and servants snapped back into action to tend to the royal family. As soon as he could move without appearing rude, Robb closed the distance between himself and Taryn. She was ordering their septas and handmaidens to bring her siblings into the castle when he approached (although ordering was too strong a word for the politeness and care Taryn showed her staff). Robb knew others would not be so kind, but this was Taryn’s unshakable nature. When her siblings were taken care of, Taryn turned to search for Robb and beamed when she found him before her.

Robb bowed. “Your Grace.”

Taryn giggled, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “Please, you don't need to be so formal.”

Though it had been almost six years since they had last breathed the same air, they had not been lax with communication — Robb and Taryn had written to each other almost every month in the years they had been apart. Their first meeting had left both of them hopeful for the future, even though they were only ten and eleven, but the letters had allowed Robb to truly begin to know Taryn. Neither of them was marrying a stranger, Robb was grateful for that at least.

Robb noticed her fingers fidgeting with the chain around her neck.

“The castle seems bigger than I remember,” Taryn said, staring up at Winterfell with wonder in her eyes. Then she looked at Robb.  “And you too, of course.”

Breaking into a short laugh, Robb asked, “Is that such a surprise?”

Taryn shook her head. “I was taller but you were so much faster than me — I hated that.” She giggled. “I felt like I was always chasing after you.”

Robb stretched out a hand to take the bag Taryn had strung over her shoulder, and she allowed him to take it. “You’re staying in your old room, if that’s alright?”

Taryn smiled and nodded, tucking blonde curls behind her ears. “Of course. As long as you don’t challenge me to a race this time.”

They both laughed and began walking across the courtyard together. Robb grinned. “Don’t hold your breath.”