#tormund giantsbane fanfic

[catholicdaredevil]

disarming || tormund giantsbane x gn! reader

hello all! i haven't posted anything i've written in a while (over a year) but when prompted by my daughter grack i searched back through my google docs and found this fic that i don't think i ever posted so here we go! (also this hasn't been edited lol)

summary: gn! reader kills a thenn and tormund is bricked over it

words: 2k

warnings: violence!!!!!! use of knives, punching, kicking, stabbing, and killing!!!! to be fair it's all canon typical violence for game of thrones but still there's your warning! also short references to nsfw but no detailed action

ao3 link

Warm callused hands framed your face and he leaned in to kiss you. 

Except Tormund didn’t kiss you, kiss was too gentle a word for it, he consumed you. Every time he pressed his mouth to yours it was like he was trying to drink you down, overwhelming sensations of nothing but him causing your brain to go haywire. He didn’t give pecks, no small chaste kisses, that was your thing. When you’d walk past him and pause just to creep up on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his cheek then carry on with whatever you were previously doing. Sometimes he let you, he knew you liked those gentle kisses, wanted to give you whatever you wanted when he could. 

However most times he’d slip his hands into your hair, or around your waist and pull you into him with strength you couldn’t get out of if you tried, tip your head back and deepen the kiss. And if when you finally pulled away you looked dizzy, hair a mess and breathing ragged, then that was just a bonus. 

“I swear on–on– on all of the southern gods, every single one of them, that if you ever come near me again I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” your finger jabbed into the Thenn��s chest, loud voice carrying throughout the camp. You can hear the mutters of people gathering around, the syncopated overlapped voices of the other free folk watching, waiting. 

“If you didn’t have Tormund to back you up I bet you’d be so much quieter. Maybe you need someone to teach you to be quiet, little one.” He leaned in, voice low and predatory with a grin stretching out the scars that covered his face. Those white lines marking a Thenn that always made a chill run down your spine. 

“I need no one to back me up, I don't want Tormund’s help and he couldn’t stop me if he wanted to. You think I would be Tormund’s if I couldn’t handle my own?” 

As if he could sense his name spoken from across the way, you hear Tormund walk up, his loud voice familiar enough to pick out of the crowd circled around you and the Thenn. 

“What’s going on?” Tormund’s words end in a growl as he finally breaks through the masses to see you. 

Your mouth twisted down into an angry frown and the hand not currently inches from the other man’s chest is clenched into a fist and trembling just slightly at your side. He takes the final few steps to get to your side, a glare pinning the man in front of you in place. He had joked before but only a fool didn’t hesitate going up against Tormund Giantsbane. There was a reason he was Tall-Talker, Horn-Blower and Breaker of Ice. Tormund was less a man and more a force, a storm that roved over lands destroying anything stupid enough to get in his way. 

Tormund’s hand rests on your shoulder, his body tense in anticipation, always seconds away from swinging a blade at anyone who so much as dares to glare at you and this is no different. You speak one last time before turning to walk off, “I won’t warn you again.” 

“And how do you plan to kill me little one? By whinging? Yelling? You couldn’t kill me if Tormund trained you for years.” 

His cocky words are enough to break your last shred of patience left and you spin before Tormund can react, stomping across the frozen dirt, fist clenched and ready to throw a punch. Luckily Tormund recovers fast enough to grab your elbow mid-swing and you round on him, ready to yell that you’d had enough of that shit eating grin and he could try to eat his next kill with less teeth. 

“You’ll break your sweet little hand on that ugly fucker, here.” Tormund lifts your hand to kiss across your knuckles and pushes a knife into it and nods approvingly, twisting you around to face the Thenn again. You get to watch the smirk melt off the man’s face. This is no longer a game, not even an argument. He has two options now; let you kill him or fight you and have Tormund kill him. There’s no scenario where he lays a hand on you and lives to talk about it. 

“I’ll make you a deal. You disarm me fair and square and you win, Tormund’ll let you live. If not, I carve that smirk from your face.” Your head tilts expectantly and the Thenn’s eyes shift from you to Tormund, watching the small nod Tormund gives in agreement before looking back to you. 

He grins. “Deal.”

He moves faster than you expected, quick for such a large man, but it doesn’t matter. He swings his hand out to hit you and you duck, adrenaline surging through you as your instincts take over. He’s a fool and a cocky one at that and you’re going to show him. You drop your breathing to slow and controlled, crouching slightly to study him, eyes scanning over his tall form to pick out the best places to strike. 

His leg shoots out and slams into your side. Pain blossoms across your stomach and you bite your cheek to muffle your cry, wrapping your arm around his ankle to keep him on one foot. He’s stronger than you and you know you won’t be able to hold him there for long, but you don’t need long. Your blade sinks into his leg right above his knee, twisting before you yank it back out and he tugs his leg from you with a scream. He expects you to attempt to hold onto it, so when you drop it the force of his pull twists him off balance and he has to stumble to catch himself, grunting through the shooting pain the steps cause. 

“You’re a fool. You’re a fool and I warned you.” You spit blood at his feet. He looks up to meet your eyes again and there’s a split second where you’re concerned about the rage so clearly shown on his every feature. Taking a deep breath, you force your body to relax, shaking out the tension in your joints and twisting your head until your neck cracks loudly. 

The sounds of the crowd have risen, voices overlapping and in the back of your mind you register a familiar voice shushing them all. The man in front of you is too focused on kicks, anything to keep you as far from him as possible thinking his strength lies in his reach spanning farther than your own. He swings a hand and his fist connects with your temple, your entire head rings, vision going blurry and black around the edges and you gasp. 

It takes you a moment to catch your bearings, a few stumbled steps and ragged intakes of breath, and that’s all it takes. The bottom of his foot lands solidly on your chest and he pushes with a force that likely cracked several ribs, knocking you to the ground. His own chest heaves with exertion, walking forward to stand over you and you can see the way he struggles with restraint, unused to leaving an enemy alive after a fight. 

He opens his mouth to speak and hesitates at the last second. Blood trails down your chin, shadowing a grin that gives him pause in his victory, but not long enough to stop the words from falling out of his mouth. “Fair and square.” 

“I said disarm me,” 

He puts the pieces together too late. 

The knife still clutched tightly in your hand that wrapped around where he stood slices through the back of his ankles on both feet and he drops with a scream. Crumpling to the ground, the Thenn grabs at his bleeding feet, attempting to staunch the blood that flows around his fingers and pours onto the ground below him. You’ve risen to your feet in his panic, swaying slightly as your head gets caught up in the dizzy waves of a concussion. Luckily your adrenaline still pumping through your veins is enough to keep you standing long enough for him to look up at you and lock eyes one last time. 

Your knife finds its home in the small space between the side of his collarbone and neck, right where it’s still soft and relatively easy to drive it as far in as it will go. You push until the heel of the knife clinks into bone and he finally collapses below you, ripping the hilt from your hand in his fall. He lets out one final choked off gurgle, eyes rolling back and lids closing and he’s dead. His and your blood stains your hands and clothes, a messy watercolor of death.

Now that the fight is over your body threatens to collapse, hands on your locked-up knees to keep from hitting the ground. Eyes slammed shut in an attempt to limit the way the world spins on his axis like a top and warm large arms wrap around your middle to vault you into the air. 

The earth shakes below you, but maybe that’s just Tormund in his raucous laughter and shouted words. “I told you all! Mine doesn’t need anyone for anything! Only needs me around to fuck them ‘til they cry!” 

Heat blooms in your face at his exclamation to the surrounding crowd, your hand smacking into his shoulder feebly. You doubt that even with all your strength you could do much to the man beyond a bee sting, but he grunts in fake pain at your strike just to indulge you. “I don’t think I need you for even that, I did a pretty good job at doing it myself before you came along.”

“But I do it better.” 

His almost crystal blue eyes meet yours and he’s wearing that shit-eating, Tormund Giantsbane, wolfish grin. The one that probably earned him the name Tall Talker if you had to guess. The look is more familiar than even your family and you can’t help but mirror it back at him in your own way, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

“Aye, you uncivilized great behemoth of a man. You do it better.” 

Tormund connects his lips with yours, quickly licking into your mouth to deepen the kiss, drinking you down. He gets the satisfaction of the taste of you and the bitter clash of your blood that only spurs him on until his hands are fisted in your shirt and you’re whining into his mouth, almost grinding onto him from your place in his arms. 

His hold on you only tightens until he pushes on your cracked ribs and you jerk away from his touch with a broken gasp. You drop your head to his shoulder, breathing slowly through the sharp pain until it passes, slipping back into the gentle throb it sits at as a baseline. Tormund presses a kiss to your forehead, one hand softly running up the line of your spine in comfort, already walking towards your shared home. 

“Let’s get those clothes off and I can see just how hurt you are.” He says, pushing aside the door and kicking it shut behind the two of you. He sets you down on the bed delicately, not wanting to cause you anymore pain and you smile up at him standing above you. 

“I’m fine really. Well– I might have a concussion.” 

“I’ll get you taken care of my pretty little crow. Then I’ll make you cum on my tongue so many times you cry. Seeing you kill a Thenn has me harder than I think I’ve ever been in my life.” Tormund speaks the words like they’re normal, a casual conversation and mention of murder being sexy. Of course you’re sure a big part of the whole sexy-murder thing has to do with his hatred for Thenn’s and the specificity of your victim. Not that you’ll complain, or turn down the offer. 

[just-some-random-blogger]

Okay so here’s my request for a blurb…💕

Think of that one scene where Tormund is talking to the hound about Brienne but instead of Brienne it’s the reader (fem Y/N). The readers a hard woman and hasn’t given in to Tormund because she’s secretly with Sandor.

So basically the hound being jealous that tormund is into his woman.

Preferably NSFW if it’s too long to get to NSFW no worries.

⭐️( PS: i love your writing for the hound, barely anyone else gets it right!)

Save Me A Bowl

"A pretty thing for a pretty thing," Tormund says, holding up a small flower, not yet bloomed. I raise my brows at the white bud, "do I look like a thing to you?"

Sandor Clegane x Reader x Tormund Giantsbane | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, jealousy, whipped!Tormund, fluff?, casually implied sex, typos, etc.

A/N: UR NOT ABOUT TO CATCH ME SLIPPIN ON MY POST STREAK. Once I post this, I'd have finished all my requests which is such a slay for this girl 🥹🫶. It has been quite a while since I got this req tho, so I hope you enjoy it nonnie 🫶 also.... I haven't actually reached this part of GoT yet HAHAHAHAHAH it's fine tho I think I know enough to write it lmao

Sandor was not very affectionate, at least not in the noticeable kind. In truth, neither was I, though I suppose it's because you don't really have the time to think about such things when there was a war at hand.

However, I would say I didn't shy from checking on him, nor from asking him to accompany me. I definitely didn't shy from going out of my way to sit next to him, nor from leaning into him when it got too cold. The same could be said about him, I think.

In my opinion, my relationship with Sandor was rather obvious, though we never spoke about it, especially on the multiple accounts I've announced I'd be heading back to my tent and have the Hound immediately follow after me. If anything, I thought it was at least crystal clear what we were up to after the fact.

This was why I turned to Brienne when Tormund began harking nonsense. She and I had been huddled by the fire, finishing a bowl of soup when he came around.

"Is he trying to seduce you?"

"Don't look at me," says Brienne in between spoonfuls, "I am not the one he directs such gaudy poetry to."

I raise my brows as I turn back to Tormund who immediately smiles at me. I find myself sparing a smile back just to get his oration over with.

Ever since then, Tormund went out of his way to tire my ear with the sound of his voice, telling me tall tales of his life and his people. To be honest, I didn't mind it. In fact, I was partially entertained by some of his stories.

Showy as he was, he was harmless for the most part, and so I just let him do what he wanted. Eventually, his yapping would earn him a bowl to head and a threat to shut his trap. It worked out for me the men had much less patience for him than I did.

Little did I know, Sandor just about lost his patience with him.

I have to stop eating so I can get a laugh out of my system. The orange haired man laughs with me and concludes his story. He sighs, "you're the only fun one on this side of the fucking wall."

I shake my head and continue eating my food, "you mistake my tolerance of you as solidarity with your humor."

"Yet you laugh," Tormund raises a thick brow.

I shrug and swallow a mouthful before replying, "because you are fool."

"Fool enough to make you laugh," he says, standing from his seat beside me. He seems to look for something in his pocket.

I barely spare him a glance as he tells me, he's forgotten something, "I'll be right back."

Just as he runs off, I see Sandor and smile at him. He seems not to notice me and sits in a spot across from me. I immediately stand and come up next to him. I sit next to him, "took you a while."

Sandor ignores me.

I nudge him when he does not respond.

He side eyes me then begins to eat.

I raise a brow at his ignorance, "has something happened?"

He grunts then snaps, "why don't you ask that ginger fuck."

I frown.

"You seem keen of his company," Sandor glare, "you even laugh at his rancid jokes."

I furrow my brows.

Just then, Tormund comes back. He looks for me a moment, then beams when he spots me.

He runs up to me and Sandor; I feel Sandor stiffen against me.

"A pretty thing for a pretty thing," Tormund says, holding up a small flower, not yet bloomed.

I raise my brows at the white bud, "do I look like a thing to you?"

"The prettiest thing in the south," Tormund grins.

I release a breath.

I look over my shoulder and realize Sandor has stopped eating in lieu of glaring at Tormund. I'm about to speak, but I'm beaten to the chase.

"Fuck off, filthy minge," Sandor growls.

Tormund turns to him. His upper lip curls, "I wasn't speaking to you, smelly mutt."

Sandor stands and the two impose upon each other.

I immediately set my bowl down and step between them. I push them both on their chests, but neither budge. I hiss, "enough."

"You heard the woman," Tormund says, "get lost."

"I-"

"She was talking about you, you yapping fuck," Sandor snarls.

Before they can jump at each other's throats, I step back and yell, "ENOUGH, I SAID."

Sandor and Tormund stare at me.

"It's been a long day," I snap, "I'm not in the mood to soothe two whining bitches."

Tormund nods, "right!"

I narrow my eyes, "Tormund-"

"Yes?" he immediately retorts.

"- fuck off."

He opens his mouth but is too taken aback to say anything.

"You've been too busy picking flowers to notice that I'm with Sandor."

Tormund stares at me blankly.

"He's the one warming my tent."

He is aghast.

Sandor's face is blank, but he seems otherwise pleased as he sits back down and continues to eat.

The ginger steps forward and reaches out, "but I-"

"Keep your fucking hands to yourself," Sandor stands again, "if you know what's good for you."

Tormund glares at Sandor.

I sigh, "I told you you were a fool."

Tormund deflates. He walks off silently.

Sandor pulls me by the arm as he sits, sitting me down next to me, "good fucking riddance. Finally some quiet."

I roll my eyes at him, "you know," I pull my arm away, "this wouldn't have happened if I-"

"Fucked you harder?" he says in between chewing, "aye. I know better now."

[axelsagewrites]

Hi I was just wondering if you were gonna write more tormund real man or if it was a one time thing it's really good

Tormund*Use Your Words

Pairing: Tormund x f!northerner!reader

Word count: 1537

Warnings: f!recieving oral, m!recieving oral, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pull out method, teasing, praise, dirty talk, a lot of swearing, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Part two to real man (here) or read as a stand alone

Being the lone woman of the wall had its challenges but with the threat of winter and the night king someone had to be here to stitch up the wounded and most of these men simply did not have your expertise. All of the men were grateful to have you stitch up their wounds and receive even just a smile however they knew they’d not survive long if they did anything else.

When lord commander snow agreed to your stay, he also agreed to give a swift punishment to any man who tried take it too far. Something neither of you had accounted for was when you would have to take care of the wildlings.

Well one specifically. Tormund teased you every time you entered his room, well prison really. His taunts made you blush and squirm under his gaze but never in a way that made you feel threatened. Instead, you would get a strange warm feeling spreading through your stomach when he’d make comments to you.

They got bolder with time. at first, he would make vague suggestions of things a pretty girl could better spend her time doing. Now when you entered, he didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes tore over your body. “One day you’ll grow sick of those boys,” he said as you applied the ointment to his now almost healed wound, “When you do, you’ll know where to find me,” he winked at you as you turned to stash the lotion back in your bag.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to him, catching him obviously staring at your ass, “Subtle,” you hummed, turning your attention to your bag once more as you tried to stall for more time. you had grown oddly found of the Firey red head.

“Never been accused of subtly,” he said, laying back down on his bed, his eyes scanning your frame still, “If you don’t ask you don’t get,”

“Oh yeah?”

He hummed with a smile, nodding his head, “Oh yes little bird. You’d be surprised how much you can get when you just use your words. You should try it sometimes,”

“And what is it I would ask of you?” you laughed, turning round with hands on your hips.

Tormund grinned, pushing himself up on his elbows, “For a proper fuck from a real man not some pretty boy like Snow,”

You couldn’t help the flush that stained your cheeks, but you could turn away from him, “Me and Jon are just friends,”

Tormund barked out a laugh, “Please. that boy would give his left arm for a chance with you,” he said as he went to stood up, “now you gonna stop pretending to be busy and look at me?”

“Who said I was pretending?” you said as you closed up your bag and turned to face him, trying to keep the tough look on your face. “I should go now,” you went to walk away but his hand shot out to grab your wrist.

It was gently enough that you could have pulled away but instead you only turned back to face him, “But you don’t want to go, do you? you want me, just as much as I want you,” he said, stepping closer till your chest was pressed against his as his other hand moved to the small of your back, “All you need to do is admit it little one,” he leaned down, his breath fanning your ear, “All you have to do is ask,”

You weren’t sure what happened but something in you snapped and suddenly his lips were on yours and your hands were in his hair. Tormund groaned into the kiss, moving back till he was sat on the bed, pulling you down to straddle his lap.

His hands moved to your hips, tugging at them to make you grind down onto his clothed hard member. you moaned into the kiss, allowing his tongue entry. Your dress had soon bunched up around your waist allowing Tormund’s hands to move down to squeeze your thighs, all while your hips continued to buck against him.

Just as you seemed to sink into a rhythm you were shocked once more by him flipping you onto your back while his lips began kissing down your neck. He squeezed your tit over your dress while he began to grind his hard on into your leg. “We shouldn’t,” you murmured, your eyes flickering close.

“Oh, but we should,” he grinned against your skin, “Tell me you don’t want to and ill stop,” he said as his hand moved to run up your thigh. You gasped when you felt his fingers run soft circles over your clit, “But your pretty little sounds make me think otherwise,”

You moaned when you felt his fingers slip into your hole, stretching you out perfectly, “So wet already,” he teased, nipping at your skin with his teeth.

Your eyes shot open when you felt him moving down, “What are you doing?” you asked as you felt his breath fan your wet cunt.

“Trust me little one. Let yourself enjoy it,” he said.

You’d been raised your whole live to distrust the wildlings but when you felt his lips wrap around your clit all while his fingers curled inside you, all that went out the window. He moved your thighs over his shoulders while his tongue worked wonders on your bundle of nerves.

You felt your thighs begin to clamp around his head and you were about to try pull them away encase you hurt him when you felt the vibrations of his moan shoot up your clit, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Tormund,” you couldn’t help but moan his name.

Times like this you were thankful Tormund lived in a room so far from everyone else since you didn’t have to hide your moans. You felt a knot in your stomach tighten and it didn’t take long till you felt yourself come to your peak on his face, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he kept going till you felt yourself sink into the sheets like melted snow and kept going till a second orgasm raged through your body.

When he came up for air his face was slick with your juices and there was a large grin on his face as you gasped for air, “Fuck you really are sweet,” he said, his lips crashing onto yours again.

“Please,” you moaned against his lips.

“Please what?”

“Fuck me,” you practically whined against his lips that soon curled into a smirk.

Tormund wasted no time in unlacing his trousers, “I’ve dreamt of you asking me that,” he said, pulling his hard cock out and running the tip up and down your slit, “Kept me up all night thinking of you,” he said, pushing the tip in,  “how you’d look under me,” he said, his eyes screwing shut as he pushed further in, “how good you’d look falling apart around my cock,” he said, pushing the rest in with one final push.

He waited a moment for you to adjust but when he felt your hips begin to buck, he wasted no time in grabbing your hips. His pace was ruthless but after being stretched with his fingers and fucked by his tongue it was exactly what you craved.

Your legs went to wrap around his waist and Tormund groaned when he felt himself sink in deeper. “Fuck you take me so well,” he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck as his hand slipped between your bodies to rub harsh circles on your swollen clit.

You couldn’t help the moans falling from your lips especially when you felt your third peak fast approaching, “Don’t stop,” you begged him, over and over as your legs tightened around his waist.

This only seemed to drive him more insane as his hips began to snap at an almost inhuman pace as he fucked you into the bed so hard the headboard banged against the wall with each thrust, but the noises didn’t matter right now. “Cmon,” he murmured against your skin, “Cum around my cock like a good little southerner,”

You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that you were a northerner through and through, but you couldn’t even speak as your third orgasm hit you. Tormund felt your cunt squeeze around his cock and knew he couldn’t take it any longer.

He pulled out, moving quickly to sit beside you and before you could question him you felt his hand tugging at your hair. You knew what he meant and quickly wrapped your lips around his cock. He moaned loudly as you took him into your mouth, and it only took a couple seconds before you felt hot cum shoot into your mouth. You swallowed it quickly before pulling off to sit up beside him.

Tormund was panting as he tried to come down from his high as he turned to you with a fucked-out expression. “I’m a fucking northerner by the way,” you said, cutting him off when he went to speak.

A smile curved onto his lips as he laughed, “You’re fucking something alright,”

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[batsbratsandbarbedwire]

If you think you're having a bad day, just remember my current fixation is a rare pair.

[vampirepirates]

THE LONG WINTER — SANDOR CLEGANE.

Masterlist:

author's note + cast list

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5

CHAPTER FOUR — BECOMING.

Have you ever gotten     everything you ever

wanted?           No, but I got very close         —            once.

Maesters flew in and out of the small room as another fit of wailing rang through the air. Jon, a boy no older than three now, had come down with the Pox. An illness that could take any man it wished, let alone a defenseless babe. Lyarra hadn't slept in weeks, knowing that any moment could be his last. She did not fear contracting the illness herself, only the thought of being away from him. Catelyn had not left his bedside either — a fact that Lyarra found surprising all things considered. She had despised the boy, and made it clear every time he had entered the room. Lyarra tried her best to not hold it against the woman, reasoning that if the roles were reversed, she would be the same — however untrue that felt. But at that moment, Catelyn wouldn't take her eyes off of the boy. If Lyarra looked close enough, she could almost see a flicker of guilt within them.

True to her word, Lyarra raised the boy as her own. He was a Stark in all but name. Ned had taken the boy as his son, having him taught among the other Stark children. During the days, Jon would train alongside Robb — the two, thick as thieves. Oftentimes they were joined by Theon, the remaining son of Balon Greyjoy — whom her brother had taken on as a ward. Yet, Theon did not seem to care much for Jon. Nor vice versa, however young they may be. A flicker of resentment coursed through Lyarra whenever she saw the two interact, yet she knew it was foolish to despise such a child. Theon felt just as much of an outsider as Jon was made to be, yet he was all but accepted wholly as one of their own. The Greyjoy boy, however, had no such luck. When Robb had other duties to attend to, Lyarra would spend her evenings training the two boys.

She'd become proficient with a blade, only further improving after the years of war. Benjen had taught her throughout the nights for years, and oftentimes they would not cease until the sun began to rise. Eddard had initially not been pleased with this arrangement, nor Catelyn for that matter, but Lyarra would listen to no such argument. After the death of her sister, Lyarra demanded that she not be married off like a prize — as Lyanna had been. Regardless of what it meant for the family name, she would not have her fate repeated. It had been an uphill battle to convince him, but after years of begging — he'd reluctantly agreed. Lyarra Stark was not to be wed to any man against her will, nor was she to live anywhere beyond the walls of Winterfell.

Benjen, however, had left their ancestral home within a year of Ned's return. The day that he told Lyarra he was swearing himself to the Night's Watch came as no surprise. She'd been expecting it, dreading it even, since the Tourney. The moment his eyes filled with light once he'd heard of the Watch, she knew it was only a matter of time. Lyarra was not losing Benjen properly, yet it felt to her as if she was. He would not return for some time, and never with haste. She did not make him promise to return home in due time, only that he would answer her ravens. In so little time, he had grown to love Jon as she had. The feeling seemed mutual, as Jon oftentimes would wake and instantly begin to search for the older man. She dreaded breaking the news to the boy. That one of the only men who accepted him as he was, intended on leaving — with no return in mind. Lyarra did not watch as he left, nor did anyone ask her to. She'd had quite enough of goodbyes, all things considered. Instead, she locked herself away in her chambers — reading some fable of nonsense to her boy.

Jon was not a difficult boy. His heart was too big for his own good. More than once, Lyarra had observed him giving up his own blade so that the younger children of Winterfell could have a turn to spar. Lyarra did her best to steer him in a proper direction, so that he would learn to love not only those around him — but himself as well. However, the boy seemed self-sacrificial even from a young age. He would do anything for his family, regardless of the fact that they likely would not do the same for him. His nights were spent in Lyarra's chambers, a fact that was decided the day he'd been brought to Winterfell. Within a days time, he had a small cot in the corner of the room facing her own. He'd only found his own separate quarters when Old Nan had been moved to a smaller room. Jon's absence made the room almost suffocating. The first night that he'd slept outside of her room, for the first time in years Lyarra found herself sneaking out of the castle.

The path to the clearing had become overgrown with years of neglect, yet the road itself was still engraved in her mind. Once the stump was within sight, Lyarra's gaze trained in on it, yet she hesitated when light came into her view. There in the center, stood a fire. A campfire, at that. Surrounding the flames sat four clear figures, with two resting at their side in heaps of furs. Wildings, she thought with a shiver. She'd never seen one, not with her own eyes. Benjen's ravens described them as beastly creatures, more animal than man. They raped, pillaged, and slaughtered as they saw fit. However, as Lyarra watched the figures dance about around the flames — singing gleefully in a tongue that she did not understand, she couldn't help but think they were just people, as she was. Her observation was cut short when a rough, calloused hand grasped the back of her furs. She was pulled into the light, then, and at once all raucous ceased. Instead, each and every head — even the ones who were previously asleep, turned to gaze at her in wonderment and distrust.

The hand who had drug her belonged to a boy who couldn't be more than eight years Jon's elder. His hair was bright as fire, with light-blonde wisps painted throughout the mane. His eyelashes were white, something that Lyarra was not quite certain she'd seen before. The most memorable thing about the boy, however, was how tall he stood. He was large for a boy his age, seeing as how he'd almost matched Lyarra in height. However, he carried himself as if he were a giant. Once she'd seen enough of him, her head whipped back to the surrounding crowd. No one had spoken, the forest eerily silent beyond the crackling of the flames. Lyarra's throat was dry, and she resisted the urge to cough with a heavy breath. All at once, the silence of the night was broken. Another man stepped forward. One with a thick, matted brown — maybe blonde, in some lights — braid, reaching down to his lower back. He had the marks of an older man, however his eyes still held youth to them. She did not doubt that he was her elder, yet not by much. He leaned then, narrowing his eyes as he moved into her space.

"Who are you?" His accent was rough, as if he were only trying the words out for the first time. She did not doubt that he was not entirely fluent in the Common Tongue, but he was more sure of himself than someone speaking an entirely foreign language would have been. His inquiry brought a grimace to Lyarra's lips, as she furrowed her brow at him.

"No one. Just a traveler passing through. I apologize for disturbing your night, my friends." Her voice was elevated higher than it should have been, betraying the fear lying in wait. Her hesitation only probed the man further, as he knelt in front of her face — taking her chin into his hand. They sat like that for a moment too long, the man scanning over her features while Lyarra did her best to not shiver at the intensity of his gaze. The boy with red hair was still holding her arms back, though he'd loosened his grip at the glance of the man in front of them.

"A traveler with the mark of a Southron house on her clothes," he poked at the wolf that had been sewn into her leathers. Originally, Eddard had protested when she decided she no longer wanted to dress as a lady of the court. Yet, as she had with most things, she did it anyway. He only allowed her to do so properly once she'd agreed to wearing her furs overtop them, alongside having their crest sewn into all that she wears. "'Stark' isn't it? The wolves?" Lyarra searched his tone for anything akin to mocking, but his eyes were imploring her to speak. He was curious, above all else. Once she'd realized that he'd been waiting for a proper answer, she tugged out of the boy's grasp to stand on her own.

"What does it matter?" Her question came before her tongue could catch it. Remembering herself, Lyarra's eyes widened but a fraction. This only further amused the man, as he stood to face her properly. He looked over her once again, this time taking in her full form.

"I'd like to know when a wolf enters my woods. A pretty one or no." His words caused a ripple of snickers to echo through the camp, though a snap of his head silenced them just as quickly. Her breath caught in her throat, choosing to look at those surrounding her rather than the man who'd been addressing her. His stance wasn't threatening, however, instead his arms were wide as if to welcome her. "I am Gogni, of the Free Folk. Gogni Frostbiter, to those among us."

Lyarra raised a brow as he continued. She wasn't surprised that the Free Folk despised such a title as 'Wildlings', though she'd never known one to outright claim it the way he had. He seemed proud, and for once she'd found herself envious of a stranger. Gogni, as he'd introduced himself, belonged with the Free Folk — he knew his station, claimed it with honor. Lyarra had never had the chance to do that. She often felt like an outsider in her own house, in her own body even. It was then, that she'd noticed the beat of silence stretching across the came. She'd been staring at him, observing him, for far longer than what was deemed appropriate. With a light cough, she turned her gaze back to the dirt.

"Lyarra Stark, if you must know." After a moment, she willed herself to step forward — glancing around at the clearing that she'd come to know as a second home. "What brings you here?" Her question was met with an impatient raise of Gogni's brow. He seemed unimpressed by her, and the thought almost had her retreat into herself consciously. Lyarra stood tall, raising her chin as if she weren't perturbed by his judgment.

"Are these your woods? Did you plant these trees? Were you here to watch them grow?" Gogni approached her, then, his gaze bordering on something predatorial. Lyarra could not will herself to meet his gaze, instead choosing to focus on the distant flames — the familiar crackle of the heat. "Answer me, Wolf. Are these woods yours? Have you claimed them as your own?" Before she had the chance to move, Gogni grabbed her chin — all but forcing her to face him. His eyes narrowed in on her, as her breath escaped her in one powerful sweep.

"They're not any more yours than they are mine." After but a moment came her biting reply. Gogni had almost seemed enthused by her reaction, leaning closer into her space. He was examining her then as he had before, searching for something within her that she was not entirely sure she had possessed.

"Very well, then, my Little Wolf. We'll share them." His words held a question within them, an expectance of her cooperation. She'd had no choice in the matter, if she chose to think properly, however she found herself dreading the thought of their absence as well. She felt watched, uncomfortably scanned over — and yet she did not feel wholly unsafe. For once, the gaze of a man did not make her shrink back, rather she felt empowered.

That night, she sat with the Free Folk by the warmth of their fire. They did not return to dancing and singing as they had before, but they were not hesitant to speak with her. The respect she had given them had seemed to go a long way within the group. They'd offered her food, meat from what appeared to be some large woodland beast — but she'd denied it with a light wave of her hand. The boy from earlier sat by her side, telling her every tale he could think of. He told her of the Giants he'd seen, of the beasts he'd taken on already. All things considered, Lyarra was half convinced the boy had enjoyed hearing himself talk more than anything. All the while, Gogni had not taken his eyes off of her. Lyarra did her best to not shrink under his gaze, yet the intensity of it made it difficult to pull her eyes away from.

Not long before the sun came up, the Red-haired boy had made his departure. She watched as he left, taking note of his thunderous steps. It was a wonder the rest of the camp had managed to sleep as soundly as they were, when he all but stomped around.

"Tormund." Came a voice from across the fire. As Lyarra dragged her attention back to it, she noticed Gogni staring back at her. "He likes you. Called you She-Wolf when you weren't listening. He's loud, and a bit of a fool. But he's not easy to gain the approval of." His words were hushed, and Lyarra found herself leaning closer to hear him properly. After a beat, he'd stood up for just a moment before properly placing himself at her side. Their knees were touching, and the heat swarming off of him was enough for her to lean into his side as unnoticeably as she could.

"He's.. an interesting boy." Came her eventual reply. Gogni picked his head up quickly as if he wasn't expecting her to answer. Again, he searched her eyes — looking desperately for something that Lyarra found herself wanting to help him find. He looked at her then, as if she had fascinated him. The thought brought heat to Lyarra's neck, and she did her best to avoid his stare.

"Will you come back?" He'd asked, once the sun had begun to properly rise. He helped her to her feet, his rough hands clasping onto her own with fervor. She'd held onto his hand for a beat too long, before retreating backwards. She'd need to make her trip home with haste, if she was to return before anyone noticed her absence. As she turned to make her way back, she found herself pausing just before the tree line.

"Will you be here?" Lyarra found herself questioning underneath her breath, turning back to face the man who had not moved an inch. He met her question with a grin, barring his teeth as if he were a beast himself. He did not attempt to move any closer to her, yet even from his distance Lyarra found herself suffocating.

"For you, my Little Wolf? I'll be here."

"Then, yes. I'll come back."

True to her word, every night once the moon began to shine over the stone of Winterfell, Lyarra would sneak back through the forest. Some nights Gogni would not talk to her much at all, instead tending to those in his party. Those nights, Tormund would not leave her side. As Gogni had told her, he'd taken to calling her 'She-Wolf'. A title that in her mind, made little sense, yet she did nothing to question the boy. If there was one thing about Tormund, it was that he was sure of himself — even when he knew he was wrong, he was confident. A strange boy, Lyarra couldn't help but think.

Other nights, Gogni stuck close to her. Similar to Tormund, he'd tell her of life beyond the Wall. What it looked like when the stars would dance, painting colors through the night sky. Against her better judgement, Lyarra found herself longing to return with them, to see the painted sky for herself.

The numbers within the group often changed. Yet each time she'd returned, Tormund and Gogni would both stand there solemnly, awaiting her arrival. As if they knew she'd be too unfamiliar without them there, they did not dare leave the camp. After a few weeks, Lyarra had managed to convince Gogni to teach her to fight as the Free Folk did. She knew how to swing a blade as a 'Southerner' — as they had named anyone beyond the Wall — did, but she wanted to know more. She found herself valuing the power that women held in the Free Folk, at that moment, as Gogni did not do much more than grunt at her request. She'd even gone on to ask him to teach her their language, so that she could properly speak to the group. Gogni had been more hesitant with this request, but he conceded all the same. Though their lessons were far less frequent, she learned to greet him with common phrases all the same.

Lyarra found herself becoming familiar with the group at an uncomfortably quickened speed. Each time they'd returned, their expressions became less distrusting — less guarded, and more expectant. Tormund had taken to barreling into her the moment she came into view. At first, this had caught her so off-guard that she fell to the ground with a heap of Ginger on top of her. That time, Gogni had done nothing to help her — only chuckling with great power as she struggled to get the boy off of her. By now, however, she knew to expect the barrel of weight, and quickly matched it with her own energy.

Despite her frequent visits, Gogni never took to referring to her by her true name. Instead, she remained his 'Little Wolf. — or sometimes Lya'. He'd greet her with the title just as he bid her goodbye with it. She'd be lying if she said the words hadn't begun to bring a consistent rise of heat through her body each time she heard it. She'd felt for a man before. Petyr was not only her first friend, but the first boy that she'd found herself truly caring for. However, while Petyr was soft and familiar — Gogni was rough, and new. He was something to be explored, something she had yet to properly understand. Oftentimes she felt as if these feelings were matched with equal fervor, yet she ignored the thought altogether. For once, she'd felt as if she'd had a place among someone — and Lyarra was not willing to throw that away for 'childish' adoration.

Once her presence had become frequent enough, she'd been introduced to another member of the group. A babe, with blonde eyelashes and blue eyes — reminiscent of the boy she'd come to know all too well. She was Tormund's kin, no doubt. While she was not 'kissed by fire' the way that he was, her complexion was a mirror-image of his own. She couldn't have been more than a year old, yet when Lyarra began to question the location of the babe's mother, Gogni had silenced her with one dark look. Once the crowd had begun to file away, leaving the child in Lyarra's arms, Gogni had pulled her aside to explain.

Tormund's parents were gone, he'd whispered. Taken by the 'Crows' — a title that Lyarra had come to learn was bestowed upon the men of the Night's Watch. Her own guilt churned within her stomach, as she thought of the possibilities of her own brother being involved. However, his last raven had informed her that he had yet to travel outside of Castle Black — yet the thought continued to cloud her mind. After a while, Tormund had come to collect his sister. For a while, he sat by her and Gogni — telling her stories about who the babe in his arms would grow to be. In turn, she told him of her boy — of Jon.

"You'd like him, I think. He has a bigger heart than anyone I've ever met. Than any of us combined, I'd say." She spoke of her boy wistfully, yet she knew he was safe within Winterfell. The more she spent with the Free Folk, the more she found herself wanting to stay with them. Jon would fit in, she'd think to herself. He would find his place — and the thought that he would finally have one brought a glimpse of hope into her life. Tormund matched her soft grin with one of his own, paired with a gentle nudge to return her from her thoughts. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet, something that had struck Lyarra until his calm voice rang out.

"I'd like to meet him, then. If you'd let me." Once more, his tone was soft— something that she had not been entirely certain he was capable of. She'd agreed in that moment, but the more she thought of bringing Jon to the camp — the more reasons she had found against it. Jon was just a boy. He was not fit for travel, especially not for climbing over the castle walls. She found herself wandering down a dangerous train of thought, one that questioned even the loyalty of those around her. She'd learned to trust the Free Folk, even admire them as if they were her own — but Jon meant more to her than anything she had left. She wouldn't put the boy in any danger, regardless of whether she thought there was any to begin with.

"You think too loud, my Little Wolf. My own head hurts, even just by wondering what goes on in there." Gogni chose to make his appearance known, then, as he perched himself on a log beside Lyarra. Tormund had long since retreated into his own tent, taking his unnamed sister with him. He took a moment to look over her, as if he could sense her inner turmoil. Gogni placed his hand on top of hers then, spreading his warmth throughout her. He'd never flinched away from her cold complexion, and instead it almost seemed to draw him in further.

"I should be returning to Winterfell." Lyarra mumbled in greeting, all but avoiding his eyes. It was earlier than she'd left in the past, and she knew her words were hardly believable — and yet Gogni nodded all the same, standing as if to walk her to the tree-line. Just before they'd reached the edge of the camp, however, Gogni had steered her in a different direction. The sudden shift had Lyarra stumbling, leading to her harshly bumping into the side of the man. He'd only let out a slight grunt, however, and hadn't allowed it to deter him. By the time he stopped moving, they were standing in front of a fur tent. In her time within the camp, Lyarra had never been inside one of their tents. She'd had no reason to, after all. Gogni was still staring at her expectantly, before she begrudgingly threw one of the flaps open and marched inside.

Within a moment, he bounded past her to throw himself onto a pile of furs. In truth, she had become too used to his antics to startle, and instead she chose to place herself down lightly beside him. Noting the contrast, Gogni had let out a harsh chuckle, before he pulled the girl down beside him. After a moment, Lyarra collected herself enough to sit up properly, shooting a harsh glare at the man.

"You're too tense, Lya'. All you do is think." With that, he poked her forehead with his pointer finger. She'd flinched at the contact, but only after the fact. Gogni leaned further into her space, only stopping once the two were close enough for their breath to mingle. "Let yourself be free, my Little Wolf. You deserve it." Lyarra had only shook her head at that, pushing herself backwards with her elbows so that the two had more space.

"I'm here with you now, aren't I? I'm free." She'd muttered, after silence had stretched throughout the tent. Gogni titled his head as if he did not quite believe her, and he took another moment then to lean back himself.

"Only, you're not here, are you? You're somewhere else. You always are. You're never here with us. With me." For the first time, Lyarra heard true aggravation sneak into his tone. The thought caught in her throat, but she did her best to not allow her trepidation to become apparent. She did not fear the man before her, nor had she ever been given a reason to. Yet she found herself tensing all the same, turning then to avoid his glare. Again, Lyarra could hear nothing but her own breath — her chest heaving with tension.

"I don't like being away from Jon." She'd whispered finally, her voice carrying through the furs of the tent. Gogni met her gaze then, imploringly serious. To her knowledge, he'd had no children of his own. However, his stare carried a level of understanding within it. For the second time that evening, he covered her hand with his own — rubbing the tips of his fingers against the lines of her palm.

"Tormund is right, you know. You can bring him here. No one would dare come near the babe. I wouldn't let them." His tone carried a level of finality that Lyarra knew she could trust, and she found herself leaning into his warmth in the slightest. Part of her longed to give into the man, to allow his protection as well as his adoration. She turned to him then, taking in the intensity of his stare. As if sensing her thoughts, he moved closer into her space, repeating his movement from before. His intentions had never been more clear, as his eyes were all but trained on her lips. Yet, Lyarra leaned out of his path all the same.

"I would not ask that of you," Lyarra whispered, her gaze trained on the furs beneath them. Absentmindedly, she ran her fingers through them, allowing her mind to wander as she thought of what sort of beast it came from. It was only when Gogni grasped her chin in his palm, pulling her to face him — that she allowed her mind to go properly blank.

"You're not asking me, my Little Wolf. You never ask me for anything. I doubt you ever will. I am offering." The pad of Gogni's thumb raised then beyond her chin, swiping across her bottom lip in exploration. The touch made Lyarra shiver, a fact that seemed to delight the man before her.

"Why am I here?" Her question came out harsher than intended, but when alarm flashed through Gogni's eyes— as he moved to retreat, she only pushed further into his space, grasping onto his hand so that it would not move from her lip. "You allow me to walk with your people. To eat with you, to hear your stories. To hold your children. Why? What about me fascinates you so?"

Gogni paused then, not as if he hadn't been expecting the question — but almost as if he had been considering it himself. With another swipe of his thumb, his palm came to rest against her cheek. Lyarra found herself leaning into his touch, pressing into his warmth.

"I've never known a wolf to accept her cage as willingly as you have. You did not fight when we labeled you a 'kneeler'. You so eagerly named yourself 'Stark'. And yet, I see in your eyes what I see in the eyes of my people. You want to be free. You want to belong." His words were quiet, thoughtful. Emotion bled through them, as he rasped. "We can give you that. I can give you that, Lyarra Stark, if you let me."

Lyarra would go on to claim that she had a decent amount of self-restraint. Yet, in that moment, she only waited for Gogni to stop speaking — before she lunged to the man, pulling him against her lips with fervor she was not aware she was capable of. It felt as if fire was meeting water. Simultaneously warmth was flooding her body, while ice crept to meet it in equal power. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but Lyarra found herself chasing it all the same. She'd never kissed a man before, and as their lips properly met one another — she was grateful for that fact. Grateful that her first moment of passion was with him, and not a lord that she hadn't chose herself.

The two repeated the motion for what felt like hours. Lyarra only pulled away to catch her breath, leaning against his forehead with a heavy push. Unknowingly, she had found herself perched in his lap — a fact that only further brought pink to her cheeks. Gogni had let out a hearty chuckle when he'd noticed, moving to recapture her lips as his hands gripped her waist. However long they'd sat tangled in one another, he made no attempt to move further. Instead, he'd flipped their position, leaning into her space as she laid on her back against the furs. After a moment, he'd placed one final kiss against her lips, before he climbed over her — placing himself beside her.

A silence had stretched through the tent once again at that, however unlike the previous times it was not an awkward one. This silence was comfortable. Lyarra couldn't help but move further into Gogni's chest, placing one hand on him while her neck curled into the crevice of his arm. She wasn't sure how long the two laid by one another, only the sudden weight on her chest. As her eyes began to droop, she vaguely heard Gogni mutter beside her — promising to wake her before the sun rose.

With the birth of more true-born Starks, Lyarra found herself growing increasingly guilty every time she'd left Winterfell in the night. Robb did not often leave his side, but when he did he wouldn't return for what felt like hours. The Greyjoy boy often trailed after him as well, leaving Jon on his own. He had never claimed that he minded, instead choosing to spend his time with Lyarra as they would have normally. Yet, she saw the hurt lingering in his eyes nonetheless. He wanted to be a proper Stark. To be Ned Stark's true son. As he grew older, he'd only become further aware that this was a fruitless dream.

Each night before she left, she would spend but a minute watching Jon sleep — only leaving once she'd properly seen the consistent rise and fall of his chest. One night she'd returned just before the sun rose, as she normally would have, only to find Jon perched on her bed — staring at the door, as she crept in. His presence was enough for her to jump out of her own skin, before she calmed herself with a palm to her chest. He couldn't sleep, he'd told her. He had a nightmare, and when he'd come to look for her she wasn't there. Once she'd coaxed him back into resting for the remaining hours of the night, Lyarra found tightness creeping into her chest. She felt the tears before she'd noticed they were coming at all. Since that night, Lyarra did not allow herself to leave until she was certain that Jon was asleep.

The more she visited the camp without Jon, the worse she felt. Oftentimes she did not leave Gogni's tent, save for listening to Tormund's rambles by the fire. She spent her evenings encased against the man's chest, as he spun his own stories for her — detailing anything he could think of. Some nights she would cry in his arms, the guilt of leaving her boy behind overtaking her. Each time, he'd reason that she was welcome to bring him — and still she would ignore that fact, choosing to burrow further into his chest.

One evening, Gogni had seemingly had enough of the repetitiveness of their talks. He'd offered to walk Lyarra back to the walls of Winterfell, so that she could retrieve Jon and bring him back to camp. The moment that she let out a light laugh, she knew she had done something wrong. Gogni tensed, moving to push her off of his lap in an instant. Gogni took her amusement as mockery, and Lyarra could do nothing to argue against the point. His ideas were outlandish, possible only for a version of herself that was not as scared as she was for the fate of her boy. The two had fought throughout the night, yet Lyarra did her best to not allow her voice to raise above a whisper.

Once she had returned home just before dawn, Lyarra allowed herself a moment to think. She'd began to trust Gogni with her heart, why couldn't she trust him with that of Jon's? A man who had never appeared to be anything but caring — strong enough to protect them both. The rest of her day was spent fantasizing about what their life could be, if she grew the courage to flee with him. Their lives could mean something. They would have positions of importance among the Free Folk. They would be free. Eddard may never forgive her for being the cause of the loss of both of his sisters — but he'd be begrudgingly gladdened to see her finally happy, she reasoned.

That night, she took a moment longer than necessary watching Jon peacefully sleep. His nose was twitching, black curls ruffling as his breath came sharply through his nose. She'd bring him in the morning, she decided. Her night would be spent with Gogni, if not solely to get his approval — to fully rally herself for the decision ahead. The trip beyond the walls of the castle was familiar as always, but Lyarra felt herself holding her head high for the first time. By the time dawn had arrived, she would never have to sneak beyond these walls again. She would be allowed her freedom.

As she approached the tree-line, she couldn't help but notice the overwhelming heat bursting from within the forest. Her skin felt hot for the first time, goosebumps met with an unsettling mixture of warmth. However, the light was the first thing she properly noticed. Similar to the night that she had been introduced to the clan, she could recognize the rising flickering of flames in the distance. Instantly, Lyarra picked up her speed ten-fold. In but a moment, she had reached the opening within the trees. Each and every tent was in flames, with furs strewn about. There were corpses littering the dirt, corpses of Free Folk that she had come to know well.

As she scanned through the rubble in horror, her gaze trained on one familiar bloodied figure. Gogni. Before she could stop herself, Lyarra rushed to him, running her hands over him to search for the cause of his pain. Instead of being met with a pained expression, however, Gogni was all smiles. His teeth shined so bright that the blood dripping into his mouth was impossible not to notice.

"Ah, ha— My Little Wolf. A lucky sight, for a dying man." Gogni rasped, blood spitting from between his teeth as he bit the words out. Lyarra couldn't bring herself to do much of anything besides grasp onto him. Her words were stuck within her throat, bile rising as tears began to burn down her cheeks. "Come, Stark. It's alright. Don't weep for me." He raised his hand to her cheek, and similar to their first contact — Lyarra jumped into his touch. She held his palm against her face, pressing him closer.

"What happened? Who did this to you?" Lyarra felt her focus slipping, her vision quickly becoming hazy with tears. For the first time in her life she had found true freedom-- true joy, and now it was being stripped from her. A selfish thought, as bodies littered through the camp— yet it was stuck in her mind anyway. She lifted his tunic then to visit his wounds, but halted her motions when Gogni moved his hand to place over hers. With a sharp nod, he interlocked their fingers and moved them back to her cheek.

"Crows. Came in the night. I was waiting for you, by the edge of the tree-line. Should've been here. But, after last night. I wasn't sure.." Gogni trailed off then, looking beyond her to gaze at the rising flames. She couldn't stay much longer. She knew that, as well as he did. Yet she made no movement to leave, instead curling against him. He let out a light grunt at her actions, but quickly placed his hand on the back of her head — petting her hair, as she couldn't help but wail in his arms. "Lyarra, you can't stay here. They'll be back, and they can't see a Stark with us."

"I can't just leave you," She argued, sitting up then only to glare at the dying man before her. She knew, then, just how much she still wanted to tell him. How little she'd been able to express, as it was. How was she meant to leave him to die alone? He would never have done that to her. He would have sat by her side, cradling her head as he did now. Tormund would've joined him as well, no doubt. A flash of horror flickered through her at the thought of the red-haired boy. "Tormund." Lyarra breathed, and in an instant she watched as familiar terror ran through Gogni. He was their leader,  the protector of their clan— and here he lied in a pile of his own blood, with no true idea of where his people were.

Before she could think better of it, Lyarra was on her feet. She tore through every fur she could find, even the ones littered with flames. She did not dare to stop, until she heard grunting in the distance — followed by the clashing of steel. In an instant, Lyarra chased after the sound. There, just beyond the trees stood Tormund, with a babe in one arm and a blade in the next. Lyarra rushed forward then, grabbing a forgotten blade on the ground before slashing towards the man Tormund had been fighting. After a moment, horror dawned on Lyarra — as she realized the true extent of what she had done. As the man fell to the ground, she recognized the black cloak coating his shoulders. He was a 'Crow', a man of the Night's Watch. One of her people, no doubt. However, as she turned her attention back to the boy with red hair, she couldn't feel guilt rise to her chest. Tormund wobbled on his feet, as Lyarra rushed to catch him.

"Thought you'd left us for good this time, She-Wolf. Didn't expect to see you back here." As far as she could see, there were no lasting wounds on Tormund. He had only a few cuts littering his cheeks, ones that would no doubt leave a scar — but weren't fatal by any means. Nonetheless, she held the boy's face in her hands. Before she could do much else, she was met with a harsh shove — and a thick bundle placed in her arms. There, sat Tormund's sister. Lyarra glanced up to the boy, who now stood tall with a blade secure in his two hands. "Take her. Take her back to your prissy lords, and your cunt of a king. She'll be a kneeler, but at least she'll be alive. And tell your boy, I'm sorry. I would've liked to meet him." With that, Tormund bounded off into the direction of more Crows. She wanted to call after him, clawing at her throat to force some sort of plea to come out. Yet, she could only watch as the remainder of the camp ran off with him.

As the flames continued to rise, Lyarra forced herself to scramble up— a difficult feat with the babe nestled in her arms. By the time she had returned to Gogni, the light had already faded from his eyes. She sank to her knees beside him, leaning to place one final kiss against his solid temple — a prayer in the Old tongue falling from her lips. Once she made her way out of the camp, exhaustion overtook her. Lyarra all but sunk to her knees, leaning to rest against the stone walls of Winterfell. At that moment, the infant in her harms began to rise— cooing to capture Lyarra's attention.

Her sharp blue eyes were the first thing that she noticed about her. Her hair was thin, wispy blonde streaks curling around her temple. She was Jon's opposite in everything but stature. Explaining the babe in her arms would be more difficult than fleeing with Jon in the night would have been, Lyarra thought to herself. She couldn't claim that she was hers, nor could she find a reason to argue for her presence in the first place. The only thing she could hope to do was beg Eddard for her right to stay. Lyarra would stop at nothing to heed Tormund's wishes, to protect the girl in her arms with her life.

All at once, she'd remembered that the infant still had no name. She scoured her memory for anything fitting, any Free Folk name that would suit her. After a moment, 'Reyne' came to mind. It wasn't a common name, nor was it something that stood out unnecessarily. Reyne babbled at that moment, grasping Lyarra's finger in her small palm.

It was ironic, in truth, that Lyarra's only two children weren't hers at all. And yet she would stop at nothing to ensure that the two had a safe life— that they would never struggle. She'd hesitated with her own chance for freedom, but Lyarra would give her life to give her children the right they deserved.

So. That was a lot. Two more of the main characters were introduced.. and then one of them instantly died. Please forgive me. If their relationship seems a bit rushed, it's because it is! Lyarra has never had a proper run-in with love before this moment. Petyr is something else, something way.. more complicated. And yes we have young Tormund! Something I need to preface is that this will have Jon/Tormund as a secondary ship. It won't be the focus, and if you truly despise the pairing you can ignore their sections. But it will be more relevant as the story progresses, especially through the later chapters. To this point, I feel the need to mention that the relationship between Lyarra & Gogni is meant to be a parallel to Tormund & Jon in a way. "My little Wolf, My little Crow, etc." They're very dear to me.

From now on, every chapter will most likely represent one episode. There will be episodes that she won't be present, but for the most part I will try to stick to the show. This fic will likely be a fix-it, so there will be parts that differ from the source material. I am very excited to officially start the proper show-focused part of it. I hope you've enjoyed it so far, and as always feel free to leave any kind of comment below.

Thank you,

Zevran.

[whore-tm]

moodboard for…

‘Good winter, I’ll be with you’

by @yabakuboi

fandom: Game of Thrones

pairing: Jon Snow/Tormund Giantsbane

word count: ~ 30k

rating: Explicit

tags: Post Series Finale, Spoilers, canon compliant, hurt/comfort, slow burn, (domestic) fluff, falling in love, depression, explicit sexual content, sexual exploration, internalised homophobia, suicidal ideation, past Jon/Daenerys, past Jon/Ygritte

summary: Jon follows the wildlings past the wall and into winter, never expecting to find anything more than a snowy grave and the quiet death of the North.

Read here on ao3!

[eviesaurusrex]

Rewatching Game of Thrones and feeling the urge to write something for Tormund.

Well, okay, brain. Interesting and unexpected turn of events 👀

GIFs not mine but I love them, especially no 2 had a special place in my heart xD

[tciddaemina]

new typesetting project, my time travel!jon series i woke upon the dawn. probably not going to print it for a mo because i need more backing paper for my hard covers, but hey, at least i've got the typeset done (minus the proofreading, fuck i hate the proofreading)

[coldhomee]

a beast of a burden

Jon, it calls again, toying. If he had a heart still, it would beat in sharp fury. Snow? It asks. Stark? Neither anymore. Neither, it agrees. Suddenly, a sharp pain. Jon, the voice warns, welcome home.

Jon Snow, after death.

1/?, 1,910 words

Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow

Rating: Mature

Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Resurrection, Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Religion, Angst

hi, this is my first time writing for got. this fic will explore jon's resurrection and hopefully be my next large project for a while. please rb and comment if you enjoy 🌾

[sprintingfox]

New fic is out! Zokla (Theon Grejoy x OC) is available on Quotev, Wattpad, and Archive Of Our Own!

-

Past full-length ASOIAF fics (completed):

1. Breaker, Broken (Targaryen OC x Jorah Mormont)

2. Ursa Major (Umber OC x Tormund Giantsbane)

3. Northern Sun (Lannister OC x Robb Stark)

-

Past ASOIAF one-shots (found in the Sprinting Fox: Unwritten book):

1. Targaryen OC x Aegon Targaryen II (HotD)

2. Targaryen OC x Otto Hightower (HotD)

3. Lannister OC (DARK HotD AU) *easter egg of this found in my Robb Stark fic!*

4. Storm OC x Jon Snow (GoT, very brief, no interaction, only fic set-up)

5. Targaryen OC x Jacaerys Velaryon (HotD)

6. Lothbrok OC x Daenerys Targaryen (GoT / Vikings)

-

Future ASOIAF fics:

1. OC x Viserys Targaryen (GoT S1 - onward)

2. OC x Yara Greyjoy (GoT S1 - onward)

3. HotD OC (HotD S1 - onward) *no true love interest + may have darker themes*

-

Potential One-Shots

OC x Cregan Stark

OC x Rhaenyra Targaryen

[katherinewinchester13]

I'd be a fearless leader

I'd be an alpha type

When everyone believes ya

What's that like?

I'm so sick of running as fast as I can

Wondering if I'd get there quicker if I was a man

And I'm so sick of them coming at me again

'Cause if I was a man, then I'd be the man

I'd be the man

I'd be the man

★∻∹⋰⋰ ☆∻∹⋰⋰ ★∻∹⋰⋰ ☆∻∹⋰⋰★∻∹⋰⋰

archiveofourown.org/series/1504532 🔒

★∻∹⋰⋰ ☆∻∹⋰⋰ ★∻∹⋰⋰ ☆∻∹⋰⋰★∻∹⋰⋰

★★★★★

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ °° ∆ -------- ••• ------

In Progress ❌

7 Stories Complete 💯

Words:286,156

╱╲❀╱╲╱╲❀╱╲╱╲❀╱╲╱╲❀╱╲╱╲❀╱╲╱╲

SHIPS 🩷

Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow

╲╱❀╲╱╲╱❀╲╱╲╱❀╲╱╲╱❀╲╱╲╱❀╲╱╲╱

DESCRIPTION

The Winter's Queen

An AU where family still counts for something in Westeros, where a queen is crowned, and where the pack survives.

▅▄▃▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▂▃▄▅

[shushmal]

Chapter 14: a fleeting beating of hearts

He sits with Tormund’s ghost everyday, waits for his final breath and wishes he could ask Tormund to hold him just one last time.

Read it here!

[thomasisaslut]

GoT/HoTD Masters-List

ONESHOTS

Jon’s Thoughts || Jon Snow x Tormund Giantsbane

STORIES

N/A

[axelsagewrites]

Tormund*Real Man

Pairing: tormund x f!reader

Kinktober Day twelve: exhibitionism with Tormund – while wildlings talk freely about sex Tormund enjoys watching your blush at even the mention of it making it even more fun to tease you when you come to tend to his wounds

Word count: 2003

Warnings: this is actually technically not smut aka no sex but there is heavy teasing, mentions of sex, heavy flirting, flashing, and physical descriptions.

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

When you escaped Winterfell, finally fleeing from Ramsay’s grip, you headed straight for the wall, straight for Jon. You had been close friends growing up, always lurking in the shadows with him or chasing after Robb. However, you were also trained in medicinal herbs by your mother, a servant who couldn’t just call for a maester when someone grew ill. So, despite his worries Jon agreed you should stay and help tend to the fallen.

What you hadn’t expected was being sent to tend the wilding. You had been locked away during the battle, for safety more than anything so you were shocked to learn when Jon fetched you that he had taken a hostage.

“He’s in pretty bad shape,” Jon warned as you walked the corridor with him down to a storage room that had been converted into a cell of sorts for the wilding. “I don’t think he could hurt you if he wanted but I’ll be every second,” he had assured you as you tentatively stepped into the room.

“Crow,” a hoarse voice came from the corner of the room. Jon held up his torch, revealing the wildling. He was big, that’s for sure, and his hair was almost as bright as the Tully’s. a scraggly beard covered his face and a grimace behind it, “Came to finish the job?”

“Not quite Tormund,” Jon said, stepping closer to the wildling who spat at his feet, “I brought help. She’s a healer, well the closest thing we have to one,”

The man looked passed Jon, his cold blue eyes looking straight at you leaving a strange feeling in your gut. A smirk slowly crept on his face, “She’s a pretty one alright. Guess if I have to die, I might as well go with a pretty face looking at me,”

You were grateful for the poor lighting, hoping it disguised your blush as Jon hushed the man. Jon turned back to you while you tried to ignore the way Tormund was staring at you, “Do you need anything?”

You glanced to the man before your eyes quickly met Jon’s again, “More light,” you said quietly, “I can’t heal him in the dark,”

“Great idea lass,” Tormund pipped up, his voice making you jump when you realised, he was listening, “Can barely even see you in this shit hole,”

His jabs were ignored by Jon who soon lit another couple torches in the room and finally you were able to see him properly. As you walked over you could see blood seeping through his clothes, leaving dark patches, “Um I need to see your wounds,” you said, your voice quiet and plagued with stutters.

Tormund grinned at your words, “Trying to undress me already? Your southern women are forward crow,” he teased Jon who was quick to remind him he was a prisoner here. Tormund rolled his eyes as his hands reached for his top, but you noticed his winces and knew it was no use.

“Here let me,” you said, pulling at the fabric, trying your best not to blush or embarrass yourself as you slowly manoeuvred the fabric over his head.

“Like what you see?” Tormund asked, his eyes glued to yours as you tried desperately to not show that you did.

Instead, you turned your attention to his wounds. The top of his arm was badly wounded, you wondered if an infection was already growing from the sight of him. A few more scratches covered his bodies, and a particularly nasty slice went across his stomach. “I’ll need to clean these,” you told him, pulling out a cloth and treatment for his wounds, “this might sting,”

“Fuck!”

--

You had to check on him at least three times a day to check his bandages and wounds since your suspicion was right and an infection had begun to creep in. at first Jon took you each time but when he was busy he would send another in his place but as he prepared for a greater threat you assured him you would be fine.

After all each time you went it was the same routine. You helped Tormund take off his top layers, changed his bandages, applied new lotions, then more bandages all while he shamelessly flirted with you. at first each sweet word or lewd suggestion was met with blushes and stuttering but it had oddly become a welcome routine for you though you never responded to his flirts.

“Morning Tormund,” you greeted as you unlocked the door and entered his cell.

He was sat on his bed, finally feeling able to do more than lay down, with his shirt already off, “I thought you’d forgotten about me,” he grinned as you moved to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling out your supplies.

while the sight of his bare chest had made you blush originally you had seen it so often the affects had worn off. However, as you were changing the bandage on his arm your eyes glanced down and you felt your skin heat up. At first you had thought he was only bare chested but as you looked down you could clearly see his naked hip, only covered by furs.

You glanced at Tormund for just a moment before your eyes darted back to the wound, trying your best to keep your breathing calm. Out the corner of your eye however you saw the cogs begin to turn in his head, a small smirk stretching onto his lips. “Are you alright little dove?” his voice snapped you back to reality.

You could feel your skin flush as you shot him a quick smile as you assured him nothing was wrong. However, his eyes watched you with fascination the whole time. “That one’s done,” you said, tucking the soiled bandages into a bag you had brought. “One second,” you told him as you went to shuffle back, allowing you to reach his stomach more easily.

“Allow me,” he grinned, shuffling up the bed slightly to give you better access to his midsection but also a new sight. you tried your best not to look but you found yourself catching a quick sight. the furs covered his manhood, but the new position meant it was all you couldn’t see. In fact, it was the most you had ever seen of a man.

As your hands moved to take off his next bandage you mentally cursed yourself for trembling, “Are you sure you’re alright?” Tormund asked, mock concern in his voice as his hand reached up to push the hair out your face making you shiver, “You seem very,” he paused thinking of a word before smirking, “flustered,”

“I’m fine,” you said again, trying to keep your voice steady as you reached for a damp cloth.

“Tell me something little dove,” Tormund said, using his favourite new nickname for you apparently, “Have you ever seen a man before? a real man I mean. Not just some crow boy,”

You paused for a moment, debating whether you should even answer his taunts, “No,” you finally stated as you reached for the ointment to apply.

You dabbed a cloth in it however as you pressed it against his skin you gasped as his hand wrapped around your wrist, “Do you want to?” he asked, a glint behind his eyes that only served to deepen your flush, “You southerners are so sensitive,”

“I’m a northerner,” you tried to say it firmly, but it came out like a child arguing about their bedtime.

Tormund chuckled, letting go of your wrist, “No little dove. Us northerners don’t even bat an eye at a little skin. Any free woman would already be climbing under these sheets. Whereas you,” he said, suddenly leaning forward to whisper in your ear, “you pretend as though you don’t want to see it,” he whispered, his tone taunting.

Your hand reached up to his chest, pushing hard back onto it. You knew he could’ve stopped you if he wanted to but he let himself fall back into the furs with a smirk, “I’m trying to work,” you stated firmly, reaching out to apply his treatment, “and if you don’t wish to have these wounds reinfected I suggest you let me,”

“Why do you care so much if I get better?” he asked, his head cocking to the side, “it’s almost as if you don’t want me to die. Tell me little dove, what is it you want?”

A thousand things came to mind but instead you only said three words, “To go home,”

The room was silent for a moment, Tormund nodded in agreement, “Aye, me too,” he said, and you wondered if for a moment he would be serious but yet again you were proven wrong, “But when I go home, which I will, I will tell all my men of the southern beauty at the wall,” he said, moving to sit up again but your hand shot up to push his chest back. His hand however just clamped over yours making it hard not to blush as he stared into your eyes, “and how I showed you how a free man fucks his woman,”

“I am not your woman,” you said, your voice quiet.

“Aye,” he agreed, leaning back into his furs, “but you could be,” he said, his hand gripping the edge of his furs, “don’t you want to know,” he asked, pulling the sheets down slowly, revealing more of his V line.

However, as your eyes wandered down his body, your mind racing as you tried to stutter out a no, the ointment pot suddenly clattered to the floor, slipping from your hand in your daze. You quickly turned to retrieve the pot, grateful very little had spilled however as you turned back you froze.

Tormund had pulled the sheets further down revealing his manhood to you. a heavy flush covered your face as your eyes stared at the unfamiliar sight. while you knew he was large you foolishly had not expected his manhood to match. It was hard, its tip red and desperate to be touched. Thoughts raced through your mind, but you had no time to act.

You tried to speak but all that came out was vague stutters until a knock at the door snapped your attention back and you quickly jumped off the bed. The door opened suddenly to reveal a very serious looking Jon, “I need you to take a look at Gilly,” he said, his eyes glancing towards Tormund.

You looked back at the wildling and released he must’ve recovered himself in your panic, “She’s not finished with me yet crow,” Tormund said, his voice far gruffer when he spoke to Jon instead of you.

“Aye well she’ll be back later,” Jon said, stalking across the room, “I’m sure you can wrap this around yourself,” he said as he tossed a bandage out your bag at him before he turned back to you with an expected look.

You nodded, quickly gathering your things as Jon moved to wait beside the door, “Goodbye pretty girl,” Tormund whispered as you packed your things, “If you ever want to know what a real man feels like you know where to find me,” he added as you finally were able to walk away.

Jon shot you a questionable look as you rushed out the room, your cheeks flaring up when you heard Tormund calling after you, “Until next time little dove,” he called making Jon slam the door, locking it quickly behind him.

“Is he bothering you?” Jon asked as he led you towards Gilly’s room, “If you feel you need an escort all you need to do is ask,” he said.

Jon looked at you with a mix of concern and confusion written on his face as you considered his offer before shaking your head, “I can handle him,” you said however you wondered if you were right, but you did know one thing. Tormund was officially stuck in your head.

Taglist: @clairacassidy @nyotamalfoy  @valeskafics

[yell0ws0ul]

TORMUND FUCKING GIANTSBANE YA'LL!!!!

THIS MAN😫😫😫 HE IS SO DAMN FINE AND HIS VOICE.... Ahhh his voice makes my knees go weak🤤

I'VE READ EVERY SINGLE TORMUND FANFIC OUT THERE I CAN'T BELIEVE PEOPLE BARELY WRITE FOR HIM😭 PLEASE PLEASEEEE CAN SOMEONE WRITE FOR MY MAN🙏🙏🙏

He might be a ginger but he would take great care of you... In many ways iykwim😉

AND ONCE HE'S IN LOVE WITH YOU, HE'S IN LOVE!!! THIS MF WILL WORSHIP YOU LIKE YOU'RE A GOD/NESS😻

[vampirepirates]

THE LONG WINTER — SANDOR CLEGANE.

Masterlist:

author's note + cast list

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

CHAPTER SEVEN – LORD SNOW.

when i was a girl, i fell into your arms. we

fell on hard times — and lost our bright colors.

you went to the dogs, and i lived by my charms.

The south is no place for a wolf, Lyarra had come to realize. The moment that she had been advised to remove her furs, she began to take note of her own regret. Without them, she felt bare — open for all to see. She replaced them with clothing more suitable for the weather, but in doing so she had to remove her leather trousers as well. Thus, she'd had no choice but to remain on the carriage for the remainder of the journey — as riding her horse with a dress would have been all but impossible.

In all, the move was not the worst thing. She placed herself between her nieces, who still did all they could to avoid even looking at the other. Septa Mordane looked over her pleadingly, but Lyarra could not do much more than shrug. She had never met a pair more stubborn than the girls beside her. It almost reminded her of her own sister. She and Lyanna hardly fought, but when they did they would not speak to one another for days. Lyarra reached out to rub Arya's shoulder, who had only tensed at the touch. 

Their arrival at King's Landing had become apparent by the foul scent that rushed through their noses. Winterfell did not often smell pleasant, as Lyarra was sure most cities did not, but it failed to rival to this. She contained her disgust with a grimace, leaning back only to cover her nose with her sleeve, as imperceptibly as she could. Arya, however, made no such move to contain it. She gagged loudly, to Septa Mordane's dismay. As the carriage came to a stop, Lyarra watched as her brother dismounted his horse. Jory followed suit, holding the reins of both his own horse, and Lyarra's. Frost bristled at his touch, but seemed to calm as he ran his gloved hand through the horse's mane. 

"Welcome, Lord Stark." A voice declared, as a man approached Ned. As her brother took charge, Lyarra allowed herself to glance over the scenery. This was the furthest South she'd ever been. With each growing moment, she could only think of Brandon. How far had he and her father made it? The gory details had never been shared with her. Had he stood where she was now?

"Get the girls settled, I'll be back in time for supper." Eddard called out then, interrupting Lyarra's thoughts. In an instant, she was standing on her own two feet — brushing her dress down with haste. Ned met her gaze, nodding with resoluteness — a fact that comforted her only slightly. Jory guided the girls to their rooms, and only paused once Arya and Sansa had filed in. Septa Mordane followed quickly after the two, though she only lingered in Sansa's company. 

"My lady?" Jory questioned, tilting his head to point in another direction. Lyarra nodded herself, and within a moment followed a step after him. Jory had been beside her family for years now, longer than she could properly recall. The two had only spoke to one another a handful of times, but she cherished the man for how he took care of the girls. They were silent as they came upon a wooden door — further from her niece's rooms than she would have liked. In an instant, Jory was gone — turning on his heel to head back towards the Stark Girls. As Lyarra entered the room, taking in the decor — she found herself once again longing to return home. 

The quilt was thinner than she was used to, though she could not deny its comfort. In the corner stood a large stone window, with flowers littering the sides. It was a beautiful room, all things considered, and yet she felt more discomfort than she had in years. Before she could do much else, she was interrupted by a harsh rap at the door. Instantly, she relaxed. Eddard's presence would make the move easier. Only, as Lyarra swung open the door — she wasn't met with the solemn expression of her brother. Instead, a woman with dark hair and warm, tan skin — stood there, hands clasped with a timid smile. She couldn't help but furrow her brow at the sight. 

"Forgive me, my Lady. I did not mean to disturb you. I am to be your new handmaid. I thought it best to assist you in unpacking your belongings now, seeing as you just arrived." All the while, the girl did not raise her head — nor meet her eyes properly. The handmaidens in Winterfell were often shy, so it was not an entirely surprising sight — and yet she could not help her own frown. Lyarra ushered the girl in, clasping onto her arm comfortingly. She did her best to ignore how the girl had startled, and only moved to shut the door. 

"What is your name, my dear?" Lyarra questioned, moving back to stand in front of the girl. Again, she startled — though, she met her gaze at once. She seemed confused, as if no one had ever addressed her properly, or had spoken to her for this long. 

"Aianna, my Lady." The girl, Aianna, amended. Though she still appeared bewildered, she had seemed to relax in the slightest — her shoulders dropping almost unnoticeably. Lyarra nodded then, taking in the information. 

"Please, call me Lyarra. I'd much rather us be friends." Lyarra claimed, grasping onto Aianna's hands delicately. The girl tensed, but nodded all the same — a shy smile creeping onto her features. 

She'd spent the remaining hours of daylight alongside Aianna, as she begrudgingly allowed the girl to unpack her belongings. Lyarra was more than capable of the task herself, but she would not take no for an answer. In their time together, she'd learned only a handful of things about Aianna. She had only just turned Twenty the fortnight prior, though she seemingly did not remember much of her life before the Keep. She'd poured the girl a glass of wine instantly, though she'd been unsurprisingly turned down. Aianna did not seem to enjoy speaking about herself, but that did nothing to dissuade Lyarra. Once the sun began to sink below the peaks of the city, she'd requested that Aianna escort her to her nieces. The inquiry had given the girl pause, as if she'd never been asked such a thing before, but she complied all the same. As Aianna bid her farewell, Lyarra entered the room. 

Unsurprisingly, the girls were arguing — while Septa Mordane did her best to interrupt the two, though they paid her no mind. Arya was stabbing the table with her knife, as Sansa complained. 

"He's a liar and a coward, and he killed my friend!" Arya exclaimed, all the while poking at the wooden table with her knife. Once her presence had been noted by the Septa, the woman once again gazed at her pleadingly. Lyarra took a breath, meaning to step in — before she'd been interrupted by Sansa herself. 

"The Hound killed your friend," Sansa argued, narrowing her eyes at Arya's outburst. Lyarra couldn't help by sympathize with both of the girls. Sansa was only doing what she thought best. She couldn't argue with the Prince, even to defend her sister. While Arya was mourning the loss of her friend, and wasn't wrong in doing so. 

"The hound does whatever the Prince tells him to," Arya continued, her voice rising in aggravation. She couldn't help but agree with her niece, at that. Sandor was responsible for killing Mycah, but it was not an action of his own volition. She winced at the name they'd bestowed upon him more than once, but did nothing to argue against it. 

"You're an idiot," Sansa stated, finality ringing in her voice. Lyarra stepped forwards as Arya continued to argue, and the two startled at her appearance. Within a moment, the two were pleading with her to 'shut the other one up', which only caused her to pinch the bridge of her nose. As the two girls continued, another voice rang out. 

"What's happening here?" Eddard questioned as he stepped into the room. Lyarra continued her movement until she was sitting at Sansa's side, clasping onto her arm comfortingly. Sansa glanced over at her, her lip slightly quivering. Arya had made her way across the room, intending on fleeing before she noticed her father. Septa Mordane had gone to chime in then, before Lyarra beat her to it. She was in no mood to hear any of the woman's complaints. 

"What do you think, Ned? The girls are upset." She grumbled, doing her best to keep any venom out of her words. She was there to care for her nieces, not start fights with her brother. Eddard furrowed his brow, stepping forward to address his youngest daughter.

"Go to your room, we'll speak later." With that, Arya nodded and exited the room promptly. Sansa seemed to deflate with her absence, a silent sigh of relief leaving her in a wave. Though Lyarra could not fault her for her feelings, her heart dropped at the sight. She took her own seat, then, observing as Ned placed a gift in front of Sansa. 

Inside the wrappings laid a doll, with strings of red hair. The sight almost brought a laugh to her lips, before she contained it with a swig of wine. Ned knew nothing of how to raise daughters, but he was trying all the same. Though she found the gift itself humorous, something that was only strengthened by Sansa's disgusted reaction — the act itself filled Lyarra with warmth. Their father, Lord Rickard Stark, had never given her a gift of any kind. He was not a cruel father, but he was not often present. After the death of their mother, she rarely saw him — beyond important occasions. She found herself reaching out to grab the doll, passing it between her hands. As Sansa stood to leave, Septa Mordane was quick to follow. 

"War is easier than daughters." Ned claimed, rubbing his temple as he spoke. Lyarra couldn't help but nod, still holding the doll in her palm — as she thought of her own daughter. As a child, Reyne had been particularly difficult to wrangle. She had Tormund's energy, though she'd never met the boy. Her ferociousness was a mirror image of his. That on its own was trouble enough. Lyarra placed the doll back on the table, handing it off to Ned once more. As she stood, meaning to follow after Arya, he raised his hand — bidding her to take her seat. 

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd enjoy supping with family." He requested, his voice only wavering at the end — giving way to his desperation. Lyarra had been so caught up in her own discomfort, that she hadn't paused to think of her brother. He was just as out of place as she was. Lyarra nodded in an instant, taking her own plate of food as she sat to listen to Ned's description of his first small council meeting. The King intended for another Tourney, one that they didn't have the coin to pay for. The thought gave Lyarra pause. She'd only been to one tourney in her life, and while the event itself had been almost enjoyable — what came after was not. She couldn't help but think of Sandor, then. Would he be participating in the tourney, now that he was in a higher position? He was no Knight, but he was the Prince's bodyguard. She mulled the thought over in her mind, before she was met with the expectant glance of her brother. 

"I'm sorry, Ned. What did you say?" She questioned, mentally kicking herself for being so distracted. Eddard only huffed out a laugh as he repeated himself. He'd been naming those present at the small council. Renly Baratheon, brother of the King — Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Varys — whom Ned had described as 'The Spider', and just as he'd gone to continue, he paused. One look at the man gave way for the hesitation underneath. Ned did not want to name whomever the last member was. After a moment, he took a breath, wringing his hands with a cloth. 

"And Lord Petyr Baelish," He continued, eyeing Lyarra warily. In an instant, her gut plummeted. Petyr was here, in King's Landing. Ned had seen him, spoken with him. She had half the mind to consider her brother's hesitation, before she was on her feet. Eddard met her instantly, raising his arm to halt her motions. 

"Lyarra, it's the middle of the night. Please, just rest. I'll take you to him in the morning." He pleaded, and Lyarra saw then what he had been doing his best to hide. He was afraid. For some reason, Ned did not trust Petyr. He didn't want her near him. Lyarra took a breath before she nodded, agreeing to wait — against her better judgment. Eddard relaxed, at that. The walk to her quarters felt longer now that she had such a weight on her shoulders. Just before she'd reached the door, she noticed the figure ahead of her. Sandor was just passing out of view, before she called out for him, calling him directly by his name. He'd only paused at first, turning after what felt like hours. 

Just as he had gone to speak, another voice rang out — the familiar bitter tone of the prince. Sandor only glanced over her once more, the calm of his expression replaced by an aggravated scowl, before he followed after the voice. Lyarra took no longer than another moment before she entered her own quarters, harshly throwing herself on top of her quilts. The Prince and his party had traveled ahead, after what had happened at the Inn. Thus, she hadn't spoken to Sandor in weeks. She could just vaguely remember his words from the night before his departure. 'I'll keep you safe, Little Wolf', he'd promised. How was he meant to protect her when the two could not even be near one another?

 

The following morning, Aianna had been the one to wake her. She'd dressed her in traditional Southern clothing, braided her hair in a style reminiscent of the ladies of the court. Aianna had ensured that she looked 'beautiful', but when Eddard met her at the door — and nearly stumbled backwards out of shock, any shred of confidence fled from her. She felt as if she were donning another woman's skin. 

True to his word, Ned appeared just as he said he would — with the intention of bringing her to Petyr. Leaving the Red Keep was more uncomfortable than Lyarra would have expected. The moment they were on the streets of the city, tension rose within her. Eddard guided her up a series of steps, with Jory quick on their heel. They only stopped once they reached a small room, a comfortable one at that — with sofas and chairs littered about. Red curtains were strewn across the windows, giving way for a warm feeling within the room. Lyarra realized then where they were. She'd never been to a Brothel herself, but she'd heard numerous descriptions of the buildings from both Theon and Tyrion. As she turned to question her brother, she was met with an almost unfamiliar face. The man before her was sharp, tall and thin — with long features. Lyarra paused, taking him in. It was undeniable who the man before her was, and yet he seemed so different from the boy she'd known all too well. 

Lyarra did not give herself the opportunity to speak, and instead launched herself into the arms of Petyr Baelish. The first thing she'd noticed is his hesitation. It took him a beat before he wrapped his own arms around her, and even then it seemed an unusual motion for him. Dread built within her, as she forced herself to hug him tighter. She'd remembered then, all of what had happened. The boy had never answered her letters — had never even attempted to send his own, to her knowledge. As important as he was to her, she realized then how insignificant she might have been in his life. They'd only known one another as children, and even then it had been for weeks alone. As she reluctantly pulled back to face him, she was met with only an intense stare. Lyarra searched within his familiar eyes for some sort of sign of how he was feeling. It was then, that she realized her brother had slunk from the room — leaving the two alone. Petyr, as if sensing her thoughts as he had before, clutched her hand — bringing it to his heart. 

"My dear, Lyarra Stark. I thought I'd never see your face again." He rasped, age evident within his voice. She'd almost let out a sigh of relief at hearing his familiar tone, before she collected herself. 

"I could say the same for you, Lord Baelish." Lyarra parried, a mixture of mockery and admiration coating her words. However, unlike he had in the past, Petyr stood taller at her words — chin raising in his own mix of pride. Not that she could blame him. He had done exactly as he'd set out to do, he'd risen in the ranks until he worked directly under the King. She couldn't hold back the pride that blossomed within her, at the thought. 

"Please, call me Petyr. I dread the sound of such formalities, especially from the lips of a friend." Though he carried a level of confidence with him, the last few words were painted as more of a question than anything — as if he was ensure of his place in her heart. Lyarra only flipped her hand, squeezing his with fervor. The man before her was a mystery, that much was clear. He was not the boy that she'd cherished as a child, and yet she couldn't help the way her heart longed for him. 

"Now, Petyr, you must tell me of how a boy from the Fingers became the Master of Coin to King Robert Baratheon," She requested, taking a seat then — all the while pulling the man to sit beside her. His movements were delicate, wary in an unfamiliar way. Lyarra did her best to ignore it, as he began to spin his tale. She was unaware of how much time passed, reminiscent of their nights in Riverrun. The two sat side by side, telling one another of their lives up until that moment. Petyr was not just the Master of Coin, but also the head of the most successful brothel in the city. The younger version of himself would struggle to recognize him now, she couldn't help but think. Throughout their talks, Lyarra was quick to avoid the topic of her own letters. She didn't want to broach a sore topic, or worse — discover that he had been ignoring her ravens as it was. 

She was reluctant to say goodbye, as if she were afraid of losing the man all over again. And yet she did so all the same, kissing his cheek as she went. He quickly requested for her to return again, once she had the chance. After that, she took to visiting every few days — when she was sure he wouldn't be busy, with the Small Council or any other task. More than once, she'd met Lord Varys on his way out. The man's features were unique — with a bald head, and long robes. Each time, he would shoot her a wary, though not unkind, grin, before making his way back to the Red Keep, no doubt. Lyarra couldn't help but wonder what the two discussed, though she never outwardly questioned him. 

However, Lyarra couldn't help but question Petyr on the other happenings of the city. As children, the two would share everything with one another. Lyarra knew of every minor event that took place within Riverrun, solely because of how well Petyr was able to gather information. Only, he seemed reluctant to share his findings with her in King's Landing. Outwardly, this fact was not clear. Petyr Baelish's secrecy was impressive, and the blind eye would not notice the way he bit his tongue. Lyarra held no blind eye, however, and she knew the man well enough to tell he was not being forthright with what he knew. She did not allow that to give her pause, and instead she did her best to ignore it. It would do her no good, questioning him, after she spent years longing to return to his side. 

When she wasn't with Petyr, Lyarra was observing Arya's training. Unbeknownst to her, Jon had a blade made for Arya before they'd left Winterfell. A thin blade, with a thick handle — one that she had named 'Needle.' Through their previous training, Arya had never been permitted to learn with a steel blade. It was only when she began her 'Dancing' lessons, that she was allowed to use her new sword, something that almost had Lyarra's chest blossoming with pride. More than once, Lyarra had been asked to assist with her teachings. She was not accustomed to the style itself, but she knew how to hold a blade. Sansa, however, was more often than not searching after the royal family. She stayed at Septa Mordane's side, often sewing — or tending to something more ladylike than Lyarra had come to know.

Lyarra spent her nights in her brother's study, as the two poured over the work he'd been tending to. In truth, she'd rather have been anywhere else — but being by Eddard's side brought her more comfort than anything. More than once, she'd caught Sandor making his way through the halls as she'd left. Each time, the two would only share a few words, before he was forced to go chasing after the Prince. One night, in particular, he'd been posted at the end of a long hallway — noticeable only due to the torch hanging by his side, lighting up the unburnt side of his face. 

"Stalking the halls are you, Little Wolf?" He'd called after her, a light smirk only noticeable by the slight curve of his cheek. Lyarra couldn't help her own snort in return, as she made her way to him. 

"Aren't you meant to be tending after the Prince?" She'd questioned in response, raising a brow as the man seemed to tense. He only shook his head, glancing over towards a set of stairs. More than once, she'd seen him retreat up them — which allowed only one explanation, they lead to the Prince's quarters. 

"The King relieved me of my duty for the night. Said he'll be tending to the Prince for now." He grunted, the gruffness of his tone coating any emotion he might have felt. Lyarra only paused for a moment, before she nodded in understanding. Robert, though he'd often sympathized with Ned over his own family, did not have a kind heart. Especially with his Wife and children. Lyarra could only assume that another fight had broken out. As she took in the information, she glanced back towards the direction of her own quarters. 

"Would you care for a drink, then?" Lyarra asked after a moment, fidgeting with her hands as the silence crept on. Sandor seemed to observe her for a minute, before nodding himself. If the two lacked a common ground anywhere else, they found one with drinking. She found the act frighteningly familiar, as his heavy footsteps thudded after her own — the chain of his armor clinking behind her. Sandor stood at the entrance for only a moment, taking in his surroundings — before he all but threw himself down on a wooden chair. 

Once their drinks were poured, Lyarra took a seat across from him. Not unusually, the two were silent for most of the night. Had it been anyone else, she was certain it would be discomforting. However, the silence that transpired between the two had always been a comfortable one. She took the chance, then, to look over him. In the light spewing in from the moon, the right half of Sandor's face was clearer than ever. Though the burn marred a good portion of his features, she couldn't see what was so 'monstrous' about the man. Why so many feared him. Why the women of the Red Keep would whisper behind him, and flee at his gaze. In the light of the moon, Sandor was just a man — with dark eyes, and a perpetual pout. After another moment of looking him over, Lyarra came to a sudden realization that the eyes she'd been staring into, were now staring back at her. His expression was a mix of distrust and confusion, mirroring what it had been the day of the tourney all those years ago.

Lyarra moved then, whether to defend herself or apologize she did not know, but she was cut off by a harsh slam of Sandor's mug — and in a blink, the man was gone. She couldn't do much more than take a breath, in that moment. The two were not friends, by any stretch of the word, but she did value the man's company. He'd become a familiar presence in her life. Lyarra could only hope, then, that she hadn't scared the man off properly. 

The following morning, Lyarra made her journey to the brothel as she normally would have. Jory had long since stopped accompanying her, and rather his presence had been replaced by one of the Lannister guards. It was not safe for her to travel through the streets on her own, they'd claimed. By the time she made it to the brothel, the sun had reached its peak. The first thing she noticed as she entered the building, was shouting — a voice loud enough that she could hear it from the bottom of the approaching steps. 

"You take me for some back-alley Sally you can drag to a..." The voice trailed off as Lyarra threw open the door, stepping into the small room. She came to realize then that the shouting had been coming from her sister-by-law, Catelyn Stark. Her presence gave Lyarra pause, as she considered what it could mean. Robb must be watching over Bran in Winterfell then, she thought, unless he'd made his recovery already. Beside Catelyn, Ser Rodrik bristled at the sight of her — though he said nothing himself.

"Cat," She breathed, rushing to embrace the woman before her. She'd never been so happy to see the red-head in all her life. Catelyn returned the hug after a moment, though she stepped away just as quickly. She was tense, and still glaring holes into Petyr. Lyarra could only turn to the man in confusion, before pausing at his expression. To all eyes other than her own, the man appeared surprised — unexpecting of Lyarra's own arrival. She, however, knew better. Petyr was counting on her appearance, though for what reason she was not certain. 

"I meant no disrespect to you, of all people." Petyr stated, stepping forward while he raised his arms. Catelyn only let out a disbelieving scoff, crossing her arms indignantly. 

"How dare you bring me here! Have you lost your mind?" Catelyn exclaimed, stepping forward herself to argue further. Lyarra willed her mind to collect itself, but she couldn't control the speed it was moving. 

Petyr continued to defend himself, arguing that she'd be safe here — that no one would come looking for her. Lyarra could not do much more than grab Catelyn's arm, rubbing her thumb along the side of it comfortingly. The woman beside her had paused, at that, eyes wide as she took in the knowledge that Lyarra trusted the man before them. Their stare was only broken by the voice of another man ringing out. 

"Lady Stark," The man, Varys, called out as he stepped into the room. He paused then as he looked over Lyarra, though he did not look entirely surprised by her presence either. "Lady Lyarra," He addressed her, nodding in her direction as well. 

"To see you again after so many years is a blessing. Your poor hands," He remarked, reaching for Catelyn's hands — which Lyarra had only then realized were covered in cloth. She shot her sister-by-law a questioning look, but was only met with a sharp shake of Catelyn's head. She'd question it later, then. 

"How did you know she was coming?" Lyarra questioned, disbelief rising in her tone. As she turned back to glance at Petyr, she was met with an almost amused expression — though he swallowed it down just as quickly, giving way to his usual coy grin. 

"Knowledge is my trade, my lady. A fact that I'd assumed you'd know quite well, seeing as you spend your days with Lord Baelish." Varys stated, his blank expression never swiping from his face — despite the bite of his words. Lyarra was only further confused by his argument, but stepped back as the two beside her continued to speak between themselves. 

"Did you bring the dagger with you, by any chance?" As Catelyn glanced at Ser Rodrik questioningly, Lyarra could not do much more than shift the balance of her feet. 

"My little birds are everywhere, even in the North." Varys amended, as silence had stretched throughout the room. Catelyn nodded to Ser Rodrik, permitting him to unsheathe what Lyarra could only assume was the dagger they'd been speaking of before. With another glance to Petyr, who had not moved a muscle, she continued watching the scene unfold. After a beat, the dagger was placed in Varys' hands, who quickly examined in the blade. 

"Valyrian steel," He remarked, seemingly marveling over the sight. 

"Do you know whose dagger this is?" Catelyn continued, exhaustion clear within her tone. She was here for one reason alone, and would not allow the conversation to carry on unnecessarily. Varys hummed, pressing the dagger to the tip of his finger. 

"I must admit I do not," Varys announced, though he glanced over Catelyn's shoulder to meet Peter's gaze. He appeared solemn, resigned as he considered his own words. Petyr, however, seemed almost giddy. 

"Well, well, this is an historic day. Something you don't know, that I do." Lyarra whipped around, looking over Petyr in confusion. He met her gaze for only a moment, his smile falling in just the slightest — before he carried on, taking the dagger into his own hands. 

"There's only one dagger like this in all of the Seven Kingdoms. It's mine," He declared, his grin only widening at Catelyn's confusion. "At least it was, until the tournament on Prince Joffrey's last nameday." 

"I bet on Ser Jaime in the jousting, as any sane man would," He continued, all the while avoiding Lyarra's questioning gaze, "When the Knight of the Flowers unseated him, I lost this dagger." 

"To whom?" 

"Tyrion Lannister. The Imp." Petyr stated with finality. The words seemed to shoot horror through the woman beside her. At that, a dam broke within Lyarra. She'd had enough of dancing around her own confusion. She said as much, only pausing when Catelyn's own devastated expression became too pronounced.

"Only a few nights after you left, Winterfell was attacked," Catelyn explained, her words sending a spike of terror into her heart. "An assassin came in the night, with this dagger — to make quick work of my boy. To kill Bran." 

She broke free from her terror to glance at Petyr, whose grin had not dropped. His expression only faltered when he met Lyarra's gaze, but he seemed to correct himself just as quickly. 

"I am sorry for what you have been through, Catelyn, I am. But I know Lord Tyrion. He would never cause Bran harm, let alone make an attempt on his life." Lyarra claimed, grasping onto her hands with determination. Catelyn's mind had been made, however, and she did not meet her eyes. 

"How well can you know a Lannister, truly?" Petyr chimed in, his eyes boring into Lyarra's almost pleadingly. He wanted her to agree with him, to back up his story — take his side against Tyrion. The thought had her stomach churning. She wanted more than anything to blindly take Petyr's side, as she would have years ago. And yet in that moment she couldn't bring herself to do much more than gape at the man. 

Varys left only a moment after, taking one more glance over at the dagger — before meeting Lyarra with an uneasy look. Petyr followed suit, stating that Catelyn should stay as long as she saw fit. Lyarra sat by her for the rest of the morning, mostly in silence — though she'd asked after her daughters more than once. In return, Lyarra had asked about Reyne. The girl had still not left Bran's side, she'd learned, even standing in front of a blade to defend him. The thought had her melting with pride and fear in equal measure. 

Not long after, Eddard's voice rang through the building. Catelyn followed the sound quickly, peaking her head over the balcony to call after him. Lyarra followed suit, observing as he crowded Petyr against the wall — clasping a hand around his throat. The sight had Lyarra reeling, but he removed the pressure before she could say anything. Before Ned had made it up the stairs, she'd already stepped into another room — intent on giving the couple their privacy. Eddard, in his years since Brandon's death, did not shy away from his love for his wife. The two had more adoration for one another than Lyarra would have expected, and the sight of their love was enough to have her heart swelling. 

After another moment, Petyr stepped into the — -- almost silently placing himself at her side. She only looked over in his direction, before allowing her head to drop to his side — resting herself on his shoulder. Years prior the action would have seemed humorous, as he stood just below her in height — but now, he only slightly stood over her. After what had occurred earlier, Lyarra knew better than ever that she had no reason to trust the man at her side. That he'd changed into something she could hardly recognize. And yet, she couldn't help but think back to the pleading look in his eyes. He wanted her to trust him, to stay by his side. Against her better judgement, Lyarra continued to settle into his side — leaning further into him, as he hesitantly placed a hand on her shoulder. 

Despite how much the man had changed, she knew one thing to be true. In Petyr's heart, love for Catelyn still lingered. That much had remained clear, as he'd ensured her safety within the Capital. Much to Eddard's chagrin, she imagined, his love for her had not faltered. Lyarra couldn't help the bitter feeling that swept through her, though she did her best to swallow it down. 

Catelyn bid her farewell not long after, with Ned following in her wake. She'd pulled her aside, into another one of the brothel's many rooms — whispering under her breath. 

"Listen to me, Lyarra. Petyr is not to be trusted. He is no longer the boy that you or I knew as children." She claimed, only grabbing onto Lyarra's hands with more passion as she'd attempted to pull away. 

"He would never hurt me, Cat. I understand he may have changed, but that much is true as ever," Lyarra argued, bending her knees to look into Catelyn's eyes properly. The woman before her stood taller, shaking her head at Lyarra's words. 

"He may not directly cause you harm, but is it any better if he seeks to hurt those around you?" She continued, imploring Lyarra with her gaze. Her words gave her pause, as she took them in properly. 

"And yet you trust him well enough to take his word against Lord Tyrion?" Lyarra questioned, willfully ignoring the guilt churning within her. 

"I trust his word over the Lannisters, that is all." With that, Catelyn was gone. Lyarra stood there for only a moment longer, before creeping back to the main room. Petyr met her solemn expression questioningly, but she only waved him off. The path back to the keep was dark by the time she'd left, and she almost kicked herself for not waiting for Eddard. As she approached her door, she was met with a familiar face. There, standing a few feet from her door — was Sandor, a bottle of wine in hand. His brow furrowed at her expression, as Petyr's had, but she waved him off similarly — opening the door in one quick motion. He filed in after her, pouring her a drink alongside his own. Just as before, he did not speak more than once throughout the night. Lyarra, however, did not allow that to dissuade her — and rambled through the hours to come.

As Eddard passed by her quarters to bid her a good night, he paused at the sound of raucous laughter from within. For half a moment he'd waved it off, expecting it to be Petyr Baelish. However, the gruff chuckle he'd heard had not been anything close to a noise that Littlefinger could have made. This noise was deeper, more genuine. Just as quickly as he'd heard it, the sound ceased entirely. Eddard pinched the bridge of his nose as his mind wandered, questioning what his sister could have involved herself in now. 

 

Well. There's that. We introduced another character, and got a reunion! How great is that. Woo. So, a few thoughts. One, I love Aianna. I have decided to cast her with Angel Coulby (who plays Gwen in Merlin. So. Yes. Morgwen content) She's just a girl. Two, Catelyn's relationship may seem a bit different from her dynamic with Petyr in the show but that is very much intentional. In my writing, Catelyn does not have the same trust for him that she did in the show. Instead, Lyarra takes up that position. (Though she is obv very conflicted) Three, Sandor's characterization may seem a bit different from how he is typically portrayed, but that is also intentional? For one, the two knew one another as kids (sort of) and even then Lyarra never shied away from him. And also, Sandor is not the grump that a lot of people portray him as?? Within the first two episodes he literally laughs with Tyrion and tries to talk to Sansa. I feel like he becomes a lot more standoffish after everything that happens with Ned later on in the season, which isn't something that I see a lot of people taking note of. 

I think those are my main points for now.. Just know that I have a lot planned. As always, feel free to leave any comment below

Thank you,

Zevran.