#they may not be into tourneys but they grow winter roses

[branwendaughterofllyr]

Yes yes, the North is rough and on the edge of civilization and full of hard people, but also they choose, in one of the few places where they can grow food in the winter, to grow flowers, something without any immediate practical value, solely for the beauty and joy of it in the midst of a harsh world?????? 10/10 romanticism.

[jackoshadows]

While developing characters, writers use certain literary tools to add depth to these characters and advance the plot.

Literary Foils and Mirrors

This is arguably the simplest of the devices. Foil characters share few or no values or traits. Maybe one character is lazy and boring, and his best friend is energetic and a go-getter. These are foil characters. Put them together, and they’ll highlight each other’s strengths and weaknesses. The most common foil characters are the heroes and villains, who stand for different values and want to achieve separate goals.

Mirror characters are used for a similar purpose. They tend to share several qualities and are used to complement and highlight each other’s traits. Common mirror characters embark on parallel plots, sometimes to achieve a single goal, which tests them and highlights their traits in different ways.

Arya Stark and Sansa Stark for example are literary foils.

Arya was one of the first characters created. Sansa came about as a total opposite b/c too many of the Stark family members were getting along and familes aren’t like that. Thus, Sansa was created; he ended by saying they have deep issues to work out. - GRRM

GRRM SSM November 11, 2000

You may be as different as the sun and the moon - Ned Stark, AGoT

Foils have contrasting personalities, a different set of values and are often used to highlight a character’s particular qualities. Snobby Sansa is used to highlight Arya’s socializing with the smallfolk and non-conformist Arya is used to highlight that Sansa is a proper lady. Arya rushes to help the butcher’s boy, Sansa is more concerned for the prince.

And then we have the mirror characters who share similar traits and qualities, again used to highlight and complement our characters. They may have parallel plots, give hints and clues as to how one characters journey could end the same or be different to the other.

In ASoIaF, Arya Stark and Lyanna Stark are mirror characters, in that, the author is using a tertiary character like Lyanna to complement and give us more information about our main character Arya.

“Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”

“Lyanna was beautiful,” Arya said, startled. Everybody said so. It was not a thing that was ever said of Arya. - Arya, AGoT

So here the author gives us some information about how Arya might look in the future as well as demonstrates Arya’s low self-esteem with regards to her appearance.

Lyanna is used to highlight Arya’s interest in wielding a sword:

Beyond, in a clearing overlooking the river, they came upon a boy and a girl playing at knights. Their swords were wooden sticks, broom handles from the look of them, and they were rushing across the grass, swinging at each other lustily. "Arya?" she called out incredulously. Joffrey glanced from Arya to Sansa and back again. "Your sister?" She nodded, blushing. - Sansa, AGoT

Now two children danced across the gods wood, hooting at one another as they dueled with broken branches. The girl was the older and taller of the two. Arya! Bran thought eagerly, as he watched her leap up onto a rock and cut at the boy.  But that couldn’t be right. If the girl was Arya, the boy was Bran himself, and he had never worn his hair so long. And Arya never beat me playing swords, the way that girl is beating him. - Bran, ADwD

Bran sees a vision that parallels Arya/Mycah and even Arya/Bran with Lyanna and Benjen. Notice how Sansa is both incredulous and embarrassed at Arya dueling with Mycah -  highlighting the differences between Arya and Sansa and at the same time paralleling Arya and Lyanna.

Horse riding.

You ride like a northman, milady,” Harwin said when he’d drawn them to a halt. “Your aunt was much the same. Lady Lyanna. But my father was master of horse, remember.” - Arya, AGoT

It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. - Arya, AGoT

Notice how Arya and Lyanna are paralleled to highlight that Arya is a good horse rider, like the Northerners. And again, notice the contrast to Sansa. One character is a mirror here and one character a foil.

And again, with the flowers:

Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. […] “I bring her flowers when I can,” he said. “Lyanna was … fond of flowers.” - Ned. AGoT

Then to Sansa she said, “When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion.” - Sansa, AGoT

One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did, he only hugged her and thanked her for the flowers. That just made her worse. - Sansa, AGoT

Text that is used to mirror Arya and Lyanna as liking flowers. We have Ned taking flowers to Lyanna and Arya bringing flowers to Ned. And again we have Sansa disparaging this. Mirrors and foils.

We have Arya and Lyanna stepping in to help people. Mirrors used to highlight Arya’s personality.

“Stop it!” Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick. Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the back of the prince’s head - Sansa, AGoT

They shoved him down every time he tried to rise, and kicked him when he curled up on the ground. But then they heard a roar. ‘That’s my father’s man you’re kicking,’ howled the she-wolf.” The she-wolf laid into the squires with a tourney sword, scattering them all. - Bran, ASoS

Arya and Lyanna step in to help their father’s men and people like Howland Reed and Mycah. Sansa stepped in to help her Lannister prince.

Lyanna is deemed wilful and wild and comparisons are made to Arya.

“She was,” Eddard Stark agreed, “beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time.” - Arya, AGoT

And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful.  - Jon, AGoT

“[…] This willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience … at home, these were only the summer games of a child. Here and now, with winter soon upon us, that is a different matter. It is time to begin growing up.” Arya, AGoT

So we get a warning for Arya that her predecessor with a similar personality had a tragic ending. Will Arya head down the same path or will she make different choices from her mirror character?

And then there is Arya’s relationship with Lyanna’s son Jon Snow. The fact that Arya, Jon and Lyanna all look the same - and have the Stark look.

I think the writing in the books makes it clear that Arya and Lyanna are literary mirrors and Arya/Lyanna are literary foils to Sansa.

In what way is Lyanna a mirror for Sansa? How does Lyanna in any way complement Sansa as a character? What information about Sansa do we get from the Lyanna call backs in the text? What can we glean about Sansa’s personality and how she would react from Lyanna’s traits? There is no information about any of this in the books.

Which is why it’s baffling when some sections of fandom keep talking about the many parallels between Sansa and Lyanna. There are no parallels here, none.

We first hear of Lyanna when Robert mentions that unlike his failed engagement to Ned’s sister, this time around, Ned’s daughter and Robert’s son can marry to unite house Baratheon and Stark. This is GRRM setting up the scenario to subvert tropes.

Readers expect that Lyanna is a Sansa like character but as we keep reading, it’s revealed that the daughter who is similar to Lyanna is Arya and not Sansa. Even Arya is surprised when Ned tells her that it is she who will have Lyanna’s beauty.

Lyanna and Robert do not get married because Lyanna went against the wishes of her family. Meanwhile Sansa wanted to marry Joffrey against the wishes of her father. Character foils. If anything the Robert/Lyanna and Joffrey/Sansa pairing demonstrates how much Sansa and Lyanna are as much foils as Sansa and Arya.

Lyanna could see through Robert, that not even his closest friend Ned could do. She was not taken in by appearances.

“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm’s End. “I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.” Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. “Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature.” Ned, AGoT

Unlike Sansa, she did not believe that fairy tales were real. She was not idealistic about love. Contrast her with Sansa - who continued to love her sweet, beautiful prince after seeing him sadistically maul another child and try to harm her sister and after her own father warns her that Joffrey was not good

At first she thought she hated him for what they’d done to Lady, but after Sansa had wept her eyes dry, she told herself that it had not been Joffrey’s doing, not truly. The queen had done it; she was the one to hate, her and Arya. Nothing bad would have happened except for Arya.She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate - Sansa, AGoT

“Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted her his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.”   - Sansa, ACoK

Much is made of Lyanna crying over Rhaegar’s song. As if this is a quality specific only to Sansa in ASoIaF. Cersei talks about how Rhaegar made her weep with his silvery harp. Arya likes songs and Arya cries. Arya and Sansa just like different songs and we have no idea what Rhaegar’s song was even about. Arya named her direwolf pup Nymeria from the songs.

Arya named hers after some old witch queen in the songs - Bran, AGoT

Arya wanted to become an outlaw like Wenda the White Fawn in the songs.

Tom and Hot Pie resumed their song on the other side of the brook, with the duck hanging from Lem’s belt beneath his yellow cloak. Somehow the singing made the miles seem shorter. - Arya, ASoS

Ygritte cries over songs about the last of the giants and Ygritte reminds Jon of Arya. Again, Ygritte and Arya are literary mirrors to remind Jon of his sister and highlight Arya’s personality and other characteristics.

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

"If you kill a man, and never meant', he's just as dead," Ygritte said stubbornly. Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? - Jon, ASoS

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

Ygritte displays both grief and anger at the fate of the giants in the song -  emotions that Arya often exhibits.

So GRRM compares two women who cry listening to songs with Arya in the text and yet the parallel here is somehow with Sansa?

Besides, let’s not forget Lyanna’s reaction to Benjen laughing at her crying:

The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle, but when her pup brother teased her for crying she poured wine over his head - Bran, ASoS

Who does this remind us of?

“You be quiet, stupid,” the girl (Lyanna) said, tossing her own branch aside. - Bran, ADwD

Who does this remind us of?

GRRM is deliberately writing in Lyanna Stark as a literary mirror to Arya Stark in the books. There are three possible reasons for this. One, to highlight and complement Arya’s personality and add depth to her character. Two, to highlight her strong connection to the North. And three, for a plot that he’s leading us towards, that will either parallel or connect to Lyanna’s story in some way.

GRRM sees no such need to connect Sansa and Lyanna because that is not Sansa’s story. Her similarities are with her mother Catelyn Stark. Her story has been revolving around Littlefinger for 5 books and Littlefinger is infatuated with her because she looks like Catelyn. The author has even talked about it.

My Littlefinger would have never turned Sansa over to Ramsay. Never. He’s obsessed with her. Half the time he thinks she’s the daughter he never had—that he wishes he had, if he’d married Catelyn. And half the time he thinks she is Catelyn, and he wants her for himself. He’s not going to give her to somebody who would do bad things to her. That’s going to be very different in the books. - GRRM

If there is an aunt that the character parallels, it is Lysa Arryn and not Lyanna Stark. Will Sansa fall to Littlefinger’s machinations and suffer the same fate as her mother and her aunt? Or will she forge a different path when facing same tests?

So why the obsession with Sansa and Lyanna parallels?

Sansa stans have this weird way of reading the text where everything is subconscious and not written on the page. This idea that what’s on page is not important but some sneaky, secretive subtext is what’s actually going foreshadow future events. So GRRM investing in Jon and Arya’s relationship in the text of the books means that Jon and Sansa are going to end up together. Or GRRM is making subconscious parallels between Lyanna and Sansa.

Sorry, but that’s not how GRRM writes. Everything that GRRM wants us to read and connect to is on the page.

“I’ve been planting all these clues that the butler did it, then you’re halfway through a series and suddenly thousands of people have figured out that the butler did it, and then you say the chambermaid did it? No, you can’t do that,” Martin reportedly said while addressing whether fan theories and online speculation influence his writing process for the “Song of Ice and Fire” series of novels on which HBO’s adaptation is based.

It’s easy to do things that are shocking or unexpected, but they have to grow out of characters. They have to grow out of situations. Otherwise, it’s just being shocking for being shocking. But this is something that seems very organic and natural, and I could see how it would happen.

Then there’s the misogyny. Beauty, songs, romance and love should only be associated with Sansa. Arranged marriages are only for Sansa, being used as a pawn for power is only Sansa. Only Sansa suffers the separation from family. Can’t associate any of that with Arya because she is ‘masculine’. Despite Catelyn arranging a marriage for Arya with a Frey and despite Ramsay marrying Arya to hold the North, only Sansa is the key to the North. Arya sees through Elmar Frey as easily as Lyanna sees through Robert Baratheon, but it’s only Sansa who is associated with an unwanted betrothal.

Every female character in this series has a betrothal plot, every female character is used as a pawn at one point - even Daenerys. We know nothing about Lyanna’s story - whether she was in love with Rhaegar, what she was doing in the Tower of Joy, why she eloped. We know nothing, just assumptions and headcanons. This is a character of whom we only get flashes here and there to add to Arya’s character for  plot reasons and the mystery of Jon’s parentage.

In my opinion, this obsession that Sansa stans have with connecting the character to Lyanna arises from a need to prove Sansa’s Northern/Stark credentials. Sansa stans are fanatical about the North. Parallels to Catelyn and Lysa evoke Sansa’s Tully lineage rather than her Stark one and for people that are obsessed with the North, this will not do.

Unless it’s the idiotic Ned/Cat Jonsa parallels where they theorize that Jon is attracted to a girl who looks like the woman who emotionally abused him 😒. Of course, with the new batch of Sansa stans who ship Jonsa there is now an added reason for pushing the Lyanna-Sansa parallels as a connection they want for Jon and Sansa.

So, in the text of the story, the author writes Arya Stark and Lyanna Stark as mirrors and Arya Stark and  Sansa Stark as foils. The author does not intend to have Lyanna and Sansa act as mirrors in my opinion. Rather, an examination of what little we know of Lyanna shows her to be a complete contrast to Sansa in all ways.

[ladyofasoiaf]

Sansa & Beauty - Quotes

RADIANT:

Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey's pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell's Great Hall.

A Game of Thrones - Jon I

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COMELY: 

"Saffron is very beautiful, I'll have you know. Tall and slim, with big brown eyes and hair like honey."Alayne raised her head. "More beautiful than me?"

Ser Harrold studied her face. "You are comely enough, I grant you. When Lady Anya first told me of this match, I was afraid that you might look like your father."

The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

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EXQUISITE:

"You do look quite exquisite, child," Lady Olenna Tyrell told Sansa when she tottered up to them in a cloth-of-gold gown that must have weighed more than she did. "The wind has been at your hair, though."

A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

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FAIR:

I must ask after Sansa. How else will I find her? She cleared her throat. "Goodwife," she said to the woman on the turnip cart, "perhaps you saw my sister on the road? A young maid, three-and-ten and fair of face, with blue eyes and auburn hair. She may be riding with a drunken knight."

A Feast for Crows - Brienne II

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BEAUTY:

The girl was too young and too plain to be Sansa Stark, but she was of the right age to be the younger sister, and even Lady Catelyn had said that Arya lacked her sister's beauty.

A Feast for Crows - Brienne VII

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Lord Littlefinger kissed her cheek. "With my wits and Cat's beauty, the world will be yours, sweetling. Now off to bed."

A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

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"Had we known such beauty awaited us at the Gates, we would have flown," Ser Roland said. Though his words were addressed to Myranda Royce, he smiled at Alayne as he said them.

The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

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LOVELY:

Sansa Stark looked especially lovely this morning, though her face was as pale as milk.

A Clash of Kings - Tyrion VI

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Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the window. "You look very lovely today, my lady," Ser Arys said.

A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

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"Leave the colors to me, my lady. You will be pleased, I know you will. You shall have smallclothes and hose as well, kirtles and mantles and cloaks, and all else befitting a . . . a lovely young lady of noble birth."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

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When the moonstones hung from Sansa's ears and about her neck, the queen nodded. "Yes. The gods have been kind to you, Sansa. You are a lovely girl. It seems almost obscene to squander such sweet innocence on that gargoyle."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

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"My lady," Tyrion said, "you are lovely, make no mistake, but . . . I cannot do this. My father be damned. We will wait. The turn of a moon, a year, a season, however long it takes. Until you have come to know me better, and perhaps to trust me a little." His smile might have been meant to be reassuring, but without a nose it only made him look more grotesque and sinister.

A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

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Her maids were dressing her when Tyrion appeared, Podrick Payne in tow. "You look lovely, Sansa." He turned to his squire. "Pod, be so good as to pour me a cup of wine."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

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And false. Sansa, Shae, all my women … Tysha was the only one who ever loved me. Where do whores go? "A lovely girl," said Tyrion, "and we were joined beneath the eyes of gods and men. It may be that she is lost to me, but until I know that for a certainty I must be true to her."

A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion IX

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"The Lord Protector's daughter," the bald knight announced, all hearty gallantry. He rose ponderously. "And full as lovely as the tales told of her, I see."

The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

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PRETTY:

She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her sister Sansa sat among the other girls. Sansa's needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. "Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands."

A Game of Thrones - Arya I

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"He's going to marry her," little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. "Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm."

Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, Arya thought with dull resentment.

A Game of Thrones - Arya I

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"Lady," he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.

A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

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A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.

A Clash of Kings - Theon IV

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"I will sing it for you gladly."

Sandor Clegane snorted. "Pretty thing, and such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie, you know. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They're all liars here . . . and every one better than you."

A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

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I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color.

A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

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"Leave her face," Joffrey commanded. "I like her pretty."

A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

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"Didn't you ever have a brother you wanted to kill?" He laughed again. "Or maybe a sister?" He must have seen something in her face then, for he leaned closer. "Sansa. That's it, isn't it? The wolf bitch wants to kill the pretty bird."

A Storm of Swords - Arya IX

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Jaime found himself wondering if Brienne might have passed this way before him. If she thought that Sansa Stark had made for Riverrun . . . Had they encountered other travelers, he might have stopped to ask if any of them had chance to see a pretty maid with auburn hair, or a big ugly one with a face that would curdle milk. But there was no one on the roads but wolves, and their howling held no answers.

A Feast for Crows - Jaime III

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Petyr put a finger under her chin. "That Royce glimpsed this pretty face I do not doubt, but it was one face in a thousand. A man fighting in a tourney has more to concern him than some child in the crowd. And at Winterfell, Sansa was a little girl with auburn hair. My daughter is a maiden tall and fair, and her hair is chestnut. Men see what they expect to see, Alayne."

A Feast for Crows - Alayne I

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Ser Loras had given Sansa Stark a red rose once, but he had never kissed her . . . and no Tyrell would ever kiss Alayne Stone. Pretty as she was, she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket.

A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

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She studied Alayne's face and chest. "You are prettier than me, but my breasts are larger.  

A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

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Sansa was the pretty one. He remembered a time when he had thought that Lord Eddard Stark might marry him to Sansa and claim him for a son, but that had only been a child's fancy.

A Dance with Dragons - Reek I

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Petyr put his arm around her. "So he is, but he is Robert's heir as well. Bringing Harry here was the first step in our plan, but now we need to keep him, and only you can do that. He has a weakness for a pretty face, and whose face is prettier than yours? Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him."

The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

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BEAUTIFUL:

"Joffrey likes your sister," Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. She was the daughter of Winterfell's steward and Sansa's dearest friend. "He told her she was very beautiful."

A Game of Thrones - Arya I

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Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys.  

A Game of Thrones - Arya I

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When the white horse stopped in front of her, she thought her heart would burst.To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry.

A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

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"Sweet Sansa," Queen Cersei said, laying a soft hand on her wrist. "Such a beautiful child. I do hope you know how much Joffrey and I love you."  

A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

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She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful.  

A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

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His smile emboldened her, made her feel beautiful and strong. He does love me, he does.  

A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

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"I will need hot water for my bath, please," she told them, "and perfume, and some powder to hide this bruise." The right side of her face was swollen and beginning to ache, but she knew Joffrey would want her to be beautiful.

A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

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His brow was damp with sweat. "I saw Sansa at the court, the day Tyrion told me his terms. She looked most beautiful, my lady. Perhaps a, a bit wan. Drawn, as it were."

A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VI

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

A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII

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As they lurched into motion, Tyrion reclined on an elbow while Sansa sat staring at her hands. She is just as comely as the Tyrell girl. Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful. He wanted to reach her, to break through the armor of her courtesy.  

A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

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Tyrion had never seen her look more lovely, yet she wore sorrow on those long satin sleeves. "Lady Sansa," he told her, "you shall be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight."

A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

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"Ser Loras," she finally managed, "you..  you look so lovely."

He gave her a puzzled smile. "My lady is too kind. And beautiful besides. My sister awaits you eagerly."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

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"At the Hand's tourney, don't you remember? You rode a white courser, and your armor was a hundred different kinds of flowers. You gave me a rose. A red rose. You threw white roses to the other girls that day." It made her flush to speak of it. "You said no victory was half as beautiful as me."

Ser Loras gave her a modest smile. "I spoke only a simple truth, that any man with eyes could see."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

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She wanted to look beautiful for Willas Tyrell. Even if Dontos was right, and it is Winterfell he wants and not me, he still may come to love me for myself.

A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

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"You are very beautiful, my lady," the seamstress said when she was dressed.

"I am, aren't I?" Sansa giggled, and spun, her skirts swirling around her. "Oh, I am." She could not wait for Willas to see her like this. He will love me, he will, he must... he will forget Winterfell when he sees me, I'll see that he does.

A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

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Tyrion wore a doublet of black velvet covered with golden scrollwork, thigh-high boots that added three inches to his height, a chain of rubies and lions' heads. But the gash across his face was raw and red, and his nose was a hideous scab. "You are very beautiful, Sansa," he told her.

A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

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Ser Kevan told her she was beautiful, Jalabhar Xho said something she did not understand in the Summer Tongue, and Lord Redwyne wished her many fat children and long years of joy. And then the dance brought her face-to-face with Joffrey.

A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

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Littlefinger pointed out a cedar chest under the porthole. "You'll find fresh garb within. Dresses, smallclothes, warm stockings, a cloak. Wool and linen only, I fear. Unworthy of a maid so beautiful, but they'll serve to keep you dry and clean until we can find you something finer."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

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"Marillion?" she said, uncertain. "You are... kind to think of me, but.. pray forgive me. I am very tired."

"And very beautiful.

All night I have been making songs for you in my head. A lay for your eyes, a ballad for your lips, a duet to your breasts. I will not sing them, though. They were poor things, unworthy of such beauty." He sat on her bed and put his hand on her leg. "Let me sing to you with my body instead."

She caught a whiff of his breath. "You're drunk."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

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"I wish you could see yourself, my lady. You are so beautiful. You're crusted over with snow like some little bear cub, but your face is flushed and you can scarcely breathe. How long have you been out here? You must be very cold. Let me warm you, Sansa. Take off those gloves, give me your hands."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

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"But you're not, are you? You are Eddard Stark's daughter, and Cat's. But I think you might be even more beautiful than your mother was, when she was your age."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

*-*

"Do you require guarding?" Marillion said lightly. "I am composing a new song, you should know. A song so sweet and sad it will melt even your frozen heart. 'The Roadside Rose,' I mean to call it. About a baseborn girl so beautiful she bewitched every man who laid eyes upon her."  

A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

*-*

"Have you no honor?" her aunt said sharply. "Or do you take me for a fool? You do, don't you? You take me for a fool. Yes, I see that now. I am not a fool. You think you can have any man you want because you're young and beautiful. Don't think I haven't seen the looks you give Marillion.

A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

*-*

"And you must be the Lord Protector's daughter," she added, as the bucket went rattling back up to the Eyrie. "I had heard that you were beautiful. I see that it is true."

A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

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"So you're brave as well as beautiful," Myranda said to her.

A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

*-*

"Dutiful and beautiful," said an elegant young knight whose thick blond mane cascaded down well past his shoulders.

"Aye," said the second knight, a burly fellow with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, a red nose bulbous with broken veins, and gnarled hands as large as hams. "You left out that part, m'lord."

A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

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"I was never beautiful like Sansa, but they all said I was pretty. Does Lord Ramsay think I am pretty?"

A Dance with Dragons - The Prince of Winterfell

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"It was sweet," lied Tyrion, "but I am married. She was with me at the feast, you may remember her. Lady Sansa."

"Was she your wife? She … she was very beautiful …"

A Dance with Dragons - Tyrion IX

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Not to be outdone, the pimply knight hopped up and said, "Ser Ossifer speaks truly, you are the most beautiful maid in all the Seven Kingdoms."

The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

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"You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight, as lovely as your lady mother at your age. I cannot seat you on the dais, but you'll have a place of honor above the salt and underneath a wall sconce. The fire will be shining in your hair, so everyone will see how fair of face you are. Keep a good long spoon on hand to beat the squires off, sweetling. You will not want green boys underfoot when the knights come round to beg you for your favor."

The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

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"A beautiful bastard, and the Lord Protector's daughter." Petyr drew her close and kissed her on both cheeks. "The night belongs to you, sweetling, Remember that, always."

The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

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[agentrouka-blog]

Hi! Do you think winter roses are only found in WF? If so then how Rhaegar came accross to them?

No, I'm pretty sure they are originally found in the whole North. They may be naturally occuring there because they like a colder climate or the soil or the light or something in particular. Hence the name.

But they also could theoretically be grown in other places with glass gardens.

"So he scaled the Wall, skipped down the kingsroad, and walked into Winterfell one winter's night with harp in hand, naming himself Sygerrik of Skagos. (....) Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o' the winter roses be plucked for the singer's payment. (ACOK, Jon VI)

The Winterfell glass gardens are generally intended for growing food for everyone's survival. Even during the Long Summer, they grew things like blackberries in there. To make space for this "rare and precious" flower in there, during an actual winter, means it is particularly valued. (Like a Stark maiden daughter, ahem.)

Since the tourney at Harrenhal happened in the False Spring, it may be that the flower crown was made by the actual hosts of the Tourney (House Whent) of locally grown winter roses that do well in the Southern winter climate and were expected to disappear soon now that spring had apparently arrived.

Rhaegar only won the crown, he didn't make it, and crowning Lyanna with a symbol of victory (for the Knight of the Laughing Tree) made of the flowers that represent Northern Stark maidens probably made it all very poetic inside his head. Too bad he didn't consider how it would make anyone else feel.

I doubt the flowers would have been imported from the North for the occasion, as that takes weeks of travel, which a fragile thing as a potted flower would probably not have handled well.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

The She-Wolf and the Young Dragon (Lyanna Stark x Daeron Targaryen OC)

I wrote this during my fanfiction module in my final year at university. 

Brief: An AU of GRRM’s novels ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’, taking place before the events of the first book. A ‘what if’ scenario where one of the children of King Aerys II and Rhaella Targaryen, Daeron survives infancy into his adulthood, where he is the one to supposedly ‘kidnap’ Lyanna Stark instead of eldest brother, Rhaegar.

BRANDON

His father warned him many times before, that the Starks never did well down south. Yet no matter how stubborn he was, he would never listen.

It lingered in the warmer climate how out of place Brandon Stark was in comparison to what he experienced in the North. No matter how big the lands were, it would remain outdated in contrast to the rest of Westeros.

The Capital held a different atmosphere to Winterfell when he landed ashore from the mouth of the Blackwater Bay. The smell of the streets and manure was strong even when mixed with the strong current of the salt in the air.

Even from here, he could see the Red Keep in all its glory, as beautiful and imposing as he had predicted it to be. The dragons who had ruled for centuries made everything very impressive, even when no winged beast flew any longer in the air. The Targaryens had made King’s Landing their home and he knew for certain of the risk of walking into the dragon’s den. 

“Where is she?” His voice was thunderous when it bounced from pillar to pillar, booming across the hall with steps following, the five men he journeyed with were persistent in tailing behind. The Great Hall was quiet when the Young Wolf of Winterfell stormed through the double doors, noting of the fact that neither the King nor his Hand was around to witness, excluding the few Kingsguard and those of Prince Rhaegar’s own sworn swords that lingered; a deadly chill that passed. Good, Brandon thought, the Gods know how this would go if he were here.

“Brandon Stark, your travels to King’s Landing were swift?” At the base of the steps to the Iron Throne, the Silver Prince was dressed as if ready for long periods of mourning: his deep indigo eyes were just as drab and dark as his attire, his long silver-gold hair tied in a careful knot.

“Don’t you play me for a fool, where is she?” He barked. “I know you have her!” Hovering below the steps himself, glaring up at the Prince. Brandon Stark was all wolf and no man it seemed, yet he still felt inadequate beneath the Dragon.

“Why would you accuse me of kidnapping your sister?”

Brandon’s face grew ever-so-hot, “You gave her the roses at the tourney! My brother had been the one to hold me back before I had the chance to smack you off your horse. Or had you forgotten just as much when you were getting cosy with her that same evening?”

Ser Arthur Dayne was just an inch away from cutting the Stark heir in half if he dared lay a finger on his Prince - Brandon knew that himself. It would be all Seven Hells unleashed if the King had heard of such a crime. The Prince of Dragonstone didn’t seem alarmed nor angered by the accusations, albeit puzzled, before telling his close friend to lower his weapon.

“I think you have been left in disarray by this, Brandon.”

“How? You were taking part in the tourney, my sister had eyes for you even with a future betrothed waiting for her.” He glowered, holding his sword carefully. Prince Rhaegar’s jaw clenched noticeably before he gave a polite, strained smile.

“There has been a misinterpretation of information spread between who you believe was me and the one you seek. You see, I was not the only Targaryen Prince there.” Rhaegar explained calmly, observing how Brandon’s face scrunched up. “If you are looking for a man with my features, perhaps it is my brother you may be wanting to pursue.”

Brandon seemed reluctant to admit that, grudgingly removing his hand from his sword. Of course, it would make sense now, and now the only fool standing here is I.

“Daeron,” Brandon groaned, “he was the one to give the roses to my sister?”

“It would seem so. Those two did seem to grow close in a short amount of time. After all, who would’ve imagined the skilled mystery knight to win the tourney and my brother’s heart?” Said Rhaegar. “She had tended to his wounds after his defeat, I saw it myself... What took place in Harrenhal was what I had to explain to my wife.”

Poor Elia Martell was sweet and innocent: someone who should’ve been told everything in the end. At the end of the day, Rhaegar’s so-called infidelity was untrue and Elia could rest easy knowing her husband remained nonetheless faithful. “What would we do with them then? For all we know, they could be all the way to Essos by now.”

The Silver Prince moved before he stood at a level ground with Brandon. “If I know one thing about my brother, he wouldn’t be keen to travel east. Don’t take my brother for a fool. My father’s spies have eyes not just in Westeros but across the Narrow Sea, thanks to his growing paranoia. He’s still here, I know that for a fact - lurking in a shadow that keeps him and your sister concealed from wandering eyes.”

But for how long will that veil stay up? Brandon thought. You cannot hide anything when you lurk within these walls. “Help me find my brother before the wind catches our words and my father or Robert Baratheon do. Stay here in the Keep and I will grant you and your men housing, your stay here unscathed, and we will go find them together.”

Brandon wavered, but the consequences seemed far too grave; with too much at stake. “And of your father? What if he hears of this squabble between me and his heir?”

Rhaegar grimaced. “Then I pray to both the Seven and your Old Gods that his wrath is merciful.” No mercy would come from those haunted by madness. Brandon knew of no such thing. The Mad King was more an old dog than a sane ruler, one that needed to be put down soon enough. 

-

LYANNA

“Oh, my love.”

The laugh had tumbled from her throat by the time she had landed softly on the pillows beneath her, her long dark hair fanning around her with the following melodic chuckle shortly joining hers. Their bodies were tangled and laid naked as the day they had been born, beneath the cherry wood ceiling with the low candlelight surrounding them.

In the past, Lyanna would’ve held her admiration for the eldest born son of the Mad King at bay around her brothers, but she had never imagined the second-born to have captured her heart. In the dim light, he could’ve been the spitting image of Rhaegar, but the shadows cut false definitions of sharp edges to his face, giving him a more mature look like his brother momentarily. But his eyes were not like the Silver Prince: the second-born was more spirited and his eyes were the lovely colour of lavender, just like the ones Lyanna saw when travelling down on her travels to Harrenhal. She had gotten her brother Eddard to pick some for her and she smelt them whilst riding horseback, as sweet as the summertime and what the singers proclaimed. Had she been able to keep them before Benjen stole them from her tauntingly, she would’ve braided them into her hair, a freshness to keep her content for the rest of the journey down south.

The Young Dragon had eyes that brought her memories of Winterfell with her brothers: where Old Nan would talk about the ice giants beyond the wall and of the wilderness that followed. The cold bite was ever so bitter but the She-Wolf survived throughout. There was more to the North in his eyes that she wasn’t used to, a rigidness that was not found in him. Daeron had more Northerner in him than dragon, it seemed.

She remembered the night when Rhaegar sang with his silver harp at the feast and how the tears came quickly to her eyes, the same as most of the other ladies in the hall. His song was full of solemnity, yet Lyanna had to ignore the snickering from Benjen and when she and Daeron stole timid glances, sheepish but frequent. Rhaegar was a man a decade her senior and tied in matrimony. She would never compete with a married woman for a man everyone admired. What he’s not like of Rhaegar, I prefer. He will be everything his brother is not and so much more.

“You still have much energy, even at this time of the night.” She smoothed at the fair hairs on his chest, kissing at his shoulder fondly. She could imagine living here for the rest of her life with just Daeron and away from the eyes of those, the duties and responsibilities, living and making their own family. “You have tired me out, Daeron.”

“Few people get to ride a dragon; it can be rather draining.” Her husband winked, chuckling softly when her face warmed in reaction. Their laughter died down when his attention was drawn to her kisses resuming on his skin, quickly kissing her back with such feverish intent.

“The last of the dragons died a century before you were born, Your Grace. Lost in tragedy if we dare choose to forget, hmm?” Her eyes were blue as the winter roses she loved in the North, alive and full of mirth.

“You needn’t address me like that, my lady,” Daeron smiled, stroking away the hair from her face, “after all, we are equals.” In the eyes of the north and the Old Gods, they wouldn’t be, but Lyanna did not need to follow those customs. In the eyes of the Gods and men, we are one and together. A Targaryen, whose flame burns bright like his, just like those of greatness who came before him.

“In the eyes of the Faith, perhaps, but not to my father.” Lyanna sighed. “I believe he would find me more wild than dutiful.”

His hair was slicked from sweat when he pulled it from his face, tenderly kissing at her with such ardour. “The North I was told of was all cold and bitterness, but there was a flame within you that was only seen in those who carried the blood of the dragon. I never thought I would see it so brightly in you.” Daeron said. “When we return to the cities, we may wed in your custom, and revisit our fathers when the time comes.”

“And of your father, Aerys? Has there been no word of His Grace or his spies?”

“My father… grows more delirious the longer the days grow, his position falters whilst my brother is alive, his mistrust festers. Rhaegar is every right a King, but getting rid of my father will be troublesome without the right aid.” Daeron admitted bitterly. “That will be his problem, for now. He’ll be ready to find us when he has dealt accordingly with my father.”

“Rhaegar will not be able to conceal everything if he is not in on our secret already, not from my brothers alone. We will not be able to hide any longer.” Brandon will have to halt his wedding for a month if he hasn’t already. He would hunt to the ends of Essos to find me. She dreaded.

Daeron hesitated when he rose from their small bed, his bareness not a problem for either of them. “I fear my father may do something that will not only break him and our families, but tear the entire realm apart.”

Lyanna too rose from the bed and came to embrace him from behind. “If you have me, you have the North by your side, I swear it. We knelt to the Conqueror three centuries ago, we have stood with you since then.” Lyanna promised proudly. “Brandon shall marry one of Hoster Tully’s daughters, and therefore, he will have the Riverlands too. The Arryns from Ned, thanks to Jon. They would aid you if it is needed for their allegiance.”

Daeron’s lavender eyes widened in surprise when he turned to her. “And of your betrothed? Surely Robert Baratheon will not have our side when he accuses me of kidnapping his lady.”

“I am not his lady. I never was. Robert is all boar than man, and his appetite for other ladies would continue no matter his age.” Lyanna objected. “He will hear of my wrath before he dares lay a hand on you.”

The Young Dragon held her tightly in his arms, “I would hope no day would have to arrive, for any of us.” He drawled. “No stress should come to a mother and her potential newborn.”

Lyanna could imagine how her stomach would look when swelled with a child—their child—and the very image of her one day holding her babe in her arms. It made the She-Wolf eager for it to be a so-called reality. A son, she hoped for, a son who would share the blood of the North and Old Valyria. Two powerful houses, coming together as one.

“We still have not thought of names, if the time comes for it.” Lyanna changed the subject quickly, settling her husband to sit once more, his hand to her back and stroking the back of her long hair. “Were there any you had in mind?”

“My grand-uncle Aemon is at the wall, but he is everything a King should be had he not turned it away for my grandfather,” Daeron said with a sad smile, “I want to honour his name, for the man who was too generous and gave the crown to his brother.”

Lyanna smiled, “He sounds like a good man.” Daeron agreed, and for a moment, the wistfulness hung over his head as much as it did over his older brother, giving him a similar look to the Silver Prince. No matter how far he goes, he will always have some part of Rhaegar’s despondency.

“No matter what happens, we will endure this together, against everyone else. We deal with your father and my own when we return. For now, I want to enjoy your company as much as possible.” The She-Wolf softly spoke, enveloping her husband gently. Even in the coolness of their room, he was warm to the touch. But she would get used to it.

The Young Dragon had encircled her to his chest and pulled her back to the bed, caressing and kissing her with such glee. “My little wife, as brave as those of winter who came before her and strong as ice itself. The dragon and the wolf have a fitting name.”

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                     i’ll spend this summer by your side

{Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark meet in Winterfell when they are just kids. Eventually, they grow up and the time for grown-up decisions comes. // a.k.a. gendrya arranged marriage childhood-friends-to-lovers au}

*ao3

*dedicated to the wonderful @yanak324​ - darling, without you I would’ve never written this fic, let along post it. thank you so much for everything <3

When the bones are good, the rest don't matter

Yeah, the paint could peel, the glass could shatter

Let it rain 'cause you and I remain the same

When there ain't a crack in the foundation

Baby, I know any storm we're facing

Will blow right over while we stay put

The house don't fall when the bones are good

- The Bones, Marren Morris & Hozier

A day’s ride away from Storm’s End, Arya falls asleep in a deep, damp forest that smells so much different than the ones in the North. With a crumpled-up letter underneath her pillow, she dreams of the summer afternoon many years ago – of when Gendry first arrived at Winterfell.

She was a child then, of course, but she remembers it surprisingly well; clutching on her mother’s skirts and watching, wide-eyed, a procession of horses and wheelhouses streaming in through the castle’s main gate. Robert Baratheon looked like a giant from Old Nan’s tales with his black beard and booming voice, and she had to tell herself to be brave many, many times before she managed to clumsily curtsy in front of him; anxiousness making her tremble, lose her balance and stain the hem of her dress with mud.

She recalls that Sansa giggled quietly under her breath while she gracefully dipped down, all auburn-haired and perfect. And Arya could just hear it perfectly clear in this laughter, her sisters’ and Jeyne’s dirty little horseface-s, murmured behind her back all day long, so she lowered her eyes as her cheeks reddened.

But then someone kneeled in front of her, taking her gloved hands in his. And when she raised her chin slightly, there was the bluest stare that she has ever seen, bright and clear and looking at her softly.

‘’Greetings, my lady. My name’s Gendry. Can I ask for yours?’’

Gendry. He looked far older than her, of Jon’s age. And he had the same kindness in his voice, the same warmth hidden somewhere in those winter eyes and that gave her all the courage she needed.

With back straight and head held high, she answered:

‘’Arya. I’m not a lady, tho. Don’t call me that.’’

Her mother hissed her name sharply and Sansa gasped, but none of that even mattered, as Gendry smiled. Still on one knee, he raised her right hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles delicately, just like stupid knights in Sansa’s stupid songs.

‘’As you wish, my lady.’’

***

He is to be fostered in Stark’s household, yet another one her mother had sighed, but with no malice in her voice. It is an honor, no matter how one looked at it and even Arya understands that. First Theon Greyjoy, brought by Father like a souvenir from Rebellion. Prince Jon next, on the insistence of his mother, the Queen, who wanted her son to grow up in the North as she did.  And then the heir to Lord Paramount of Stormlands, son of Father’s dear childhood friend.

Other boys give him some space to adjust to Winterfell and Sansa quickly deems him awfully gloomy and refuses to interact with him at all, her apparent delusions about finally meeting ‘’a true Southern nobleman ‘’ whatever that even means, shattered by Gendry’s stormy glare.

‘’I mean, he cannot even hold a proper conversation.’’ Arya overhears Sansa talking to Jeyne as they are sitting in the sewing room, embroidery hoops in their hands. That’s easily the most interesting thing Sansa has ever said around her.

But Arya herself is pretty curious about him. It is true, he looks gloomy and moody, he scowls all the time and doesn’t speak much at all, but so was Jon when he had first got here.  Maybe he’s just shy?  - she's wondering, although the notion does not work well with how he greeted her.

So, when she catches Gendry  alone one time during breakfast, just as he’s stuffing his face with oatmeal in a decidedly-unlordlike manner, she laces her fingers behind her back and asks him boldly:

‘’Do you miss your home much?’’

His chewing stops abruptly and he’s staring at her all surprised, his cheeks puffed out with food. He looks so comedic like that, that she feels a bubble of laughter buzzing in her throat, but she is determined to keep it there. Laughing at him now would be unkind and Arya wants to be kind to Gendry, the way he was kind to her in the courtyard. So she just hops on the bench next to him, uninvited, and waits patiently for him to swallow his oats.

‘’I- I don’t know, really.’’ He answers sheepishly at last, a little red on the face and still looking at her as if he was not sure what she’s even doing, sitting so close to him.

‘’You don’t know if you miss your home?’’ she repeats, bewildered. ‘’I would die if they made me leave Winterfell!’’

No doubt about it. Lyarra left some time ago, Sansa’s constantly moaning and whining about going South, to Reach or King’s Landing, and even  Robb has asked Father once or twice if he could go stay with their grandfather in the Riverlands -  but Arya’s of North. She was born here and here she intends to stay.

The corners of Gendry’s mouth twitch a little, as if he was fighting a smile.

‘’I miss my sisters a lot, but it’s enough of you that it almost feels like they were with me.’’ He explains. ‘’And it’s as beautiful here as in Stormlands, if not more. Even, if it’s so darn cold.’’

Arya's heart swells. No one has ever told her that they think North is more beautiful than South, not even Jon who just keeps on repeating that it’s decidedly less stinky than the capital.

‘’I think it’s beautiful too.’’ She admits quietly. ‘’Sansa says one day Father will have to marry me off to one of his bannermen, cause no Southern lord will want me, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. I never want to live in a place where there is no godswood. And I don’t want to marry anyway.’’

This time, he actually smiles at her and even chuckles for good measure.

It feels like an achievement, somehow.

‘’What do you want to do, then? If you don’t wish to marry?’’

Countless adults have asked her that before, but always in half-teasing, half-mocking tone, not believing any word she says. Gendry…  Gendry seemed to be actually interested in her answer. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and back bent so they are on the same eye level.

And once again, she is hit by how blue his eyes are. Her mother has blue eyes, same as Robb and Sansa and Bran and even baby Rickon. Arya’s living surrounded by the sea of Tully blue eyes. And yet, Gendry’s are more intense somehow, less washed-down.

‘’I’m going to go behind a Wall and be a spear wife. Or be an explorer, like Sea Snake or Elisa Farman.’’ She dreams about all that and more, about adventure and thrill. ‘’I’m gonna go to Shivering Sea and bring back an ice dragon with me, so everyone would know they really exist. I want to see the Wall and the Lands of Always Winter. ’’

She’s fully prepared for him to laugh at her. Everyone does. Even Father, even Jon, although their laugh is good-natured.

But Gendry doesn’t.

He just nods at her declarations and states:

‘’I don’t want to marry either, or to be a lord. If I could, I’d just be a blacksmith.’’

And just like that, suddenly, they are friends.

***

Sansa and Arya have their lessons separately of boys, probably to avoid subjects that may possibly wound their delicate young minds, but Arya keeps on begging Gendry long and hard enough that he gives in eventually and tells her more about Rheagar’s Rebellion, about Tourney at Harrenhall and The Great Conspiracy.

It is a little embarrassing, talking to him about all this, but less so if she touched the topic with Jon, who is always very tight-lipped about his parents. However, with years passing by, Arya begins thinking about her aunt more and more, with this kind of insatiable curiosity that surpasses any notions of being proper. Everyone knows that Rheagar Targaryen offered her grandfather a crown for his daughter in exchange for Rickard Stark’s men and loyalty. Everyone knows that Lyanna was promised to Gendry’s father at that time, but Lord Rickard, being an ambitious and reasonable man, agreed to Prince’s proposal, having easily calculated how far above Lady of Storm’s End is Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. Everyone knows of the Rebellion and King Aerys’ death and how Baratheons were the last ones to kneel in front of the new king.

The one thing that Arya wonders about is what exactly was Lyanna’s Stark position in all that.

Jeyne and Sansa and even Lyarra always make it into a song; of love forbidden, of blue winter roses, of Wolf Lady and Dragon Prince.

To Arya, it seems more mundane; more like a girl sold to the highest bidder.

‘’I met her, once.’’ Gendry tells her in Godswood, skipping rocks on the still surface of one of the hot pools. ‘’During the royal tour through Westeros.’’

‘’What she’s like?’’ she asks, hungry for details. Father never wants to talk much about aunt Lyanna. Jon rarely even mentions her name and every time he does, it is laced with such a desperate longing that Arya quickly learned to avoid the subject to spare him the hurt.

‘’Beautiful.’’ Gendry crunches on the bank of the lake, staring at the circles on the water. The cold breeze is playing with his dark hair, making it even messier than possible. He’s one and ten now, already taller than Theon and Robb and it doesn’t seem he’s about to stop growing any time soon. Standing next to him, Arya feels even smaller than usual. ‘’Dark-haired, long-faced. She looks like your father and you.’’

Her cheeks redden against her will. Many Northerners have told her that, which makes her head spin a bit, unsure how to imagine a woman who was somehow both beautiful and similar to her.

‘’Yeah, but I’m not asking about her appearance. I’m asking what she’s like.’’

Gendry ponders about her question for a bit, which she is well used to by now. He always takes his time thinking, making people call him stupid and slow behind his back. Which is both unfair and untrue – he doesn’t have a head for numbers like Arya or for houses and histories like Bran, but he is not dim-witted in any way. Especially when the issues of household management and smallfolk are concerned.  

I know he doesn’t want that, but he’ll make a wonderful lord one day, crosses her mind from time to time, watching as Gendry calls every single servant by their name and how he always remembers to pay a visit to the orphanage when they are in Winter Town.

‘’Sad.’’ He settles on, still avoiding her gaze. ‘’Kind and sad. For me, she looked quite lonely.’’

‘’How else can she look like? A wolf can never be happy in the cage. And I heard Father saying she has true wolf's blood, the way uncle Brandon had.’’ Arya doesn’t remember him well; he died when she was barely more than a child, slain while storming Great Wyk. His wife and daughter used to live with them a few years after he passed away, but then Lady Barbrey decided to go back to Rills to her father, so now even Lyarra is not around to remind everyone of Brandon’s hot-blooded nature and  Arya lost a partner in horse riding or secret archery lessons.

‘’Well, good luck to anyone ever trying to cage you.’’ Gendry says, playfully tugging on the end of her braid and making her shriek. ‘’You’re way too wild for that, Arya. Also, you’re all dirty from that leaves and we are already late for dinner, so enough of histories for now.’’

***

‘’One more time.’’ She orders, smirking, when the only answer she hears is a pained groan. ‘’Come on, you were the one who asked me to help you.’’

‘’It’s utterly embarrassing that you’re so good at this and I’m so hopeless.’’ Gendry fixes his stare on the parchment on the desk as if it personally offended him. ‘’These are just swimming in front of my eyes.’’

‘’Books are important.’’ Arya rests her cheek on the stone wall, letting it warm her skin pleasantly. ‘’If you don’t understand books-‘’

‘’-my liege lords will cheat me out of taxes, yeah, I know. But still. Can’t I just ask someone to check them for me?’’

‘’I suppose you can. If you trust this person enough.’’

Gendry sends her a side smile and leans back on his chair.

‘’Well, shame I don’t trust you then. As I don’t know anyone better at sums than you.’’

‘’Why don’t you trust me? How dare you even say so.’’ She presses her hands to her chest in fake-offense, deciding to ignore his praise. ‘’The audacity you have.’’

‘’Don’t play with me, Arry. You’re a terrible cheat. Especially at cards.’’

‘’It’s called strategy!’’

‘’Sure it is.’’

‘’It’s not my fault you are a sore loser.’’

‘’Only with you, my lady. Only with you. I wouldn’t be a sore loser if you were winning fair and square.’’

''Besides, I don't think it's really possible to cheat at monsters-and-maidens. Or come-into-my-castle.''

''And somehow you manage to do just so.''

***

Father lets Gendry work in the forge with Mikken sometimes when all his other duties are done, and Gendry simply loves it, loves it beyond all else – it doesn’t take a lot to notice that. Arya thinks him content enough most of the time, maybe even happy when he spars with Robb on the courtyard, warhammer against sword, or when he playfully wrestles with Bran and Rickon, always letting them win, or when he goes riding with Jon and they sneak her out so she can join them. But smithing, smithing is something else entirely.

‘’That’s just so common.’’ Jeyne Poole wheezes once, outraged, as Gendry passes them on a way to his chambers, soot coving his forearms.

Arya could just strangle her. Instead, she stops abruptly and stomps her foot.

‘’I don’t see how it’s something wrong. Other lords hunt with hawks or gamble – at least Gendry will do something useful at Storm’s End!’’

Jeyne opens her mouth and then closes it, clearly shocked. For a moment she seems to be looking for a good enough reply, but apparently comes short, because she eventually settles on gasping loudly and hurrying away, leaving Arya on the corridor alone.

Escaping from her embroidery lessons, Arya often goes to watch Gendry, as Septa Mordane would never even think of looking for her in the forge. So she has perfected sneaking in and perching on the workbench after discarding outer layers to bask in the heat.  They don’t talk -  to be honest, she is not sure he notices her much at all, too engrossed in his work. Surrounded by the sound of metal hitting metal and billows of smoke, Gendry looks so much different than he usually does, almost like he is some stranger.

Like he is a baseborn blacksmith, not a highborn heir to one of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Arya is wondering many times, as Gendry’s hammering hilts of swords with such force that the sound must be echoing through very bones of Winterfell; would they even meet if he was not nobility? If they both weren’t noble? For sure they wouldn’t, coming from where they come from, a whole continent between them. Even if they both were bastards (she scoffs internally at the idea; as if her father could ever have any children outside wedlock) she would be a Snow and he would be a Storm and bastard boys don’t get fostered, so they would never cross paths.

So, as much as she hates the notion of being a noble lady sitting idly and sewing all day long, she is grateful for being a Stark and she is grateful that he is a Baratheon. If only because she gets to sit between Gendry and Jon during meals and toss her greens onto their plates.  If only because she got to meet Gendry and to bicker with him and to see his smile.

On her tenth name day, he and Jon wake her up early and the first thing she sees is a short, narrow sword in Gendry’s hands.

‘’It’s – uhm, it’s for you.’’ He mumbles, his head low as he’s setting it on her lap.

Arya, breathless, runs her fingers along the hilt, tracing the elegant twist of silver metal. It’s perfect, it’s beautiful, it’s everything she has ever wanted. Sharp and slight, just like her.

Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I’ve got a Needle of my own.

‘’It was Jon’s idea.’’ Gendry adds hastily, before she manages to open her mouth.

‘’Aye, but Gendry made it.’’ Jon smiles with this shy, gentle smile of his. ‘’Don’t sell yourself short.’’

‘’You… made it for me?’’ Arya lets out, bewildered. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she registers Jon’s ruffling her hair and wishing her happy birthday, but all she has eyes for are Gendry’s blushed face, his blue stare and grime underneath his fingernails that flashes when he fiddles with the pelt on her bed.

His hands. He made a sword for her with these hands.

Gendry just nods in reply, smiling.

‘’It’s mostly Mikken work, to be honest, I just helped out, so it should be- uff!’’

Arya has her arms around his neck before he can even finish the sentence, burying her face in his shoulder. When he tentatively hugs her back, she feels so, so happy she could burst.

***

Old Nan is saying to anyone who cares to listen that it’s the longest summer in the living memory and it feels like that sometimes, it really does.

After snows have melted and it got warmer, warm enough that even Northerners shed their furs and expose their pale skin to the sun, one sunny morning, all of them, Winterfell little lords and ladies, go to the hot pools.

It is Arya’s favorite day ever and remains so for many years to come.

Even Sansa comes, sweeter than usually and giggling lightly in her pretty periwinkle dress as she sits on the blanket and plays with Lady, who is desperately trying to catch the loose ribbons around her mistress’ wrists.  

Jon also doesn’t swim; he's just standing awkwardly in the shallow part for the whole time, refusing to go any deeper no matter how they all push and pull, Robb and Theon laughing at him as they cut through the water with ease. The direwolves are still just puppies, all adorably confused by the lake before bravely hopping in and paddling one by one around the edge of the pool - all but Ghost, who, mirroring his master, is deeply distrustful of going in. Instead of following, he opts for sniffling the cattails and stumbling on his little paws in haste to get away when his siblings climb out and shrug water from their fur.

Rickon jumps in with a wild roar, splashing everyone head-to-toe and diving to nip at their ankles until Robb loops his little arms around his neck and hauls him across the lake and back.

And Gendry grabs Arya by the waist and seats her on his shoulders, so that she can reach up and pick fluffy white catkins from the willow trees above them, gathering them in her palms before letting them scatter on his dark hair like snowflakes.  He holds her pale calves tightly, grinning up at her and avoiding incoming swimmers so she won’t fall into the water.

The air smells like grass and berries and lemon cakes; it’s vibrant with laughter.  Gendry’s wet hair sticks to his head after he ducks underwater with her still perched on his shoulders and she uses this moment to jump off, right underneath the surface. They meet face-to-face, bubbles of air escaping from the corners of their mouths, but he doesn’t see her; he’s keeping his eyes closed as he’s floating.

He’s smiling so widely that she’s afraid his cheeks will split.

When she reaches for his hands and his fingers immediately curl around hers, instinctively knowing it’s her without having to open his eyes, something beautiful and painful blooms in her chest for the very first time.

***

‘’Tell me, Arya, whom do you prefer, Jon or Gendry?’’ Bran asks her once when she is ten and two and she scrunches her nose at how weirdly this question is phrased.

‘’What do you even mean by that?’’

‘’Well.’’ Bran slides from the windowsill to take a seat in front of her, the abandoned board of cyvasse spread in between them. ‘’You know they will probably marry you off to one of them, right?’’

What.

‘’How do you know that?’’ she manages to stutter.  Marry... Jon?  Her? Jon has been like an older brother to her for so long that at some point she forgot he is actually her cousin.

And Gendry?

Gendry, a maiden’s daydream. Even Sansa can’t ignore him anymore and suddenly stopped complaining about his rough manners. Even Jeyne keeps her mouth shut now and turns red when he says hello to her.  He is too tall for that, too broad and too skilled with his warhammer. Whores in Winter Town fawn at the sight of him, making him walk with his head low when he is passing brothels.

Marrying Gendry would be-

No, just no.

‘’That’s obvious. They both seem to like you a lot, gods know why-‘’ Bran smoothly avoids her smack, leaning back on his chair and continuing his rant, ‘’- and with Sansa going to King’s Landing – well, I think Mother and Father would make a very smart deal, arranging your marriage with either of them. These are also the only betrothals you could possibly agree too.’’

‘’I would never agree to marry Jon.’’ Arya states, suddenly feeling hot. She keeps her eyes glued to the dices laying on the table, just not to see Bran’s mischievous eyes. She knows what he is going to say and he doesn’t prove her wrong.

‘’And Gendry?’’

Gendry; billows of steam around him.

Gendry; his chest glistening with sweat as he brings the hammer down.

Gendry; calling her ‘’my lady’’ and laughing as she gets mad.

You would like Stormlands, he told her once, when they were deep in the forest, looking for wild berries. It’s harsh in the same way North is.

But it’s too hot, she moaned in response. - Northerners were not made to live that far South.

You could also say Southerners were not made to live that far North, he countered, reaching for her hand and helping her jump over a toppled tree trunk.-  But I and your mother live here and we manage just fine.

Instead of answering, she silently stands up and leaves the solar, fuming,  with Bran’s triumphant laughter chasing her.

***

Arya hates passionately nearly all the female skills Septa Mordane tries to instill in her, be it riding sidesaddle, embroidery or the art of polite yet meaningless conversations - but there is one exception that makes all the difference.

Dancing.

She loves, loves dancing, and even tho those least proper are her favorite, she does not find it too painful to go through the most formal ones.  There is something about spinning and clapping to the rhythm of the music that reminds her very much of sparring with Bran, her Needle in her hand.

After all, sword duels do look like dancing at times, in cases when it’s more about swiftness and agility than brute strength. When she was ten, her father secretly hired her a Braavosi water dancing teacher and well, let’s just say that spinning has long become a natural way of moving for her.

Still, everyone is shocked when she takes to her dancing lessons with no complaining; more so, when in mere weeks she twirls around her teacher gracefully, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She’s good at that, effortlessly; for the first time in her life she truly good at being a girl, shutting everyone’s mouths and making Mother smile proudly in the same way she smiles when Sansa presents her with needlework – and it makes  Arya feel both weirdly unsteady and giddy.  To her delight, she manages to learn slower styles quickly enough, that soon she’s going through faster and more complex steps, never missing a beat, smiling widely at Jon who often offers to partner her.

There is nothing challenging for her about dancing, really.

Not until she gets to dance with Gendry.

‘’You’re such an oaf.’’ – she whines, trying to adjust his stiff grip on her waist. ‘’It’s not so hard, seven hells, let loose a bit!’’

And he just stares at her, wide-eyed and unsure like a newborn fawn. One could think that she has him on knifepoint, not in the empty chambers where she asked him to help her practice.

In the hindsight, she should’ve just waited for Jon.

‘’Didn’t they teach you to dance in Storm’s End? Didn’t they teach you here, with the rest of boys?’’ she asks as he steps on her toes for the fourth time, completely out of rhythm even though she counts it out loud for his benefit.

‘’They did.’’ He spits roughly in response, suddenly dropping her hands and turning his back on her.

Arya’s left standing frozen, her arms loose by her sides and mouth opened.

‘’What has gotten into-‘’

‘’What’s that dress?’’

She looks down at her gown. It’s an old one of Sansa’s, altered in order fit Arya’s shorter frame. She needs a dress to practice dancing well, unfortunately, so she’s taken to wearing them more often, and this one is not terrible. It’s fairly practical, without those stupid dragging sleeves or a train. Just yellow linen trimmed with white lace around the collar.

She thinks it’s quite pretty.

‘’What about it?’’ she asked, bewildered.

‘’How come you’re walking around now, wearing dresses and dancing? Though you did not want any of this?’’ He is still not facing her, so she cannot read his expression. But his voice sounds heavy and rough and so, so unlike his. ‘’Though it was not you. Have you forgotten? You’re not Jeyne or Sansa, Arya. ’’

There is silence stretching between them and for a moment, all Arya hears is the hum of blood in her ears, boiling with anger.

She crosses the room in two long strides and slams her fists onto Gendry’s back, furiously hitting him until he turns around and seizes her wrists.

‘’Ough, Arya, seven hells-‘’

‘’How dare you!’’ There are tears spilling down her cheeks, hot tears of anger, but she just doesn’t care because how dare he. ‘’You think – just because- you think it’s only for Sansa? That I cannot be good at anything like that just because I’m – I’m-‘’

Against her best intentions get drowned in sobs and suddenly she falls forwards into Gendry’s arms, her forehead pressed against his chest. He’s anxiously patting her back, mumbling to her to calm down, but all she can do is cry.

‘’Just because I’m ugly, do you think I cannot be any good in dancing?’’ she sobs, her voice drowned against the leather of his doublet and she gasps in surprise as he grabs her shoulders and tears her away from him, leaning down to look her in the eyes.

‘’Arya, what are you even talking about?’’ he whispers, clumsily wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘’You’re pretty. So pretty. How can you even – don’t listen to Sansa, gods.’’

Gendry is a honest lad. He does not really try to kiss anyone’s arse or  play pleasantries. He has also never been in  any way dishonest to her. But now… now he’s both serious and honest, as he, once again, takes her hands into hers and repeats, loud and clear:

‘’You are not ugly. Don’t ever think like that.’’

She bits on her lip, searching for any note of falsehood in his voice, on his face. But she comes empty-handed.

‘’So why did you get angry?’’ she asks quietly, lowering her eyes to their linked hands.

He also looks down, suddenly sheepish, with faint blush coloring his cheekbones.

‘’It was stupid. I was stupid, I’m sorry. I just thought that you’re not interested in – all of that. And that maybe now you decided to mimic other girls. Which you don’t have to do. Sorry.’’ He shrugs and Arya knows that if he had free hands, he would be scratching the back of his neck.

‘’I am not.’’ She admits. ‘’I’m not – I’m not trying to be Jeyne. Or Sansa. I still think most of those things that Septa Mordane teaches me are stupid. But I like dancing.’’ She pauses for a moment, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. ‘’And I like this dress. And I think – maybe I don’t have to be one thing only. Maybe I could be a good dancer and a good horse rider. And I don’t need breeches to be a good archer. Maybe... I could be just me. ’’

Mother would gasp at her logic, Father would shake his head with this kind, sad smile of his.

Gendry just nods slowly, straightens his back and pulls them into a starting position again, this time leading her on the floor with a grace she would never suspect he possesses. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reply to her words. He just smiles at her softly, his grip gentle, as they move through steps and figures. And she knows that he understands exactly what she means.

***

The night before Gendry leaves Winterfell, she jumps from under the covers the exact moment when Sansa starts to snore and quickly wraps herself up in furs to keep the chill away. The castle is quiet and basked in the light of the full moon; not that it matters in slightest.  She could probably make her way blindfolded, for how well she knows it.

She finds him exactly where she expected; he adds some extra logs to the fireplace in the forge, stripped to his shirt and breeches. When she loudly coughs to announce her presence, he swiftly spins on the balls of his feet and greets her with a smile devoid of even an ounce of surprise.

‘’Came to say goodbye, didn’t you?’’ she asks, trying to keep her tone light, but she obviously fails, cause his brow immediately furrows and the corners of his lips drop down.

‘’Yeah.’’ His voice is soft like kitten’s fur, softer than ever before. He sits on the workbench and motions for her to move closer. Settling on the worn-out wood, she feels something heavy dropping in her stomach. She has been in this forge a thousand times and more already, but without Gendry here, she will have no reason to come again.

It’s almost as if he’s to take a part of her home away with him.

She lays her head on his shoulder and he takes her hands in his (when did his hands grow so big, how did that happen?) and for a moment, they just sit in silence uninterrupted by anything except the crackling of the fire and the sound of their breathing.

‘’I’m gonna miss it so much.’’ He admits at last, keeping his head low as always when he’s being very serious.

‘’The forge?’’

‘’The forge, Winterfell. The North. Your family. Jon.’’ he counts down. ‘’Hmm, and I suppose I will maybe miss you. Just a little though. Finally, some rest from your blabber.’’

Arya gasps at that, showing him off the bench to the floor, where he lays, laughing.

‘’I do not blabber!’’

‘’You do, sometimes.’’

‘’I do not!’’

They shoot back and forth, until Arya quiets down and bites on her lip. No more bickering.

Her eyes sting a bit, so she closes them and flops down on the bench.

‘’Will we ever see each other again?’’ she asks, refusing to look at him and swallowing the bile in the throat. She instantly wishes she did not utter this question, because how will she make it through if he says they won’t?

But Gendry is Gendry, so he doesn’t.

He raises up on his feet and sits down on her right side, this time wrapping his arm around her and pressing her closer to him, so that her head is resting on his chest.

‘’We will.’’ He answers, full of will and conviction. ‘’I don’t think there is anyone who could stop you from doing what you  really want, Arya. So if you will ever want to see me, you will find a way. And I-‘’ he hesitates for a moment as if he was trying to phrase his thoughts in a right way. ‘’- and I will find a way to see you again too.’’

‘’Okay.’’ She says softly, gripping the material of his linen undershirt and pressing her nose to it, trying to memorize how he smells, how he sounds, how he feels, trying to burn it in her mind. ‘’Okay, Gendry. No goodbyes, then.’’

He rests his chin on her head and when he breaths out deeply, her stomach does a somersault. Suddenly, a thought crosses her mind like a flash;  how we must look like, sitting like this. What would someone say, if they saw us now?

But it quickly evaporates, when his lips brush her hair and she hears his whisper.

‘’Aye, Arry. No goodbyes.’’

***

To her despair, Jon soon follows Gendry; riding back to King’s Landing, he leaves behind a string of maidens with broken hearts and Arya’s parents pretending they were not trying to find an excuse to make him stay as long as possible.  And with his departure, things start to change for good right in front of her eyes.

For starters, for the very first time in her life,  Arya learns how terribly and crushing lonely one can feel in their own home, surrounded by their own family.  She has already flowered, meaning that even Father won’t allow her to roll in the mud with a training sword anymore – not that she would have any partners in that anyway, with Syrio Forell also leaving, claiming loudly that he’s ‘’too old for living in such a stern climate and freezing his bones off every night’’.

Margaery Tyrell comes to Winterfell, all pretty and smiling, her rose-embroidered dresses too light for the cold and her cheeks always rosy. And Robb falls, even Arya can see that - he falls so hard and quick that it seems almost unbelievable. Soon, he’s all for strolling around the castle, chest puffed like a peacock and his betrothed by his side, too busy with getting out of his skin to impress Margaery to even notice anyone else, let alone his little underfoot sister.

And Arya likes Margaery well enough, even if she’s instantly Sansa’s new best friend the moment she steps through the threshold (she’s kinder than Jeyne, at least) – but the whole flurry of wedding-related activity makes her sick, especially since she cannot sit in the back of the room with Gendry and make fun of all this pomp and extravagance.

Right before Robb’s wedding, Mother starts to get terrible headaches (the aftermath of raising too many children, she grumbles) and is often bed-ridden, which forces her to finally allow Father to send Rickon to Riverrun. He is to stay with uncle Blackfish for a while, with the hope that maybe it will temper his wild energy a little – fool’s hope, in Arya’s humble opinion, but it’s not like anyone asks her for it.

Bran squires for one of Stark’s bannermen and every free time he has, he devotes to visiting Greywater Watch and the Reeds.

Arya is deprived even of Sansa’s meager company as both her sister and goodsister are busy preparing a dowry for Sansa’s upcoming nuptials. Then Sansa goes South, as eagerly as possible, and the castle becomes ever quieter, unnerving Arya so that she feels she’s surely going to go mad.  Robb’s all Lord-like now, Margaery’s wobbling around pregnant and glowing and it’s all terribly, excruciatingly dull.

So Arya fills her days with silently sitting by Father’s and Robb’s sides as they ‘re taking petitions and lonely horse rides with Nymeria. The winter is truly and well coming now, so there is a lot of work with properly securing livestock and supplies coming from the Reach and every pair of hands is needed, even if hers are small and soft.  She goes to visit Lyarra and aunt Barbrey once or twice and tags along with Bran to meet his betrothed, Meera. She practices archery with Theon, bothers Winterfell’s staff for hours with no end and talks with smallfolk more than it is proper. Twice a week, there are kids in the Winter Town orphanage waiting for her to come and teach them letters and it’s honestly far more fun than she thought it would be.

However, there are letters of another kind that become her main source of entertainment; every day she nags Maester Luwin endlessly, inquiring about ravens and looking for them in the sky or locking herself up with ink and quills in her chambers, pouring all the unsaid words on the parchment.  

Jon writes often;  mostly narrations of his days at court and some amusing anecdotes about annoying nobles. His letters abruptly stop coming for four moons around a year after his departure and when they resume,  he is different. Head over heels in love and married.

To his aunt in fact, which would be a little weird in any other case, but Arya supposes they are Targaryens after all. Even if King Rheagar decided to try to stop the traditional inbreeding by sending for Northern bride for his eldest son and marrying Princess Rhaenys into House Tyrell, no one is really that shocked by Princess Daenerys giving her hand to Prince Jon, especially given that her brother, Prince Viserys, has been one of the victims of the Rebellion.

I heard she’s gorgeous. Congratulations on your marriage, Jon. – she replies politely to the announcement and buries her face in her hands, sitting still for hours afterward.

Dear Arya, I am so very happy, becomes an opening line of every Jon’s letter since then and it makes her oh so confused and even more conflicted.

She has taken to watching her parents closer than ever; observing how they speak with each other, how they seem to understand one another even without any words exchanged. How they stroll through glass gardens during sunny afternoons, laughing quietly.

Accidental marriage, that’s what we are, her mother said to Sansa once, forgetting that Arya was also present, which seems to be a theme for women in her family. I was to marry your late uncle Brandon and gods forgive me, I was not very pleased when I ended up with his brother, nor was my lord father. But it all turned out for the best. By the time I became Lady of Winterfell, I didn’t care much for the title at all. I just wanted to be by Ned’s side.

Arya knows she is well past betrothal age. She knows everyone is wondering why her parents turned every single one of her suitors down. She would very much like to believe that’s because they decided to let her never marry and stay in Winterfell forever like she has begged them for many years, but it’s been a long time since that afternoon game of cyvasse with Bran and she is nowhere as naïve now as then.

She is spoken for, promised to, even if silently, even with no one mentioning that at all. And she is still trying to figure out if it makes her angry or not at all.

She feels Father’s gaze heavy on her every time she makes her way into the Godswood, a letter pressed to her chest.

Gendry writes rarely and even when he does, his letters are shorter than Jon’s, which also makes them infinitely more significant. He is not a man of many words and he is very busy now – it is not spoken loudly, but it is practically a common knowledge that Robert Baratheon is well on his way to drink and whore himself to death, so any duties that Gendry’s mother was fulfilling during his stay in Winterfell  fell on his shoulders as soon as he returned.  Arya understands all of that. At the same time, she still selfishly wishes for more; she just misses talking to him, the banter and silliness and honesty – all of it. There’s no one else who gets her better. No one who takes her as seriously as he did.

So she dutifully sends her own letters every week, raven after raven, even when there’s not much to write about, and cherishes whatever reply appears.

One time, sitting in Godswood with Nymeria’s heavy head resting on her lap, she realizes that, at some point, all of it has stopped feeling like living; it feels like endless waiting, holding her breath.  She is still in Winterfell, but what good is that if everyone else is gone or different. Everyone seems to be moving on to some grand things, with only her stubbornly stuck.  

And then.

Do you think still that marriage is always a cage? Gendry writes to her exactly three years after he went away and Arya’s not stupid. She knows where this conversation would lead.

She just isn’t sure if she wants to actually have it.

I think there are cages in which one feels content. - she replies carefully, after trying out tens of different ways of conveying her thoughts and tearing them all into pieces.-  But I still think caging a wolf may not be the wisest idea at all.

That time, the letter from Storm’s End comes quickly, probably as quickly as the raven managed, poor thing.

She goes riding for half a day until she gathers enough courage to read it, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of parchment all spotted with fat blotches of ink, as if Gendry pressed his quill way too hard in several places.

Even wolves have their hunting grounds, right? Vast, with a lot of space to breath. Their pack around them, running together. Not a cage, but a home.

With her heart beating fast, she closes her eyes for a second. All of it feels so heavy, so final. Couldn’t they just go back to being children in Winterfell? Why must they all grow up?

It makes her so angry. Where are those summer afternoons, what happened with them – with Gendry’s hands innocent on her ankles, keeping her safe and secure?

But then she comes back to reading and gasps at the next paragraph.

Arya, I am no bard, really. You know that. Must we do it this way? I need a lady and miss you so much and gods damn me, if you weren’t always the only lady for me.  Come to Stormlands. Marry me. I promise, I will never cage you. You can call yourself a lord. You can call yourself a blacksmith’s wife. I don’t care. Please, just be with me.

‘’Stupid.’’ Arya murmurs under her breath, feeling fondness filling her head to toe. Gendry always had a way of making things simple, of making her feel at ease.

She looks out of the window; at the silent courtyard, empty, save for a few servants hurrying to the kitchens for their supper. She supposes she could stay here, or tell her parents she will marry close to home and come back as often as possible. She doesn’t have to leave or cross the entire continent.

But her days would be long and empty; her nights -  cold. She would feel like a tree with its roots unmovable, forever in Winterfell’s soil. Bored out of her mind and static. She would be content enough, probably, only it’s never what she wanted. What she wanted was an adventure –

And what is a bigger adventure than going South? Managing a castle the way she wants? Spending the rest of her life with her very best friend?

There’s also the issue of duty, of course. Her duty towards her parents, towards the North. As much as Arya hates politics, she’s aware of how powerful betrothals are. Marriages mean security and supplies and wellbeing of the Houses involves and those, who serve those Houses. It was a coincidence that Robb’s bride came from Reach just as the winter was about to come for good. And her marriage to Gendry would potentially bring many, many benefits for the North, for the still-too-empty coffers and stocks.

Besides. Much better her best friend than some random Northern lord, who would take her Needle away and delegate her to women’s quarters to bear one child after another and gossip with other ladies until her ears fall off. Gendry would never do that to her, of that she can be sure.

Maybe it will be summer again, by his side.

***

Arya likes long letters, rambling and elaborate.

But her last one is the shortest by far, sent just before she straightens her back and knocks on the door to Father’s study.

Dear Gendry,

Just to make it clear; don’t ever expect me to bow down to you.

But aye. I will marry you.  

Yours, Arya

***

Ned Stark listens to her words with a solemn expression on his face, but when she’s finished, the corners of his lips raise up slightly.

‘’I knew this day would come someday.’’ He sighs heavily, reaching for one of the parchments laying on his table and placing it in front of her, so she could read it. “This is what Robert left me, along with Gendry.’’

The contents of the letter make her eyebrows shoot up.

It’s a godsdamned, straight-up business proposal of Robert Baratheon to her father, asking him to consider marrying her or Sansa to Gendry. There’s a lot of bullshit about joining families and old history, because Robert is still beyond obsessed with aunt Lyanna, even after all those years.

But at the root of it, it looks like any trade agreement she has seen in her life. And that just makes Arya so, so mad.

‘’I’m showing it to you now, because I feel you have a right to know.’’ her father says, before she has a chance to respond. ‘’But I don’t think it should influence your decision. As far as I know, Robert did not mention his wish to his boy either, which means you two chose each other on your own free will. That’s a good groundwork for marriage, Arya.’’

Does free will really exist?  - she wants to ask him, anger dying down into something akin to cool resignation in her gut. – Will I marry Gendry out of any feelings I might have for him, or out of loneliness or lack of a better alternative? Or maybe because it will make you and Mother happy? Does it even matter?

Ultimately, in a world she lives in, it doesn’t. So she closes her mouth and nods slowly when Father asks her if he should write to Lord Robert officially.

She just wishes it wouldn’t feel so bitter.

‘’Do you think we will work well? Together?’’ she asks quietly just before leaving the study and this time her father chuckles, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

‘’Aye, in fact. I do, Arya. I like this lad.  And he always smiles around you and you only.’’

***

So now she’s where she is,  Storm’s End on the horizon and anxiousness bubbling in her stomach.

Mother forced her into a proper gown in the morning, deaf to Arya’s arguments that Gendry has already seen her in breeches and linen shirts and still asked her to marry him, so she does not need to be all dolled up. At least the dress is nice – forest green, embellished with golden embroidery and with a corset that somehow allows her to breathe.  It, unfortunately, shows off more cleavage than she’s comfortable with, but she supposes it couldn’t be allowed with those stupid Southern fashions. She braided her hair herself – it’s so long now that it reaches the small of her back, so she opted for a simple Northern style, nothing too fancy, even accounting for the yellow ribbon woven through it. Her hands are clean, nails trimmed. She supposes she looks pretty, as much as she can.

She’s no Sansa. But, as far as she knows, Gendry never wanted Sansa anyway.

Why am I so nervous?

It’s just Gendry.

Three and a half years. How much did he change during that time?

How much did she?

They open the gates for them and suddenly she is the one riding into a courtyard of a foreign castle that she’s now supposed to call her home. I should’ve asked him how it felt like for him.

Storm’s End is just one drum tower, unlike any other holdfast she has ever seen. But it’s a very tall tower, she’ll give it that. It shoots up into the sky like a giant’s fist, the tip of it seemingly tearing through grey clouds above them.

Only Hightower in Oldtown is taller, as far as the towers go. Quality over quantity. -  Bran said to her cheekily sometime before she left Winterfell. –  I heard Lord’s chambers are up on the very top; you will have a nice view of the sea. It must feel like sleeping in a nest.

This castle fits Gendry somehow, with its strong, simple build. There are no frivolities in the grey walls, only endurance. Not a single unnecessary element, just brick and mortar and magic that helped it survive centuries and centuries. Solace and safety.

Arya thinks that even if she cannot love it like she loves Winterfell, she can at least respect Storm’s End for this one reason.

The whole staff stands in the half-circle around them, lowering their heads and curtsying when they dismount. Mother has insisted on coming, despite her aches – maybe because she still doesn’t seem to be very convinced Arya has actually agreed to marry someone – so she slowly and stiffly emerges from the wheelhouse. And Arya stands still, reigns in her hand and her eyes glued to the ground, because if she dares to look up – if she even steals a glance –

But before she can make that decision by herself, someone kneels on the gravel in front of her, making her stupid heart beat faster in her chest.  Of course, of course, he does that, because he is one big, stupid oaf.

‘’Hello, my lady.’’

Despite her best efforts, her lips curve into a smile and she lets him take her hand.

Gendry Baratheon’s voice is still warm and deep, and his eyes are still bluest she has ever seen.

But when he kisses her knuckles… oh, they are truly grown now. And betrothed to each other.  And it all comes crashing down on her suddenly, this realization.

He’s going to marry me. I’m going to marry him. Oh, gods.

Her panicked train of thoughts is interrupted by the collective gasp of gathered people when something big and grey moves from her side and pounces on Gendry, making him lose his balance and land on his ass on the ground.

Arya’s honestly a little bit annoyed with Nymeria, because the way she behaves is just ridiculous. She’s supposed to be this proud, scary direwolf, reminding those damned Southerners that Arya remains a Stark no matter what, that she has North in her blood and her very bones. She is supposed to be wild and untamed.

Instead, her horse-sized wolf hops in circles around Gendry, wagging her tail like an overly-excited puppy, not letting him stand up, before and resting her front paws on his chest, tongue lolling out and begging for scratches behind her ears.

And Gendry complies, laughing when Nymeria licks his face and patting her head.

‘’Hello, girl! Missed me much? You’ve gotten so big.’’ He coos at her as if she was a babe and, in the corner of her eye, Arya sees shocked expression of a petite blonde woman who surely must be Gendry’s mother, given the finery of her gown and how she immediately schools her features, and  curtsies gracefully in front of Father, along with three dark-haired girls surrounding her.

Aelin. Lara. Elinor. My soon-to-be-goodsisters.

‘’Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. Lady Arya. Welcome to Storm’s End.’’ Lady Isabelle Baratheon greets them politely, pointedly ignoring the fact that her son has just been tackled to the ground by a direwolf.  Lacing her gloved hands in front of her, she fixes her bluebell eyes on Arya, surveying her head to toe, until Arya starts to sweat under her stare. ‘’I am afraid my Lord husband is unwell right now and he is not able to attend to you properly. However, I hope that he’ll be able to join us at supper. Please, take your bread and salt.’’

Gendry, back on his feet after finally managing to untangle himself from an overenthusiastic Nymeria, stands by his mother’s side and bows deeply in front of her parents, giving her opportunity to see him better.

Those few years only did him good.

He’s so tall now; he has always been taller than all of Starks, even when they were kids, but now he positively towers above her and Mother, standing even higher than Father. When in Winterfell, other boys called him The Bull and the reasons for that also did not change. His chest, his shoulders, his thighs – all broad and muscled; Gendry could’ve been as well chiseled from solid stone. He’s still got those disheveled black hair, only now paired with a neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes are still as lovely and blue as in her memory, shining, when he steals a glance at her.

He looks more or less the same, truly. Only, either he got even more handsome or she just views him all differently now, because seeing him kissing her mother’s hand and hugging her father makes her feel all funny inside.

‘’Well then, shall we go inside? There is a lot of things to discuss.’’ Lady Isabelle says and something heavy like a stone lands in Arya’s stomach.

***

It seems like her wedding will be the event of the year, which should not surprise her but still somehow does.

Due to the fairly convenient location of Storm’s End and early announcements, nearly all Lord Paramounts of Seven Kingdoms confirmed their presence and Martells are sending Prince Trystane and Prince Oberyn which honestly is probably even bigger honor. Nearly all Tyrells apparently decided to show up, just for the kick of it. The King takes both of his queens with him and of course, Prince Aegon and Sansa will travel from Dragonstone to be earlier than the rest of the guest so that her sister could help with preparations.

Even Gendry’s gruff uncle Stannis will be there and he hates parties.

The pomp and extravagance are simply beyond everything Arya has experienced so far and she’s suddenly hit hard with realization how truly alien the South really is, compared with the stern, simple North. Nobody even thought of suggesting serving a baked swan at Robb and Margaery’s wedding. Arya’s need half a dozen apparently, paired with trays full of bloody oranges, lemons, and pomegranates, with stags made from sugar, towers of cookies and a truly monstrous meat pie.  There is to be a troupe of entertaining fire-eaters for gods' sake, and gods only know who will pay for it all.

All this talk about guests, their seating and stomachs does nothing, but makes Arya feel vaguely sick. She’s stuck at Lady Isabelle’s solar with her mother and soon-to-be goodmother for hours, completely mute after requesting for Jon and his wife to be seated not far from her. All she has left to do is half-seriously contemplate if vomiting on Lady Isabelle’s yellow silk slippers could potentially win her at least a day of solitude.

She would be happy to see Jon and to meet Daenerys and aunt Lyanna. And to finally reunite with Rickon, who’s coming with the Riverrun delegation. But that’s about it.

Oh, and she would also be very happy to see her fucking betrothed since she’s not seeing him now at all. So far, they barely had time to exchange a few words during meals, not even coming closer to the topics they actually should talk about.

Which is the fact that they’re getting married.

It’s not any more real now. Her mother asks her to choose between identical shades of white Myrish lace and Lady Isabelle regularly has a breakdown about the potential of rain on the wedding day, and the whole ordeal still seems like something out of the dream.

So she feels she should really just sit down and talk with Gendry as long as it takes until she feels grounded again.

Besides… she misses him still. And now she doesn’t even have letters to fill that void.

So, when one morning Gendry gently grips her wrist under the table when they break their fast and slips a note in-between her fingers (my lady, if you can sneak away from our mothers, I’ll be waiting in the stables), Arya almost shrieks with relief.

She quickly makes up some lousy excuse about her moon blood coming soon and feeling rather weak today, which works smoothly without any questioning from Lady Isabelle and makes Mother narrow her eyes in suspicion, but ultimately grants her freedom to hide her face under the hood and make her way through the Storm’s End crowded courtyard relatively undisturbed. Every step makes her stomach twist in anticipation; half-nervous, half-excited, she finds Gendry alone, standing next to a saddled black horse and speaking to it softly while feeding it a carrot.

He used to give treats to horses in Winterfell too,  she recalls fondly, pleasantly surprised with how relaxed she suddenly feels.

‘’Hey, Gendry.’’ she calls him softly, grinning as he stumbles on his feet while turning to her.

‘’Hi, Arry.’’ he responds with the old moniker he once gave her, and it makes both of them smile wider. ‘’You escaped my mother alright?’’

‘’Yours was not a problem. Mine might suspect something tho. By dinner I should be in my chambers, abed.’’ Arya steps a bit closer, her eyes wondering in awe as she takes the sight of the horse standing next to Gendry. ‘’Gods, who’s that beauty? Hello, sweetling.’’

She presents her open palm for the horse to sniff, while Gendry snickers:

‘’Knew you’d like him. That’s Thunder and he’s mine. So you might want to make acquaintance. ’’

‘’Lame name, if you’re asking me.’’ She gently runs her hand along the horse’s neck, enamored by his silky black mane and fine posture. ‘’But I guess it fits your whole Baratheon image.’’

‘’Wait till you see him run. This stupid name is not completely baseless. ’’ he shots back, with no bite in his words whatsoever. If anything, he just sounds fond.

‘’I assume you’re taking me for a ride then?’’ she asks, tearing her eyes away from the animal to look at Gendry.

In the half-shadow of the stables, she cannot see his eyes clearly, but, when he slowly laces his fingers with her, it tells her everything she needs to know.

‘’Would you like to get away from this madness for a while and see a little bit of Stormlands?’’

And to that, she cannot do anything but squeeze his hand and say aye.

***

Gendry was right, all those years ago; leaving all the fancies and properties aside, Stormlands are alike to North in a way indeed.

They ride through thick forests, soft-green and quiet except for the sound of the hooves of their horses. Instead of talking, they sink into a familiar silence, not feeling the need to fill it with words when they can just -

Be next to each other.

And then Gendry leads Thunders through the clearing, moving in-between trees until they find themselves on the open field at the edge of the cliff overlooking Shipbreaker’s Bay; the waves angrily hissing, as they break over rocks down below and clouds gathering on the strangely yellowish sky above.

It’s raw and wild and so beautiful it almost takes her breath away.

‘’Hey, Arry! Better catch up!’’ Gendry shouts suddenly and then Thunder shoots forward, passing Arya on her brown mare and soon leaving them far behind as he gallops along the ridge.

For a heartbeat or two, she sits completely still, breathing in the salty air and watching Gendry’s broad back getting smaller and smaller; she can feel the corners of her mouth rising up until she has a full-blown smile on her face. She lets the moment last.

And then she presses her heels to mare’s sides and follows.

The wind is whizzing in her ears as she rises up from the saddle, leaning along the horse’s neck and forcing her into a gallop, gallop as fast as she can. This is her favorite part, the one she can never get enough of; the sky, the grass, the sea – everything disappears. There is only cold biting her face and mare’s muscles dancing underneath her skin and Gendry’s breathless, booming laughter as she appears by his side. He pulls on the reigns of Thunder to regain the advantage, but even though his horse is swift and strong, Arya is way lighter and, between two of them, she has always been a better rider.

So they gallop together, so close to one another that it’s reckless as seven hells, the hooves hitting the ground in unison and their eyes locked. Arya thinks they could’ve run like that for a thousand years or more, but then, out of the blue, lightning splits the sky and rain starts pouring down mercilessly, immediately plastering clothes to their skins and making horses neigh and stumble at the loud boom of the thunder.

‘’We’ve got to wait it out, follow me!’’ Gendry’s voice is almost drowned by the noise of the storm, but fortunately, she remains close enough to hear them. Her mare dances in place nervously until Arya manages to calm her down and steer her behind Gendry, deeper into the land and back to the forest.

They find shelter in a cave; with its entrance half-covered by the vines and damp stone walls spotted with moss, it’s surprisingly comfortable. At least it’s dry, for what Arya’s more than grateful. She can already feel the cold rainwater freezing her to the bone and her teeth are clattering as she jumps from the panicked horse and pats her neck with stiff fingers.

‘’Hush girl, it is all fine. We are fine.’’

Thunder is pacing back and forth along the wall, only calming down when Gendry roughly grabs the reigns and whispers something into the horse’s ear. Soon, Arya’s mare neighs quietly and joins him to munch on some of the grasses growing in-between rocks.

Arya lets her go, herself still remaining near the opening of the cave, shifting on her feet to get warmer and rubbing her arms.

The rain falls so hard now that it sounds like a waterfall and, as she raises her eyes to Gendry and meets his stare, she realizes that she got her wish.

They are alone now. Completely, absolutely alone.

Both of them take the step forward at the same time.

‘’Fuck, you’re soaked. Now, take my coat.’’ Gendry’s tugging on the laces of his fur-lined cloak and throwing it on her shoulders before she can even protest. His hair is plastered to his head just like in pools in Godswood and, for a second she finds herself enchanted by the way raindrops drip down his face, along the line of his jaw.

‘’No, you’re cold too.’’ She shots back, grabbing his hands in hers, meaning to rub them together as she used to with Rickon’s and Bran’s in the North. But somehow, miraculously, Gendry’s skin is wet but still warm and she yelps in surprise, his heat making her fingers tingle.

He grins at her smugly.

‘’No, I’m not. What did you say about South being too warm for you, my lady?’’

‘’It is too warm.’’ She huffs in annoyance, trying to gather the will to drop his hands down and not finding it. ‘’But it’s hard not to get cold in a godsdamned thunderstorm. Should’ve known you’d be abnormal.’’

‘’I got caught in the storm too many times to be much affected by it.’’ He shrugs. ‘’Got used to. To be honest, they may be more sudden and vicious than the ones in the North, but you will see that they last far shorter.’’

‘’I didn’t know they sky can turn such a color.’’ She observes, stealing a glance outside behind her shoulder. ‘’It looked almost yellow before it turned dark.’’

‘’How do you think, where did Baratheon colors came from? We took them from Durrandons, who took them from the Stormlands’ sky before. Gods, you really should’ve dressed warmer.’’ Arya bites on her lip just in time to keep the gasp from escaping, as Gendry raises her hands to his lips and blows on them.  Hot air of his breath warms her palms and then travels through her veins; to the tips of her fingers, to her wrists and the crook of her elbows, to her neck and face, making her tremble slightly.

‘’You still have the smallest hands I’ve ever seen.’’ he grumbles, his thumb tracing circles on her skin.

‘’My hands are not small. Yours are just too big.’’

‘’Blacksmith’s hands. Mikken has always used to say so.’’ he recalls sadly, gleam disappearing from his eyes as he leans on the wall of the cave.

‘’You’re not working anymore?’’ she unlaces their fingers in favor of wrapping his coat tighter around her and moving closer to his side. ‘’In the forge, I mean.’’

He just shakes his head.

‘’Don’t have time to. Storm’s End… there’s a lot of things to fix, if I’m being honest. ‘’ his Adam’s apple bobs and Arya really wishes he wasn’t so tall, because then she could see his face better. ‘’And I really hope I can be honest with you, Arya.’’

‘’Of course you can.’’ she’s almost offended he can even think otherwise. ‘’We’ re-‘’

Friends, she wanted to say we’re friends, but we aren’t anymore, are we?  We are betrothed.

‘’Friends.’’ Gendry finishes instead of her, turning his head to lock his eyes with hers. ‘’No matter what, we’re friends first. And.. uhm… everything else…  next.’’

It’s quite dark in the cave, but even in the shadows, she can see blush blooming on his cheekbones. And maybe this sight of vulnerability gives her the final push to ask the question that has been burning in her gut far longer than she cares to admit.

‘’Why do you want me to be your lady, Gendry? You could’ve tried for Sansa’s hand. Or any of the Stormlands’ ladies. Hells, even Princess Daenerys or Jon’s younger sisters, if you were quick about it. Why me?’’

Rain’s still pouring down outside, but it does not matter, cause Gendry’s voice is nowhere as quiet and tentative as hers.

‘’You still have no idea, don’t you?’’ he chuckles, leaning his head back against the rocks and raising his eyes to the stone ceiling. ‘’Gods, Arya, I don’t know even where I should start. You’re - you’re so smart. No one has your head for numbers. And you are an excellent horsewoman. Not to mention a great archer. And undefeatable with your Needle. And you care so much for people! I mean, do you even notice that? You have such a big heart for everyone. You want to take care of those around you, even those lowest. You-‘’

‘’Stop it!’’ she raises on her toes and presses her hands to his mouth, silencing his words. She has never heard Gendry saying so much at once and she has definitely never heard him praising anyone the way he just praised her. She can feel her whole face burning.

Gendry’s blue eyes gleam like twin gemstones. He slowly raises his own hands and grips her wrists, pulling them down from his face.

‘’Will you let me continue?’’ he asks softly, but it does not sound like a question at all. One of his arms sneaks around her waist and he lowers his head so now they’re standing pressed to each other, nose-to-nose. She can see drops of rain sticking his eyelashes together. ‘’You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. The most willful. Most – most beautiful.’’

Air escapes from her lungs. Beautiful. Beautiful. He called me beautiful.

With his other hand, he cups her face and she can see his eyes hesitantly searching for any sight of discomfort from her part, but he will not find any.

There is no discomfort in Arya.

She is no scared.

All she feels is warmth, warmth engulfing her head-to-toe. Warmth like the forge in Winterfell, cause Gendry’s embrace doesn’t feel like anything else but home.

You chose each other. That’s a good groundwork for marriage.

She crooks her head slightly, letting her cheek fully lean against his palm. Still, in silence, her lips part as he rests his forehead against hers.

‘’I was not lying Arya, when I told you I don’t want to be a lord.’’ His voice drops to the lowest of  whispers. ‘’And after seeing how it looks like here, I definitely didn’t change my mind. The only way I will manage to do it, is with you. Nobody else, but you. Will you be the lady of those lands with me?’’

‘’I’ve already told you, stupid.’’ She huffs, placing her own hand on his cheek and smiling. ‘’I’ve already said yes. To you and to everything. But I hope you know, I’ll be the real pain in your arse.’’

‘’Ha, I know that.’’ He chuckles. ‘’That’s the only thing I’m sure of.’’

‘’What would you promise me in return?’’ she asks playfully, biting on his lips and watching as his eyes darken.

‘’Well, what would you want me to?’’

‘’Humor me. I’m giving you my hand, it better be something nice.’’

She’s thinking they surely must look like idiots, holding each other’s faces and smiling at each other, close enough that they share air and their noses bump.

But she just can’t seem to mind that.

‘’I promise to always be true to you.’’ His voice is like laughter and sun and weirwood leaves; his voice is like gravel on the Winterfell courtyard and the smell of the forest, the sound of waves crashing on the cliff. He is both the most familiar and the most unknown and there is nothing that Arya doesn’t feel when he whispers; ‘’To love you and to keep you wild. ’’

***

Sansa and her husband arrive two weeks before the wedding and her sister takes maybe two steps out of the wheelhouse before Mother runs to her and wraps her arms around her, Father soon following.

Arya watches the whole meeting from the sidelines, standing next to Gendry and trying not to bite on her lip too much. Sansa’s even more beautiful in her memory; she seems to be glowing from inside out the way expecting women are supposed to.

But well. She was always an expert in doing things she’s supposed to do. Why would pregnancy be any different for her?

Prince Aegon also remains in distance to the general merry-making, instead politely greeting Lady Isabelle and Lord Robert, who was wheeled outside on a chair, and whose head sags against his chest as if he was far older than he really is. Arya honestly admires Prince a little bit for coming so close to him, even going as far as kneeling on the ground to make talking to him easier. Robert Baratheon makes her feel a lot of things, pretty much none positive; and her general opinion of him is not improving due to the way his bloodshot eyes follow her every movement whenever she’s around him, a weird mix of nostalgia and desire written on his face.

Robert may hate all Targaryens with burning intensity, but apparently even he is not stupid enough to be rude to the Heir to the Iron Throne. Or maybe he doesn’t have the strength to be, gods only know. Anyway, he seems to be talking with Prince Aegon quite politely, every second word interrupted by the fit of coughing.

Arya thinks she’s probably staring at him a little too intensely, but she cannot help her curiosity; because she did not attend Sansa’s wedding, this is the first time she’s meeting her good brother. And what a sight he is – tall and lean like a willow tree, fair-haired; slim where Jon is broad, lithe where Jon is bulky. One would never guess they are half-brothers.

Where Prince nods his head in front of her, she notices his beautiful blue eyes, darker even than Gendry’s; like the evening sky long after sunset.  

“Arya.’’ Sansa calls for her from Father’s embrace, a small smile on her blushed face and her hands cupping the slight bulge of her belly. ‘’It’s so nice to see you, sister! Please, come closer.’’

Is it really? Arya almost scowls, but Gendry lightly pinches her side before she has a chance to and offers her his arm and, when they’re crossing the courtyard together, she’s feeling strangely giddy. Gendry’s wearing this doublet she likes, the one with claw marks along his shoulders (being subtle has never been his strongest suit) and it’s so good to be by his side, his longer strides matched with her quicker ones.  Marveling at that, Arya manages easily to kiss Sansa’s cheek and politely congratulate her on her pregnancy. She thinks she could even, maybe, possibly, do a little wedding-related small talk on her own free will… just as long as Gendry would be holding her hand the whole time.

***

When Sansa asks her to take a walk around the castle’s gardens, she does not think much of it. Maybe Mother asked her to, maybe she wants to gloat a little, or maybe she lacks female companionship. There could be a number of reasons, all ultimately unimportant.

At first, it goes as expected; they stroll agonizingly slow, Sansa babbles excitedly about the wedding and her babe and how beautiful Dragonstone is and everything else, and Arya listens to her quietly, trying not to look as bored as she is.

But then Sansa sits down on of the benches, taking yet another break. She quiets down for a moment, before lacing her hands on her lap.

‘’Are you in love with him?’’ she asks suddenly, her voice low and serious; a far cry for her previous cheerful tweeting. She keeps her eyes glued to the ground and refuses to meet Arya’s confused stare.

And Arya is simply dumbfounded. Not only to hear this question from Sansa, of all people, but to hear it at all. No one ever wonders about being in love. It’s a silly fancy for women of their kind and even Sansa, so enamored by the tales of knights and fair ladies must already know that. Love is something that one can wish for, but it’s not an end goal. Even Mother and Father have never mentioned it. Gendry and Arya like each other a lot, enjoy each other’s company, are of an equal station and actively asked to be matched, so it was far more than enough for them to be married.

But Sansa is asking about something else entirely. And so Arya finds herself quite at loss to what to say.

‘’I’m not.’’ – she says at last, deciding on the most honest answer she can think of. – ‘’But I think maybe I will be. One day.’’

‘’But you love him, don’t you? And even if you don’t, you know him. You know…’’ Sansa pauses and takes a deep breath before continuing. – ‘’ I am so very jealous of that. Have been, since the moment I realized you will be married to him one day. I met Aegon a week before we were wed and did not know a single important thing about him.’’

The sea breeze plays with stray pieces of Sansa’s beautiful auburn hair and the fringes of her scarlet dress. With her swollen belly and porcelain skin, she’s stunning beyond belief, just like she has always been. And yet, she’s sitting here and telling her, little Arya Horseface, that she’s jealous of her.

When Arya looks at her, really, truly looks at her beyond the perfect exterior Sansa pulls off so well, she notices a few things she has never bothered to see.

There is an unhealthy paleness of her sister’s cheeks and the sheen of sweat on her brow even though they were moving at the snail’s pace during a relatively chilly morning. The Targaryen red shade of the velvet of her gown crashes terribly with her hair. She looks-

Honestly, she looks unhappy.

‘’I still feel like I don’t know him at all.’’ Sansa adds quietly, putting her hands on her belly delicately. ‘’But you two grew up together and he was always so obviously fond of you. Didn’t even spare me a glance, same as Jon. I don’t know if Father intended one of them for you from the beginning, but even if he didn’t, it was soon decided.’’

And of course, Robert Baratheon wanted a Ned Stark’s daughter to marry Gendry right from the start.

Arya thinks about Bran’s absolute conviction, aligning now with Sansa’s words. Was it truly so transparent for everyone, that only she couldn’t see it?

But then again, Arya never wondered much about betrothals and marriages when she was a kid, definitely not even half as much as Sansa. So maybe she just never bothered to notice the clues right in front of her.

How Mother never forbade her running around with Gendry and Jon, long after it stopped being proper. Why would it matter if she got ruined, if it was by her future husband?

How Father turned his eyes away from Arya’s sneaking out to ride with Gendry through wolfswood and how he never said anything against him giving her piggyback rides to her chamber after the supper.

Arya opens her mouth and closes it back, finding no good answer to Sansa’s words.

‘’I think he hoped for either of us to marry him.’’ she says slowly, carefully. ‘’Because Gendry’s Robert’s son. But I’m sure at the beginning he was thinking about you more than me.’’

‘’He won’t be a bad husband to you. He wouldn’t be bad for me also, I’m sure.’’ Sansa chimes and Arya suddenly feels quite faint. Gendry marrying Sansa. How would that feel like? Would she feel anything at all, watching the two of them in front of Septon? Maybe not, if she didn’t know how it feels to stand in his arms, his body so warm and strong against hers. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

‘’But Aegon’s obviously a better catch.’’ somehow, Arya’s statement sounds more like a question.

‘’Oh, he is.’’ Sansa’s giggle is as delicate and lady-like as possible. But the scowl on her face isn’t. ‘’True prince from my dreams. I’ll be his Queen someday, just like I always wanted. What an honor.’’

Her words sound empty. Her eyes are empty; two blue glass marbles set in a lacquered mask.

It’s a particularly pretty spring morning. Soon, they will both go back to the castle and Sansa will surely throw herself into choosing right flowers for the ceremony or pleasantly chat with Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters about the weather for hours with no end. During supper, she’ll sit by Prince Aegon’s side and smile politely, eat like a bird and retire to her chambers early.

But for now, Arya’s standing in Storm’s End gardens in front of her beautiful older sister and, for the first time, pities her.

And maybe it’s just enough for her to bury all the resentment she feels for Sansa deep enough to sit on the bench next to her and lace his fingers with her.

Just enough, that when Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise and her hand twitches in her grip, Arya doesn’t let go.

***

Three days before wedding, they sneak out again; this time, to the beach below the castle.

There’s Gendry, his eyes laughing, his cheeks pink from harsh sea breeze; his pants cuffed so the material won’t get wet in the shallow water, standing next to her and showing her ships sailing somewhere in the distance.

And there’s also this insistent, dangerous thought that keeps on blaring in her mind on repeat ever since they left that cave.

Kiss me.

Kiss me, kissmekissme

She bites on her lip just to keep this plea inside, but he notices, of course he does, cause he is infuriating like that; how can one man be so absolutely dense one second and then suddenly turn perceptive like a hawk?

‘’What?’’

She lowers her gaze to her feet. Pale and submerged, they look like weird fishes.

‘’What, what?’’

‘’What’s going on?’’

The seagulls are shrieking, but it’s nowhere loud enough for her not to hear the sounds coming from the castle. Horses and people and everything. All this fucking noise.

Water splashes around Gendry’s ankles as he moves closer to her. She takes a step back, but he sneaks an arm around her waist, keeping her in place.

He’s so warm. Against sea and wind and sky, he is the warmest thing that exists, warmer even than Nymeria’s fur and Winterfell hot springs.

‘’Arya.’’

Even his voice is warm. Yet, his fingers still make her shiver when he raises her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his.

‘’I just- It’s stupid.’’

‘’I doubt it.’’ He says, so confidently that she almost laughs.

‘’How do you know that?’’

‘’Well.’’ He puts his other hand on her lower back. She is now locked in his embrace, her feet in-between his, his arms around her. ‘’You are not a stupid lass, Arya. So I don’t thank whatever you want to say is stupid either.’’

‘’That’s a stupid line of thinking, tho. Even stupid people sometimes say wise things.’’ Before she can stop herself, she puts her hands on his shoulders, lacing her fingers behind his neck. With the sway of the tides that makes them sway also, it feels a bit as if they were dancing.

‘’Gimmie an example of that.’’ He demands. He’s smiling; he’s always smiling when he’s looking at her, just like her father said. How could she not notice that before?

‘’You. Sometimes you manage to say a thing or two that makes sense.’’

He barks with a booming laughter, loud enough that he startles a few little terns that were resting on the rocks next to them.

‘’Oh, my lady, no one sweet talks me like you do.’’

He’s really, awfully handsome. If Sansa saw him like that, Arya thinks, she would die of jealousy. But I’m the one he wants, I’m the one he asked for.

He saw me, dancing with a practice sword on the courtyard, running around with my hair messy and dress muddied. He saw me and he saw Sansa. And between us two, he chose me. He’s the only one who ever chose me.

Gendry, still chuckling lightly, tucks stray streak of hair behind her ear and stills.

And he is the only one whom I could ever choose.

Courage fills her lungs as she admits sheepishly, in haste, before she can think it over;

‘’I don’t want my first kiss to be in front of all those people.  The king, the queens. My parents. All those lords and ladies. It’s just- I know you don’t – I mean-‘’ she starts to mumble and it suddenly feels too hot in his arms, too scary when he looks at her like that. She’s getting nervous again. Oh, gods. What did she even want to say? It was all a bad idea, the worst. ‘’I’m not asking you to- oh, fuck that, it was stupid, just forge-‘’

Suddenly, underneath blue, blue sky, ankle-deep in cold, cold sea, Gendry’s kissing her.

Her feet on the sharp, slippery pebbles, seagulls shrieking and thunder rumbling somewhere in the far distance, Gendry’s kissing her.

Smiling against her mouth, his lips chapped and warm, Gendry’s kissing her.

And she supposes she’s glad she brought it up at the end, cause it would be embarrassing as hell to gasp like she just did in front of all the guests; to freeze first and then close her eyes and melt, raising on her tiptoes and burying her fingers in soft, dark hair at the back of his head to press him closer to her. Their teeth clash and she winces, but he coaxes her lips to part with his tongue and – oh.

Oh.

***

The Royal House Targaryen streams through the open gate with all the pomp and extravagance possible.  And even Arya has to admit, they are truly a sight to behold. It’s hard not to gawk.

King Rheagar rides first, on a stunning white horse and clad in silver, which, paired with his skin and hair,  makes him look a little bit like a fallen star, as if he was out of this world. He’s far older now than when he took the throne from his father, but still as handsome; and those melancholic eyes are only part of the appeal… at least that’s what Arya’s handmaidens at Storm’s End claim. Then, there are his two Queens, who simply couldn’t be more different from each other; Elia Martell, dark and subtle, her eyes lined with kohl and swaddled in sandy yellow gauze and purple velvets versus Lyanna Stark, pale as the moon, her long brown hair cascading down her back and wide grin on her lovely face when she spots Arya’s father.

But as much as Arya wants to finally meet this woman, her eyes keep on searching, impatience burning in her veins until she spots Jon.

Prince Jaehaerys hops off his horse the moment the procession stops and, ignoring all protocol and curtesies, crosses the courtyard to gather Arya in his arms, spinning her around until she wheezes with laughter.

‘’Jon, let me go!’’ she kicks her legs underneath her skirts, suddenly feeling like a little girl again.

‘’I will, but only so I can take a look at you.’’ he chuckles, finally setting her on her feet and surveying her head-to-toe, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘’Well, you did not grow much, didn’t you.’’

She thinks her mother would positively whip her if she hit a crown prince of Seven Kingdoms in the presence of the rest of the Royal Family and that’s the only thing that stops her from doing just so.

‘’You, on contrary, should really stop growing. Nice to see you, friend.’’ Jon turns to Gendry, who grins in return and soon they’re patting each other’s backs, playfully wrestling like they used to back in Winterfell.

‘’My love, maybe you could introduce me?’’ soft, melodic voice breaks their reunion bubble and soon Arya’s looking at someone who surely must be the most beautiful girl she has ever seen.

Jon’s face splits into the most lovesick and sappy smile in the history of lovesick smiles as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

‘’You’re right, of course. Gendry, Arya- my wife, Princess Daenerys.’’

‘’Dany. Just Dany is enough, we are amongst friends, right? I heard so much about you two, you have no idea.’’ Daenerys winks at them playfully. She’s wearing a simple lilac dress and her silver hair is down, already messed-up by the wind, but Arya supposes it doesn’t matter at all if her face is so strikingly perfect and her body seems to be carved from marble by someone’s loving hands. Daenerys Targaryen would probably still be heart-stopping if she was barefoot and in rags.

‘’Oh, I think we may have some idea about the things he could tell you,  Your Highness.’’ Gendry lowers his head respectfully and Arya takes it as a clue to curtsy also. ‘’Welcome to Storm’s End.’’

‘’Please, no ‘Your Highness’ me. I told you, my name is Dany.’’ Daenerys clasps Arya’s hands in hers. ‘’I heard you have a similar problem with titles. Please, support me here.’’

‘’Of course – Dany.’’ Arya finds it easy to return the smile, squeezing Princess’ fingers. ‘’Besides, we don’t title Jon. It’s only fair not to do that with you.’’

‘’You’re only not titling me, because you have seen me sprawled half-naked on the snow after that prank that Theon pulled.’’ Jon murmurs grimly, but Arya can see how content he looks like with their introduction to his wife. ‘’After all, it would be impossible to remain dignified after that.’’

Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up and she narrows her eyes.

‘’I don’t believe I heard this particular story.’’

‘’You don’t have to know everything, Dany.’’

‘’Oh, but I definitely do.’’ Princess turns back to Arya. ‘’Can’t wait to learn what else he hid from me. We must get to know each other better. Please?’’

And because Jon looks so unquestionably happy when he stares at his wife and because Dany’s plea sounds so incredibly honest-  it’s enough for Arya to exchange a glance with Gendry before they both nod in unison.

It’s different now, when there is an additional person in their old good triumvirate. But somehow, she thinks this might be a change for good.

***

On the morning of her wedding, she wakes up too early - it’s barely grey outside, silent in the whole castle.  Even Nymeria is still deep in her slumber and apparently dreaming of running, judging by the erratic movements of her paws.

Arya jumps from under the covers, walking barefoot on the stone-cold floor to the window to check if Gendry was right yesterday, when he told his mother stop fretting about the weather -  it turns out he was indeed, because the sea is still and flat like a table and the wind has died down, leaving only chill breeze that makes her shiver and wrap her arms around her.

Tomorrow, she will wake up in different chambers, with a better view. And just like the water outside, she is strangely calm with this perspective on the horizon. It’s all right. It’s all good.

It will be fine.

One big, fancy ceremony and she will forever be allowed to kiss Gendry whenever she wants and they will never ever have to sneak out again to go for a horse ride. It doesn’t seem like a too big price to pay.

Alright then. Let the madness begin.

She bathes in rosewater, her cherry maids scrubbing every inch of her body with sea sponges until her skin is pink and itchy.

Then, her mother and sister dress her up in fine white silk adorned with ermine fur and pearls on the hem and around cuffs. The gown is lighter than a traditional Northern one would be, but still heavy and uncomfortable, and Sansa laces it tight enough that Arya has to stop herself from wincing every time she takes a deeper breath. They braid her hair in a soft coronet, adorning it with silver thread and small blue flowers, and they powder her face and paint her lips and cheeks with the rogue.

Sansa gifted her a long string of pearls from the Summer Islands for the occasion and now she takes it out of the box and loops it around Arya’s neck a few times, so that it would complement her dress. After doing that, she steps aside, with a satisfied smile on her face.

When they put her in front of the mirror, she has to blink a couple times to recognize herself.

‘’Look at you.’’ Her mother says, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she clasps her hands together and covers her mouth with them. ‘’You look so beautiful, Arya.’’

Arya’s heart clenches painfully and she looks down, avoiding Mother’s soft gaze. She has waited her whole life to hear those words.  To fit in. To feel like she belongs.

Right now, standing still in her beautiful gown, dripping with jewels and all dolled-up, she finally looks like a proper noblewoman. Proper lady. Even next to the glowing Sansa, queen-to-be in royal scarlet, she does not look out of place.

Beautiful, that’s how her mother called her.

It doesn’t feel good at all. It feels empty. It is empty, because the woman looking back at her from the mirror is not Arya, just some stranger in her skin.

Gendry, thou. – crosses her mind suddenly, filling her with warmth. – Gendry called me beautiful in the forest, when I had my hair loose and I was soaked to the bone with rain. Why would it matter, what anyone else thinks of me today?

Holding onto that thought, she wills her mouth to curve into a smile. If they want her to play the blushing bride, she will be one for today, easily. Because this marriage won’t be her shackles.

‘’Thank you, Mother.’’

***

First, they marry in Sept.

Storm’s End has a beautiful little chapter, ornamented inside with amber and colored glass, making it look like a jewelry box. When light pours through the windows, it basks people in an orange-golden glow and suddenly everyone and everything becomes simply ethereal. Women are porcelain figures. Men – carved marble. The smell of burning spices is making Arya’s nose twitch, harsh light is making her eyes water. At the back of her head, she registers all of it; Nymeria’s silent presence by her one side, Father’s by the other;  the sound of her maiden cloak sweeping the stone floor; Sansa’s red hair looking like a flame around her face.

But it all feels very much unreal, even when she stands in front of Gendry and watches how light dances on his face, turning his eyes green.  The Septon keeps on talking and talking, gods know what about. She doesn’t hear any of his words, only white noise pulsating in her ears. She is not really here, not really registering what’s going on - not until their linked hands are wrapped with silk ribbon and it’s time for them to say their vows.

For a second, her throat goes dry.

There is no turning back now.

She cannot breathe, cannot think, not will all those people watching her and with those godsdamned spices burning, not with her laces so tight and her heart so heavy-

Gendry’s fingers gently squeeze her own and it’s like a fresh breeze on a hot day, like a bucket of blissfully cold water poured on her head.

This marriage won’t be my shackles.

‘’Father.’’ He starts, his voice confident and loud, echoing through the chapel.

And she breathes in.

‘’Smith.’’ The corners of Gendry’s lips twitch slightly.

And she breathes out.

‘’Warrior.’’ She raises her chin up, looking him straight into the eyes and letting smile bloom on her face.

‘’Mother, Maiden, Crone.’’ They say in perfect unison, and Arya feels how her chest rises and falls, how her heart beats steadily, how everything is a song and she just wants to sing it as long as she’s alive.

‘’I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.’’ They stand so close to each other, their linked hands being the only thing that keeps their bodies apart; Gendry leans his head down and she does not care for guests or for the feast or for being the lady of Storm’s End when he’s right here and promises to be hers.

The Septon untangles the ribbon and Gendry’s fingers immediately fly to the laces of her cloak; but then, just as suddenly, he drops them.

He sends her a blinding grin and, instead of taking it off, he simply reaches for the Baratheon black-and-yellow cloak and pulls it on top of her Stark one and she’s quite sure no one ever smiled as widely as her at that moment, when gathered guests gasp and Gendry fulfills her promise to her in the most beautiful way he possibly could.

And then.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.’’ She almost sing-songs, feeling like a giddy girl about to dip into Godswood pools.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.’’ Gendry’s voice drops an octave lower, sending shivers down her spine, before she raises on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

‘’I now pronounce you man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.’’  The Septon announces, and it’s a perfectly lovely line, truly;  but all Arya ever wants to hear is Gendry’s breathy laughter as he embraces her tightly, sweeping her off her feet.

***

They truly do get married when the night falls, at least from Arya’s perspective.

The Godswood here is, of course,  not even close to what she left behind in Winterfell, but it’s easy to fool herself when it’s dark and lit with torches and bigger part of her family is there. Most of the guests decided to remain at the feast inside, so the ceremony is far quieter and simple – only aunt Lyanna, Jon and Daenerys stand next to Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters on the one side of the path, watching as Arya is once again lead towards her husband by her father. From the other side, Sansa sends her a soft smile, locked in Prince Aegon’s arms and Rickon whistles sharply until Mother whacks him on the head.

This time, Father pulls her close before giving her away, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and quietly telling her he loves her and this is when it really, truly hits her- this is goodbye. A farewell. Even of Gendry didn’t take her cloak off… since now, she’ll forever be Lady Arya Baratheon in the eyes of the world.

This makes her cry, just a little and it’s good that Gendry’s close enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

When they kneel on the sweet-smelling grass in front of the bloody-teared heart tree, she closes her eyes and silently asks the old Northern gods of her ancestors to replace Winterfell in her heart with Storm’s End. And for Gendry to never leave her again. And to finally feel that what she has is enough.

***

Aunt Lyanna dances through the whole evening with anyone and everyone who gathers enough courage to ask her; she twirls in her husband’s arms, spins around nearly all Kingsguards, claps along with the rhythm with her son and Prince Aegon, drags Arya’s father to the dancefloor despite his loud complaints.

She even steals Gendry for a song or two, promising Arya to give him back in one piece and just as handsome and bursting into laughter when Gendry turns red.

Elia Martell also dances her with husband, son, nephew and brother, but she is nowhere as blinding as Lyanna, nowhere as attention-catching. She spends most of the feast quietly talking with Sansa and Dayne siblings, only making an exception to sweetly congratulate Arya and Gendry on their union and to wish them to enjoy each other’s company until they’re old and grey.

Funny thing thou; while Elia seems perfectly calm and content to sit at the sidelines, Arya catches Aunt Lyanna longingly stare a little too long at the Stark sigil hanging from the ceiling along the Baratheon one; and, while she’s still a relatively young woman, there are crone’s lines deeply carved in the skin around her eyes. If observed long enough, her laughter sounds quite hollow and there’s some unhealthy nervousness about her quick, erratic movements.

She truly does resemble a caged songbird.

Beautiful and sad, that’s what Gendry said about her years ago. And although probably no one else would call her the latter, Arya supposes he was not wrong at all, just more perceptive than others.

King Rheagar’s sadness is out in the open. For Lyanna’s, one has to dig a little deeper.

But Arya’s  pondering about the subject is rudely, if deliciously, interrupted as Gendry’s lips suddenly brush her earlobe when he whispers:

“Would you do me an honor of dancing with me, my lovely wife?’’

She turns towards him, cheeks blushed, breath catching. Wife, wife, wife.

He’s straight-up fucking beaming at her. She hasn’t been even aware that he can make an expression like that. And when she immediately puts her hand in his, no hesitation, his smile stretches even wider, making his eyes crinkle and highlighting this tiny dimple he has on his chin.

It is unmistakable, how unabashedly happy Gendry looks like.  Oh gods, how could she even think about anything else than him this night?

‘’Lead the way, husband of mine. And try not to step on my toes.’’ She teases and bursts into laughter as he pulls her in-between dancing pairs and spins her around.

***

‘’Maybe we could just ran away.’’ Arya whispers, gently tracing the slope of Gendry’s nose with the tip of her finger. The guests behind their doors whistle and shout obscenities, but they could as well be far away in the North for how little attention Arya pays them. Her and her new husband are laying on top of Gendry’s magnificent featherbed, stripped to their small clothes and in no hurry whatsoever, all hushed voices and feather-like caresses. He’s playing with her hair. She’s exploring his features. Time feels sticky; thick and sweet like honey.

She wants to savor it, every single drop.

‘’Drop the titles, the castles. Just be us.’’ She sounds dreamy and, ultimately, it is exactly what she plans on doing. She’s gonna daydream. She’s gonna talk and talk with him, the way they have always did. And just hope that whatever follows won’t be the first thing that won’t come easy to them.

‘’What would we do?’’ he plays along, gently grabbing her hand and kissing the delicate underside of her wrist, his eyes shining in the moonlight, his lips parted. There’s something written on his face tonight and she does not know how to decipher this message; she only knows it makes her toes curl, her fingers tremble.

‘’You’d be my blacksmith.’’ Arya braces herself for a moment before she swiftly rolls on top of him, settling her hips against his and chuckling when he groans.

‘’And you’d be my Arya.’’

Mine, mine, mine – her blood sings, her breath catches as she watches how he lays spread underneath her, both rough and soft, vulnerable and strong and hers, hers to keep.

His hands rest on her waist and then move upwards, finding her breasts and she moans involuntarily under his touch,  evoking a wave of loud cheering from the corridor. Gendry’s pupils are blown wide, his eyes are so dark that they don’t even look blue anymore.

‘’Aye, I would be.’’ she agrees before lowering her head to capture his lips with hers. ‘’I would always be yours.’’

Never believe things men will tell you to bed you. They won’t mean it, not truly. - Septa Mordane used to warn her and Arya briefly wonders if the opposite is maybe also true. Right now, she would say everything and anything to get Gendry to move, to touch her, really touch her.  This dance they’re doing is marvelous, is delicious, is unlike anything else she has ever felt before. With the anticipation making her dizzy, with want making her silly, there are not many lines she wouldn’t cross.

‘’Say it again.’’ He demands in between kisses, twisting her nipple in-between his fingers and using her moment of weakness to flip them over, swallowing her breathy gasps with his mouth. ‘’Please.’’

‘’Yours. I’m yours, I’m yours.’’ She pants, giddy and happy, and letting excitement bubble inside her as he replaces his fingers with his mouth.

‘’And I’m yours.’’ He vows sweetly, pressing short, burning kisses down her body, stripping her of any shame until everything else disappears without a trace, wiped from the face of Earth, leaving only place for the two of them, together.

***

The next morning, Gendry takes her to the stables with her eyes blindfolded with a silk shawl.

‘’I know where we are going.’’ She whines, feeling more than a little ridiculous as he leads her like a child. ‘’I know you’re gonna give me a horse. Why do we have to do it this way?’’

‘’I’m a fan of all things proper.’’ Comes his answer and Arya’s absolutely sure she must be red to the roots of her hair cause there was abso-fucking-lutely nothing proper about how Gendry spread her thighs and licked her into oblivion just a few hours ago.

‘’Oh, surely you are.’’ She snickers, making him chuckle in response.

‘’Are you suggesting I did not – took care of you properly last night?’’

When did he become such a tease?

She’s just about to shoot something back, but Gendry takes her hand and places it on top of something incredibly delicate and warm.

‘’Say hello, my love.’’ He tells her softly, undoing the knot at the back of Arya’s head. ‘’I hope you’ll be satisfied.’’

In front of Arya stands the most magnificent pale sand steed she has ever seen. It is elegantly built, with the long neck, thin legs and small hooves; even while standing still, it looks like an epitome of grace. From underneath its grey fringe, dark eyes stare intelligently right into hers. The beast is calm like the untouched surface of the lake and Arya can do nothing else but stand and gawk, her hand still resting above horse’s nostrils; she’s just too enchanted to say anything.

‘’Trystane and Oberyn brought her with Dorne on my request.’’ Gendry continues, patting the horse’s side. ‘’How do you like her?’’

How do I like her?

Suddenly, Arya feels a strange urge to cry.

She has dreamt of a sand steed all her life. To just jump onto one and  - ran away, as swiftly as possible, faster than the wind. To disappear somewhere of the horizon, in the lands unknown. To become a tale incarnate. And Gendry knew it all well, for how many times she talked his ears off with her ice dragons, leviathans, Old Valyrias, Elisa Farmans, Princess Aereas and Sea Snakes.

And yet – he gave her this beautiful, beautiful horse and trusted her not to use it to leave him and shame him.

He’s looking so proud of himself. – she thinks, her heart fluttering in her chest like a moth around the flame. Gendry’s eyes are twinkling and he has his arms laced on his chest, standing tall and strong. He’s smiling at her, as always. – And he has a right to be.

‘’If you- if you expect me to call her Lightening to match your Thunder, you will be sorely disappointed.’’ She manages to utter at last, trying to keep her tone playful. – ‘’This would be ridiculous and we won’t be doing that.’’

Gendry barks a laughter, leaning back on one of the wooden pillars and glancing at Arya fondly as she lets the horse sniff her palm before gently pressing a kiss to its nose.

‘’How will you call her then?’’

Arya combs through mare’s fine, silvery mane with her fingers and recalls the feeling of steel grey waves crashing around her calves as Gendry was kissing her on the shore. The feeling of galloping with him on the cliffs, cold rain soaking their clothes. The Old Nan’s stories of the Northern Sea, filled to the brim with monsters from the wildest imagination. The image of the clear sky after the storm, pure and light.

The night they have just spent together.

‘’Shiver.’’ She finds herself stating, with one side of her face pressed to the horse’s warm, strong neck. Her mare smells like sand and sun and salt. Like the only freedom her husband can give her; the freedom to be who she is. ‘’Her name is Shiver.’’

***

As they’re seeing the royal guests away, Aunt Lyanna surveys them both for a moment silently, before exhaling deeply.

‘’Look children, I know you received a lot of well wishes already, but please let me add to the pool.’’ She reaches out and take their hands in her small, glowed ones – Gendry’s in her right, Arya’s in her left. ‘’I hope that your wedding was not the best day of your lives. I hope you will get many, many better in the future, each one more wonderful than the previous. I hope your years together will be as joyous as they can be.’’

Arya’s eyes involuntarily escape from Lyanna across the courtyard, finding Father’s still figure. Her parents are going to accompany royal family to the Capital before going back North and simply the thought of it makes her want to throw up. After they’re gone, only Nymeria will remind her of home.

After they’re gone, there will be no more ceremonies and pleasantries, or formal dinners to suffer through. Only day by day, years passing by.  

‘’My dear.’’ Aunt Lyanna pats her cheek delicately to regain her attention and looks her straight into the eyes, grey meeting grey. ‘’I know it’s hard for us, she-wolves of Winterfell, to live in the South. But you are strong. You will survive this separation – and soon, your childhood will become just a sweet memory to cherish, not something that makes you ache. Believe me.’’ She finishes quietly, quickly bidding them goodbye and hurrying to her horse with skirts fluttering around her ankles as if she was afraid she said too much.

Her voice rings true and Arya suspects she believes in her words. But Lyanna still looks so small and bittersweet in her blue gown, surrounded by the sea of crimson and black. She stands out, a single winter rose in the garden of glasshouse-grown ones. From one side, King Rheagar glances at her, brow furrowed. From another, Jon shoots her a concerned look, wrinkle on his forehead deep like a gash.

Mother hugs her tightly, caressing her hair and saying something about being proud of her, but Arya’s more or less fine until Father appears in front of her and stares down at her so lovingly that she’s sure her heart will break clean in half from the pain.

She can feel her lower lip trembling and before she can even notice, she’s locked in Ned Stark’s warm embrace, surrounded by the familiar scent.

‘’My girl.’’ He whispers softly, letting her tear up against his shoulder and holding her tightly. ‘’My girl, I love you so much. You are going to do so good, you’ll see.’’

‘’I’m going to miss you.’’ She cries, not even carrying if anyone hears. Let them know Starks love their pack. Let them know whose example she is going to follow. ‘’So much. But I’ll do my best.’’

‘’I know you will.’’ Father says warmly, his voice laced with such a certainty that she smiles through tears. ‘’You are a natural; you were born to order people around. And I’m sure you will be happy in Stormlands. Right, Gendry?’’

Arya still has her face pressed to Father’s fur collar, but she’s fully aware that he fixes  a particularly icy stare on her husband, because Gendry’s ‘’I’ll see to that, Lord Stark.’’ sounds a little nervous.

‘’You don’t need to scare him, Father.’’ She says quietly. ‘’You said it yourself; he will be good to me.’’

‘’Oh, I don’t worry about it. But it’s better to be extra safe than sorry, right?’’

So this is how she says goodbye to her family; her face wet and the corners of her mouth up, her husband squeezing her hand tightly as the horses disappear, swallowed by the woods.

***

A week later, just when she thinks all the hard talks and surprises are behind her, Lady Isabelle invites her for a tea in her solar.

Dressed in a teal gown and with her blonde locks half-up, her goodmother looks as delicate and bird-like as always and Arya wonders for the thousandth time how a woman like that put up with years and years of Robert Baratheon, how did she survive giving him a son and three daughters. If Isabelle is akin to a dove, Robert is nothing but a boar; big and loud and vulgar.

And still in love with another woman, even after all those years.

‘’Oh, Arya. Sit please.’’  The woman sets down her embroidery hoop on the table and reaches for a teapot. ‘’I hope you like tea? I heard Xingise don’t drink anything else.’’

‘’I do enjoy tea a lot, goodmother.’’ Arya dutifully takes a seat and watches as Lady Isabelle is pouring dark, sweet-smelling liquid into her cup. There are fresh cut roses in the vase between them and one of the petals falls off just as Arya’s trying to remember if the two of them were ever alone before. To be honest, she cannot recall such situation.

With a cling of porcelain, Gendry’s mother puts teapot back on the tray and announces simply:

‘’Robert and I will soon leave Storm’s End.’’

Arya’s eyes widen. She has expected – fuck, she doesn’t know what she expected, but definitely not this.

‘’Where to, my lady? I thought Lord Robert’s condition doesn’t allow him to travel.’’ She asks carefully, trying not to sound too brash, or, gods forbid, too happy. Even if she is a little bit happy. Which probably makes her the worst person ever.

‘’You are not mistaken.’’ Isabelle purses her lips into a tight line. ‘’But my husband is barely holding onto life the way he is now. Him and I will only trouble Gendry, and he does not need extra problems on his head. Especially… now that he already has you.’’

She could’ve as well slap Arya, for how painful this subtle jab was.

‘’Let me make something clear, Lady Arya.’’ Isabelle continues, any trace of sweetness gone from her voice. ‘’I was against this match, same as I was against Gendry being fostered in Winterfell, especially since we could’ve send him to Eyrie, to my family. Bringing you here is an insult to me, considering – well, considering.’’

Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna. Why won’t you just say her name? We both know you’re thinking about her.

‘’My son is a good man, I made sure of that. I thought there is not a trace of Robert in him, except his looks. But it seems I was wrong.’’

‘’Gendry is different than his father. Completely different.’’ Arya protests, but her words seem distant and distorted as if she was under the water. This whole conversation threw her completely off balance. Where did this woman hide this venom for all those weeks?

‘’Not when it comes to taste in women, apparently. ‘’ Isabelle scoffs and Arya curses in her head, this goddamn shadow of Aunt Lyanna always stuck to me. ‘’Still, I respected his choice. But you should know, you would never deserve him. Never.’’

Looks like an innocent flower, but there’s a true furious stag underneath          

Arya cannot hate Lady Isabelle; she cannot even dislike her now, not when it turned out she is not so bland after all. Years stuck with Robert, seeing his whores and wine would make even a saint bitter.

Besides…  she does understand where her good mother’s fears come from.

Arya laces her fingers on her lap, more lady-like than ever, and takes a sip of her tea.

‘’So let me be honest also; I love your son. And I intend to be a good wife for him. But I will never take your road. I won't ever let him harass me into becoming who I’m not. However, I believe I should thank you for raising him... Because I know he would never do that.’’

Lady Isabelle stares at her for a moment, before nodding slowly.

‘’He wouldn’t. He won’t. Hope you know how lucky you are.’’

In fact, Arya feels like she’s been slowly realizing that from the moment she stepped onto the Storm’s End courtyard and it’s only becoming clearer with time.

‘’Anyway.’’ Isabelle reaches for her own teacup, only the slight tremble of her wrist indicating she has just straight-up insulted Arya. ‘’I wish to visit my older brother and his wife in Runestones. I hope clear mountain air would do Robert well, not like the clammy heat here.’’

Oh, it will certainly do him good. – Arya narrows her eyes, trying to stop herself from chuckling. – So will being tossed in the wheelhouse for weeks, on the hard terrain, when he’s already so weak. You minx. I underestimated you.

Her goodparents do leave eventually, against Gendry’s loud and explicit wishes, and taking his youngest sister with them.  It takes five men to load Lord Robert onto the wheelhouse as he coughs and wheezes and Maester of Storm’s End refuses to see his lord and lady away, whispering to anyone who would listen that this whole idea is pure lunacy.

But it is easier to breathe in the castle without them and Gendry smiles more when he doesn’t have to visit his father every day and see him fading away. Even his two remaining sisters, Aelin and Lara, seem to be a little bit more carefree and talkative, and Lara goes as far as starting to practice water dancing along with Arya.

For all this bliss, Arya doesn’t kid herself into believing that is the last she sees of lady Isabelle. After all, she is of House Royce and Maester Luwin taught Arya her houses well.

And Royces of Runestones have a very memorable motto indeed.

We remember.

***

Little Lady, that’s how smallfolk has taken to calling her. Little Lady and Lady Wolf and Winter Rose even, sometimes, after someone starts to marvel at her likeness to Queen Lyanna. It stung at the beginning, made her stomach turn with irritation and her eyes roll. She could stomach Lady Wolf – it sounded kind of bloody fantastic, to be honest – but all the rest she was honestly despising.

Soon enough tho, a new addition come in front of each of her many names, the one that completely turned everything around.

‘’Our Little Lady’’ - servants address her tenderly, when they think she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Our Lady Wolf!” –  village children would laugh, crowding around her on the streets, tugging on her clothes and begging for sweets and stories.

“Yes, our lady is simply amazing, isn’t she?” – guards would whisper in between each other, after not-so-discretely watching her practice archery in the courtyard on a sunny afternoon.

She does not like being The Lady any more than she thought she would. But she supposes could be their lady, the lady of those people, when ‘’our’’ sounded like a bigger honorific that whatever followed it.

Stormlands grow on her, slowly and surely, like a vine covering stone. This beautiful, violent lands; deep, dark woods, blindingly white cliffs of Durrandon’s Point and Shipwrecker’s Bay’s angry, stone-blue sea.  The sky that seems to always be in motion, just like in the North. Storms, so constant and yet so breathtaking, leaving a peculiar aftertaste in the air. She spends every free moment on the horseback, riding from village to village and along the coast, exploring every inch and nook and letting Nymeria roam loose, until her wolf collapses by Gendry’s feet in the evening, panting and satisfied.

To be honest tho, there is not much time for Arya to waste it like that.

She’s keeping  herself busy, filling her days with bookkeeping and trade negotiations and construction of guilds, with breeding hounds and tending to horses. There is a lot to mend; Robert was a reckless spender and his wife loved unnecessary frivolities, but Arya’s sure they can pay off their debts just fine  if they will manage without peacocks for suppers for a while and cut the amount of lavish feasts in half.

Gendry shows her the maps of trade routes in the region and they spend hours upon hours of reviewing the stream of goods, arguing about the possible new harbors on the coastline and the construction of roads. She’s losing her sleep in favor of counting taxes, monitoring the state of their coffers and wondering what else they could possibly produce. Arya would’ve never guessed all of it would be so engaging, but it is. And all the work feels so very rewarding, so useful.

It’s easy to have a clear objective, when it has a name and a face, be it freckled Mel from the kitchens, her favorite guard Willen or Old Tom that sits in the docks all day long and gifts her with fresh clams every time she’s passing him on Shiver. It’s easy to work for them, to make their lives better. Especially because Arya’s and Gendry’s lives are already so good.

Soon, she introduces her favorite Winterfell tradition of dining with a different resident of the households, be it the Captain of the Guard or the Head Stablemaster. But instead of moving to sidelines like her mother used to, Arya sits on one side of their guest and Gendry on another one, asking questions together. Maybe, just maybe, she even talks more.

Maybe she generally does just as much governing as him, definitely more than is expected of her. Maybe people talk behind her back about how improper it all is.

Maybe, but Gendry himself certainly doesn’t seem to mind all that.

At night, he hoists her legs up, rests her calves on his broad shoulders and fucks her, long and hard and slow, nipping on her neck and collarbone now and then, or suckling on her nipples until she’s trembling like a flame in the fireplace, desperately beginning him with a broken voice that she doesn’t even recognize as hers to please, please, just go faster and finish her off.

She told him she would not bow to any man and she keeps her promise; she does not bow to him. She surrenders thou, gladly and sweetly, if only because it makes her all hot and wet every time he puts his hands on her and pins her down forcefully to cover her body with his. His grip is strong and bruising and maybe she should feel violated by that, but how does it even matter, if his kisses are so gentle and his eyes so loving? This is safety; this is her Gendry. She could close her eyes and moan all she fucking desires and he would never, ever hurt her.

She leaves scratches down his back and he leaves her skin peppered with love bites and they ruin and devour each other in the most delicious, delirious way there is.

How her mother and her sister warned her of a marriage bed. She wants to laugh every time she thinks about it.

***

A raven comes with news of Sansa bearing a healthy girl named Alyssa, said to be red of hair and purple of eyes.  And, as on cue, Arya’s moon blood comes once, twice and then stops.

Soon, her breasts fill up painfully and she stops sleeping well, fruitlessly tossing and turning in bed until Gendry sleepily gathers her in his arms and caresses her hair, calming her down.

And then she barges into the kitchens one day and demands, very loudly, for the cook to stop preparing fish, seven hells, can he just not, is it really that hard to understand that fish makes her sick?

And she knows what it means. She’s not blind or ignorant. But this knowledge feels heavy, so heavy that she’d rather leave it untouched than try to carry it on her shoulders. They have just settled into some kind of routine. This… this will turn everything around yet again.

Unfortunately, she did not marry a stupid man either. A little silly sometimes, but not stupid.

So, when he buries his face in-between her breasts one evening and her gasp clearly a pained, not an aroused one, he carefully rests his chin on her clavicle and breathes out deeply.

“Arya.’’

‘’Gendry.’’

He huffs in annoyance, raising himself up on his elbows and taking his weight off her.

‘'Arya, please.’’

‘’Yes?’’

If he plays dumb, she will also.

‘’Are you with a child?’’ he asks her, straight-up, and his voice – gods, his voice. Everything rings in it, every possible emotion; fear and excitement and anxiousness and hope and love. So much love and he doesn’t even try to conceal it.

And maybe it’s the babe – she seriously hopes so, because otherwise she’s just getting soft which is simply ridiculous – but Arya can feel her heart painfully clenching in her chest as her husband’s blue eyes flicker in the candlelight.

She gently cards her fingers through his thick curls, pushing them away from her face.

‘’Would you like me to be?’’ – she already knows the answer, but she still wants to hear it. Just.. just to be sure. Just to lean against his unwavering strength and drew from it when her doubts eat her alive.

He swiftly rises to a kneeling position and pulls her along, settling her on his lap with her arms looped around his neck and her bare thighs straddling him. A fresh wave of arousal crushes over her and she hums in delight as he places his hand on her hip, his fingers digging into her skin.

‘’Arya. I would be by far the happiest man in the world if you were.’’ He says solemnly, his other hand cradling the back of her head. ‘’But being honest, I am already happier than I ever thought I will be, having you with me. So tell me. Please.’’

He lets go of her hip to tentatively cup her still-flat belly and she just cannot drag it any longer, not when he seems to tremble in anticipation underneath her.

‘’Aye.’’

He breathes in and out deeply, his eyes still locked with hers. There is a dazed expression of his face and Arya’s sure no one has ever looked at her that way; the way Septas look at figures of Mother in Sept, the way Jon was looking at dancing Dany at the wedding, the way sunsets are supposed to be looked at.

He looks at her as if she was a gift sent from gods.

“Aye?’’

‘’Aye. I am.’’ She’s nodding and oh fuck, when did she start crying? When did she start grinning, when did he pull her head closer to his? When did he start kissing her, laughing against her mouth and tasting salt on her lips?

Aye, aye.

Aye.

It seems all the sweetest moments in her life start with just this one word.

***

Dany and Jon come to visit, just as they promised during the wedding; they arrive with a surprisingly small escort and the whole trip seems as informal as possible, for what Arya’s eternally grateful.

She has started to throw up so often and so much that she has grown frail, which drives her insane and irritable. It doesn’t help that the more she vomits, the more Gendry frets, so with the guests at Storm’s End at least he has something else to occupy himself with besides asking her if she’s fine the thousandth time a day.

Which she is. She is perfectly fine and perfectly capable of riding a horse or managing her duties. Thanks gods he has enough reason not to question it out loud, or else she would positively stick him full of holes with a Needle.

Which she is also capable of, just to be clear.

Dany, of course, looks like a daydream. She brings Arya a ton of books and even starts teaching her Old Valyrian, laughing at her butchered pronunciation. The Princess is also far more vocal about the situation at King’s Landing than Jon has ever been and all that she’s talking about gives Arya lots to ponder over in her head at night.

Especially Queen Elia revelation.

‘’I’m honestly surprised it’s not public knowledge already.’’ Dany simply states, ignoring Arya’s wide-opened eyes. ‘’They’re not even trying very hard to be discreet anymore.’’

‘’But – Arthur Dayne? And your brother, he allows it?’’

‘’Arya, please. In this whole situation they have, my brother is the one with the least power whatsoever. After all – ‘’ Dany takes a sip of wine from her goblet, smirking a little, ‘’- he is the one who caused this mess. First, he married Elia even though he didn’t want to. Then he married Lyanna because he wanted to. And one could argue whether or not he was right in any of those cases.’’

“And the children? I mean, doesn’t anyone question if they are really his?’’

Daenerys gracefully rests her chin on her hand and humms.

‘’Well, Aegon is Rheagar’s, there is no wondering about that at all.’’ Arya supposed it was true, given her good brother’s true Targaryen coloring. ‘’Rhaenys, well, maybe one could dig deeper when it comes to her, but why should one bother? It’s not like she is the heir of anything. She’s married now, shipped to Highgarden and, as far as I know, greatly enjoys wreaking havoc there.’’

Arya bites on her lips, looking out of the window and the busy courtyard.  She can hear the sound of hammered steel and that involuntarily makes her smile. They did a few changes in the staff of the castle and now they have such a good steward that Gendry manages to steal a few hours a week to work in the forge. He looks happier now; calmer. Even when he frets over her, it’s less frantic.

‘’You two are adorable.’’ Dany giggles, which makes Arya wheeze.

‘’Please, stop it.’’

‘’No, I’m serious. It really shows how much you care for him. And him for you.’’ Dany’s looking at her with eyes sparkling with mischief and Arya has only a second to brace herself before her almost-goodsister asks: ‘’Is it good in bed? I’m sure it’s good in bed.’’

‘’Dany!’’

‘’What? You’re with a child, do you think I’d believe a stork brought it to you one afternoon?’’

***

‘’Did you know that my father wanted to marry Ashara Dayne before the whole situation with uncle Brandon?’’ she asks Gendry one afternoon, making him tear his eyes away from the scroll he’s currently studying.

‘’What?’’

‘’Oh, yes. Apparently, they were very much in love.’’ She rubs the gentle curve of her belly absent-mindedly, looking at the gathering storm outside. The babe has just started quickening, and she’s starting to get used to the strange sensation. ‘’It’s not like it was not possible. Although that would surely be unexpected, to have a Dornish woman so far North.’’

Gendry murmurs something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like bloody Daynes.

‘’Oh please, stop it already. Ned’s a perfect noble knight.’’

‘’There’s nothing noble in the way he devours you with his damn eyes every time he visits.’’

Arya giggles, trying to imagine honorable, bland Ned ogling anyone.

‘’I think you are irrational. But rest easy; soon I’ll be too fat for anyone to devour me, with their eyes or otherwise.’’

This time Gendry’s groan is even louder and perfectly clear.

‘’Damn you woman, stop whining.’’ He raises from the chair and collapses on the bed next to her, making the mattress bounce. ‘’You know you’re beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Even more beautiful now. How many times will you make me say it?’’

‘’Take off your boots.’’ She grumbles, but softly. It’s hard to be irritated at him when he gets like that; when the candles are so short and she just wants to curl by her husband’s side and talk with him about just anything and everything until they fall asleep.  Gendry sneaks an arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him and resting his forehead on her back, between her shoulder blades.

For a moment they’re just laying like that; under the yellow canopy and buried in the soft furs, with a distant sound of thunder outside, as the room gets darker and darker.

‘’Sometimes I’m wondering if any marriages are happy at all.’’ She lets out with a sigh, making Gendry stir awake from his half-nap. He props himself on the elbow to take a look at her face.

‘’Your parents are happy, I think. Even if they wanted to marry different people at the beginning.’’

‘’Yeah, but- I don’t know. Can you really forget your first love completely?’’

Arya saw Ashara Dayne at the wedding, peering at her father from underneath a fan of dark lashes, her violet eyes so striking and her still pitch-black hair so lovely that even Catelyn Stark’s pale irises and greying red locks didn’t stand a chance in comparison.

And surely Mother must’ve looked at Father many, many times through the years and wonder about uncle Brandon and what could’ve been-s. How weird it must have been for her to live with him and aunt Barbrey those first few years?

‘’I cannot possibly know that.’’ Gendry says gently, raising his hand up to caress the side of her face and then placing it on top of her swollen belly. ‘’You were my first love anyway.’’

‘’You have never told me that before.’’ She breaths out. The babe flutters inside her anxiously and she reassures it inside her head everything’s perfect, everything’s fine. She has never asked him, truth to be told, but she did not kid herself into believing Gendry did not have any flings before he asked her to marry him. ‘’Did you – back in Winterfell?’’

‘’Of course I loved you in Winterfell.’’ He grins, spreading his fingers wider on her middle and trying to feel tiny kicks better. ‘’You were small and always dirty and absolutely unafraid. And underfoot at all times. And you loved to talk, but you would listen so patiently. I was gone before I even knew what’s going on.’’

Cold mud in-between her fingers , crusting her hair. Gendry making faces at her from across the table. How they made wildflower crowns for each other and the one she made for him fell apart in seconds, but the one he gave her stayed intact for the whole weeks.

She loved him then, that was never a question.

‘’But it was different.’’ Her voice is small, laced with too many emotions to untangle them all.

‘’Damn well it was different. ‘’ his arm sneaks underneath her back, pulling her closer until they’re face-to-face. ‘’Until I saw you in that green dress. It was like a lightning strike.. You have frighteningly nice tits Arya, really.’’

‘’Oh gods.’’ She starts to giggle, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck. His skin smells like iron and steel and fresh breeze and she inhales it as deeply as possible. ‘’One can always trust you to ruin the mood, Gendry. Here I thought it’s the time for grand confessions, but you just wanted to admit you married me for my tits.’’

‘’Not only for them.’’ He pinches the side of one of her breast lightly, making her yelp. ‘’But they were definitely a factor in my decision.’’

‘’I love you, you big, stupid idiot.’’ She admits in-between fits of laughter, her lips moving against his skin and shivering violently when he hitches up her nightgown to touch her naked waist that has just began to widen considerably.

‘’I love you too, you wild woman.’’ He chuckles, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of her head. His hand travels down and she can feel her eyelids already fluttering. ‘’More than I ever thought I would love anyone. And I really hope I can prove you wrong – with this no happy marriages thing.’’

‘’You’ve already did.’’ He slips his fingers in-between her folds and curls them, so her voice comes out like a sigh rather than a statement. The hell with how he disarms her, with how he makes her feel. ‘’Because I am happy, I really am.’’

She would never lie to Gendry, she’s sure of that. However, she also does not think she has ever been  as honest as she’s now, saying those words.

***

But the sky falls down upon them anyway.

Arya wakes up in the middle of the night, in the pitch-black chambers; Gendry’s still snoring beside her, the two of them cocooned by the soft furs. She keeps her eyes closed and tries to fall asleep again, to come back to the ever-pleasant dream of running through the Stormlands’ woods on all fours, searching for the prey. But some deep, unsettling sensation inside her keeps her awake; it raises in intensity until it transforms into  pain in her lower belly sharp enough to make her gasp. She shuffles a little, her hand immediately shoots to cradle her bump; and instead of easing, it gets worse with the change of the position, forcing her to kneel on the mattress with her thighs spread.

What’s going on? What’s going on, what’s going on – is running through her mind on a loop and she’s still too sleepy to really get scared until something within her tightens like a bow, making her spine arch and she’s sure she must let out a moan or whine, because Gendry stirs a little. And then whatever was tightened lets lose suddenly, only it does not feel like letting loose; it feels as if someone tore her insides in half, the way maids tears old shirts into rags.

Hunched-over, her lids shut close, and more awake than she has ever been, she begins to pray.

Millions of women  has surely prayed like that before and will pray like that until the end of times. There is only one prayer for a moment like that, the one no one had to teach them; no pretty hymn, but a broken litany.

Don’t, dear gods, don’t, don’t kill my child, please, please don’t let it happen, please, I’m begging you

But it’s for naught, of course.

When she opens her eyes, all she sees is blinding crimson spilling out of her, sticking to her skin, staining the sheets, staining everything.

There is wind blowing outside and wolves howling in the woods and Gendry sleepily asking her what’s wrong, but she does not hear any of that; all she’s hearing is white noise ringing in her ears endlessly, drowning her desperate no-s and please-s in it.

**

Arya's handmaiden Irene is everything Arya isn’t and more; tall and rounded, and fair-headed. Graceful. She curtsies beautifully and wears her hair up often, exposing the beautiful line of her neck.

But most of all, she has two small boys with identical gaps between their front teeth. They herd around Gendry’s legs in the courtyard like the rest of the children at Storm’s End, begging him to play hide-and-seek with them and shrieking with joy when he starts to chase them.

And the very sight of that grips Arya’s throat with an icy fist, stealing her breath away.

She used to play with those children too, teach them letters during sunny afternoons, telling them stories about North and defending them from the cook when they were caught in the kitchens with sweets in their hands. She used to love their presence, their high-pitched laughter and little hands. They were the only ones who listened when she asked them to call her by her name, not ‘’Lady Baratheon’’.

But ever since she lost her babe, she hasn’t been able to muster the courage to tend to other women’s children, Irene’s least of all.

Her boys are dark-haired and blue-eyed, and that inevitably makes Arya wonder, suspicion festering in her heart like maggots on the open wound. How old are they? Three and four? How many years has passed since Gendry came from Winterfell back to Storm’s End?

Numbers are swimming in her mind, stealing her sleep as she lays at night by her husband’s side, having once again escaped from his arms. She curls with her back to him, knowing full well she’s being stupid and inconsiderate and ridiculous. Gendry promised her he’d be true and gave her no reasons to believe he would ever break this promise.

And yet.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he had Irene on a side, or any other woman. Why wouldn’t he?

It’s been a long time since he was a boy with fine leather breeches stained by the Winterfell’s mud and she was a little girl, laughing together after they ate summer peaches, juice dripping down their chins.

Now they’re older and she is nothing but broken.

***

‘’My lady, would you like to go for a horse ride after dinner?’’

‘’I’m sorry, I don’t feel so well today. I think I’ll go and lay down for the afternoon.’’

‘’Lady Arya, would you like me to accompany you on your walk?’’

‘’There is no need Lancel, I’ll be fine on my own.’’

‘’Please, eat some more soup. Or maybe you’d like something else? Some ham or bread with cheese?’’

‘’No, it was enough. Thank you.’’

She burns letter after letter after letter; the fire in their chamber never dies down, fed constantly with Ned and Catelyn’s words, with Jon and Dany’s words, with Sansa’s words, with Bran’s words. Her words are the same and constant, on every parchment she sends back.

I’m fine, don’t worry about me.

It feels easier to lie when they are so far away.

It’s not so easy to lie to those who surround her, and so, for the first time in her life, Arya turns into a lone wolf. Her days are long now; nights even longer - stars obscured by the clouds and corridors of the castle empty and dark when she strolls through them hours before dawn, Nymeria following her soundlessly on her soft paws like a shadow, baring her teeth at anyone who dares to come closer.

It’s weird how washed-down everything has suddenly became, all those things that used to be vibrant and thrilling. The sound of Shiver’s hooves hitting the ground, the icy waters of Shipbreaker’s Bay washing her feet, the stone walls warmed by the sun. Her husband’s eyes. Food in her mouth, air in her lungs.

She naps plenty during the day and in her dreams, she’s back in Winterfell, she is still one and ten and the sky is still the right color. She’s running through the Godswood laughing; she doesn’t see her pack but she knows they’re there, she can hear their voices, she can almost see them in-between trees. And every time, just as she’s about to reach them, the dream turns into air and mist. No matter how fast she’s running, no matter how loudly she calls for them.

Time after time, she wakes up; one second she’s full and another - empty again.

***

One afternoon, as she’s sitting in her solar and reading a book still in her nightgown with Nymeria curled by her feet, Gendry all but barges in without knocking.

She almost jumps, startled, and her direwolf lets out a warning growl but Gendry crosses the room in three long strides and drops to his knees by her chair before burying his face in her lap. All without uttering a single word.

His fist clutch the material of her skirts and when she tentatively puts a hand on his shoulder, he starts to tremble.

‘’Gendry..’’ she sighs, as Nymeria licks his exposed forearms and flops back on the floor, apparently deciding he’s not a danger of any kind.

He’s still not saying anything, so she cards her fingers through his hair – how soft it is, she almost forgot it –  and dragging her hands along the sides of his face before gently pulling his chin up.

He’s crying.

He’s kneeling on the floor in front of her and crying, his blue eyes all wet an eyelashes tangled and she has never seen him like that before. And if she thought she was heartbroken before, she was damn wrong, cause this is what heartbreak feels like. She cannot even breathe.

‘’Gendry. What’s-‘’

‘’I should be asking you that. What’s going on, Arya? Where did you go?’’ he lets those word out of himself like arrows, fast and true. - ‘’Where are you?’’ he asks desperately, staring at her with such intensity that her first instinct is to hide.

‘’I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’ She says weakly and almost winces herself at the falsehood of this sentence.

Gendry’s face breaks.

‘’Arry.’’ He scrambles to his feet, instantly towering above her as he leans down to cup her face in his hands. ‘’Arry, please, don’t do this. Please, come back to me. Please.’’

His tears roll down his cheek and drop on her skin and it’s like the dam inside her was broken, because suddenly a sob escapes from her chest, once, twice, before turning into a wail and she doesn’t even notice  when or how, but she’s in Gendry’s arms, crying her heart out like never before in her life.

‘’Arya, Arry, my love, please.’’ He’s whispering sweet nonsense in her ear, letting her stain his shirt and holding her tight enough that her ribs hurt. He caresses her hair: ‘’It’s alright.’’

‘’No, it’s not.’’ She manages to let out in-between sobs. Her body feels hot; she’s shaking like a leaf on the wind and her crying only intensifies with every passing second. ‘’You don’t – you don’t understand.’’

‘’Arya, it was my babe too-‘’

‘’It died inside me!’’ she’s positively hysteric now, but it doesn’t matter cause he still doesn’t get it. She tears herself away from him to look at his face, her eyes stinging from salt so much that she’s barely seeing anything at all. ‘’I felt it die inside me, spilling out of me! You don’t understand – you don’t understand.’’

‘’You’re right.’’ He leans his forehead against her. ‘’I don’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Arya, I’m sorry.’’

She thinks he must be crying almost as hard as she is, for how many times he apologizes to her, their noses bumping and breaths shaking, until she buries her face in the crook of his neck and he embraces her again; they’re rock back-and-forth together like that for what seems like hours until her sobs turn into hiccups and he starts to speak again.

‘’But you didn’t give me a chance, Arya. You took it all and locked inside and – how do you expect me to compete with your stubbornness, huh? You cannot.’’

And it’s a testament of how much she loves him and how well he knows her, that, against everything, she quietly chuckles at those words.

‘’I’m sorry too.’’ Her voice sounds small and teary, but also like hers and it’s something that she hasn’t experienced for far longer than she realized.

There’s liberation in how they’re sitting, wrapped up in each other on the floor, faces wet and clothes disheveled. He breathes in; she breathes out. She can even feel his heart beating so steady and strong next to hers. She cannot remember ever feeling closer to him than in this moment, pouring all this pain and suffering she’s been feeling onto him and only getting love back.

‘’I- I should’ve talked to you.’’

‘’You should’ve. Or I should’ve never let you get so far. I will never make this mistake again.’’ He rubs her back in circles, his lips pressing to her exposed shoulder blade the sweetest of kisses. ‘’Please, don’t leave me alone. You promised you’ll be with me, you remember?’’

‘’Of course. We are family, right? Even if-even if I-‘’ she cannot force herself to finish this sentence, no matter that the words already hang in-between them heavily. Even if we won’t have children.

‘’Don’t think like that.’’ His arms tighten around her. ‘’We’ll get another shot. And yes, even if we won’t .. you’re all the family I need. Now and always. You are enough. More than enough.’’

She loops her arm around his neck, pressing his face closer to her body until he rests it on her shoulder. Her fingers tangle in the shorter hair at the back of his head and there are fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, but she’ll let them flow. It’s about time for them.

‘’You are enough for me too.’’  

***

This evening, the lady of the castle walks down the stairs in black-and-golden dress, hand in hand with her husband, and sits down by his side in the Round Hall of Storm’s End without any big ceremonies. Her eyes are a little red and she’s still too pale… but it’s nothing that good stew and a little bit of sunshine won’t fix, the cook reasons, peaking at the table from the kitchens and barking at the servers to bring some of those lemon cakes she likes so much to Lady Arya, gods, cannot they think about such things for themselves, must she tell them everything?

Arya’s not laughing, but she smiles and eats, and, when they pour wine into her goblet, she accepts. There is a traveling bard dining with them tonight; when asked, he sings some song about Nymeria of Rhyone and the corners of Arya’s lips rise up slowly, almost shyly, as she rests her head on Gendry’s shoulder and listens.

Some keener-eyed servants notice that Lord Gendry is holding her hand under the table through the whole meal and of course, every maid in the castle starts swooning, because how romantic is that? How lovely?

Stable boys, stewards or guards don’t care much about all this nonsense, or at least they claim so – even if they are quietly wondering how much time will pass since a certain short figure will appear on the courtyard again to order them around. Regardless of them, one thing remains true; all of the residents of Storm’s End, the oldest and the youngest alike, stare at Arya and Gendry this night and let out a collective breath of relief.

Arya would have to be blind not to notice that.  And she won’t be lying; it makes her feel a little bit soft inside.

***

Gendry turned out to be right in the end, as he as an infuriating tendency to be – they do get another shot.

At the height of the blooming spring, little Ned is born, piercing the ears of everyone at Storm End’s with his cries ever since his first breath.

Arya’s heart sings when they lay him down on her bare chest and he looks up at her – her boy, her sweet little boy who blinks his gray eyes at her and seems to know exactly who she is – and she caresses his chubby cheeks with her finger.

‘’Oh, hello, darling.’’ She must sound ridiculous, but it does not feel ridiculous at all. Not when Gendry first holds their son in his arms and stares at him with this pure adoration written in every line on his face and then doesn’t change the expression at all when he raises his eyes to her.

Not when she breaths in Ned’s perfect baby scent and then breathes out and realizes it’s the end of walking on eggshells and acting as if she was made of glass like they did throughout her whole pregnancy. Their babe is with them and he’s just – he’s just theirs to keep and to have and to love.

Not when Ned falls asleep on her breast while nursing and a drip of milk escapes from in-between his tiny lips and Arya notices he clutches a strand of her hair in his fist.

And definitely not when she wakes up in the middle of the night because it’s so hot and finds Gendry walking around the room shirtless, rocking Ned gently and singing to him lullabies quietly, his eyes shining in the darkness and the sound of summer storm outside.

It does not feel ridiculous.

It feels like she can finally stop searching for some unknown things; it feels like a cue to stop where she’s standing and let her roots grow deep.

Gendry snoring, his face so soft and smooth when he’s dreaming. Ned napping, his tiny head pillowed on her clavicle. Storm’s End; strong and ancient and hers and home, the sea always humming outside its walls.

All my summers and winters are yours. She makes her vow silently and lets her lids drop.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Moments of Happiness

Chapters 57 & 58 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) are up on AO3! Don’t be fooled, I took one long chapter and chopped it into two. Together they’re about ~10k words. 

In which Fenris and the crew pal around at the Winter Palace before the Exalted Council begins. Also known as the calm before the storm. 😭

Read on AO3 here. 

*******************

Hawke shook out another pair of trousers and hung them in the finely-carved armoire. “…and that passage made me think of that time when I tried to have you close the mark as though you were closing a rift, but that didn’t work. Which in retrospect was maybe a stupid suggestion since you can’t close a key with a key, if that even makes any sense.” She turned back to the cedar travelling chest containing their clothes. “Honestly though, all these Chantry-sanctioned treatises are worth shit for trying to figure this out. I wonder if it might be worth reaching out to Morrigan to see if she has any interesting ideas. At this point, I’d be willing to try anything to get that fucking mark off of you.”

“Mm,” Fenris said. “That’s a good idea.”

“You think so?” Hawke said. “Perhaps I’ll ask her if a little blood magic might remove it.”

“You could,” he said vaguely. 

She laughed. “Fenris! You aren’t even listening to me!” She threw a pair of socks at him, and when they bounced off of his book, he finally looked up. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I… what were you saying?”

“I was trying to talk about the anchor,” she said pointedly. 

“Oh. Yes.” He glanced balefully at the mark. The lines of cursed light used to be contained in the main fissures of his palm, but they had started to spread over the last couple of months. Nowadays when the mark flared, its ghastly green light spread down to his wrist and almost all the way to his fingertips. 

He closed his hand and looked up at her. “Did you find something in your books?”

“Nothing earth-shattering yet.” She went back to hanging their clothes in the armoire. “I’m still trying to translate that one really old elven tome I found in the little library in Skyhold, but it’s extremely slow-going.” She paused in her unpacking and peered at him. “Are you all right? You’ve been awfully distracted since we left Kirkwall.” Her eyebrows rose with worry. “The mark isn’t hurting more than usual, is it?” 

“No. I’m well,” he assured her. “I was just thinking… you should eat more dark green vegetables.”

Her eyebrows jumped up, and she barked out a laugh. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He tapped the book on his lap. “This book. It says that pregnant women should eat dark green vegetables three times a day.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at the book, then wandered over to the couch where he was sitting. “Is that Enchanter Jolen’s compilation?”

“Yes,” he said. He showed her the book, which was titled Andraste’s Little Blessing: Rites and Rituals for Welcoming A New Child.

She handed the book back to him with a grin. “Well, that’s not a bad one. Although it does recommend that pregnant people should read the Chant of Light every night in thanks for the blessing of a child, and I’m sure as shit not doing that.”

He looked at her in dismay. “Is this book not a reputable source, then?”

“No no, it’s fine,” she said. “But we should dig up a copy of the Ralaferin clan’s writings if you really want to read up on pregnancy.”

“A Dalish text?” he said in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, it’s much more down-to-earth,” Hawke said. “Though it doesn’t have the same modern medical suggestions. And it’ll be hard to get your hands on a copy, I studied from one that Merrill had back in the day…” She frowned thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Actually, you can keep reading Andraste’s Little Blessings. It’s preachy and sort of privileged, but it’s fine.”

“All right,” he said warily. He watched her for a moment as she bustled back over to the bed and continued unpacking their clothes. 

He leaned forward. “Perhaps you should sit down. This book says that pregnant women–”

“–should spend as much time as possible on their asses doing nothing, right?” she interrupted.

“Er, yes,” he admitted. 

She shook her head in amusement, then sashayed over to him and closed the book. “Fenris, don’t fuss at me, all right? I promise I’ll relax when I need to. Besides, pregnancy is the easy bit. All I have to do is eat a lot, not drink too much wine, make sure no one bashes me in the stomach. That’s easy. The hard part is raising the kid when it comes out. You have no idea what sort of chaotic little monster you’re going to get.”

He slung one arm along the back of the couch. “Knowing you, it will chaos personified,” he said dryly.

She chuckled and playfully pinched his chin. “That’s the sweetest compliment I’ve had all day.”

He smirked, but he couldn’t help but study her smile. She sounded jocular, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was joking. 

He took her hand. “Since when does chaos disturb you?”

She snorted. “Since I’m responsible for raising it and making sure it doesn’t grow up into an asshole, of course.”

“We will be equally responsible for that,” he said firmly. “You are not doing any part of this alone.”

Her smile softened. “Such a smooth talker,” she said. “That’ll get you everywhere with me.” She slowly straddled his lap and draped her arms around his neck.

He gazed at her seriously. “This is not idle talk. I mean it. If anything scares or worries you about this, I need you to tell me.”

“Okay, okay,” she murmured. “I’ll tell you, I promise.” She placed a small chaste kiss on his lips. 

He parted his lips slightly, and Hawke followed his lead and kissed him more deeply. For a long, luxurious minute, Fenris leaned into her kiss, slowly sliding his palms up her thighs and over her hips, and as his thumbs circled her hipbones, she traced his lower lip with her tongue. 

A spike of interest stirred between his legs. When Hawke tilted her hips and pressed down against his groin, the interest surged more strongly still.

Then someone knocked on the door.

A palace servant’s voice called out. “Inquisitor? The delegates from Orlais and Ferelden have been asking if you require assistance.”

Fenris dropped his head back on the couch in frustration, and Hawke sighed. “That means they’re wondering what’s taking you so long to come out and mingle,” she said. 

He nodded in resignation, then called out to the servant. “No assistance is necessary,” he said. He tilted Hawke’s chin down and kissed her firmly, then lifted her off of his lap. “We will continue this later,” he warned. 

She grinned at him as she rose from the couch. “Ooh, I hope that’s a promise.” She peeled off her shirt and winked at him before sauntering over to the armoire to change. 

He tore his eyes away from her swaying hips and roughly adjusted himself before changing into a more formal shirt and jacket. A few minutes later, he and Hawke were strolling through the chattering crowds of nobles toward the upper level of the palace.

As soon as they reached the upper level, they spotted Cassandra standing with an older Fereldan man. She was impossible to miss, really, given her obscenely tall hat. The second she laid eyes on them, her face lit up. 

Hawke chuckled. “Someone looks in need of rescuing from some very dull company.”

He gave her a chiding look. “Don’t say anything to get her in trouble.”

She widened her eyes. “Me? Get someone in trouble? I would never.” Her eyes were twinkling with mischief, however, and Cassandra also seemed to notice Hawke’s shit-eating grin, as she quickly greeted them before they could say a word.  

“Inquisitor. Champion. It is good to see you both.” She gestured to the stern-faced man at her side. “This is Arl Teagan of Redcliffe. He represents Ferelden at the summit.”

“Oh, lovely!” Hawke said. “How is Alistair doing? Still as handsome as ever, I trust?”

Teagan frowned. “I suppose, though that is hardly important.” He nodded to Fenris. “Inquisitor. Good to meet you.”

“You as well,” Fenris said politely. He glanced briefly at Cassandra, who pulled a tiny apologetic face.

Thankfully, Hawke lightened the dour mood. “Forgive me, I have to ask – Arl Teagan, I understand that you’re a fan of the Grand Tourney. You’re a great rider yourself, aren’t you?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I was, once. I am too busy running the bannorn now, as I’m sure you can understand.”

She blinked innocently. “Oh, but you must have been something to see in your riding days! Would you be so kind as to tell me a tale or two?” 

His scowl deepened. Then he harrumphed. “I suppose I could spare a moment for a story.” 

“Wonderful!” Hawke simpered. She linked her arm with Teagan’s, then winked at Cassandra and Fenris before pulling him away. 

Cassandra shook her head fondly. “She is the same as always,” she said. “Charming almost to a fault. I am happy to see it.”

Fenris nodded; Cassandra’s assessment was accurate, after all. “You look well,” he said. “From what I can see of you, that is.” He glanced in amusement at her outfit.

She made a disgusted noise. “I will never grow accustomed to these trappings, I swear.”

Fenris smirked. “Based on that letter you sent, I understand you’re especially fond of the hat.”

Cassandra shot him a sideways smile. “You got that letter before you left Kirkwall, then? I am glad. I hope Varric enjoyed it.”

Fenris huffed in amusement. “He did, yes.” He declined to tell her that her overused copy of Swords and Shields had been mentioned in the letter.

Cassandra smiled more widely, then sighed. “I suppose we should discuss the Exalted Council. I am supposed to be impartial while speaking for the Chantry, but I confess that neutrality is beyond me. I may be the Divine, but I will always be your friend, and I can hardly ignore the fate of the Inquisition that I began.”

Fenris nodded. When he and Hawke had arrived this morning, Josephine and Leliana had given them the full run-down of the situation, which could be summarized in two sentences: Orlais wanted to acquire the Inquisition as a vassal and thus acquire their power and army, and Ferelden wanted to disband the Inquisition completely. 

“The delegates are short-sighted and selfish,” Cassandra said brusquely. “They do not see the full scope of what you have done these past few years. The Inquisition is still needed. They do not yet understand that.”

Fenris shrugged and glanced around at the assembled nobles and politicians. He hadn’t yet told Cassandra that he’d been planning to quit the Inquisition anyway before the Exalted Council had been announced. 

“We shall see what happens, I suppose,” he said. Personally, dissolving the Inquisition didn’t seem like a totally undesirable result to him. From the most selfish perspective, it would mean that Fenris would finally be free. From a more logical perspective, however, he truly felt that the Inquisition had served its primary purpose, and the more involved they got in political affairs, the more they would be stepping beyond their bounds. In his more bitter moments, Fenris sometimes felt like the Inquisition was becoming the way Solas described the making of a demon: like it was being twisted away from its original purpose into something else entirely. 

And Fenris did not like the idea of the Inquisition becoming so twisted that it was no longer recognizable. 

Cassandra peered at him carefully. “Are you all right, my friend? You seem troubled. Not that you have no reason to be. I mean–” She winced. “That was hardly comforting. I apologize, Fenris, I wish only to express my concern.”

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I’m better than expected given the situation.” He thought of Hawke’s pregnancy, and his belly jumped in a happy – and nervous – way.

She looked at him in surprise. “That’s… that’s good. I’m glad to hear it.” She sighed again. “I must return to mingling with the bureaucrats. But if you need me, I’m ready to assist. Unconditionally.”

Fenris gave her a small half-bow. “Thank you, Your Holiness.”

She snorted at the formal title. “You are welcome, Inquisitor.”

He smiled at her jab, then looked around for Hawke and Teagan. The Arl was embroiled in a discussion with some other Fereldans, so Fenris quickly slipped into the crowd before Teagan could corner him. 

A moment later, he saw Hawke standing with – of all people – Dorian. 

Fenris raised his eyebrows, equally pleased and surprised. He hadn’t expected Dorian to be here. As he approached them, he realized that Hawke and Dorian were speaking with an Orlesian man, and that Hawke seemed to be flirting with the Orlesian, much to Dorian’s barely suppressed amusement. 

Hawke smiled seductively at the Orlesian. “...and I can only imagine that your control over the Chateau is much firmer than your father’s,” she said. She slid her gaze slowly over the length of his body. “Hmm, very firm indeed.”

“That is kind of you to say, Serrah Hawke,” the Orlesian said coolly. “It is only unfortunate that my governance of the Chateau is a result of you killing my father.”

What? Fenris thought in alarm. But Hawke only batted her eyelashes. “Oh no, my lord, that’s not true.”

“I believe the truth is quite clear, Champion,” the Orlesian retorted. “If I recall correctly, I appeared on the scene to find two dozen bloody qunari corpses and my father crushed beneath his pet wyvern at the base of a cliff.”

Fenris stared at him. Now that was a familiar story. 

Hawke blinked innocently. “I promise you, my lord, it wasn’t my doing. It was the wyvern. I do believe the poor beast was rabid.” She turned to Fenris with a smile. “Fenris, you’re just in time. This is Duke Cyril de Montfort.”

“All right,” Fenris said warily.

“He’s the Duke of Chateau Haine,” Hawke said sweetly. Too sweetly. 

And suddenly Fenris realized who this man was. He was the son of that filthy Duke Prosper – the Duke that Fenris himself had booted off the edge of the cliff for calling Hawke a whore. 

“Ah,” he said. “Er…”

“Inquisitor,” Cyril said with a deep bow. “Your lady wife was just reminding me of our shared past. She appears to have forgotten that she was responsible for my father’s untimely demise at our chateau a few years ago. Were you aware of this?”

Fenris hesitated. Cyril clearly didn’t realize that Fenris had also been present at that party. Not surprising, perhaps, since he and Anders had been skulking around in the corners trying ineffectually to sneak into the castle. 

“I am aware that there was a situation at Chateau Haine a few years ago,” Fenris said carefully. “It’s fortunate that you were capable of stepping seamlessly into your late father’s shoes.”

“Exactly what I was thinking!” Hawke said brightly. “And what handsome and large shoes they are.”

Cyril cleared his throat and smoothed a hand along the front of his doublet. “You are not wrong,” he said. “The Montforts pride ourselves on being very capable leaders. And very good judges of character.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Fenris said. He turned to Dorian. “A word, Lord Pavus?”

“Certainly, Inquisitor,” Dorian said. As Dorian and Fenris moved away, Hawke continued to shamelessly flirt with Cyril. “My lord, I must ask – did you have those shoes custom-made for your size? You know what they say about men with large shoes…” 

Dorian smirked at Fenris, and they chuckled. “She never gives up, does she?” Dorian said quietly.

“Never,” Fenris said, with an affectionate glance at Hawke. He clasped Dorian’s hand in welcome. “It’s good to see you. But what are you even doing here?” In order to be here now, Dorian would only have been back in the Imperium for a few weeks after their trip to the Frostback Basin. Had he been chased out of Tevinter again by a new batch of assassination attempts?

Dorian tutted. “Did Josephine not tell you? Terribly remiss of her. I am the Tevinter ambassador to the Exalted Council, at your service.” 

Fenris raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Tevinter ambassador?”

“Yes indeed,” Dorian said cheerfully. “‘A reward for my interest in the south’, if you can believe it.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “A convenient excuse to get rid of you because you are making too much noise in Minrathous, then.”

Dorian threw his head back and laughed. “Ah Fenris, how I’ve missed your subtlety. But yes, you’re right. It’s a token appointment, so consider me at your disposal.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Hmm,” he said. 

 “Oh dear, you’re wearing the face that says you’re thinking,” Dorian said. “Don’t hurt yourself, now.”

Fenris gave him a chiding look. “If you really were just causing too much trouble in Minrathous, they would have killed you. Why send you away?”

Dorian’s smile faltered for a split second. Then he laughed. “You know, it’s both endearing and obnoxious that you’re from home. There’s just no hiding anything from you.”

Fenris waited in silence, and finally Dorian sighed. “My father is dead,” he said bluntly. 

Fenris raised his eyebrows as Dorian went on. “Assassinated, I believe. I received notice this morning: a perversely cheerful letter congratulating me on assuming his seat in the Magisterium.” He shook his head slightly. “We only met a few times while I was home. He didn’t say anything about keeping me as his heir. This ‘ambassadorship’ was his doing. He must have wanted me away when the trouble began.” 

“So you are truly a magister now,” Fenris said slowly. 

“I certainly am,” Dorian said pleasantly. “I can’t wait to degrade the Magisterium with my presence! A new outfit is required.” 

He wasn’t meeting Fenris’s eye. Fenris studied him shrewdly for a moment before speaking. “How do you feel about this appointment?”

“It’s both a blessing and a curse, pardon the trite cliché,” Dorian said. “But I won’t be entirely without support, as you know. Maevaris and I have been whipping the Lucerni into shape, and now we’ll be an actual faction in the Magisterium. I’ll teach them manners, take them shopping… it will be fun!”

Fenris eyed him appraisingly. “I expect you’ll be busy on your return home, then.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “First item on the agenda will be finding my father’s killers and killing them back. Then I’ll find those giving Tevinter a bad name and kill them. They’re most likely the same people, so that should make the job easier.”

“I see,” Fenris said.

Dorian tsked. “Now Fenris, I know what you’re thinking. The power is going to go to my head and turn me into an abomination and so on.” He delicately arranged a lock of his hair. “I’ll have you know that being an abomination would make me terribly unattractive, so I’ll continue to be my usual principled and heroic self, don’t you worry.” 

Dorian’s blasé attitude and his lack of eye contact… Fenris gazed at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, then folded his arms and leaned back against the banister. “That’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking that I am sorry for your father’s loss.”

Dorian looked at him with open surprise, and Fenris shrugged. “He didn’t deserve your forgiveness, but you were… fond of him. For that, I am sorry.”

 Dorian stared at him for a moment longer, then let out a little laugh. “That was very nearly nice, thank you.” He sighed and twisted one of his rings. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“You just received the news this morning,” Fenris reasoned. “I suspect it will be some time before it sinks in.”

“Yes, of course. I just…” He trailed off and turned around to face the sprawling palace below, and they were silent for a moment.

Fenris broke the silence. “I am also sorry for the weight of the mantle you are about to assume. It will not be easy. Especially not given… well, everything about the Imperium.”

“I know,” Dorian said softly. He shot Fenris a small smile. “Luckily, I’m not a fan of the easy route. Why else do you think I stay friends with you?”

Fenris snorted. Then Hawke skipped over to them and hugged Dorian from behind. “An overdue hug for my favourite magister!” she chirped. 

“He told you his news, then?” Fenris said.

“Yes!” she said brightly. “And I told him we need to have a party tonight to celebrate.”

Fenris frowned. “To celebrate what, exactly?” As far as he was concerned, nothing that Dorian had told them was good news.

Hawke poked his belly. “To celebrate the Tevinter Imperium automatically becoming a better place with Dorian as one of the boys in charge, of course,” she exclaimed. “We’re going to call it a Gird-Your-Loins Party, because Tevinter had better–”

“–gird their loins for Dorian’s rising status,” Fenris said dryly. “I see. Well, I suppose a small party in our suite…” He trailed off; Hawke was smiling sheepishly.

He gave her a stern look. “What did you do?”

Dorian snickered, and Hawke lifted one shoulder in a coy manner. “I might already have sent someone to tell Josie to book that fancy spa area downstairs for the party.”

“What?” Fenris blurted. “No. We can’t have a party there. That’s far too public.”

Dorian lightly smacked his arm. “Ashamed to celebrate with the fresh new magister, are you?”

Fenris frowned at him. “That is not why.” He turned to Hawke and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to… Celebrating with all of these strangers around is not my idea of a good time.”

“I know, I know,” she said soothingly. “But we’ll start the party in the spa area, then move it to our suite when you’re ready to get drunk.”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “If the party will end up in our suite, why are you insistent on starting it in the public spa?”

“Because it’s public,” Hawke said. “It’s strategic and fun, you see? If we have an enormous lovely Inquisition party and make friends with all the Orlesians and Fereldans, they won’t speak against us because they’ll love us so much!”

Fenris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. This was just like her to assume that making friends was the solution. “Hawke…”

She cut him off. “Sorry, Fenris, I have to go tell Josie more details about the party,” she chirped. She kissed his cheek and started to leave, then stopped and snapped her fingers. “Oh, by the way, I buttered up that Duke Cyril fellow for you. He’s not angry about the whole Chateau Haine thing anymore, but I might have made him climax in his trousers.”

Dorian broke into incredulous coughing, and Fenris gaped at her. “Excuse me?” he demanded.

She held up her hands. “I didn’t touch him, I swear. I think he’s just kinky that way. I’ll tell you more later!” She hurried away through the crowd.

“Please don’t,” Fenris called after her. 

Dorian, meanwhile, was laughing fit to burst. “Andraste’s ample bosom, I will miss you marvelous fools. I would say you should visit, but–”

“That will never happen,” Fenris said flatly.

“I wasn’t truly going to ask,” Dorian said. “It would be far too dangerous for you, anyway. But I do think I might have a solution, which I’ll show you later.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, unsure what he meant by this. “All right. I suppose I’ll look forward to that.”

“Good. You should,” Dorian said cryptically. He stepped away from the banister. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have very busy and important business with Varric.”

Fenris huffed in amusement. “Pray tell.”

Dorian grinned. “A running bet on how long it will take before Cassandra threatens someone during the Council. Do you want in?”

Fenris hesitated, then shrugged. “All right. I’ll bet five royals that she doesn’t threaten anyone and retains her calm.”

Dorian shook his head in mock dismay. “I can’t decide if that’s adorably loyal to Cassandra, or utterly foolish. You’re on.”

Fenris smirked, and they parted ways. Dorian made a beeline for Varric, and Fenris made his way through the lower courtyard to see if he could take refuge with any other familiar faces.

***************

Read the second half of the banter here on AO3!

[orionlakehastodie]

The Lion and the Evenstar

Summer, 280 AC

On his 14th name day, his father opened the walls of Casterly Rock. Of course, it was also Cersei’s name day and hoardes of suitors eager for her hand came storming through the gates. 

Cersei was to leave after this affair, to go with their father, the Lord Hand to King’s Landing. He hopes to marry her off to young Prince Viserys, as he understood it. 

He won’t of course let it. Cersei was his, and he was hers. The Warrior and the Maiden. 

And he was to be lord of the Rock. She deserved to be by his side. If the king married his own sister... so could he.

For his day, his father announces a tourney, the winner of which granted a horse for a boon. 

The gelding was white as the winter the Starks always said were coming. And beautiful. He wanted it for himself, and of course he had no doubt he would win this tourney. 

“No, Brienne, you are not joining and that is final.”

“But Lord Tywin-”

He smiles at the anger in her voice. She was not afraid of his lord father, and in many many ways, he truly believes that he was fond of her. Fonder of her than any of his children combined. 

It was a fact that annoyed Cersei to no end, as his father would rather drill Brienne on military tactics than spend time with her. 

She was their third, often going with them when Tywin took him around Casterly Rock to teach them how to run it. 

She’s made everything fun these past four years. He would not know what to do without her, and greatly resents the two months in the summer where she is called back to Evenfall Hall, to pay respects to her liege lords the Baratheons and learn the ways of her tiny island. 

In those two months, he is called to court, and is greatly miserable without having his wench there. 

Of course, Cersei keeps him occupied and as they grow she’s become bolder and bolder, touching him, here and there, the risk of getting caught her drug. 

But with Brienne just back from her journey to Tarth, he hasn’t seen much of his sister, intent on catching up with Brienne and just what she was up to in Tarth and Storm’s End. 

He just spent a horrible summer at court with the Targaryens, Robert Baratheon and the broody group of Starks. He did catch up to Brynden Tully and managed to get a favor from him after he told him of Brienne. 

He wanted to give it to her, and so began their catch up of how they did in the summer they were apart, and he’s never really had time to seek Cersei. 

“No, Brienne. Your father has sent the Conningtons here for me to betroth you to their house in his stead. How do you think they would feel to get a daughter in law in breeches, wearing armor and fighting in a tourney?”

“You trained me for this!”

“Yes because I never thought your father would ask you to wed! I trained you to be Evenstar of Evenfall Hall. And your duty to your house comes before your dreams of valor and being a knight. Do as I say child, and ask your septa to put you in a dress.”

Betroth? Connington? What did he mean?

He walked up to his father who was coming out of his study and as soon as Tywin caught sight of him, the unease on his face deepened. 

“Jaime-”

“What do you mean betroth?”

Tywin sighs and places a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. 

“Her father wishes her to wed Ronnet Connington, to help her when he is gone and he inherits Tarth. Today.”

His fists clench. They’re selling her off, like she’s meat in a larder. 

“Father Brienne is but nine.”

“Yes. I know. But I am not her father Jaime. I cannot contradict his wishes.”

Brienne walks out of Tywin’s study, her face a stormy when she spots Jaime. Her lips wobble, but long gone was the little girl who used to weep in his arms when she was hurt or scared. 

She’d gotten brave his Brienne. 

“Jaime. I am not allowed to join your tourney.”

He walked away from his father and in a move that had become so natural to him wrapped Brienne in his arms. She was almost as tall as he now, but she folded into him, her hands clutching at his shirt.

“it’s alright. I will win it for you. And you’ll join the next one, when there are no more Conningtons to interfere with us. I won’t let them do this Brienne” He adds the last in a whisper under his breath. 

She says nothing but he feels the almost imperceptible nod of her head and from his perch, watching them, Tywin Lannister smiles. 

---

They placed her in a blue gown, cut too tight at the waist, trying to give her the illusion of a waist, and piled her limp hair in curls on top of her head. 

She looked miserable, sitting beside Cersei who was radiant in a dress of Lannister red, with rubies sparkling in her golden hair. 

Snickers were sent in their way, the Beauty and the Beast, they were called. And Brienne frowned and hunched a little bit more as Cersei looked at her with smug pleasure. 

His grip tightened a little tighter on his tourney sword. If he can smash all their little faces in...

He awaited for him to come, the banner of the Conningtons, waiting for him to enter tourney ground. And when at last they arrived Tywin took Brienne’s hand in his and stood her in front of the welcoming party. 

She was dusty, and the sun burned her skin making her freckles more evident in the sun. 

Ronnet was a fair boy, tall, but not as tall as Brienne was, and he had a meanness to him, in the way he smiled, in the way he audibly laughed when he saw Brienne’s face next to Tywin. 

“Lord Connington, welcome to Casterly Rock.”

The Lord Connington, pudgy of the belly and red of the face, no doubt what his son would look in the future, smiled thinly at the Lord of the Rock. 

“Lord Tywin, great pleasure. My second son, Ronnet Connington.”

Ronnet stepped forward and gave a frivolous bow to his father. Brienne eyed him and squirmed in her shoes. 

There was something bitter that clawed at his gut, and burned in his mouth. 

Everything he saw was in a red haze, and there was a need in him, such a need, to punch the teeth out of Ronnet Connington’s mouth, so he can never leer and smile at his Brienne like that again. 

“Ah yes, young Ronnet, may I present the Lady Brienne of Tarth, heir to Evenfall Hall, and my only ward.”

Brienne stepped forward and bobbed a curtsy, which caused her to lose balance and topple before righting herself. 

She flushed from the embarassment coloring her already burnt skin an ugly shade of puce and she cleared her throat. 

“Welcome, Master Connington.”

Ronnet smiled at her again, that same smug smile he would so dearly want to wipe out of his face, and pulled a single red rose from his pockets.

He approached Brienne, her eyes wide with apprehension, steadfast on the flower, a symbol of beauty and love... and he let it fall to the floor. 

“Forgive me my lady, this is the only thing I can give to you for your... beauty.”

Brienne’s mouth fell at the disgrace and Ronnet turned back on her, his brothers chuckling all this while and he saw her clench her fists and bite her lips and her eyes watered... he knew those eyes well. But she blinked the tears away, because she won’t let anyone see her cry. Tywin wrapped an arm around her, and lead her away, a sour look on his face. 

Snickers erupted from the stadium, and his sister gave a mean laugh of her own, and he couldn’t take it, his hands gripped his sword too tight and he was vibrating with anger, and he wasn’t aware he had taken three angry storms before the heavy hand of his sword master clamped around his shoulder. 

“Now is not the time boy. You’ll show him. In here.”

And he stared at Ronnet Connington, laughing his way as Brienne ducked her head and pretended not to hear the whispers and the feel the points and stares. 

Oh yes. He’ll show him.

---

Jaime fought like a mad man. His golden hair was drenched in sweat, but there was a lethality in his eyes, a fluidity in his movements. He was always fast, he was always agile, and he was so very strong, but there was vengeance in his movements today. He fell most of his companions with three hits before they yielded, and still he did not tire. 

His eyes... something was wrong. She knew all the moods of it, the tide and ebb and flow of it. 

And there was anger in them now. In the way they turned a green-gray, like a storm brewing over a see, and the way he kept his face passive, as if this was nothing to him, and she puzzled at his mood on his name day, wondering if any man dared approach Cersei, when at last, he reached his final battle. With Ronnet Connington, and smiled. 

And in that moment he looked every bit the feral lion of the rock that he was nicknamed to be and she feared. 

Ronnet Connington will not survive this one. 

“Jaime-”

But Tywin held her down. 

“We are lions of the rock child. We do not let ourselves care about the opinions of sheep.”

She bit her tongue but she did not like where this was going. 

Jaime swung recklessly, too fast, too mean, to strong. 

He forgot his foot work and just rained blow, after blow, after blow to Ron Connington.

“What the fuck is this Lannister?” Ronnet asked as he lifted his shield trying to deflect Jaime’s blows. 

“What? I’m just showing you a welcome, Connington.”

Ronnet parried his attack and tried to kick Jaime into the ground. 

Jaime was faster, he took Ronnet’s momentum and tugged at his swinging leg, sending Ronnet crashing into the ground. 

He points his sword at Connington’s throat.

“Yield.”

Connington said nothing.

“I said. Yield.”

There was menace and danger, and a coldness to the tone, and she felt fear for Ronnet herself. She knew these moods. Only saw this once or twice. Jaime was deadly in this mood. 

“I yield!”

Jaime lifted his sword and turned his back on Ronnet, removing his helm, as cheers erupted from the stands for his victory. 

“Fuck’s sake Lannister, if I knew you wanted the hairy freak for yourself I would have-”

But he never got to finish that sentence, because Jaime’s fist plowed into his face, and the sickening crunch told Brienne he broke his nose, and dislodged a few teeth. 

“You are speaking of a highborn lady. Call her by her name. Call her Lady Brienne.”

“Brienne then, if you please. Brienne the Beauty.”

Jaime’s face hardened and he made a move to kick Ronnet and she broke free of Tywin’s grasp. 

“Jaime!”

Her voice cut through the sudden thickness, and Jaime turned to her, his eyes still murderous, and ignoring Tywin’s grip on her, she jumped from the stands, striding across the tourney ground, eyes fixed and set on Jaime.

“You’ve got dirt on your dress.”

“Dirt on- what does that matter, walk away now, Jaime. Now before you start a war with Connington.”

She hissed in his ear and grabbed at his hand, intent on tugging him away, but he gripped her and stayed her. His green eyes still fiery and the hand he had on her starting to hurt. 

“Lions don’t cower Brienne.”

From the side he saw the gelding being led to him, and he took one look at Connington and kept Brienne firmly at his side. 

“I stand before you as champion today, only because one of our best was not allowed to fight. That was because she was to welcome... a guest, who did not deserve her welcome. So I offer this victory to Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

He took her hand and dragged her to the gelding and took the reigns from the stable master and handed them to her.

“Your horse my lady, from now and always.”

“Jaime...”

Words stuck in her throat, how does she thank him for saving her yet again?

How does she say it?

She’s never been good with words and so, ignoring all propriety, she leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek before smarty hopping on her gelding sans saddle and galloping into the fray. 

Tywin watches his son stand shocked still, with a big beaming smile on his face. 

Yes.

Getting Selwyn to agree to match Brienne with Connington had been the right move. 

From beside him Joanna gripped his hand, and equally smug smile on her face. 

They knew their son very well, after all. 

[stormcloudrising]

The Feather Represents the Blue Winter Rose on the Show

March 23, 2019

For all its importance in the books as a symbol of the daughters of House Stark and more importantly as a link between Lyanna and Jon as mother and son, there is barely a mention of the blue winter rose on the show.  As, R+L=J is probably the most important plot point of both the books and show, one would think that the symbolic blue rose motif would have been included in the latter.

Now yes, we did see glimpses of some blue roses on the show but it was in a most surprising of locations—on the stain glass windows in the throne room at Kings Landing.  This is interesting choice of location and it was most likely chosen to indicate that Jon is the rightful Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne.  The roses in the windows were shown in the background on four occasions that I can remember.  

The first was the scene with Sansa and Septa Mordane when they discussed her marriage to Prince Joffrey; the second occurrence was again with Sansa when the newly crowned Joffrey had her stripped and beaten; the third time was when Tywin rode his horse into the throne room; and of course the last appearance that I remember in Dany’s vision of the destroyed throne room with either snow or ashes falling from above.  As an aside, because of Dany's torch, I tend to think that the droppings were ashes and not snow.  When she placed her torch on the floor, there wasn't any change to the flame, as one would expect if it were lying in wet snow.  However, let’s get back to the topic at hand.

As there were a number of scenes in the throne room, there could have been more sightings of the blue roses that I missed.  Nonetheless, those appearances of the symbolic motif were presented as just background noise when one would have expected that because of its importance to the story, its appearance would have been a central plot point.

 Surprisingly, Dan and Dave did not go that route and one can’t help but wonder why that was the case.  Why did they leave out such an important symbol of Jon’s connection to Lyanna?  I think the answer is that they didn’t.  They simply changed things on the show and made the motif a feather instead of a rose.  I think that they went this route because of their decision not to film the Tourney at Harrenhal.  My thinking is that they didn’t film the tourney because they wanted Rhaegar’s connection to Jon via Lyanna to remain a mystery until the latter seasons of the show.

Some will argue that almost everyone knew that Rhaegar was Jon’s dad and so there was no need to hide the linkage by replacing the rose with a feather.  To that I would answer that there are still fans who have read the books who don’t believe that R+L=J.  More importantly, those of us who have read the books tend to forget that the vast majority of the viewers of the show have not done so and most likely never will.  It seems pretty obvious that D&D’s writing are more for those viewers than the rest of us who have read the books.  This actually makes sense when you consider that it was these viewers who were blown away by the many surprises in the earlier seasons and who spread the word that GOT was not your typical fantasy story.  This was a major contributor to the popularity of the show.

However, while I can see them not wanting to introduce Rhaegar into Jon and Lyanna’s story too early, they still needed a way to connect all three.  They seem to have decided that the best way to do so while keeping to the theme in the books was with a motif other than the blue rose.  The question then became what and how.  

With Ned and Robert being the only two still alive that were directly connected to both Rhaegar, Lyanna and the events of the past, it made sense that they were used to set up the linkage.  All that remained was a decision on the choice of motif to use as the replacement for the rose.

They decided to go with a feather and while this may seem like an unfathomable choice for some, I think that the choice was made for the specific reason that it could be tied to Sansa’s arc.  So they went with a feather as the motif and had Robert place it on Lyanna’s crypt in the first episode of the series where it sat gathering dust until season 5, episode 4 when it was found by Sansa.  What a coincidence!

Sansa finding the feather was not the only coincidence in the scene.  There were two others. I could be wrong and if so, please correct me and I will update but I believe that the only reference to flower in the entire series was in this scene when Petyr told Sansa the story about the Tourney of Harrenhal and Rhaegar placing a crown of blue winter roses in Lyanna’s lap.  Hmm!  Why do we get a reference to the flower for the first and only time at that moment when Sansa is holding the feather that symbolically connects to that particular story via Robert, who placed it on Lyanna’s tomb?  The second coincidence in the scene is that Sansa does not place the feather back on Lyanna’s tomb but instead walks out with it in her hand.  

As @thelawyerthatwaspromised pointed out in her fabulous breakdown essay on history of the feather and its importance in Sansa and Jon’s arc, the writers then created a throwaway scene between the daughter of Winterfell and Myranda for the sole purpose of showing the audience that Sansa was now wearing the feather as an adornment on her wrist.  It is obvious that on the show, the feather represents the blue flower motif from the books and so if she is not meant to be seen as the Blue Winter Rose, why is linked to Sansa both literally and figuratively?  I think that their reasoning is really not that difficult to understand.

In both the books and the show, Sansa is symbolically tied to birds and as a result feathers.  I believe that this symbolic connection will be shown to be of major importance in the last two books as I discussed in my Alayne Stone essay.  

In the books, her connection comes as a result of the Hound branding her with the moniker “little bird.”  On the show, he does the same and Cersei also constantly refers to her as little dove.  And of course, in season 4, episode 8, we get the full impact of her bird and feather symbolism as “Dark Sansa” makes her debut when she descends the staircase of the Eyrie in the gorgeous black feather dress that she made for herself.  But what do Sansa and feathers have to do with the Blue Winter Rose?

Well, as I have argued, I think Sansa Stark is the most symbolic blue winter rose in the story.  Yes, all the daughters of House Stark through the ages can be considered symbolic of the blue flower—including the one of Bael the Bard fame, Arya, and of course Lyanna.  However, I believe that the one who most symbolize the characteristics of the flower is Sansa as I discussed in my Of Sansa Stark and the Glass Menagerie essay series.  In fact, I think that while the sweet smelling blue flower in the crack in the Wall from Dany’s vision is about Lyanna as Jon’s mother, it is quite possibly more indicative of Sansa and her connection to Jon.

Part of the reason for this opinion as I discussed in the Glass Menagerie essay is the belief that the jonquil flower is symbolically representative of the blue winter rose.  In ancient times, it was actually considered a rose.  In fact, many biblical scholars believe that it is the famous Rose of Sharon referenced in the biblical poem, Song of Songs or as it is also known, the Song of Solomon.

The famous poem is a romantic celebration of the sexual love between a young couple.  However, at its heart, it is also tells the story of the seasonal renewal of the land. Many biblical scholars are of the opinion that this Song of Songs tells a story that is very similar to the ones of various ancient cultures wherein the fertility of the earth is dependent on a sexual encounter between a man and a woman—generally godlike deities.

One interesting thing about the Rose of Sharon referenced in the poem is the description of the ancient location from where it received its name.  This is the description of ancient Sharon.

The Plain of, the area where the coastal plain widens south of the slopes of Mt. Carmel, extending about thirty miles south to the Yarkon River north of Joppa. It varies from about eight to twelve miles in width. In Israelite times, the dunes supported an impenetrable oak forest. Pastureland would have been on the fringe of the forest (1 Chr 27:29). The rose of Sharon is kind of a crocus growing as a “lily among brambles” (Song 2:1-2). Thus the biblical picture of Sharon is a forbidding jungle of oaks and swampy marshes rather than a fertile or productive plain.

Society of Biblical Literature

The description of the Plains of Sharon is extremely similar to that of the River Styx and it’s surrounding marshy landscape.  In ancient Greek mythology, Styx was the name given to the river that led to the domain of Hades.  He of course was the Lord of the Underworld who kidnapped Persephone from the Vale of Nysa while she was out picking flowers.  And it just so happens that the flowers that were used by Hades to entice the young goddess and bring her into his clutches was none other than the narcissus jonquilla or in other words, the ancient rose.  Today’s modern roses are hybrids and look nothing like their ancient counterparts.

As has been suggested by many in the fandom, through her abduction by Petyr Baelish, he of the demonic last name, Sansa is the symbolic Persephone of the story.  Petyr even attempts to tempt her with a slice of pomegranate as Hades did with the mythical daughter of Demeter and Zeus.

I mentioned this bit about Persephone and the Rose of Sharon to show that Sansa is symbolically connected to the both the jonquil flower as well as to the ancient in-story character who bears its name.  I am of course speaking of the mysterious woman from Florian and Jonquil fame.  The real world myths about the jonquil flower along with textural clues…including the drawing of the famous pair that appears in The Hedge Knight have led me to the conclusion that the ancient Jonquil was the original Blue Winter Rose of House Stark.

As I’ve stated, based on how it has been used on the show, it seems obvious that he feather motif is playing the part of the blue winter rose in the story.  If Jonquil was indeed the original Blue Winter Rose, it could also explain why the feather is so closely connected to Sansa in the show.  However, this raises a question.  

If the blue sweet smelling flower in the crack in the Wall that Dany saw in her vision is meant to signify her connection to Jon and their future marriage as many in the fandom argue is the case, shouldn’t the feather as the stand-in for the winter rose on the show be tied to her?  Why isn’t the feather connected to Dany? Curious, don’t you think!  If further proof is needed that the true romantic arc in the story is not Jon and Dany but rather Jon and Sansa then there is no greater evidence than the feather.  And as Sansa is never shown returning the feather, it means that she still has it.

There is one last thing that I want to discuss before I end.  If Sansa is the Blue Winter Rose, a fact that on its basic level cannot be argued with as she is a daughter of House Stark; and if the feather is the playing the part of the flower on the show—meaning that Sansa should also be seen as the feather; then what is the symbolic importance of it freezing in the teaser as it applies to Sansa?

I proposed that it implies that Sansa is in danger not just from the actions of Cersei as things come to a close but also from the Night King.  Yes, everyone is in danger from the White Walkers but my tinfoil is that Sansa faces a specific threat from the Night King and that is what is implied with the freezing of the feather and Arya and Jon pulling their weapons and stepping protectively in front of her.   

Now, the scene of the three in the crypts won’t be in the show.   Rather like the first teaser it is meant to set up the theme of the season.  The first teaser with ice and fire meeting over the Trident on Aegon’s Painted Table is meant to show the theme of the danger that both forces will pose to the realm.  And I think that the second is meant to showcase the danger of the White Walkers to the Starks as a whole and possibly to Sansa in particular.

For this reason, I am most curious to find out what is on the scroll that Sophie mentioned was given to her by the prop guy as a keepsake of the show.  I think that it’s quite possible that the scroll in question was the one Sam was shown taking from the Citadel and that once revealed, the contents will have something to do with Sansa…maybe even a drawing of an ancient woman that looks like her.  My tinfoil is that it will be a drawing with a face that is similar to the one in Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.”  Just three more weeks to go to find out whether my theories end up being pure tinfoil or whether I’m onto something in regards to the books and overall story.  Can’t wait to find out!

[onemilliongoldstars]

a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter two

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

2/25

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book 1: Chapter Two

Lexa had expected Lady Clarke to settle in after only a few days. Her expectations of the lady had been that the soft, southern woman would stay to her rooms, smile and bow her head and generally fade into the background of the castle until they would forget she was there. Hopefully, she had naively thought, Titus would forget more quickly than others and stop the line up of tasters testing her food and hoards of guards on longer hours. Unfortunately, the noblewoman is making this a lot more difficult than it should be.

During the feast marking her first night in the castle, Lady Clarke had been misleadingly quiet and reserved. Seated between Lady Gwendoline and Sir Farthing, she had stayed mostly quiet, pushing her food around her plate, and Lexa had done her the kindness of not engaging her in conversation. The girl was clearly uncomfortable and missing her homeland. She had it on good authority that Lady Clarke left only moments after she did, at the first sign of respectability. Hence, Lexa had anticipated that the lady would stay mostly to her rooms. What she had not expected was to find Octavia searching for the woman on a regular basis. While she did not want Lady Clarke to feel as though she were under armed guard, it was both to appease Titus’s fears and her own worries about the lady’s safety that she had instructed Octavia to be at her side at all times. Instead, she often saw Lady Clarke from the windows of the library, wandering the battlements alone, or staring out at the wilderness. If she stayed at the window after informing her guards, and watched until the noblewoman was approached and led back inside, it was only for the girl’s safety.

The clashing of steel echoes through the courtyard and a shout draws her attention away from her thoughts. Lincoln is staggering away, rolling his shoulder and grinning good naturedly at Anya. The soldiers scattered around the training yard call out taunts and teases, and Lincoln throws a gesture their way that Lexa is sure Lady Clarke would blush to see. It makes her smile to see Anya wipe away a bead of sweat from her forehead.

“You cheated.” Lincoln calls, slotting his sword into its scabbard.

“Wars aren’t fair,” ANya informs him and the hint of sharpness in her voice catches Lexa’s attention, enough that she descends the last step into the training ground.

“It is a good thing we aren’t looking to fight any wars soon then, Lady Mormont.”

Anya spins to look at her, brows tightening for a moment, before bowing her head briefly. “Your majesty. It’s always best to be prepared. We are not like these southern knights, training for flouncing tourneys, our training is for when it is necessary to protect our homeland.”

“I know, my friend,” Lexa breaches the space between them and places a hand briefly on Anya’s shoulder. “But while we are at peace, there may be time for a brief moment of merriment.” Her hand slips down to her sword and the feeling of the pummel in her hand immediately grounds her. When she slides it from the scabbard, listening to the ringing of metal and feeling the warm, heavy weight that runs down her arm and into her shoulder, she feels as if she has come home from a long journey. She shrugs away her cloak, passing it off to a nearby attendant, and swings her sword in a circle, loosening her wrist. “Will you fight me?”

Anya falls into a stance which is ever familiar to her, though Anya was her noble cousin, they had never shied away from sparring as children. “With pleasure, your majesty.”

They square off, circling one another. It is a tried and tested affair, they are both patient and skilled warriors, but it is Anya who eventually makes the first move, slashing forward so quickly that Lexa is almost caught short. She only just manages to dart out of the way, her feet spinning beneath her, and she blocks her cousin’s next attack with a ringing of her sword which sends a shudder down her arm. Her own strike misses Anya, as the captain of her Queensguard easily sidesteps her attack, and Lexa twists just in time to miss the strike that comes for her head, meeting Anya’s second blow with her own sword. For a moment their blades are locked and Anya grins down at her, saying lowly.

“You spend too long at your desk, little cousin.”

The taunt is enough to send her back to grey afternoons spent in the yard on Bear Island, pushing one another further than they ought to. Her eyes narrow and she uses the last of her strength to push Anya away, sending her stumbling back a few steps. The respite is enough to allow her to spiral away from Anya’s next attack, circling her too quickly for her cousin to keep up and landing two strikes on her arms and back. Anya meets her third strike, but she is visibly tiring, and it takes only a few more carefully aimed attacks to have her opponent on her back, the tip of Lexa’s sword to her neck. Her cousin drops her sword, raising her hands, and Lexa gives her a grin. The exhilaration of sparring is like nothing else, and she feels as if the cobwebs of endless hours sat at her desk have been blown away.

Stepping back, she offers out a hand to help Anya up, patting her on the shoulder and saying, good naturedly. “A noble effort, Lady Mormont.”

“I almost bested you, your majesty,” Anya grins, shaking her arm out and Lexa laughs, sliding her sword back to its rightful place at her hip.

“Perhaps next time you will get the better of me.”

“I fear I’ve taught you all of my best tricks.” Anya sighs, looking at the sky as if in despair and Lexa’s smile grows. She feels lighter than she has in months, though the cold is settling around her body again, reminding her that winter is only just beginning to recede. Without the rush of battle to keep her warm, she must make do with furs, and she accepts her cloak when the attendant runs forward with it.

“You would not be a good teacher if you did not.” As she turns to shrug the cloak around her shoulders, she catches sight of light hair and her eyes find Lady Clarke watching them from the barricades, blonde hair still piled in her complicated southern braids, a white fur cloak around her shoulders. Her brows crease and her spine stiffens. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Your majesty,” Anya nods her head again, but Lexa has already turned to make her way to where Lady Clarke is watching, once again without her guard.

“My lady,” She greets the southern woman with a bland smile and a dipped head.

“Your majesty,” Lady Clarke, as she has every other time they have encountered one another, drops into the smallest curtsey she can imagine, her eyes burning with resentment when she looks up at Lexa. “You are an impressive fighter.”

“Thank you,” She accepts the compliment gracefully, and glances behind Clarke in almost a pantomime. “I see that Octavia Snow is not with you.”

“Oh,” Clarke’s eyes widen almost comically and her voice is so falsely sweet when she too glances over her shoulder, that Lexa almost laughs. “Is she not? How careless of me to lose her.”

The bite of insolence makes Lexa’s blood run cold and she is suddenly sharply aware that they are surrounded by soldiers and courtiers watching them from the corners of their eyes. It makes her voice a little tighter than intended when she replies. “I suggest you try not to, Snow is there to look after you.”

“With the greatest respect, your majesty,” Clarke’s eyes sparkle viciously, and her title drips from her lips like poison. “I am in no need of a minder.”

“Octavia Snow is there for your protection,” Lexa argues, voice ticking upwards and she sees Clarke draw herself together, spine straightening as the corners of her lips tighten.

“Really? It feels more like I am under house arrest.”

“You are free to go where you please, as long as Octavia is by your side.” Lexa states, firmly, “While that may seem unfair to you Lady Clarke, while you live in my castle you are under my care, and this is how I see fit to protect you.” Without waiting for further goading, she turns on her heel and strides away, pausing only to say to a guard. “See that Lady Clarke is escorted back to her rooms.”

She cannot see the outraged expression on the noblewoman’s face, but the sharp intake of breath she hears paints a picture that will last her many hours.

—

“Lady Clarke!”

She flinches at the sound of the voice behind her, now so familiar that it’s becoming grating on her ears. Around her, courtiers glance her way, draped in furs and velvets and frowning in surprise and confusion. The hallways are arched, with tall ceilings upon which wooden beams, branch and reach from one wall to the next, allowing the sound to echo up and bounce from one wall to the next. Every few steps, an arched window lets watery light spill in across the cold stone floors and Clarke quickens her pace, catching sight of the rare sunshine peering through the clouded glass.

Behind her, the sound of the clinking of weaponry and rattling buckles becomes louder and she knows, from the many times they have played this game before, that Octavia has sped up to meet her. Moments later, a hand curls around her arm, jerking her to a stop and she spins on her heel, tugging herself out of the guard’s grip with an outraged look.

“Unhand me, Snow.”

Octavia tilts her head just slightly and her voice is sharp when she says, “Apologies my lady, but her majesty has tasked me with accompanying you at all times, you cannot keep wandering off.” Her lips press together into a thin line and when their eyes meet, Clarke can see the fury burning beneath her expression.

Bitter, dark mirth lingers in her gut and she jerks her chin up haughtily. “Perhaps you should learn to keep up.”

“Perhaps you should tell me where you’re going,” There is a pause before Octavia adds, resentfully. “My lady.”

“What if I don’t want to?” She retorts, with a humph, and she’s intensely aware that they’re drawing curious glances, that she sounds like a petulant child, but her life in the north is filled with very few pleasures, one of which is riling up her guard.

Octavia seems for a moment as if she is going to snap, and Clarke watches her with relish as she gathers the fragments of her control into some tenuous patchwork. “I don’t think that matters to her majesty.”

The words send a thrill of ice down her spine, breath catching in her throat, and a corresponding flare of fury ignites in her gut. The walls feel as if they are closing in on every side, hard stone pressing against her and she has to pull in a shaking breath. Octavia’s expression flickers, as if catching her momentary break, but seconds later the guard is back to stern eyes and a grim set to her lips, and it is only the flash of smugness in her eyes that makes Clarke tighten her jaw.

“Then I suggest you keep pace, Snow.” She spits, turning to continue her path to the doors. The guards stood sentry of the towering oak seem for a moment as if they will stop her, but something about her expression must convince them that she is not be trifled with.

The doors swing open upon her approach and despite her days in the castle, the flurry of cold air that rushes in from the frozen courtyard still sends a shiver down her spine. Her fingers find the fur lined edge of her cloak and she tugs it closer around herself. Over her heart sits golden stitching, a rose shining brightly, and it is from here that she draws the strength to step out into the courtyard, her furious guard only a step behind her.

Flurries of snow are carried on the breeze, despite the watery sun fighting its way through the haze in the sky, and they land upon the fur of her cloak, lingering like glittering stars for a moment until they melt into nothingness. The snow is perhaps the only thing clean about the courtyard. It is closed in by dark stone walls, showing the white banner upon which a wolf is emblazoned. Soldiers and servants fill the space like rats, scurrying from place to place. A forge blazes with heat and noise, the most incredible din of pounding metal filling her ears and Clarke’s lip wrinkles as she descends the few steps from the covered walkway to the icy cobblestones. The training arena is empty for the day and the sight of it draws back memories of the queen, how her body had moved when defending herself from Lady Mormont, and then her voice when she had rebuked Clarke’s request to rid herself of Octavia.

Her feet carry her across the courtyard at a fast pace, carefully avoiding the worst of the ice. It wouldn’t do to fall in front of most of the north and she has long since learned to watch her step in this frozen world. She can feel eyes upon her, surveying her like she’s an exotic specimen, and her chin tilts up, her lips curling in disgust. The pride of her house burns in her core, warming her in the cold of the north.

“My lady, where are you going?” She has to stop herself rolling her eyes at Octavia’s voice, her feet not hesitating as she answers.

“The queen said that I could go wherever I please so long as you’re at my side, so that’s what I intend to do.”

“I think Her Majesty meant the library, or the sept, not the town.” Octavia fires back and Clarke lifts her chin haughtily, turning to catch her guard’s eyes.

“Then she should have been clearer.”

Octavia glances to the heavens, as if asking for help from her gods, but Clarke doesn’t pause to give her respite and instead marches onwards. The snow crunches underfoot, sparkling in the morning sunlight, and gives beneath her tread, as she wishes the people around her would. When she crosses beneath the portcullis, she hesitates for only a moment. She has not yet left the sanctuary of the WInterfell compound, and for a moment she is unsure, remembering the words of the queen and the resentful expressions of the northern lords and ladies upon her arrival. Octavia pauses one step behind her, and says.

“You could still go back to the castle my lady,” There is something distinctly mocking about her voice, “Perhaps the cooks would be able to make you something from your homeland, a nice thin broth perhaps?”

Clarke’s lip curls furiously, and she wishes she could turn and slap the girl clear about the head for her impertinence, but instead she drags in a steadying breath and makes her way into the market square.

It is little to look at. Winter Town sits in the shadow of the castle, to the south and sheltered behind its great walls from the scouring northern winds that can rush from the lands beyond the Wall. It is made up of buildings mostly of wood or stone, with thick thatched roofs. They’re squat and square, to maintain their warmth, and the earth is packed mud underfoot, slippery in the few places that the snow has begun to melt. The smell of damp hay and woodsmoke is strong in the air and the town is bustling with people. Octavia nudges her aside for two knights to make their way through the portcullis on horseback. One shouts a rude greeting to the men on watch, who laugh and gesture just as rudely in return.

Clarke wrinkles her nose, tearing her eyes away to step into the marketplace. For once, she is glad of Octavia as a shadow at her back as she weaves her way through townspeople who look at her with curiosity and uncertainty. There is a large well in the middle of the square and the stalls are set up in a vaguely circular shape around it, allowing plenty of space for the vendors to hawk their wares.  Though her home of Highgarden has no immediate town at its walls, as Winterfell does, the river barges that run up and down the Mandel and the trading caravans that traverse the Roseroad on their way west have always been known to stop at the castle and set their wares up the in one of the airy, rose covered courtyards to sell their wares to the young maidens, and later the servants of the palace. This is a far cry from her place sat at the heart of conversation in Highgarden, lounging upon velvet cushions with a plate of lemon cakes at her side and running teasing eyes over the jewels offered to her by traders.

Here, the people of Winter Town stare openly at her silks and furs, but they do not dare come close enough to ask her who she is and from whence she came, and instead as she walks the crowd parts enough to allow her to get to each stall unhindered. Whether this is because of her regal bearing, or Octavia’s heavy sword at her back, she does not know. The first stall they approach is filled with hard, heavy cheese and smoked meats and she has to swallow against the bile building up at the back of her throat.

“Not to your taste, my lady?” Octavia asks, nonchalantly and Clarke cuts her a glare as the man behind the stall narrows his eyes.

“In Highgarden the food is very different,” She explains, in a light tone, “But this, I am sure, is perfect for the long winters in the north.” She gives the man a smile that seems to disarm him. It is habit to play the warm, kind lady of the land. In Highgarden her grandmother had taught her that her role relied on the love of the people, that it was more powerful to be loved than feared, and though she knows she has no chance of getting the love of these northern folk, she cannot help but try. Before Octavia can say anything more, she moves on, wandering from stall to stall.

She hesitates again at a stall laid out with delicate jewels, her eyes caught by the sheen of a pearl earring wrapped with swirling vines from dark metal. She reaches out to touch it, fingers gentle and she is reluctantly awed by the craftsmanship. The teardrop is cradled by the metal, but the shine of the pearl is still visible, like the moon through a cloudy night sky.

“This is beautiful,” She admits in a low voice, and when the woman behind the stall does not respond, she glances back to Octavia curiously.

“Mistress Goener is one of the best craftswomen in the north,” Octavia explains and then gestures something strange and quick with her hands, “But she cannot hear you.”

“Oh,” Clarke’s eyes drift back to the woman, who is moving her hands in reply to Octavia. “She is truly talented, why doesn’t she take her trade down to the south? She would get hefty business in Kings Landing.”

Octavia frowns at her, her face drawn with disgust, “Winter town has grown considerably in the last few years, it’s one of the main trading towns in the north now. She has plenty trade here. Besides, she is of the north, she would never go to Kings Landing.”

“But if she could get more for her wares-” Clarke insists.

Octavia cuts through her, simply, “She is of the north, my lady.”

Clarke looks at her for a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully, and then turns to begin walking again, though her attention is less on the stalls now. “Have you ever been south of the border, Snow?”

“I have been to the Eyrie, my lady,” Octavia answers, stiffly and Clarke nods.

“So how do you know you do not like it if you’ve never been?”

Octavia snorts, amused and outraged. “The people of the south are-” She cuts herself off, abruptly, but Clarke continues to watch her, waiting.

“Are?” She prompts at last, coming to a halt to watch the guard struggle.

“Are… conceited, my lady.” Octavia juts out her chin, and if Clarke was waiting for an apology, she knows in that moment that she will not get one. Unwillingly, her lips twitch up into a smile.

“I could have you flogged for that,” She remarks casually and Octavia’s expression tightens, but she does not back down and Clarke shrugs, moving again. “But I won’t,” Over her shoulder, she sees Octavia’s spine soften and adds, “Besides, northern people are unfriendly and dull, by all accounts.”

Octavia looks at her, expression unreadable but for the spark of mirth in her eyes. They continue as they had been, walking in silence, until Clarke says. “You would like Kings Landing if you went.” Her father always said she was too stubborn. The thought sends a jolt of pain through her when she thinks of her father, of seeing him for the last time before she went away, of the tears in his eyes. To distract herself, she keeps talking. “There are so many streets someone could get lost for days and turn up fed and drunk and a purse full of gold lighter. There are taverns on every corner and you could find anything you dreamed of there, silk and satin and jewels.”

“Is that all?” Octavia remarks wryly from behind her and Clarke huffs.

“You must admit that it is a better selection than what is offered to you here.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Octavia says, though she does not sound remorseful in the slightest. “But I doubt that you really know what Kings Landing is like.”

“I’ve been there many times,” She counters, “Since I was a girl.”

“And when did you ever walk the streets without a retinue of guards?” Octavia arches an eyebrow, “I expect you and the prince had little time to be in the real streets of Kings Landing.”

“The streets are as real as they are here,” She stamps her foot on the packed earth, “The ground as solid, the walls as tall,” She considers for a moment, “In fact, much taller.”

“That is not what I meant,” Octavia’s voice is getting louder, more agitated and Clarke feels a moment of uncertainty. They have moved away from the market place now, are wandering down the busy thoroughfare filled with workshops, and homes, and though there are still people around, she suddenly feels very far from the queen’s protective reach. Octavia seems to sense her unease, and she takes a breath as if to steady herself. “I only meant,” She continues more calmly. “That there is no way that you could have seen what it really means to be a commoner in one of these towns. The queen is good to us, our taxes are not too high and she is adored, but there is still a great difference between the Winter Town that she knows and the Winter Town known to those of us who grew up here.”

“I know Highgarden better than any person on earth, even my father,” Clarke argues, fiercely and Octavia heaves a great sigh.

“But do you know it as the servants who wait on you do?” She demands, and then adds, “My lady.”

“I-” Clarke is not used to stumbling on her words, but here she does, glancing uncertainly at the people around her.

“It is not your fault,” Octavia sounds bitter, though when Clarke looks at her she offers a weak smile, “You cannot be expected to.”

“I can learn,” She counters, though her voice has lost its bite. “I am a fast learner. One day I will rule Highgarden and the Reach.”

“I know,” Octavia gives her a wan smile, “But there is no way to teach the life of a commoner, my lady. You must be immersed in it.”

“Then show me what you can,” Clarke tells her, seriously. “Please, I would like to know.”

“You are sure?” Octavia is frowning at her, clearly unsure, “The queen would not approve, or Ser Indra.”

“I don’t care,” Clarke shakes her head fiercely, “Show me, Octavia,” The use of her name draws the guard up short. “I would like to learn.”

—

Octavia is sure that Ser Indra would disapprove of this. There is nothing about her appointment to guard the Lady of Highgarden that implied it would be right to take her into the Smoking Log, the largest tavern in Winter Town. It is rowdy and dark, as it has been as long as Octavia has known it, and the smell of wood smoke and ale and cooking meats are as close to a smell of home as she has ever known. Behind the bar, Niylah offers her a welcoming smile and she nods in greeting to her old friend, eyes flickering uncertainly back to where Lady Clarke has unceremoniously commandeered a rounded table. The lady is looking down at the wood with distaste and Octavia wonders whether it has the usual level of grime coating it that she has come to expect from the Smoking Log.

“Two flagons of ale, Niylah.” She tells the barkeep and Niylah nods, her long, wheat coloured hair swinging about her face as she peers curiously at the lady.

“Friend of yours?”

Octavia snorts, “The Lady of Highgarden wanted to know what it was like to be a commoner in Winter Town, who am I to argue?”

“The Lady of Highgarden,” Niylah’s eyes widen and something twitches at her lips. “She is as fair as they say.”

“And as stubborn as she is fair,” Octavia informs her, darkly, and Niylah laughs, sliding two flaggons across the bar to her.

Octavia carries them back and sinks into the seat opposite Lady Clarke, who is looking about herself distastefully. The lady has no purse with her, so unused to paying for things that she had simply assumed she would not need one, but if she had Octavia is sure that it would be swiped from possession before she could notice. Instead, Octavia can see a few people eyeing the jewels that are slung around her neck and waist and pinned into her hair. She flexes her fingers around the hand and a half sword that is strapped to her side, and sees the gazes slide away when the people watching spot the Stark crest upon her breast. Before her, Lady Clarke peers at her flagon of ale, her nose wrinkling at the murky colour, and her hands are still stuck in her lap, as if she is afraid to touch anything in the tavern. Octavia curls her hand around her own flagon and takes a hearty mouthful, wondering whether she should have bought something more refined for Lady Clarke. Gods, she isn’t paid enough to babysit.

Lady Clarke eventually reaches out to take her flagon, delicate fingers lifting it to her mouth. She inhales and cringes, but takes a small sip. To her credit, the noblewoman manages not to spill anything when she splutters and Octavia can see that they are attracting attention again as Lady Clarke slams her flagon back down, glaring at it as she coughs.

“That tastes ghastly,” She grumbles, her southern accent rounding across the words and Octavia shrugs, taking another sip from her own flagon.

“It’s what the common people drink, my lady.”

Clarke grimaces, “Well I certainly won’t be drinking it.” Waving a hand at a passing barmaid, she says curtly. “Two goblets of spiced wine.”

The barmaid can’t seem to stop staring at the noblewoman’s trinkets, but she nods and Octavia watches her go, rolling her eyes.

“So, what do you do in a tavern?” Lady Clarke settles back in her seat, looking pleased with herself.

“This,” Octavia gestures to her flagon, and then glances around, “Listen to people talk. Most of the news of the land is exchanged over mead.”

Lady Clarke eyes her thoughtfully, nodding and as the barmaid reappears with their spiced wine, she looks expectantly to Octavia, who grits her teeth and hands over several silver stags. The spiced wine is far more pleasant that the ale, even she can admit that, a heady concoction of cinnamon and nutmeg, warmed to create an intoxicating combination and she abandons her ale for it in moments. Together, they sit in silence, listening to the people around them conversing. The tavern is only half filled, most people are still at work in the fields or at their crafts, but it is filled with travellers. A gnarled old man in a dark cloak is in harried conversation with a younger man, in the corner of the tavern, and a handsome traveller entertains three young maidens with a story about being chased from the Eyrie by the bandits that live in the mountains. They simper and sigh at his dramatics, but Octavia can tell by the quality of his cloak and boots that the man has come no further than White Harbour, only a day’s ride south of Winterfell. A child scampers from table to table, holding out a cup and begging for scraps, and dogs lie close to the fire, dosing and panting in the warmth of the tavern.

The chair beside them is abruptly filled, a body sliding into it with the grace of a child of the forest, and Octavia’s gaze lands on the shadowy face of her friend. Raven Reyes is lithe and young, her small frame thick with muscles from days spent working in the forges of Winterfell. The smudges of soot that cover her clothes have extended to her cheeks and hands, and a tangle of dark hair falls from the braid she wears down her back.

“Octavia! What are you doing here, and with such a beauty?” Raven offers Lady Clarke a charming smile, and the noblewoman who had balked at her presence, seems to melt a little.

“Lady Clarke of House Tyrell,” Lady Clarke introduces herself before Octavia can, and Raven’s smile ticks up slightly. Octavia knows she knew who the lady was before she even asked, everyone knows about Lady Clarke by now, but she is gracious and gives an awkward bow from her seated position.

“Raven Reyes, of Winter Town. My lady, forgive me I would stand but…” She sticks out her leg from below the table and Octavia doesn’t have to look to see the metal brace fastened around it and the stick that rests against the side of the table.

“No apology needed,” Lady Clarke seems to soften a little at the sight of the injury.

“What are you doing associating with the likes of Snow here?” Raven slings an arm around Octavia’s shoulders, grinning at her and Octavia rolls her eyes, roughly shrugging away the touch.

“I am Lady Clarke’s personal guard for her time at Winterfell,” She tries not to sound too bitter, but Raven clearly reads it in her face and snorts, nudging their shoulders together.

“That will surely get you a place as a sworn sword.”

“You want to be a member of the Queensguard?” Lady Clarke’s eyebrows rise in surprise and Octavia shoots a glare in Raven’s direction.

“Yes, my lady.”

Raven steps in to her rescue, “Why has Snow brought you to this fine establishment, my lady?”

Here, Lady Clarke flushes, and Octavia thinks it’s the first time she’s seen an ounce of bashfulness in the noblewoman. “I wanted to see what Winter Town was really like.”

“Really?” Raven is taken aback, and in the second it takes her to gather herself, Octavia sees a flash of respect in her eyes. “I see. Well if you truly want to see what life here is like my lady, allow me the pleasure of educating you in a game of dice.”

“Raven,” Octavia says, warningly. The girl is a skilled hand at dice, known to reduce grown men to a weeping mess in the wake of her games. “Lady Clarke doesn’t want to play dice with you.”

“Oh?” Raven looks to the noblewoman innocently, “I’m sure she would pick it up quickly.”

“I would,” Lady Clarke insists and Octavia sighs, settling back into her seat. “Teach me,” Lady Clarke demands and Raven pulls a pair of dice from her sleeve, as if by magic.

“With pleasure, my lady.”

—

It is only after two weeks of living at Winterfell that Clarke meets the young prince, Aden Snow. She has heard stories about him, of course, but only as a thread in the ever growing tapestry of the story of the queen in the north. The son sired by Lexa’s father after his wife died, Lexa’s brother in all but his bastard name, only nine summers when Lexa was named queen.

The boy shows none of the vestiges of his bastard heritage when Clarke sees him for the first time. As the novelty of her presence had worn off, nobles had slowly trickled away from court to see to their own lands and people, and the Clarke is required to fill the space left by them, dining at the high table with the queen and those closest to her. She sits at the end of the long table, with Lord Mormont on one side. The queen only deigns to eat with the rest of her court once every few days and Clarke is thankful for small mercies, because on the days that the queen is not present she is able to stay in her warm solar and eat close to the fire, a book open in her lap.

Unfortunately, tonight she wears a green dress and pushes the suspicious looking slab of meat around her plate, thinking woefully of the sweetmeats and soft cheeses she was fed in Highgarden. Chatter continues at a low level around her, but the nobles have no interest in engaging her in conversation and so she is left to stare down at her plate and drain her wine goblet, until the door to the great hall slams open and they all jerk up to look at the commotion. It follows a boy who can be no older than fourteen summers, with shaggy, sandy hair, an open smile and the air of someone who is quite comfortable in their element. His jerkin is dark and soft, clearly made from expensive material, and his boots a fine leather, a dagger shining at his hip. He makes his way past the trestle tables filled with the households of the few bannermen that remain at Winterfell, and Clarke’s eyes slide to the queen, expecting fury at his disrespect. Instead, she finds the queen stood, beaming down at the boy approaching.

“Prince Aden, we didn’t expect you back so soon.” Though her words are formal, there is a warmth colouring her voice that Clarke has not yet heard from the royal.

Aden gives a flourishing bow, though it’s clearly more to make Queen Lexa laugh than show any sign of respect, and grins up at his half sister. “Your majesty, forgive me but we made faster time than expected.”

“How lucky that you were able to make your grand entrance during our meal,” The queen rolls her eyes, but as she does a few of the dire wolves hop down from their place beneath the table at her feet and trot to Aden’s side. The beasts are so big that when they jump at him, their front paws easily come to his shoulders, and Clarke gasps, sure that he is about to be eaten. Instead, the wolves bark and butt at him with their heads, one slathering their tongue across his face until he laughs and shakes them off.

“See to it that a hearty meal is brought for the prince.” Queen Lexa instructs and the people at the table begin to shuffle around. For a moment, Clarke is terrifyingly certain that she will have to face the shame of joining the households to make room for the prince at the queen’s side, but instead Aden shakes his head and makes his way up to the table, stopping closest to her.

“Don’t worry about that, the queen and I will have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves.” He gives Clarke a wide, friendly smile and gestures to a servant, who immediately fetches a chair for him. After thanking them, he sinks into his seat and tucks in ravenously to the meal that Clarke has been avoiding touching.

She eyes him curiously, unsure what to make of the child at her side. He finishes his first bite, washes it down with the gusto of a growing boy and turns to fix his smile on Clarke.

“My lady,” His manners are impeccable, “Forgive me for not greeting you before, the trip was long and I’ve not eaten since sunup. I assume you’re the Lady Clarke.”

“I am, your highness.” Clarke nods her head respectfully, “Pleased to meet you.”

“And I you, my lady.” Aden bows his head, “I’m sorry I missed your arrival. I was in Karhold, a friend of mine there is teaching me to read the stars and we became quite distracted.”

“Read the stars?” Clarke’s brows rise and she looks at the boy with renewed interest. “How fascinating.”

“It is,” the prince flushes a little, and then shrugs cheekily. “He also has a fine set of hunting dogs.”

“Ah, so you were hunting?” Her lips quirk into a smile despite herself.

“I admit,” Aden grins at her, mischievous, “I have my vices.” He pauses, considering, and then adds, “But we did have to use the hunter’s star to navigate sometimes, I think that counts.”

It’s at that moment that Clarke decides she likes the young prince.

—

One of the few pleasures that she has left in her life as queen is the grooming of her own horse. When she had gone to war they had tried to persuade her to take on a warhorse, something towering and strong, but she had refused. The stallion she runs a curry comb over is getting older now, she worries that she would not be able to take him into battle again. He’s still lithe and lively, though, affectionate and fast, Lexa has ridden him for so long that they feel like one creature when she sits astride him. He stands still and steady beneath her hands, and his warmth and the smell of damp hay and horses grounds her, putting her so intensely at peace that she barely realises when someone enters the stables.

Turning, she finds Aden making his way down the stalls. He looks sweaty and disgruntled, mud on his hose. She turns to look at her stallion again, hoping to hide her smile from him, but he catches sight of her and rolls her eyes.

“You can stop grinning,” He grumbles, coming to lean against the stall and look in at her.

“Anya put you through your paces this morning?” She asks, lightly and Aden huffs, rubbing at his arm.

“Surely it’s some sort of crime to hit a prince.”

“Anya regularly knocks me to the ground in practice, and I’m a queen.” Lexa shrugs, watching as Aden leans over and pets the horse in the stable beside them, rubbing the mare’s nose and grinning when she nudges at him for more.

“She says I’ve become sloppy and lazy.”

“You probably have,” Lexa grins again when Aden lets out an outraged cry. “Don’t take it personally, she just wants you to be safe.”

“I’m not likely to be attacked any more,” Aden mutters, but falls silent when Lexa cuts him a glance. They both know that isn’t true, there is a reason that the castle is so well guarded and that they each have their food tested before they eat.

Eager to keep the tone light, Lexa says. “I’m sure you’d much rather be with the pups in the kennels. You know Richard’s bitch just had another litter?”

“She did?” Aden beams, “I’ll stop by on my way back.”

“First,” She keeps her voice soft and casual, focusing on the rhythmic brushing of her stallion’s coat, until it shines like polished ebony beneath her touch. “How was your time in Karhold?”

“Fine,” Aden leans against the stall again, so that they are closer together and beneath the whickers and stomping of the horses, they are sure not to be heard.

“And Lord Karstark?” Her stallion’s tale flicks and she runs a soothing hand down his neck, murmuring softly.

“Loyal enough, they say he’s has ravens from the south.”

“Ravens from the south,” Lexa repeats, quietly, “I don’t expect that King Thelonius would want to stir up trouble, he fought so hard for the peace.”

“The letters had no seal on them, by all accounts, just a drip of red wax.”

“Indeed,” Lexa nods thoughtfully, “How informative your time with your friend has been, Aden.”

“And how fortunate that I have friends across all of the north,” Aden pats the nose of her horse and steps back, his smile boyish again. “If that’s all, I’m going to see Richard’s new pups.”

“Enjoy,” She rolls her eyes, watching him walk down the stables again, and thinking on the significance of a drip of red wax.

—

[toaquiprashippar]

To those who say Jonerys will never happen in the books, just a quick reminder Dany has been dreaming of him, even if she has not seen his face yet...

Lying abed in her narrow bunk, she found herself wondering how it would be to have a man squeezed in beside her in place of her handmaid, and the thought was more exciting than it should have been. Sometimes she would close her eyes and dream of him, but it was never Jorah Mormont she dreamed of; her lover was always younger and more comely, though his face remained a shifting shadow. Daenerys, ACOK

He was who he was; Jon Snow, bastard and oathbreaker, motherless, friendless, and damned. For the rest of his life –however long that might be– he would be condemned to be an outsider, the silent man standing in the shadows who dares not speak his true name

Jon, AGOT

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain.

Melisandre, ADWD

Jon’s face and presence is often referred to as being in the shadows, he’s always been the outsider, watching the Stark children play and even if he did play himself sometimes, he tried his best to avoid irritate Lady Stark, so he kept it to himself, as the bastard he was pained to be. 

Melisandre’s visions of him, from R’hllor himself is described as Jon’s shadow hidden...It’s not SO subtle how he’s always referred to be hidden there. 

A quick reminded that when he died, she listened to Ghost’s cries...from across THE NARROW SEA...

“Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold … “

Jon, ADWD

“Off in the distance, a wolf howled. The sound made her feel sad and lonely, but no less hungry. As the moon rose above the grasslands, Dany slipped at last into a restless sleep.“

Daenerys, ADWD

These chapters happen at the same time, how can Daenerys Targaryen, in Meeren, listen to Jon’s murder at the Wall, North of Westeros, if not for the bond they have...without ever meeting. Call it soulmates, fate, whatever you want. Martin does not use words he does not think necessary nor he adds information that the story does not need. If you ever read one his books, you’ll know he’s sharp and everything means something, even the puzzles and riddles thrown our way. Daenerys heard his soul, Ghost’s cries (perhaps his own, warg ones), and she felt sad over it, not even knowing why.

A reminder that when Dany was at the House of the Undying, she only saw important, relevant things. Not only to herself, but to the realm: the rape of Westeros, The Red Wedding, the madness of Aerys Targaryen demanding to burn Kings Landing, Rhaegar and Elia talking of Aegon and his promised song, the fake dragon (Faegon, am I right?), Hardhome, what her son’s future would have been like, White Walkers, Rhaegar’s murmuring a woman’s name right before he died (we all assume is Lyanna’s, I guess we’ll find out eventually), and there are others, but to me it means a lot that one of these visions is:

a blue flower growing from a chink in a wall of ice, filling the air with sweetness.

Daenerys, ACOK

Oh, she also sees the red door of the house she loved and she remembers growing up, and she believed it was in Braavos. She only had important sights for the realm and herself, yet she sees a blue flower growing at the wall (if you don’t think this means Jon Snow growing at the Wall, we can’t be friends and you can’t even read this, bye! JK haha...but come on, Lyanna is said to have loved winter roses, which are blue...the same ones that composed the crown Rhaegar Targaryen crowned her with, as The Queen of Love and Beauty at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Jon lives, works, serves at the Wall, it doesn’t get any more obvious than this, y’all...only if Martin wrote she saw a ‘hot northmen with gorgeous hair at Castle Black, really...”). 

(whoever did this second gif, thank you so very much, this is beautiful <3)

So not only does this shows how important Jon is to the realm (remember how her visions are all important, not only to her but also to Westeros? *inserts my theory of them both being AA* But he’s also important to her, the flower is not just THERE, it also fills the air with sweetness, it pleases her. Do I need to say more? 

This one is very meaningful if not very telling, to me. They both feel alone, like something is missing. One can even say “they feel alone cause they are alone”, but they were not. It almost feels like there is someone out there, a better match. 

Beneath her coverlets she tossed and turned, dreaming that Hizdahr was kissing her … but his lips were blue and bruised, and when he thrust himself inside her, his manhood was cold as ice. She sat up with her hair disheveled and the bedclothes atangle. Her captain slept beside her, yet she was alone.

Daenerys, ADWD

Jon wondered where Ghost was now. Had he gone to Castle Black, or was he was running with some wolfpack in the woods? He had no sense of the direwolf, not even in his dreams. It made him feel as if part of himself had been cut off. Even with Ygritte sleeping beside him, he felt alone.

Jon, ASOS

their story is a never ending parallel.

Not to disrespect Ygritte, cause I think she was necessary to Jon’s growth. She was a great character and I do believe Jon loved her, at some point. But just like Daenerys, this love was not a choice, it was almost like a survival choice, they made the best out of a bad situation. 

He had to be with Ygritte, or Mance would have killed him, he would not believe Jon had really deserted the Night’s Watch. Ygritte wasn’t Jon’s act of rebellion, like I once read at a meta, no, she was, at first, his sacrifice/way to fill his mission. But somewhere along the way, he fell in love with her, she was strong, funny, and she awoke the sexuality in him. Again, he had to be with her, to prove himself, but it also wasn’t like he didn’t like it. 

Daenerys loved Khal Drogo? Yeah, but it was as forced as was Jon and Ygritte. One can say it was even worse for she did not go willing, she was pushed into it, sold like a slave, to get her brother an army (we do have to thank karma cause his army never came, boo-ya, sucker!). She was given to a stranger, a savage (comparing to her culture; it’s funny even to see the parallel here, both had to be with people that are considered savages, wildlings where they come from) in return of an army, and she made the best of her situation, she learnt his language, his manners, bore his child (even if the baby never came to live), she fell in love with him cause for the first time in a very long time (or forever?), she was treated with care and love (the way Drogo knew how to love) by the man in her life. 

A sweet reminder of how Daenerys thinks of her family and how she would have married Rhaegar’s son, had he lived. Rhaegar’s son, who’s Jon’s daddy again? 

Plus, we’ve seen on the show that Jon was named Aegon Targaryen too, we do not know if he will have the same name on the books but I honestly do not think they would change something so important. 

So, just another beautiful “easter egg” to ya:

Five Aegons had ruled the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.  There would have been a sixth, but the Usurper’s dogs had murdered her brother’s son when he was still a babe at the breast. If he had lived, I might have married him. “

Daenerys, ADWD

Who says you still won’t, sweetie? Hold on, Melisandre will bring him back or he was warging Ghost, let’s just wait a bit longer, okay? 

Their journey is a never ending parallel, and their path is clearly to each other.

I don’t think the history is called ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ without a cause, Jon may be blood of the dragon, but he’s also a Stark, and Daenerys is a Targaryen through and through...

*the lord of light aka george r.r. martin speaks through melisandre*

I’m back to reading the books and even if I’m still at AGOT, I just felt like making this, had a really bad day and making this made it a little better. 

What are your thoughts? <3 

[efafxcefwada]

Tears ran down his cheeks

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[ladywolfmd]

The North Star & The Sword of the Morning

A Lyanna x Arthur fic based on this prompt

Even without asking, he knew where his lady would be at this time when the sun had just set.

Just a small ways at the back of the Tower of Joy was a wild bushel of blood red roses. Ever since he showed it to her to somehow give her some cheer, this was where she would go when she needed a few moments just to herself. And it was only here that Arthur would get a glimpse of a real smile from the lady he was assigned to guard with his life.

He passed by Oswell who stood a good distance away, nodding at him to be relieved while he took his usual post at night to guard his prince’s new consort.

Arthur tried his best to hold his tongue on his prince’s actions, thinking about the Princess Elia and their two children but as Prince Rhaegar had explained to him, There must be one more. And Elia and I… Targaryens have taken two wives before. Elia and I have already spoken after the Tourney. And Lyanna…

He could still remember the night Rhaegar begged him to help him take the Northern girl. He remembered because that was the first time he raised his voice and tried to convince his prince not to do it. But it was Lyanna who had managed to make him agree. He had already failed Queen Rhaella, and to some extent, he had failed Princess Elia. He would not want to add another unwilling woman into the Dragons’ nest.

Arthur shook off those thoughts because what was done was done. A war was already looming, and there was nothing to do but abide by his duty.

Besides, there she was. Young still but already becoming more and more the the beautiful and strong woman Rhaegar saw fit to crown as more than just his queen of love and beauty. And now she was round with possibly the second-in-line to the throne once Rhaegar is king.

“Ah, Ser Arthur. Is that you, I hear?” Lyanna asked without turning, fingering one of the petals.

“Yes, my princess.”

She turned then and gave him a frown. “I told you to call me Lyanna.”

Arthur half-smiled. “A pleasant sundown to you then, Princess Lyanna.”

Lyanna huffed and rolled her eyes as he chuckled but soon she joined him in laughter, patting the boulder beside her for him to sit on.

Arthur took off his helm then and placed it on the ground next to his feet and ran a hand over his hair.

“What news?” Lyanna tilted her head at him while her hands absently stroked her belly.

“I’m afraid no new ravens have come since the last.”

She looked away then and sighed. “He won’t be here in time, won’t he?”

He looked at her sadly then and nodded once. “I’m sorry.”

Silence.

Nothing but the sound of winds rustling over the few trees and plants were heard as the sky transitioned from golden to indigo, bathing them in shades of blue and purple. It was a full moon that night and cloudless, stripping the sky naked to expose the stars.

Never one to withstand the silence, Lyanna broke it. “It’s a boy.”

Arthur looked at her then. “How do you know?”

Lyanna smiled at him then serenely. “When my mother was pregnant with Benjen, she couldn’t stand the scent of leather.”

“Leather?”

She nodded,”Leather. It happened with my other brothers too. My father had a hard time of course, dealing with that as he was mostly decked with something leather that he had to improvise and bark at the household to not set so much as a yard between my mother and leather,” she laughed lightly then before frowning a little. “That wasn’t the case with me.” She looked up at him then with her lovely grey almost silver eyes shining. “I on the other hand, was the perfect babe.” She gestured with her hand, “Not a single problem at all.”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile then. “Until you came out, that is.”

Lyanna gasped and hit him truly, that it actually hurt his arm a little, yet as he rubbed his arm he kept laughing at her scowl.

She sniffed and held her chin up yet there was that hint of a smile. “Anyway, though it’s not at the same amount of aversion as my mother, being too near them does make me want to be sick. And that’s how I know.”

“Hmm…sounds plausible, considering your explanation,” he agreed turning to grin at her when his smile faded when he saw tears.

“Lyanna–

She wiped her eyes quickly then and tried to give him a wan smile but they poured all the same.

Word had already found them that Lord Stark and his heir were ordered executed by the Mad King. Robert Baratheon allied with her other brother, Ned were already on the move and it was only a matter of time until they meet with his prince somewhere in Riverrun.

He knew Lyanna was filled with guilt and sadness, but things were already set in motion. There was nothing to do but wait and face whatever battles to come. Plus she was going to have her babe soon. She had to be strong for the babe.

He unsheathed Dawn then and held it to her.

She looked up at him curiously but like the trained hand that she was, she took it with ease and admired it as she balanced it on her knee.

“You know the story of Dawn?”

She smiled then. “That only a worthy knight from House Dayne could wield it and be called the Sword of the Morning. There’s no need to gloat, Arthur.”

He chuckled. “Yes. But do you know the story behind that title as well as the name of the sword?”

She nodded at him proudly. “A falling star was tracked on the Torrentine by your house’s founder and from then, Starfall was built and there a stone that had no equal, was forged into this sword that rivaled that of the finest valyrian blade.”

He nodded then. “You know our history well.”

She beamed.

“I know a thing or two about the North as well.”

She tilted her head as she gave him back his sword. “Oh?”

He looked up the sky until he found it then and pointed. “There. How did it go? Chase the blue star in the rider’s eye and there you’ll see the Ice Dragon in the sky.”

He glanced at her and saw her looking up with her mouth slightly open but now the tears were gone so he smiled and looked back up.

“If I’m right–now please correct me if I’m not, but if you ever find yourself lost, I was told that if you want to head South, follow the dragon’s tail. But if you want to head North–”

“–you follow the Ice dragon’s blue eye - the North Star,” she finished for him.

“So in a way, my princess. You may be in the Southern lands, but whenever you feel lost, you can always go out at night and look for the North Star. The North won’t ever be lost for as long as you can see it.”

Silence for a beat and it was Arthur who broke it this time when he turned and saw Lyanna’s eyes glistening with tears once more as she looked at him. Really looked at him with those eyes of hers.

Still she didn’t say a word so he tentatively reached out, wiped her tears, and held her cheek.

“You may feel like you’re less of a Stark right now but that is false, Lyanna. Not when half a wolf grows in you and though your boy might grow up in the Dragon’s den, take him by the hand at night and show him that with your blood he could be the Ice Dragon. Which are far larger and stronger than Valyrian fire dragons.”

She smiled softly and gratefully at him then, giving him a soft nod that made him smile back. With one last brush of his thumb against her cheek, he withdrew his hand from her face and gripped her hand in his instead.

“He is as much yours as he is his. And more importantly, he is as much the North’s as he is the other kingdoms’.”

He reached behind her then and plucked one of the roses growing from the wall behind her and handed it to her. “On a lighter note,” he cleared his throat. “It’s not your winter rose, but here in the night, what is red could be blue.”

Lyanna cracked a smile then and laughed as she took it from him and looked at him gratefully, giving his hand a squeeze.

[samwpmarleau]

pas de deux

in which arthur wins the tourney at harrenhal and crowns elia like a responsible adult and no one is offended except rhaegar

He’s not going to crown her. He’ll win the joust, because of course he will, but he won’t crown her. Of little else is she so certain.

His eye has wandered, to put it delicately, and he has not been subtle about it either. It was innocent, at first, when the girl had wept at his song, and then turned into something much different. He’s enraptured by her for a reason that Elia has tried and failed to comprehend.

Lyanna Stark is pretty enough, she supposes, in a wild, coltish kind of way, but she’s still half a child, a wolf pup barely out of its den. Only Robert Baratheon seems to be as taken with her as Rhaegar, which, as her betrothed, is at least understandable. But Rhaegar…him Elia has no explanation for.

The final set of jousters comes as a surprise to no one: Rhaegar, Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, Leo Tyrell. Ser Barristan beats Tyrell handily, leaving Rhaegar against Ser Arthur. It’s far from an unfamiliar set, they having battled many times over the years. The last time she’d seen one such bout was Lord Robert’s tourney three years ago held in the memory of Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana. Arthur had nearly won then, battling Rhaegar through a dozen rounds before conceding defeat.

Even now, she wonders whether he had truly been bested, or whether he’d done it on purpose. It’s a common rumor, that the Kingsguard don’t often try their hardest lest they injure their future sovereign. She knows Rhaegar is a consummate jouster, but she’d also seen Arthur in countless tourneys in Dorne, and he’d gone undefeated in them all despite going up against plenty of consummate jousters there, too.

It’s irrelevant, really. Whether legitimately or on purpose, he would be on the losing end today, she has no doubt, and she gets the honor of being jilted in front of half the world. Rhaegar’s looking at the girl now, too, atop his black mount, and Elia clasps her hands in her lap so tightly her fingers turn purple. Not even Ashara’s soothing touch does anything to mitigate her simmering anger.

At the sound of the herald’s trumpet, destrier and sand steed come together round after round. While the matchup had not surprised her, this longevity does. At Lord Robert’s tourney, the joust had had more of a frolicking atmosphere, two friends competing in good humor.

This, though…the hits are harder, Arthur’s posture is rigid, tension drenches the combatants like a pall. She can see their faces through the slits in their helms, a kind of confusion in Rhaegar’s and conviction in Arthur’s. What the reason might be for it, however, she can’t fathom. To her knowledge, there’s been nothing to put them at odds, so why would there be discord now?

The sixth round is what sends the crowd to frenzied whispers. Rhaegar’s lance is a hair off-kilter, a weakness Arthur pounces on: a resounding crack, a grunt of pain, then Rhaegar is flung from his saddle. With that, the herald announces that the final contest will consist of the realm’s two most revered warriors, Kingsguard against Kingsguard.

Arthur removes his helm and dismounts to help Rhaegar up, sunlight glinting off the silver sword-and-star on his surcoat. They don’t exchange any words, but there’s no time to dwell on it for Rhaegar briskly leaves his horse with the stablehand and his squire hops to in divesting him of his armor.

Half an hour passes as Arthur and Ser Barristan prepare, and Rhaegar takes his seat beside her, blatantly discontented. A good wife would placate him, say there’s no disgrace in losing to an opponent such as Arthur, but all she has to do is remember how he’d looked at Lady Lyanna, and her mouth stays firmly shut.

The champion’s tilt requires one more lance than Rhaegar’s had, but ultimately Ser Barristan is unhorsed just as decisively. Ashara abandons all dignity, jumping to her feet and wildly cheering for her brother. Though Elia’s applause is less ostentatious, happiness swells within her—a victory for Arthur is a victory for their homeland, after all.

She remembers the day he had arrived in Sunspear to squire for her uncle, brimming with excitement and fastidious in his training. To see him emerge triumphant in front of so many she feels is a well-deserved accomplishment. Ashara would receive a crown as pretty as she is, and Elia can think of no one more worthy of wearing it.

Lord Whent slides the blue winter roses onto Arthur’s lance, and he directs his horse toward the royal stands as she’d anticipated. Except he doesn’t stop in front of his sister—he stops in front of her. He places the crown into her lap, and she gapes at him, nothing short of stunned.

“For the future queen,” he declares, voice ringing out across the lists. It could be a trick of the light, but for a moment she thinks she sees his eyes flash over to Rhaegar, almost in challenge, before darting back to her. “Your beauty and grace put the very sun to shame.”

She knows surely this must simply be out of respect, not in earnest, but nevertheless a smile grows. Though she may not honestly believe his words, he has publicly recognized her above all the more winsome women in attendance. The Starks clap respectfully at the display, Lady Lyanna animated as she talks with the littlest wolf, and what ill will she’d been feeling towards the girl fades.

“Thank you,” she says to Arthur. She hands her circlet of yellow sapphires to Ashara and replaces it with the wreath of roses.

He flashes her a rare smile, then gallops off toward the stables. She can’t help but stare after him, his ivory armor and Ny Sar’s gleaming white coat just this side of blinding.

When purples and oranges begin to flood the sky, the guests file into the great hall for supper, and Elia takes her place on the dais next to a lukewarm Rhaegar. As ever, Arthur is diligently standing off to the side, scrutinizing the gentry for any potential threats.

Once everyone has settled, Lord Whent addresses the room. “Thank you to all who have voyaged to attend this tourney, most especially to our esteemed and gracious king. We are each of us humbled by your presence,” he announces, glancing nervously at Aerys with every other word. “Without further delay, the traditional dance will start our supper. Your Graces, if you will?”

The heady scent of roses from the crown she still wears reminds her that she has a card to play. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” she says, “but is it not customary for the Queen of Love and Beauty to select her own partner?”

A hush falls, her statement plainly startling Lord Whent. “Oh, well, yes, naturally,” he stutters, “but I’d assumed—”

Elia cuts him off with a serene smile and gets to her feet. Resolute, she strides past Rhaegar and approaches Arthur instead. “Ser, do you care to join me?”

Something akin to panic crosses his face—perhaps he’s recalling how atrocious of a dancer he was in their youth—but nevertheless he allows her to take his hand.

For once, the murmurs that run through the crowd give her vindictive satisfaction.

If she’d been hoping the matter could be forgotten, she doesn’t get her wish. Later, while finessing out countless hairpins, Ashara comments, “People have been talking.”

“People are always talking. What is it for this time?”

“You know full well what for. Your dance, it—”

“It was nothing.” And it was. It was.

“It wasn’t nothing. It was Arthur beating Rhaegar, it was him crowning you in front of everyone, it was you choosing to dance with him over your husband. I’m not accusing you of anything,” she hurries on at Elia’s scowl, “that’s just what people are saying. You know how they live for their gossip.”

“They’re vermin.” She shakes out her hair, grateful to finally rid it of its complicated ensnarement. “Though I confess I didn’t expect they’d drag Arthur into it. Ridiculing me is one thing, but I’d have thought they’d have more respect for your brother.”

“Arthur looked…” Ashara hesitates. “Elia, my brother is a wonderful man,” she says carefully, “but a man all the same.”

“Don’t be absurd. He gave me the crown because he wanted to prevent me from suffering insult, that’s it. He said so himself.”

But that hadn’t been the only thing he told her, had it? I did not crown you false, princess, he’d said, his hand warm on her back, his voice too low to be heard by anyone but her. You are indeed a beautiful woman.

She hadn’t known what to say to that. She’d wanted to call his bluff, but he was so sincere that it was hard not to believe him. And once she’d done so, she’d begun to…well, notice him. The years had done him well, giving him handsomeness where once he’d been ordinary, breadth and height where once he’d been gangly and short, an evenly shadowed jaw where once it’d been patchy, a few scars where once there’d been none. She’d realized then that he’s not just a Kingsguard, but a hotblooded Dornishman of four-and-twenty, same as her.

And then afterwards, he’d seemed almost…

“Ash, there have been enough ill-done entanglements at this tourney without you inventing another.”

The name Brandon Stark lingers between them, and a bright red blush colors Ashara’s cheeks. “Yes, my lady. But I didn’t invent anything,” she says. “It’s the oldest tale, isn’t it? A princess and a white knight?”

[lordallyrion-blog]

BASIC

Name: Adrian Allyrion.

Nickname(s): None.

House: House Allyrion.

Marital status: Married.

Age: Thirty.

Title: Lord.

Sexual + Romantic Orientation: Heterosexual/Heteroromantic.

Occupation / Vocation: Ruling Lord of Godsgrace.

Birth Place: Godsgrace.

Current Residence: Godsgrace.

Motto/Personal quote: “We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good; we do the best we know.”

RELATIONS

Apparent Allegiance: Houses Allyrion & Martell.

True Allegiance: Houses Allyrion & Martell.

Spouse: Taliya Allyrion née Yronwood.

Children: Two sons & two daughters: Daemon (10), Jasper (9), Rose (5) & Rhae (5).

Father: Hugo Allyrion.

Mother: Loreza Allyrion née Dayne.

Siblings: Ellara, Ryon & Dyanna. Ellara and Ryon both died in the cradle.

Aunt(s) or Uncle(s): Alestair (deceased), Ormund & Maya Allyrion. Uther Dayne (deceased).

Cousin(s): Asher Dayne. A bunch more, probably.

Other Relatives: -

INTERNAL

Character Alignment: Lawful Neutral.

Religion: Faith of the Seven.

Virtues: Loyalty, pride in his house and his land. His open-minded nature and willingness to accept differences in others. Devotion his immediate family.

Vices: He may be willing to accept people’s differences, but he is slow to actually trust anyone. He is what could be described as too cautious. Violent tendencies, short temper.

Fears: Leading Godsgrace into the same struggles faced by the rest of Westeros. Turning out like his father in any way. His wife and children ever being afraid of him.

Ambitions: Adrian isn’t really an ambitious man. He’s content with how things are now & just wants to lead his people safely through the winter.

Regrets: Not protecting his sister as well as he should have.

Sense of humour: Adrian doesn’t have much of a sense of humour, though he has been known to make a joke on rare occasions.

Patience level: It depends on the circumstances and context. He can usually be pretty patient but if something serious happens he’s not immune to losing his shit. His patience for his children is boundless however.

How self-confident are they?: Quietly self-confident. He’s not overtly boastful, but Adrian has worked very hard to be someone he can be proud of.

How do they see themselves?: As a man desperately trying to be the best version of himself whilst simultaneously afraid he is no better than his father.

How do they believe they’re perceived by others?: Adrian likes to believe other people see in him what he ardently wants to see in himself, of a fair and honourable ruler who is respected by his peers and the smallfolk. However, he also suspects people may mistake his cautious nature for cowardice.

What are they most proud of? The fact Godsgrace is thriving in such trying times.

What do they like least about themselves? His temper and the fact he comes from awful parents.

How do they express themselves? He expresses himself calmly, with few (if any) hand gestures. Fashion wise, Adrian dresses in simple clothes made of luxurious fabrics in bright colours. He also wears rings on all of his fingers.

Biggest accomplishment: Successfully ridding himself and his sister of their father, and ruling Godsgrace even at a young age.

EXTERNAL

Hair Colour: Black.

Eye Color: Brown.

Height: 6″5.

Weight: 225lbs.

Accent or Diction: Westerosi.

Prominent features: His warm and charming yet rare smile.

Distinguishing marks: Adrian has a prominent scar along his left side that he acquired during his time fighting against the Stormlords.

Physical Qualities: Tall, broad shoulders and a muscle-clad body honed over years of training, Adrian usually stands out from those around him.

BIOGRAPHY

The Lord of Godsgrace was born in the dead of night as a full moon bathed the Allyrion’s magnificent castle in silver light. His arrival was met with both elation and relief that an heir had come safely into the world. However, there was also trepidation that like his two older siblings, baby Adrian would not survive the cradle.

Much to the relief of the people of Godsgrace, he did survive, but Adrian would go on to wonder whether or not that was a good thing. He is the son of Hugo and Loreza, neither of whom can truthfully say they deserved to be parents. Hugo was a brute of a man, in a constant state of anger, ready to find fault and offence in everything, a skilled liar, and wretched to his very core. When it came to family, specifically Adrian, Hugo preferred to communicate through his fists instead of his words. Loreza never physically hurt her son, but she never lifted a finger to protect him and to Adrian that was just as bad. His mother is a spineless woman who stuck her head in the sand whenever trouble started to brew. She was too concerned with lavish imports from Essos to care about the mysterious bruises on her child, least of all try and protect him.

Apart from his brutishness, Hugo was also a revered and respected army commander. He had lead forces against the Stormlands in numerous clashes, and was generally well liked throughout the rest of Dorne. Not only did it infuriate Adrian, it made it all but impossible to tell someone about his father’s cruelty. Hugo was thought to be a good man, a bit gruff perhaps but not to the point he would strike a child, surely? And even if he did, who was to say people would care? After all, it wasn’t unheard of for a rambunctious young lad to receive a clout across the back of his head as a warning to watch his manners.

Adrian spent the vast majority of his childhood in fear, or desperately trying to find a way to please his father with either his intellect or martial prowess. When that inevitably didn’t work the boy resorted to merely avoiding him whenever possible. Hugo’s rage was as endless as it was terrible and Adrian learned quickly that it couldn’t be prevented or avoided for long. Eventually he learned to shut up, take the hits, and hope no lasting marks were left.

When it was finally time for Adrian to be fostered somewhere, the prospect came as a double edged sword. On one hand it meant escaping Hugo’s abuse for a few years, which filled him with more happiness than he had ever felt before. On the other hand it meant leaving his little sister Dyanna alone with their father with no buffer or protection. Since the day she was born Adrian had sworn to protect her like no one had ever protected him. He suffered Hugo’s beatings readily and without complaint because if he was focused on Adrian, it meant Dyanna would be left alone. But no matter how much he pleaded to stay, an agreement had been made with the Prince of Dorne to take the Allyrion boy on as a squire. An arrangement like that couldn’t be broken lest it be seen as an insult, so he packed up his things and set off for Sunspear.

Whilst in the capital training and growing under the guidance of the Prince, Adrian was finally shown the consideration and appreciation he had never gotten from his own father. It made the boy’s loyalty to House Martell ironclad, but it also made him bitter and resentful of the hand he had been dealt in life. Desperate for an outlet, Adrian turned to the training yards to indulge the violent and angry urges that bubbled within him. He often spent all day in the yard clashing swords with another squire, firing arrows into targets, and learning how to wield a spear stopping only to eat and sleep. Adrian’s dogged determination and intense dedication ended up earning him a reputation as one of the most formidable opponents around western Dorne. When he wasn’t training, the young lord paid as many visits home as he was allowed. Adrian was plagued with worry that Dyanna was in danger.

When he was twelve, Adrian met the girl who would go on to become his wife while they both played in the Water Gardens. It was during one of the lowest points of his childhood and Taliya appeared like a breath of fresh air. She showed him kindness and gentleness, two things that had been sorely missing from his life. It wouldn’t be the last time they met, given that they were both members of powerful Dornish families and would occasionally attend the same tourneys and feasts.

At the age of sixteen whilst still in Sunspear, Adrian received a tear-stained and messily written letter from Dyanna detailing his worst fear. Their father had struck her leaving the girl with a broken nose. Adrian’s memories of the hours after receiving word are hazy and red with fury. He does remember leaving Sunspear immediately without an explanation to anyone, and riding home. It was the afternoon when Adrian got back to Godsgrace, and he spent the rest of the day comforting Dyanna and stewing in his rage. The sight of his sister’s blackened eyes and crooked nose sealed his decision to end their misery once and for all. He was practically a man grown then, just as tall as Hugo and almost as strong, the time for cowering had come to an end.

That night while the castle slept, Adrian summoned the very worst parts of himself. He let sixteen years worth of pain, anger, resentment, and misery consume him as he made his way towards his father’s chambers. Adrian wanted Hugo to suffer. He wanted Hugo to met a painful and humiliating end. He wanted him to suffer even a fraction of the amount he had made his son suffer. But the boy knew it had to be done quickly and quietly, without anyone else finding out. In the end, Adrian sat on Hugo’s chest and held a pillow over his face until the old man stopped struggling and went limp.

One would think that after murdering his own father that the boy would feel dirty or ashamed or guilty, but as Adrian snuck back to his room after the deed was done, the only thing he felt was free.

With no evidence of foul play, the Maester ruled Hugo’s death as failure of the heart and at sixteen years old Adrian became the new lord of Godsgrace.

At nineteen, he proposed marriage to his wife and the married a little less than a year later. He is deeply in love with her, and completely devoted to their family of six. His wife truly is the light of his life, and keeps the darkness of his past at bay.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Confirmation Bias

Hey Steph :)

This is a bit too long to send it as an ask, so I’ll do it this way.

I’ve seen hints etc. for Johnlock since I started watching “Sherlock” but I had never believed it possible to happen till I stumbled unto TJLC. I’ve admired the dedication and enthusiasm people had, loved the approach they took to analyzing the show etc. And of course, I was disappointed with series 4.

I tried to think about what went wrong. Was it deliberate on Mofftiss’ part? Or was the analysis faulty? I’ve looked at the criticism by people who don’t believe in TJLC etc. Tried to take different views into account to avoid just “screaming into an echo chamber”.

An argument that I’ve stumbled unto again and again was that of “confirmation bias”.

From what I’ve gathered, TJLC began with series 3 (hints for Johnlock were really, really blatant here and TSoT will probably remain my all-time favourite episode). Of course, Johnlock could be seen in the previous seasons as well but it was only after series 3 that people started to believe that it was not just queerbaiting, that Johnlock was a real possibility. But what I’ve also seen when the promo for series 4 began and when the series started is that much of what was released indeed was interpreted with the (possible) confirmation of Johnlock in mind.

“You can’t kill an idea, can you?” And that’s the problem, I think (if you want to call it a problem *shrug*). After series 3 we’ve been convinced that Johnlock was endgame, that this was what the show was about, what it was leading to. Problem is that we started looking for evidence that supports this idea but dismissed possible other meanings.

I think, we have to reassess some of the meanings we’ve applied to some of the symbols we’ve seen in the show.

Take “elephants” for an example:

a) There are elephants on the pillow behind Lord Moran in TEH,

b) elephants on Anderson’s conspiracy wall,

c) of course, there’s the case of “The Elephant in the Room” mentioned in TSoT,

d) elephants on the tie of that one guy at the wedding,

e) the elephant on the brochure at Mycroft’s fridge,

f) …

etc.

Elephants are all over the place and since we’ve come to the conclusion that everything just has to point to Johnlock as endgame that must mean elephants must do so, as well. The phrase “elephant in the room” means an unspoken truth that’s rather obvious. 

So it looks like the thought process was: “Johnlock is endgame” –> “elephants” –> “the elephant in the room” is “Johnlock”.

Let’s look at it differently:

a) Lord Moran, a Member of Parliament, secretly a member of an underground terrorist network

b) Anderson’s conspiracy wall had sth to do with the possibility of Sherlock being alive, what he’s been up to etc.

c) “The Elephant in the Room” is a confidential case that no one’s supposed to talk about

d) his girlfriend’s about to break up with him, he didn’t know till Sherlock pointed it out

e) “Put me through to Sherrinford, please.”

…

Unfortunately, I don’t remember all the other instances elephants could be seen but what the ones above all have in common are “secrets”. So how did we get from all those many different secrets to “the elephant in the room is Johnlock” when all those instances have nothing to do with Johnlock?

I’d like to bring up an example from ASoIaF in which a symbol for one thing has lead to another: 

It’s been brought to the readers’ attention that Jon Snow, assumed bastard of Eddard Stark, is different from the other bastards we’ve come to know in the books and that the question of who his mother is might be of importance. There were different theories who she could be, some of those directly brought up by characters in the books. 

One theory, the one that’s been confirmed in the show, is R + L = J. That Eddard Stark is not Jon’s father but that Jon’s parents are Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, Eddard’s sister.

Whenever we heard about Lyanna she’s been connected to blue winter roses. She loved the scent of them; when Rhaegar crowned her queen of love and beauty at a tourney he did so with a crown made of those roses; when Eddard dreams of her, her statue in the crypt has a garland of blue winter roses etc. etc. Whenever we hear about blue winter roses we associate what we hear with Lyanna Stark. So when Daenerys Targaryen has a vision of a blue flower growing from a chink in a wall of ice, a connection has been made between Lyanna and Jon Snow who is part of the Night’s Watch at the Wall, a massive barrier made of mostly ice.

Here, Lyanna is so strongly associated with blue winter roses because both have been brought up in the same context again and again and again. As far as I can remember, those roses have ONLY been mentioned in connection to Lyanna which is why “blue flower at the ice wall” has lead to the new link between Lyanna and Jon Snow.

Since elephants have been brought up with so many different people with so many different secrets - and unfortunately I don’t know if they’ve been seen in other contexts as well - without being blatantly connected to the idea of Johnlock, it’s hard for me to see how they are supposed to be seen as connected :(

With other symbols, metaphors etc. it’s much easier to come to the conclusion that they are connected to Johnlock, e.g. the food = sex metaphor.

I hope it’s possible to see what I want to say with this post.

Maybe it’s time to reassess the material we’ve gathered, let’s look at it and the context it’s been presented in, let’s look for connections etc. Maybe we’ll come to the same conclusions as before, namely that Johnlock is endgame and that we should have been right, maybe we’ll come to different ones.

Just some thoughts (that I’d really hope to see discussed here).

(submitted by IStillBelieveInJohnlock)

Hi Lovely! 

Thank you for your honesty in your Johnlock analysis. I get the point you’re trying to make here – “[…] one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.” – but with regards to the elephant thing is that it WASN’T such a huge indicator of Johnlock until Arwel. “The Elephant in the Room” in TSo3 was cute, and we just kind of giggled about it because HOLY CRAP THIS EPISODE IS SUBTEXTUALLY ABOUT JOHNLOCK, and then Arwel began tweeting a lot about elephants… I mean A LOT. And there were a lot of subtext used that is commonly found in media where they are suggesting a queer reading of a show but they cannot  / will not explicitly say it.

Yes, we may have gotten over-excited about things like elephants and phones and “dinner?”, but there is literally no point to putting ANY of this stuff in if they’re weren’t trying to suggest a Johnlock reading of the show: it’s metaphor and symbolism, and it’s commonly used to invoke an idea in your audience, or to help foreshadow upcoming events in the series. Character mirrors as well were used CONSTANTLY to help viewers see the connections we were supposed to make between the relationships or character arcs of John or Sherlock.

PLUS the show itself used at least over 150 romantic tropes commonly found in media, so it’s not even subtle what they were trying to invoke with the series. They could have done the entire series without all of these things and still could have made a great show. But all of the metaphors, mirrors, subtext, symbolism, tropes… Take ALL of that out in what we CURRENTLY have and you end up with a hot mess. Take out John and Sherlock’s relationship (or FRIENDSHIP even) and you end up with S4.

I totally respect how you are looking at this from another angle, and that’s totally cool. For me, though, there’s just too much evidence in the show that suggests that they WERE going to do a Johnlock endgame, and something happened that caused them to do a 180 in S4.

I feel like we will never know.