#vale of white horse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jiminiecrickets · 4 months

Text

HEAVEN'S SHEATH. KTH / M!READER

summary. a wealthy lord's pacifist son finds friendship and affection in a poor soldier, unremarkable except for the fact that he is the lone survivor of a massacre. fate has different plans for them.

wc. 10k

tags. smut | top!reader, bottom!tae, virgin!reader with a big dick (lol), reader is described as tall/strong, descriptions of blood/injuries/death, sex while injured (reader), riding, multiple orgasms, 2/3rds is only worldbuilding oops im just like that!!

a cloud of dust billows beneath the heavy black hooves of a friesian stallion, sturdy and strong-chested. the well-travelled dirt path swings over rolling green knolls, past flocks of white sheep herded into valleys and heavy brown cows grazing along the hillside. the untouched countryside is marked by clusters of tall green trees along the road and they shade the large river snaking through the vale.

amongst the verdant growth, throned between the river and the hills, lies a large manor built strong with stone and brick. other buildings lay scattered around its feet, and life is most evident here – servants hurry about, ushering goats into their wooden pens and their young ones out of the way of the black horse's brisk high trot. the little children stare with big eyes up at the regal stallion's wavy mane, watching how it falls softly over its long neck with each step. it is a horse that carries great presence and elegance, and its rider is no different.

at the manor's grand front entrance, an older man stands in wait, both hands resting on a cane tipped at both ends with gold. his hair is almost fully grey. his steely eyes track the horse and the dust and pollen dirtying its fine feathering on the lower legs.

"you've been sorely missed, son," he says in an unreadable tone, light enough for politeness but darkened by his heavy gaze. "does wartime make for a better view?"

the rider dismounts, hushing the horse as it snorts and tosses its head, hooves stamping. it yearns for the freedom of the run. he pets its soft mane. his voice is deep and monotone with disinterest. "certainly. it's quieter."

the man's eyes narrow. "you left all the kitchen girls alone, who i know you've a fondness for. you should be at home to protect them, taehyung, not gallivanting off to paint your pictures."

silently, taehyung passes off the reins to the stablehand, and turns to stare up at his father from the bottom of the steps. he tugs off his kid-leather riding gloves and places them in the pocket of his navy blue coat. "what do i know of war and fighting? you were the general, not i. i'd say you are much better suited to protecting these frail women from suffering under the hands of conquerors."

"you are the son of a general," he replies sharply. "the youth must carry on what their fathers forged."

"hate and subjugation, of course," taehyung sighs, shifting his bag of paints in one arm and his canvas in another. "humanity's pinnacle."

"stay your wit, boy. you'll find no friends with it."

he slips past him through the open doors of the manor, his paints clinking in its leather saddlebag. "yes, my lord."

upstairs in a large, sunlit room, he sets it all down with a soft huff. he glances around at the canvases lining the walls, leaning against cupboards and drawers full of paint thinners and varnishes. portraits of one woman dominate most of them – slender, pale, with dark hair, full lips, and a soft curving nose. in some, she sits primly on a chair amongst vases of flowers and goblets of wine, and in others, on chaises in simple dresses with a needle and thread in her hands, glowing with the early summer light blooming behind her.

these are the ones hung up or placed atop chests of drawers. not one touches the ground – that place, on the edge between floor and wall, is reserved for simpler landscapes and still lifes.

"i remember i told you to take down those portraits. do you find joy in antagonising me?"

taehyung turns. his father stands on the threshold, cane by his side. after he returned from the last war with a limp and new scars, he has not worn any other colour but black.

he turns back to his saddlebags, indifferent as he slowly pulls his paints and brushes one at a time from the bag. "no. i find no joy in speaking to you at all."

his father's expression tightens. "i did not make her ill. it was chance and nature. your hatred of me will not bring her back, no matter how intense. it is time to move on, son. lingering on it breeds only worse things."

"'worse things'?" taehyung snaps, gripping a put of paint so tightly his knuckles turn white. "i am not one of your soldiers, so don't speak to me like one. i don't need your pragmatism, your war-bred heartlessness. all she wanted was you. all she asked for was you, and you never came."

he has had this argument many times over since that winter. it festers hot fury in his chest just thinking of it, and it has not burned dimmer with time.

he turns and approaches his father, eye-to-eye. he is not a boy anymore. he surveys him for a moment. "war may have reforged you, made you richer and cleverer, but it burned away all that she loved. you never once held her again, felt her breath on your cheek." taehyung brushes his knuckles over his jaw. he shakes his head and begins to walk down the hall. "don't touch those portraits."

back for only a few minutes and taehyung already cannot stand the solemn weight of the air within these walls. he pushes open the front doors with more force than necessary and wanders through the large, walled estate, stone brick encompassing the major centres of activity.

mindlessly, he travels past the cowherds and shepherds leading in the meat for supper, and the stablemaster tending to his friesian, and the beekeepers. he passes the wall and almost reaches the wheat farm.

hushed whispers float up from the riverbank. he stops in his tracks.

by the water, the girls and women who work with the granary from the farm are crowded around something on the bank. the linens of their dresses are dark with water up to their knees, where they hold it back.

he notices the expressions on the girls' faces – bright with nervousness and fear, but tinged with… curiosity? they whisper amongst themselves behind their hands.

he approaches, ducking under a branch of the oak they shelter beneath. "what is so interesting?"

they startle, several sets of eyes turning towards him. one of the older girls, about his age, drops into a fumbled curtsy. "oh, young master—! we weren't doing nothin' bad, sir, but we was hiding from the sun when we found something the lord sir might need know. we found 'im caught up on the root branches here."

him?

taehyung steps past her. his eyes widen.

a young soldier, skin tinged grey, lies on his back on the riverbank, the water lapping at his calves. his boots have come off somewhere in the water. he wears an unfamiliar uniform: a mixture of thick fabrics to stave off the cold adorned with a strangely-patterned leather jerkin.

it is a poor man's armour, he realises, made of what he can scrounge up and what fits from the garrison's armoury. despite his lack of wealth, taehyung can tell he is a big man – tall, strong in ways only a life of hard work can create. he is fair of face, too, handsomer than many young nobles taehyung has met. perhaps a blacksmith's apprentice, or a baker's boy?

"which… which army is he from, master taehyung? can you tell?"

the question awakens him from his daze. he blinks. "ah – bring him higher on the bank, get his legs out of the water. let me closer."

he crouches by the body, pulling at the heavy cloth draped over the torso. at the neck, where the cloth is bunched and rolled to pack in heat, he finds a small red patch.

taehyung sighs and presses the soaked cloth back into place. "this man is very, very far from home."

the girls glance at each other uncertainly. "what does that mean, master?"

"many years ago, his homeland was seized, and now his people are under southern rule. he was an infantryman. simple cannon fodder." with a soft exhale, he leans over the torso and pulls him onto his side to reach the lashes holding together his water-heavy coat. "perhaps i can bury him someplace high, so that his soul may be reminded of home."

the body jerks and chokes out a lungful of water with a ragged groan.

the girls yelp, stumbling back. taehyung would have had he not already been on his knees. his eyes widen as the soldier's face pinches in pain, eyes still shut. taehyung reaches for the oldest girl, gesturing frantically towards the manor on the horizon. "find my father and tell him what you've found! you've my permission to leave the farm and all of that – he's alive!"

—

it is dark. everything hurts. this is hell – this is punishment, eternal and unforgiving. this is deserved for desertion.

then – light. light rings against bone and flesh.

velvet. mahogany. silk and down.

there is a girl beside you, leaning over you. her linen dress is plain but clean with a white apron over it.

your side explodes with pain. you launch upright with a violent shout, gasping and clutching the hot ache under your ribs. cries of shock throb in your skull.

you blink, hard, eyes adjusting dizzily to the brightness of the room. your torso is wrapped in cloth, which you can feel flat and taut against your skin. your hand comes away clean, and for several unthinking moments, you wonder why. your thoughts are slow and heavy.

"you ought to relax, master," echoes a soft voice beside you. her vowels are round and elongated, the accent so different from your own that you barely recognise it, much less understand it. you stare up unseeingly at her youthful face, framed by dark curls held back by a bonnet. she steps forward, a damp sponge in her hand. that is why your limbs feel cold. "your injuries are quite severe."

"where am i?" you mumble, your tongue thick in your mouth. words are unfamiliar. "who're you?"

she glances up at the other maids, huddling by the door. she sets down the sponge and extends a hand, though you flinch from it. she does not try again. "you are in the northern highlands. hadria. my name is aemma."

"aemma," you murmur. the sounds are soft and round, like a river pebble. like a river, you realise, you are damp and naked, save for a single sheet of folded cloth across your lap. you feel your face grow hot and you clutch it close, folding your legs towards your body for security. "m-may i – where are my clothes?"

aemma gestures for one of the other girls, who quickly scoops up a folded pile of clothes from atop the chest at the base of the lavish bed. the rest of the bedroom is similarly luxurious, with a dark palette that soaks up sunlight to warm its wood. the walls are pale, though framed by polished wooden frames embracing the room.

"here," she replies. "the lord father has gifted you some riding clothes to wear in their stead. they were to be given to the young master when he turned of age, but…" she pauses. she shakes her head and curtsies. "you're to meet the lord father and his son shortly. we were to inform them when you were to wake eventually."

"eventually…" you trail off. "how long have i been here?"

"two days, master."

your head begins to pound. you cradle it, wincing, and reach for the offered clothes. they are clean and soft under your callused fingertips. "ah… i'm no lord, miss."

aemma smiles briefly, folding her hands over her stomach. "the lord father requires it, master."

you have no heart to push. in fact, you would much rather lay down for another two days, though knowing you are under the roof of a lord churns up too much fear to do so. if northern men were anything like southern ones, you would do anything to keep your name clean.

"i'd like to dress," you say softly, glancing briefly at the maids watching you from the corner of the room. "alone, if the lasses would allow it."

with another curtsy, aemma ushers the other girls out of the room and closes the door after them. you do not miss how they sent you curious glances as they left. she now stands where they once were, watching you with badly-disguised intrigue.

you clear your throat and feel your cheeks and neck blaze, folding the cloth around your hips tighter. "i'm sorry. i meant entirely."

perhaps it is your imagination, but you think you spot a tinge of pink wash over her features. she finds sudden interest in the knots and grain of the floor. "the lord father instructed that you were not to be left alone in case you required immediate medical attention. you are evidently still in pain, so i must protest."

"ah." you swallow, and your mouth is dry. "p-perhaps… you could turn around, then?"

she glances up, as if to say something, but eventually nods, bobbing in a small curtsy before turning to face the wall.

as quickly as your aching body will allow, you shuffle off of the bed and dress yourself in finer clothes than you have ever worn before. the cloth is soft and sits finely against your skin like a baby's breath. you are so used to abrasive linens that you almost feel more naked than before.

"you found my boots."

aemma turns around – she almost regrets it, spying the last sliver of skin before white cloth falls over it like the pull of curtains. it is more titillating than seeing the entirety of you bare. "o-oh – yes, one of the servant boys found them downstream."

"ah, thank you. and my uniform, miss," you glance up at her, leaning heavily against the bed poster to slip on your boots, "do you know what happened to it?"

"they're with the hold's tailor. i heard it took quite the beating."

"that could be said," you mumble, straightening up at last. your side twinges with pain, but you attempt a smile. "well, s'pose it's time to meet your lord. i've got to thank my saviours."

it is just turning to twilight, and the hazy golden sun on the horizon feels like little more than a memory. candles light the path past gold-spun tapestries and gleaming windows. aemma leads you to a grand dining room, reminiscent of castles and times long gone. she halts by the entrance, curtsies to you, and hurries away without another word, which you find strange as she had been a pleasant conversationalist when helping you through the halls and down the stairs.

"the soldier awakens at last. how do you feel?"

you glance away from aemma's retreating figure. at the head of the long dining table is an older man with sharp eyes and a natural severity about him. seated beside him is a younger man, around your age, staring into his plate with his hands folded in his lap. you step forward cautiously, and a male servant pulls out a chair on the older man's other side. the lord gestures at it, watching you carefully.

"well, milord; thank you," you answer, taking a seat and quietly thanking the servant who readied it in the first place. he bows but does not otherwise acknowledge you, his gaze on the ground as he slinks back into the shadows of the dining room.

"you were asleep for quite some time. my son doubted you would live." he gestures to the young man across from you, whose romantic dark curls are loose over his forehead. "i am glad you are feeling strong enough to join us for supper. i trust that the girls took care of you?"

"yes, milord," you reply, glancing over the table almost longingly. you swallow the saliva building in your mouth. silver platters are laden heavy with dark ox roasts, honeyed lamb shanks, roasted salmon fillets, sausages and baked potatoes, and braised vegetable stews steaming hot. ruby wine is poured into silver goblets. you have never seen so much food at once in your life.

"the war has yet to touch us. we have plenty to share," the lord informs, his voice almost kind. "how long has it been since you have last eaten, soldier?"

your throat bobs before speaking. "ah… four days, maybe, including my time spent here."

the man's brow arches. "your general did not feed you before battle?"

"no, milord. they ambushed us before our rations were due." you glance at the young man. he has yet to look up, or indeed even move. "we… had issues with our supplies. weevils in the grain, rats in the captains' meat. we turned from two meals a day, to one a day, then one every two." you pause. "i don't think one more meal would have saved us."

the room falls silent, with only the crackling of the fireplace breaking the stillness. green wood pops in the flames.

"well, don't wait for me to begin," says the lord suddenly, shifting comfortably in his seat and reaching for a leg of ox, stabbing it with a knife and lifting it onto his plate. he piles his plate high with potatoes and mash. the action seems to spur on his son, who jolts into motion like a creaking old waterwheel, movements slow and measured. "tell us your name, soldier. i'd like to know the name and story of our guest. now, news comes to us slowly in this isolated place. how fares the war effort?"

glancing down, you realise exactly how many pieces of cutlery there are. knives and forks, spoons and little spoons, all slightly different in shape or size. you pause, hand hovering over the knives, nerves tightening in your chest.

a soft cough. you glance up.

across from you, the son rests his delicate fingers on the outermost knife and fork, using them to carry a richly-glazed steak onto his plate. he chooses a large spoon, fingers lingering on it where it sits on the table, and places it into his bowl of stew.

his gaze lifts to meet yours and just as quickly, a butterfly's flap of wings, he glances away. his cheeks are dusted pink, the rosy colour like gold on his sun-warmed skin.

you copy him. you take a slab of steak from the dish right in front of you. you are starving, but everything about this manor makes you feel small, and you fear taking more than you are offered. you give them your name, for it is the only thing you truly own in these foreign lands.

"the war?" you continue, trying to shake the tremor from your voice. "i wouldn't know, milord. the captains don't tell us much. it's all the same – i've fought in three different battles. this was the third. they give their speeches about king and country, and then we fight. it is noble," you say hastily, "but i am not a warrior. not many of us were. the enemy outnumbered us, outskilled us, and when the poppy fields lay silent, they piled the bodies of all our fallen and made pyres out of us."

"such would explain the scorch marks on your clothes." the lord nods. he leans in, and you fight the urge to lean away. "i shall ask the question we all ask ourselves, if you would not mind. how did you survive such a massacre?"

you glance at the son. he eats quietly, forking small chunks of meat into his mouth. you glance away. "i remember a spear. it was tipped… with a blue and white flag. it waved in the black sky as i looked up at it." you frown. "i'd never seen one like it before."

"the temerian lilies," he replies, almost approvingly. "you must have been some opponent – if the flagbearer loses his flag, it is a great shame to the army. it must be held aloft at all times. he would rather die than lose it to the enemy."

you lift a shoulder. the other aches too much to try. "they pulled it out of me after, then dragged me to a pile of corpses. i… don't remember much, but i remember them squabbling over another soldier's brooch for a while. i only wanted to escape the stench of death." you survey the feast laid out before you. "i s'pose i have."

"then we shall celebrate that," hums the lord, lifting his goblet of wine. "my son was the one who found you floating down the river. he said you were cold as ice and only recognised you from the flag you had sewn into your coat. it is brave to carry your homeland's colours when fighting for their conquerors."

"it was a small creature comfort," you respond as nonchalantly as you can. "they could punish me all they liked, but could never kill me. they needed every man in their ranks."

the lord raises his brows, and something like admiration crosses his features. he glances at his son and that admiration turns into a tiny downturn of the lips. he turns back to you. "not a warrior, you say, yet you stand with the united courage of a battalion. who was your father?"

you notice how his son stills, holding the steak on his tongue behind his lips for a long moment. he closes his eyes and with a deep inhale, resumes eating, as if unaffected.

"just a farmer," you say, diverting your gaze. "dead, long past. my ma raised the rest of us – six boys. i was their second. when the army came knocking, askin' for sons, i went, gave them my name. my older brother knew how to count, how to run the mill. i couldn't let them take him, especially not from the little ones – after da died and ma got sick, he was all they had." you tap the edge of the silver plate with your finger thoughtfully. "i imagined i'd either die or be done after one battle, so i'd be brought home quick regardless. now… it's been four years."

then, the servants bring out a round white cake, slices set down around the table – what a perfect intermission. you have made it rather impossible to return to frivolity with your story, and you gaze down at the cake in front of you. you assume this is their dessert, so quaint and pretty on its little silver plate, but you have little idea of how to go about eating one. something so small must require a similarly-sized utensil. is it the tiny spoon? the tiny knife?

you lift your eyes to the young man across from you. he is already watching, eyes large and dark. he picks up a small three-tined fork from the inner edge, tilting it towards you to show you its appearance, the little notch on the left prong. this time, he doesn't look away, and you have enough time to offer a grateful smile, however brief. he blinks owlishly, almost in surprise, before lowering his gaze again.

it is unfortunate. you would not mind looking at him more. he is undoubtedly beautiful, almost pretty, the sort of face people would immortalise in myths and paintings on temple walls – a kind of elven face, like those that turn goddesses to jealousy and gods to obsession.

you spend the rest of the meal stealing glances at each other when you think the other is not watching. he is far more successful than you.

—

from behind a balcony's closed doors, taehyung gazes up at the crescent moon hanging high in the sky, surrounded by pale stars glittering in the blanket of darkness. he cannot stop thinking about the shy farmer's boy, his accent unfamiliarly pleasant – the vowels are soft and blurred, with each consonant crisp and clear. it makes for a bouncing sort of melody to his voice, one that draws taehyung deeper into his song.

he sighs softly and turns away from the night's landscape, uncrossing his arms and meandering through the empty halls. most of the servants are already tucked away, and his father drowns himself alone in old letters and wine.

in loose trousers and a looser white shirt, the vee of the collared neck laced with string, he finds himself in his library, rich and warm from a hearth already lit. curious. he shuts the open double doors behind him quietly to keep the heat from dissipating into the night.

his silent feet carry him through the aisles, where the shelves brush the ceiling with books and ladders. a walkway surrounds the room, essentially giving it a second level.

silhouetted black against the white glow of the moon beyond the arched window, a familiarly unfamiliar figure stands in silence, gaze turned up towards the heavens beyond the lines of books and old tomes.

standing in this still and quiet room, statue-esque in the way of classics, taehyung cannot help the journey of his gaze wandering up and down the planes of your body, painting to himself the sturdiness of your shoulders, the perfect balance between your booted feet. there is a severity about you he recognises in his own father – he sees it in your arms, tucked behind your back, and the practised way of standing that arches the spine just so to emphasise the broadness of the chest. yet, he knows gentleness when he sees it, and he finds it in the almost childlike awe in your expression, aimed up at his personal collection.

he steps out, the shadows melting from him like the shedding feathers of a raven. "what are you doing in my library?"

you startle, and taehyung almost regrets interrupting you. coward that he is, he would rather watch from afar than bring you out of that handsome serenity.

"f-forgive me, sir," you stammer, twisting your hands together as you incline in an awkward half-bow, half-stumble, evidently having forgotten the extent of your injuries as your expression tightens and your hand brushes over your side. "i didn't know it was yours. the – the doors were open, and i—"

"invited yourself in," he finishes.

"i – yes, sir…"

before you, he stands perfectly still. you could fool yourself into thinking his heart does not beat, for he is pale in the moonlight and beautifully dark-haired, with eyes like midnight lakes and lips like a rose.

you tear your gaze from his, breaking your trance. you begin to move past him. "forgive me, milord. i shan't interrupt you."

his hand darts out, wrapping itself around your wrist. serpentine, it slides up your arm and grips your bicep, forming creases in the cloth.

"you shouldn't move so quickly. you're injured." he turns his gaze on you. "you'd leave so soon?"

"ah…" you flounder, helpless. "if the lord wish it so."

his searching gaze strips your body bare. you feel it prod your soul when his eyes meet yours. his eyes scan your face, and he reaches up with his other hand, brushing it lightly against the slope of your jaw. his skin is warm and tender-soft. your breath hitches.

"the maids missed a spot when shaving," he mutters, pressing his fingers against the patch of half-shorn stubble left on the soft underside of your chin. "a man would do it better."

all at once, he drops his hand and looks away. "i am no lord," he replies, his low, rich voice like waves lapping at the sides of a ship, almost careless. "just his son."

you hesitate, your heartbeat still in your ears. "th-then what should i call you, sir?"

he glances down where bandages hide the hole in your body. "just 'taehyung' will do," he says softly, eyes lifting again. he unravels his arm from yours, turning fully towards you. "you may stay – as long as you are quiet."

he moves away, so graceful he may as well have floated. his fingers glide over the covers like bumps of the spine, and they pluck a small yellow book from the shelf. he opens it, already turning to the first page even before he finds a chair to sit in. he curls up in front of the grand fireplace, the furry hide of a brown bear thrown across the floor in front of it.

for a while, you simply watch him and listen to the crackling of the fire. his slim fingers glide across the pages to turn them, the edge of the page caught gently on the pad of his thumb.

bathed in the yellow and orange hues of the fire, the lord's son is every bit as regal as northerners are said to be – hair like calligraphy ink, cheekbones fine, slim bodies tall and lithe. you could lose yourself in his cold, gentle darkness.

that burbling feeling of being out of place rises to the surface, worse than when you sat before the lord at his table. you and your callused palms, your worn and labour-worked body. you should not be here.

"you know you can choose a book, yes? i don't mind." he glances up. "forgive the mess. i can help. what do you like to read?"

"i'm sorry, sir," you murmur, averting your gaze. "i can't read."

it seems he'd forgotten your roots. he blinks. "oh. my apologies. but if not to read, what interested you about my library?"

"ah," you chuckle, scratching your head. "i've just never seen so many books in one place. travelling merchants would display some, but never like this."

"i see." he surveys you intensely, then glances away and clears his throat. he shifts in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. at last, he says stiffly, "if you'd like… i can… read to you."

the silence is thick with more than just the fire's heat. it is hard to know taehyung's hot face is not because of the fire, and he is grateful.

"if milord wishes to," you reply quietly, watching him for any twitch of his expression that may give him away.

"of course. i wouldn't offer it if i didn't." he gestures to the chaise beside him. "sit."

you step into the semicircle of light afforded by the fireplace, licked by tendrils of warmth, and ease yourself into the chair with a soft grunt, holding your side. "milord is as kind as he is beautiful."

his eyes flicker down to your lap. "i wish you wouldn't call me that," he says suddenly, a little sharper. "can i not be called my own name in my home?"

your mouth opens and closes. after a moment, you reply softly, "i meant no offence. it just feels… wrong."

slowly, he exhales, closing his eyes and his book. he places a hand over its cover. "all of my life has felt wrong. everything is wrong no matter what i do – who i wish to be, the company i keep, the fears i carry… the love i desire." he pauses, opening his eyes to your earnest expression. he diverts his gaze to the yellow-gold cover of the book. "what more can one last wrong hurt?"

"i'm sorry," you whisper. "perhaps i can start over." you straighten slightly, offering a crooked half-smile. "what do you want to read to me, taehyung?"

he does not disagree that his name sounds strange coming from another's mouth, but he cannot remember the last time it was used by anyone else. he hums and rises to his feet, coming to stand over you in front of the fire; his shadow cast over your body deepens the maturity of your features.

"when you said i was beautiful," he asks, "did you mean it?"

staring up at him, you can do nothing but tilt your head in bewilderment. "yes. you are fair and handsome."

taehyung chooses his next words carefully. "if… i were a girl," he decides, clasping his book over his stomach with straight arms, "would it be a different sort of beauty?"

you frown, shaping an approximation of a girl with taehyung's features in your mind. "maybe. but she would still be beautiful if she was you." you shake your head, dispelling morphing images of regal dark-haired daughters. you hide your warm cheeks behind an apologetic smile. "i'm sorry. i don't know much. i don't usually deal with such thoughts."

but it was enough for taehyung. slowly, as if not to frighten you, he lowers himself, grasping the chaise's rests and draping himself gently over your lap. he watches your face all the while, his heart beating faster at the shock and nervousness that cross your face in a single second.

"is this… is this alright?" he whispers, placing his hand against your chest.

your adam's apple bobs, your hands hovering an inch off of his body as if he is made of glass. gently, you place one on taehyung's knee and the other behind his back, and glance up at him.

"perhaps you can sit closer," you murmur, eyes wide and searching, "so you may not fall."

taehyung smiles, then – the first smile of his you have ever seen. it is sweet, and crinkles the corners of his eyes. it makes your heart swell.

he hides his smile in his chest, his knuckles brushing the corner of his lips. he lifts his eyes, and a sliver of hope twinkles in them. "shall i read to you, then? i will give you a synopsis of each story so you may choose your favourite."

"please," you murmur, settling back in the chair and sliding your hand higher up taehyung's thigh so he may be more comfortable. "do whatever you wish."

"'whatever'?" he hums, and with a flippant little kick, throws off his boots to the ground, where they thump carelessly. he meets your eyes and falls into a nervous smile, tucking his bare feet against your leg and resting his temple against your shoulder. his hair is still slightly damp at the ends from his earlier evening bath. "then you wouldn't mind this, would you?"

"of course not," you whisper, biting back a shy, embarrassed smile. you are too old to be acting like this, especially with the only son of a wealthy lord, but the rush of excitement from seeing such a reticent man blossom and show his petals to you is too much to keep you away. "i am only a farmer's boy, taehyung. anything with someone like you is�� a dream."

at the mention of his name, his smile widens slightly and a pinkness warms the apples of his cheeks. he busies himself with opening the book and flipping through its contents to find the correct page. he presses his thumb against the spine between the pages.

"here." he taps the words on the page. "this story is one my mother used to read to me. a princess is trapped in a tower, guarded by a dragon in an ever-changing thorn maze, and a brave, handsome knight rescues her. they are married and live happily ever after."

he looks up at you, searching for a reaction, and you can only give a breathy laugh in return, still dizzy with the idea that someone like taehyung could ever be interested in someone like you. "are you sure you should be telling me these stories? i'm not a princess or a brave knight. i'm plain."

"perhaps. but do you know who else was seen as plain?" he taps your chest. "the dragon, disguised as a statue. and you, strong dragon, will protect the princess," he taps his own chest, "from all the boredom and politics of castle life."

"don't you have other, richer boys chasing you?" you ask, because you know your place. "your own knight? i don't see what i offer that they can't."

he licks his lips, setting aside the small book on a round side table and swinging his legs over your lap to straddle you. reading it is the last thing on his mind. "i do, of course. but it is like you said – they are boys. when their wooden sword chips, they get a new one." he trails his fingers lightly down the centre of your chest, wide and strong, and tentatively cups what is between your legs. he leans in, long-lashed brown eyes flickering down to your lips. "i want more than that."

"i—" your breath hitches as he squeezes gently, learning its shape and heft with deft fingers. "a-are we allowed to…? i am a stranger in strange lands with nothing to my name."

he chuckles, pressing his forehead against yours. his soft hair curtains your eyes. "allowed? no. but when a handsome soldier from far away falls into my lap, what else is a man to do?" he draws his thumb over your jawline, stroking your cheek. he lowers his lips to yours, hot breath sweet with honeyed treats. with the faintest thread of a breath, he whispers, "may i?"

with your heartbeat thudding in your ears, your head inclines, and taehyung wraps his arms around your shoulders and pushes his lips to yours.

his moan is sweet and starved as you kiss back to the best of your ability, your hands falling naturally about his waist. his lips are plump and warm, pillowy, and slicken with saliva as he deepens it, cupping the back of your head and pressing himself higher onto your body. he is desperate and dominating, sitting in your lap and rolling his hips into yours. you can feel his excitement through the cotton of his trousers.

when you part regretfully, gulping down air, he cups your face, his eyes dark yet gentle. he licks his shining lips, parted to pant. "you seem apprehensive. have you ever done this with a man?"

you wipe your lips with your thumb, tongue swiping over them in an almost bewildered motion. your eyes are wide. "a-ah… no. not with… anyone…"

"not even a girl?" he cannot help the surprise that coats his tone.

you shake your head, face aflame. "i never… my older brother had my father's charm. he was the one they all wanted, strong but lean. i was too much of a bull. they had fantasies of princes, and he was closer to it than i."

deeply and tenderly, he kisses you again. "it only means i won't have to fight anyone to call you mine." he brushes his thumb over your lips. "that suits me just fine. i was never the fighting sort."

he sits up on your lap, thighs bracketing yours. his bare feet tuck beneath him under his knees. when his palm grazes the front of your trousers, your breath hitches in your chest, and taehyung gives you a soft, if coy, grin. "i'll be gentle," he promises. he tugs slightly on the laces of the waist. "may i?"

mutely, you nod, your words sinking into the whirling depths of his eyes. his deft fingers undo the laces with ease and he pulls the thick cloth down your waist, tracing the vee of your hips with a pleased breath. he reaches in, lifting his gaze to gauge your expression. your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your knuckles are tensed on the chaise's armrest. the other arm is tucked tightly by your side.

"don't be nervous," he whispers, stroking you gently in your trousers. it twitches in his palm. "place your hands on my waist, darling. good. very good."

hesitantly, your hands graze his hips, sliding up to grip his slender waist. you splay a hand beside his waist, measuring it against him with fascination. he is slim and lovely… like the city nobles' soft-palmed daughters. you had noticed his hands during supper but hadn't the room to mull over them then, though now you do. they are square, masculine, but slender and fine-veined. his nails are clean and cut short, with a thin crescent of white at the ends.

he could not have been more perfect if he tried.

he slides his fist up to the tip of your cock, rubbing his thumb against the slit and the smooth skin. you are mostly soft, but still impressive – the number of taehyung's clandestine trysts have lent him a certain experience when it comes to men.

you have reinforced your place as his favourite.

"i see why they call you a bull," he says slyly, squeezing your shaft as his fist sinks down on it. "they just don't know how to tame you."

your face floods with heat as you stutter meaninglessly. your grip tightens on taehyung's hips and a single slant of a thought marvels at how delicate he feels in your palms.

"be still, my darling," he murmurs, "and be at ease. you are no longer at war. you can close your eyes and hold me without fear. nothing will happen unless we want it to."

his voice, like syrup, melts the frantic whirlwind of thoughts in your head. you cannot help but want to believe him. "you make it sound so simple. i want to believe you."

"why can't it be?" he tilts his head, glancing down and stroking you contentedly. he swipes his thumb over the slit, where a bead of precome bubbles. oil – from a small bottle you only now spot in taehyung's palm – smooths each stroke of your shaft. "the world is so complicated. affection can afford to be simple."

he lets go for a moment to step back, sliding his trousers down his hips and calves and tossing them aside on the chaise. he flicks his dark hair and tucks a lock over his ear as he reassumes his place on your lap, pressing his chest against yours and tugging your cock to throb against the curve of his ass. the silk of his white shirt is cool and light against your hot skin.

his lips ghost over the shell of your ear as his hips roll languidly. he whispers, "do you want this?"

do you want more? the question is unasked, but you hear it anyway.

"i do, yes. please," you reply immediately, your voice rough with desire. your hands trail over his hips and tuck beneath the long hem of his shirt to caress his warm, creamy thighs, a feeling that traps your breath in your throat. you force out a sigh, shaky, and rest your forehead against taehyung's shoulder. he hushes you and cups the back of your head, reaching with his other hand behind himself to ease you inside his warmth.

taehyung's head tips back with a slow exhale, shuddering as you pulse with heat inside of him. he watches you closely, committing to memory the way your brows pinch and your mouth falls open as your grasp tightens, trembling, around his waist.

"do you like that?" he whispers, breathy. he bounces shallowly, grinding his hips into yours. "how do you feel?"

"good," you choke out through a groan. your hand slides down to the dip in his back, trying not to seem too eager as it cups his ass. "oh, fuck…"

"don't hold back for me," he murmurs, hips quickening. he moans in surprise as you buck up into him, thighs meeting his ass. the slap of your balls against his ass is obscene, and he scrambles to cling onto your shoulders for balance.

"wait – wait, wait," he gasps, lashes fluttering as your cock kisses that spot inside of him that burns pleasure through his guts.

you stop immediately, sliding your hand up his side. "i'm sorry! are you alright?"

he huffs a laugh, panting softly, and nods. "you're injured, darling. don't waste the good work we put into putting you back together. sit back – i will take care of you, understand?"

"a-ah…" your face burns with heat. "all right. whatever milord desires."

"very good." he presses down on your hips gently, his hands between his thighs. he lifts himself off of your cock until only the tip rests against his hole, then sinks down on it in one smooth motion. a strangled noise escapes your throat as you scramble to hold onto him. his heat grips your shaft like a vice, gummy walls clamping down around you with each drop of his hips.

he moans when your fingers dig into the sensitive skin of his hips, sweat gathering in the small of his back. the fireplace crackles softly, the air warm and sweet with the smell of sex.

he gathers his shirt in his hands about his ribs, revealing his dusky cock, swollen with need. he takes your hand and curls your fingers around his shaft, his eyes fluttering and lips parting as you tighten it. your callused palms drag deliciously against his veins and he grips your wrist with a soft groan, bouncing on your lap in such a way that he thrusts into the warm tunnel of your fist.

carefully, you stroke his cock, cautious about rubbing raw or tearing his skin. wealthy boys are a different breed – so much softer, easier to hurt. the smell of him, sweet and musky, hangs in the air around him, enveloping you when he draws close – crushed petals, herbs, leaves. it seems foreign, or at least the mixture does, for you cannot quite place your finger on it – then again, what do you know of luxuries like this?

"you are doing well," taehyung praises, gasping as you flick the head of his cock with your thumb. "oh, yes… f-fast learner, hm? oh!"

a jerk of your hips has him jolting forward, his cock spurting a sudden white rope onto your stomach. he purrs, bracing against your chest and slamming his hips down on your cock to slicken him with your pleasure. it works, and he seems unduly proud of himself when your cock throbs and leaks, forming a white ring around the hilt that thickens with each bounce of his ass.

"milord – milord," you gasp, a tiny pathetic noise that does not match your appearance, "please – i'm—"

"let go," he demands, a breathy moan escaping his lips. he closes his eyes and lets out a punched groan as your cock carves into his insides, deeper than any other man had ever touched. his reddened cock throbs, slit pouring precome over his belly and thighs. the pleasure curls around his thoughts, his head spinning from it, and he feels your stomach tense under his palms.

you spill into him with a deep, satisfied growl, head tipping back as he arches against you. your hips roll up against his and the coil tightening in his belly snaps at the sight of you so wrecked from so little. he cries out, ropes of white streaking across your shirt, and his hips stutter and roll, milking your pleasure for his own like a succubus. he presses his ass into your lap, white teeth sinking into his plump lower lip, and his eyes roll as the thick warmth fills him up to the brim.

at last, he slumps against your chest, thighs trembling and tensing as he hums softly into your neck. he buries his nose in the soft, warm skin, and cups your cheek to place a soft kiss on the corner of your jaw.

"mm… good," he purrs, smiling with tender satisfaction. "i – i shall bring you to your… mm… room. it is just down the hall from my own... should you wish to see me, you only need to knock." his breath hitches as he raises his hips slowly, hole twitching around your shaft, and when it pops out, a steady stream of come leaks from him, staining his tanned skin. he sighs, closing his eyes to the slowing of your heartbeat. "but i think i will stay here for a time, if you don't mind. just until i – until i regain feeling and control of my legs."

"is that… is that normal?" you ask, a tiny panting tremor in your voice. "to lose feeling like that?"

taehyung laughs into your neck, eyes crinkling. "sometimes, when i feel overwhelmed. it is no fault of yours – you are just… big. don't worry. i liked it."

he shifts in your lap to get comfortable but pauses as something pokes his thigh. a sly smile spreads across his fine features, his fingers lifting to trace your jaw and tip your gaze to his own. he purrs, "is that for me, love? excited again?"

you gulp, unable to tear your stare from his despite the embarrassment clawing at your throat. "i – i…"

"handsome and energetic. i'm a lucky man." he laughs softly, reaching behind himself and groping your hard cock with a low moan. "i myself have been told i'm rather voracious. perhaps you will be the first to keep up with me."

he lowers himself on your cock, head tipping back as he teases himself with the thick head. his dick twitches.

"what say you to a change of scenery?" he asks coyly, perfectly content with your ragged-breath silence. every word you might have said disintegrates on your tongue when he turns around, arching his back and pinning your cock to your stomach. shining precome smears along the cleft of his ass.

his body, carved out of shadows by the fire, rocks and rolls like a ship in the harbour when all its crew are asleep. with an encouraging smile, he takes your hands and places them on his hips, pressing on them to guide you to control his body. he hums softly as you squeeze his hips and spread his asscheeks, your breath shaky as he angles his messy hole against your leaking tip.

he watches your face with gentle eyes as he sinks down on your cock, his warm, wet hole swallowing up your shaft like he was made for it. you jump slightly when his ass firmly meets your lap, taking you hungrily until the hilt, and if he were a lesser man, your expression alone would have been enough to tip him over the edge. he sears every line of your face, every edge and plane, into the backs of his eyelids. it will make for fine company on lonely nights.

you speak for the first time in a while. "p-please…" you whisper hoarsely, blunt nails digging into his smooth, unmarred skin, leaving crescent moons in your wake. "please, move."

"ah, but you are badly hurt… i must take my time with you. mustn't alert the servants, either, for they'd certainly report to my father what they've seen." taehyung giggles to himself, gnawing on his lower lip in an effort to subdue his grin. he grinds down into your lap in circles, relishing in the pleasured, impatient groans that escape your throat. "he'd toss you out in an instant, and we cannot have that! i haven't yet had my fill of you."

"a-are you always so… playful with your men, taehyung?" you ask, voice slightly strained. you watch your cock vanish into him, over and over again. the sound that is made when he bounces on your lap is obscene and filthy. your heart stirs with desire.

"mmh – no. my past conquests have not been as – as alluring as you," he gasps, wrapping his hand around his throbbing cock, thumb rubbing circles over the ridge of his tip. "mostly, they bore me. you, however – you're more than a cock i can use to please myself, if i may speak so crudely."

"i – ah – th-think i should be grateful, then…?" you reply uncertainly.

"yes. unless, of course, you enjoy that sort of game… but tonight is about simplicity," he breathes, his skin tingling where your rough palms glide over his thighs, soft as cream. "we have only so long until the sun rises and the servants wake. i want to spend that time with you – learning your homeland's ballads and epics, your favourite flower, where i can touch to make you melt…"

he looses an airy laugh as your grip tightens on his waist, his shirt folded up between your fingers to reveal the curve of his spine and ass. you drag him down onto your cock roughly and he keens, eyes rolling back briefly. "ooh, y-you like that, don't you? ah—!"

already he is so sensitive. nowhere else has he felt pleasure like this – where his body is treated as more than a means to an end. he had been completely content with that when he entered this library, agreeable to the idea that you might like him only for what he can give you. but he swears – he swears on the old gods and the new – that the way you press your nose into the curve of his neck, the way you stroke him thin and thick tight and loose – caring, properly, for his own high – means your attraction is more than fleeting.

years of ending up alone in empty beds have made him soft. lonely. desperate. perhaps he is reading into things too deeply, as he always does – poor boy, always a poet. the backs of his eyes sting with hot tears as his tightly-controlled leash snaps, making him cry out, writhe, and shudder, knees and elbows buckling under the weight of his orgasm.

you catch him in your arms before he can slip, pulling him backwards towards your chest. it is warm, your throat shining with sweat, and he can feel the burning fever of your body through your clothes. still, you do not let go, push him away – you cradle him close, your heart thudding through your ribcage and into his own.

one of your hands tugs languidly at his cock, milking his pleasure from him. you watch quietly as it spills over your knuckles, your lips pressed against his sweat-slick shoulder, and help him lift his hips off of your cock.

for the first time in what feels like hours, taehyung takes a deep, full breath of air. he cups your face in a hand and smiles, wide and content.

"i didn't believe you could be more beautiful," you murmur, words slightly clipped at the end from a lack of breath. "i've never been happier to be wrong."

he opens his eyes with a flutter of lashes, pleasantly surprised. "haven't i already let you take me?"

"what do you mean?" you ask with a frown, tilting your head. your thoughts are foggy with warm laziness. the fire's heat does not help. "taehyung?"

the sound of his name almost startles him. he sits up, and a pleasurable ache sparks up his spine. he sucks in a deep breath. "you really… truly think that of me?"

you blink slowly, like a cat, and the fire's flames dance in your eyes. "i am a simple soldier. lies are above a man like me."

"you're more than that," he replies immediately, turning around on your lap to face you properly. "if you were just a soldier, you would have died on that battlefield. forgive me, but you had all the time to die on your way down the river. still, you survived." his voice softens, and he fiddles with your collar, straightening it and folding it down. "i am glad you did. i am glad to have met you."

"ah…" gently, you tug his shirt down, allowing him the return of some of his dignity, though he does not seem to care. "that reminds me – i shouldn't waste much time here. i should report to the general."

"for what?" taehyung scoffs, and it sounds… hurt. he glances away. "am i so repugnant you would rather march thirty miles a day in mud-soaked boots than stay here with me?"

"no!" you protest, sitting up as best you can with the growing ache in your side. you had been too caught up in the moment to remember it, and now your body reminds you jealously. "t'ain't that, taehyung. you are intelligent and kind and if we were in my homeland, i wouldn't hesitate to ask your hand. but surely you have a girl you're supposed to marry?"

"no, not at the moment. despite what he says, my father still grieves my mother. it will be a while yet before he'll allow another woman into the house." he traces shapes into your skin. "i will free you from the servitude of the evil king who bound you, and together, princess and dragon will live freely, with the wind in their hair and the sun on their backs."

at first, you smile at the newfound softness of his voice, but freeze. "free… of servitude?"

taehyung watches you, draping his legs over the other side of the armchair, kicking his feet lazily. his eyes are dark and watchful. "as i know it, the king's oath swears that you are only relieved of your duty when you give your blood for his and fall in battle against his enemies. have you not satisfied these requirements?"

"i may be no scholar, but i'm near certain that to 'fall in battle' means to die in it."

"have you not satisfied these requirements?" he repeats, firmer. "our doctors and priests said you were dead when i brought you to them. they said you may have been alive when i found you, but somewhere between the riverbank and their stone table marked the spot where you died. as they proclaimed this, you coughed again, and nobody could deny me this time when i said you were very clearly alive."

"you are telling me that i died… and returned? like a saint?" you ask sceptically.

"i only tell you what our doctors told me."

for a while, you are silent. determination creases taehyung's brow, and you cannot hold in the disbelieving laugh that erupts from you, though it morphs into a groan of pain in the middle. taehyung sits up and presses his palm to your cheek, his eyes so vivid and certain.

"you have already died, and thus retain no obligations to the crown," he whispers. his gaze scours your face. "you are free. free to stay here. live here…"

with me.

your heart drops into your stomach. you grip his waist, shifting in the velvet chaise. "i'm…"

"agree. agree to it. even if i cannot bear your children, we will sleep in the same bed, take walks in the wheat fields, eat and drink every meal together. you won't fear for your life every day. and as soon as the war ends and they open the trade routes to your home, i shall book passage on a ship and take you there. you may stay, if you wish. i won't deny you."

"then why offer at all?" you ask quietly. "if you think i'll leave you the moment i can, why would you even try?"

"i can hope, can i not? by all accounts our kings have no desire to cease any time soon. perhaps you will learn to love me in time." he smiles, faint, and averts his gaze. "otherwise, i will be glad to help another soul. you will survive the war and return to your family, whole and healthy. out here, away from people, i have little chance to do something so good and noble."

"and if i grow restless? if i want to do something with my hands?"

he tilts his head thoughtfully. "how is your aim?"

"fair, i s'pose. haven't missed when it's important."

"the lord's hunter grows old," he proclaims. "he can teach you what he knows, and if you like, you may take up the title once he can no longer ride and shoot. besides that, there is always work to be done in the fields and granary – perhaps you'll find some comfort in the farms?"

you think about it, long and hard. in essence you would be a prisoner at his beck and call, though if taehyung tells the truth and is as earnest as he appears, perhaps you'll find freedom and enough work to fill your days with…

you give your answer, and taehyung's smile is like the sun.

#top male reader #x male reader #male reader #dom male reader #dom reader #top reader #bts x male reader #bottom bts #bottom taehyung #taehyung x male reader #kpop x male reader #bts x reader #kpop x reader #bts smut #taehyung smut

375 notes · View notes

catsteeth · 4 months

Text

The Caged Bird & The Leashed Dog

Sandor Clegane x reader

+:✿ Chapter - 11 ✿:+ A War for a War

Chapter Index | Next Chapter

Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: MDNI, NSFW themes, VIOLENCE, misogyny, angst, the boltons, drugged, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of death, blood, threats of violence, mentions of arranged marriage, minor character death

A/N: did i say this would be published monday? yeah. is it 3am on tuesday? yeah.

Word Count: 4.6K

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As Sandor laid on that rock in agony. He was bloodied and his bones were broken, his leg was the worst of it. He laid there and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get up and walk out from those Vale mountains.

The Falcon was his only company. You sent Lenaera to him as a signal to him that you were alive, that you were in the Eyrie, that you knew he had come, that you needed him.

Though he already knew. He already knew all of that before the bird came.

But now that he lay on that rock at the bottom of a cliff, he laid there thinking of all the terrible things he had done. How he deserved what he was given. And the worst thing he could think of that he had done was failing you.

That horse he saw in the stables could have been some other high bred white mare, or it could’ve been found by a Knight of the Vale and brought back without its rider.

You could have been murdered, you could have been sold, you could have been.. Something even worse.

And if you were, what was this bird? A beautiful, strong Falcon with a blue ribbon around her ankle.

He groaned in pain and shouted and the bird did not leave. It hardly fluttered its wings. He did not scare it. Maybe because the bird could recognize he was a dying man. Maybe because it was waiting for him to die so it could eat him.

But, he thought, if you did die, Gods forbid it, but if you did, maybe that bird was you. Or some form of you, a sign sent by you in the Seven Heavens. Maybe, or maybe his agony and blood loss made him think silly sentimental thoughts. Death does that.

He looked at the falcon perched on a rock. As the sun shined down on the magnificent creature he let out a labored breath, giving in to his sentimentality, “Are you here?” He asked you, only you weren’t there. “I keep seeing that bird, a fucking falcon with a blue ribbon.” He grumbled, “Is that you? You die, and you come back like that? How fucking cruel is that.” He laughed but the laugh forced a bloody cough out of him, once the cough settled he sighed, looking at the bird. “I miss you.” He admitted reluctantly, even when the Stranger was approaching he found it hard to admit it. “I think about you all the time.” He felt the emotion rise in his throat and tears well up, “I hear you in my dreams, your voice.” He shook his head, “I just miss you, simple as that.” When he finished, Lenaera let out a loud caw! And fluttered her wings, still staying by the dying man. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Can’t hear your voice.” He said, still wanted to believe that bird was for you. Lenaera tilted her head at Sandor. He sniffed and swallowed his emotion and nodded, “Aye, it’s time. I’ll be seeing you. Maybe. Or Maybe I’ll be in the Seven Hells and you the Heavens. Maybe I’ll be lucky and keep hearing your voice.” He said, closing his eyes. He was content to die now, his eyes were closed and he was at rest as the stranger approached him. But only it was a real stranger, not the old god.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Your body felt slightly numb, and your nerves calmed. You began to open your eyes slightly fluttering open, when you finally mustered the strength to open your eyes you looked around at the blue and silver carriage. The same one that you and your father took to King's Landing. You could tell that the carriage was not moving, and from the light coming in from the closed blinds of the carriage you could gather it was nearly night.

You rubbed your eyes and groaned, “Where-” You began until an armored glove covered your mouth.

“Sh!” You looked up at the man who silenced you, in full armor but his eyes shining through his silver helmet were familiar.

“Ser Cole?” You whimpered, still under the heavy fog of whatever had taken you.

He lifted the helmet so you may look upon his face, to see his true concern. “My Lady, please listen to my words. It is important that you listen.” You tried to widen your eyes, blinking hard in an attempt to focus them. “Baelish arranged your marriage to Ramsay Bolton. You were to leave this morning however, Baelish said that you were feeling ill and that you’d better be taken to Winterfell and examined by a maester. However I believe it was an illness brought upon you intentionally. Because you’d not accept it so easily.”

“Where am I now?” You asked sitting up from the plush silk seat that you were laying on, Ser Cole knowing better didn’t help you.

“You’re in your carriage, halfway to Winterfell.” He held his head lower, “Baelish has stepped out to…” He stopped trying to find a more delicate way of phrasing it.

“Just speak,” You whined as you held yourself up

“Piss, my Lady.” He spoke quickly

“Right.” You nodded,

“When he returns, be agreeable.” His speech picked up, he knew his time was limited, “Play along.” He must have gathered a plan while you were deep in a drug induced sleep.

“I can’t go there, Ser Cole.” Fear rose in you. You knew if you walked into Winterfell you wouldn’t be leaving it.

He nodded, “I know that. I will not let them.” His conviction was strong.

“How many men are out there?” You questioned,

“Fifthteen.”

“You can’t cut through that many men.” You said to him as if you were pleading he’d see reason.

“Command them.” He said as if he were tried to plead with you to see reason

“I’ve no power, I tell them to stop and Baelish will tell them to continue-”

He boldly interrupted you, “You have more sway than you may believe.”

Your eyes narrowed on him, “Tell me what you know,”

He looked behind him to be sure Baelish wasn’t approaching yet, “In short summary, My Lady, a little over half the men would follow you if you commanded.” He turned back to you, “Believe that. Believe in your blood.”

Ser Cole heard the “She has awoken…” He said calmly as he stepped to the side, allowing Lord Baelish to enter the carriage. He looked over at Baelish who was looking at Ser Cole with an expectant look, “My Lord.” He finished.

“Thank you, you are dismissed.” Baelish said insincerely, his voice filled with annoyance.

“The Lady wanted water.” He said handing you his pouch of water. You grabbed it with hast. You drank it down quickly, you hadn’t asked for it but it was true you needed it. Ser Cole starred at Baelish as you chugged it down with desperation.

As you wiped your mouth with your sleeve finally finished with your drink, “Alright, now you are dismissed.” Ser Cole of course looked to you, waiting for your decision. An action that did not go unnoticed by Baelish, “No, Ser Cole will ride with us.” you said confidently.

Baelish shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “My dear, I believe we’ve important matters to discuss, best discussed in private-”

You interrupted him, your eyes sharp and your tone dark and unfitting with your formal words. “Ser Varys Cole is sworn to me.” You lied, “He rides with me.” You said sternly as you moved over, allowing room for him to sit beside you.

As Ser Cole sat beside you, he slammed the carriage door closed. Almost making Baelish flinch. As he closed the door the carriage began to move again.

Bealish tried to assess the situation best he could, “How’re you feeling?”

“Is that the matter of importance you wished to discuss?” You practically spit your words at him. You knew Ser Coke had a plan but you’d a better and much more satisfying one.

His eyes lowly gazed on you, narrowed and predatory, “Please.”

“I feel anger.” You said plainly, “Though It is creeping toward a contemptuous homicidal rage.” You said with dark and intense eyes.

He took a moment, finally speaking, “I can understand-”

You interrupted him again, unwilling to hear his words. “Can you?”

“A House without change is a dead House. And there is an air of quiet death in this house and I do not like the way it smells.” He attempted to once again rationalize his stance.

“Is that why you slipped something in my tea?” You questioned. Baelish looked at Ser Cole who only stared back at him with the same venom that you had.

Baelish’s eyes returned to you, “You felt ill, no doubt from your overindulgence the night before.” Ser Cole’s grip on his sword tightened.

“And you used the opportunity to throw me in a carriage.” You responded quickly.

“The Maester was in the Gates of the Moon. You are aware of how long he takes.” You knew what he meant. Your mother. When she labored you were with her alone with a few handmaidens. The Maester was at the bottom of the Gates of the Moon. It took him far too long to come, by the time he did your mother was already gone and the babe was in your arms taking labored breaths. The memory surged through you. But instead of despair filling you, only more and more rage did. “Besides, we were meant to leave for the North this morning. Having you sleep off whatever was burdening you until we arrived in Winterfell seemed best.” His tone was careful and calculated.

“I am not going to Winterfell.” You were stern, and your anger created a dark cloud over you. “You will take me to Castle Black.” It was a split decision but a smart one.

He smirked slightly, letting go of whatever facade he had, “You forget whose carriage you sit in, you forget the direction you are headed.”

“The Lady of the Vale has commanded you.” Ser Cole spoke with a deep and low conviction.

“The Lord of the Vale has commanded her.” Baelish snapped at him,

As he did, you grabbed the dagger from Ser Cole’s belt. You lunged forward on top of Baelish placing the blade to his throat. You felt your own spirit split into two. Battling one another. If you killed Baelish, the power would not be left to you, no you would be thrown in a sky cell and left with Robin to decide your fate. But Gods you wanted to. Wanted to rip his throat out, watch the light in him fade. His memory dwindles over time. You wanted him dead and you needed to be the one to do it. But it would cost you the Vale.

Baelish began to reason with you, pleading. “I have been loyal to you. I took you away from danger and sheltered you from your enemy. I put my own life at reset sheltering you within the Eyrie, I put the Vale at risk doing so. I protected you-” “By killing my aunt.” You almost growled at him.

“She was going to kill you, not to mention she’d admitted to the murder of your father.”

“A murder she'd committed for you?” You pressed the blade against his throat harder, slightly drawing blood, Baelish winced, you took ultimate pleasure from it.

“Not by request.” He pleaded.

“She was mine to kill.” Your eyes were wide, terrifying.

His breathing picked up, “I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say.

“I will give you an opportunity. Explain to me your intentions.” You needed to hear it, needed to know what he had in mind, maybe it would give you the motivation you needed to finally kill him.

“Marry Ramsay Bolton. Poison his father, soon thereafter Ramsay himself. You’ll be Queen of the North.” He spoke with hast

“I don’t want the North.”

“The Vale. You want the Vale.” He spoke erratically as your blade still pressed deeply against his throat. “Once the Boltons are dead, you’ll marry me.” You sneered in disgust, “You’ll be queen of the North and restored Lady of the Vale. You’ll be more powerful than any woman in the realm.” He forced a smile,

You leaned towards the carriages window, “Stop the carriage!” You shouted, leaning forward into Petyr again, “If you won’t give it to me, I shall take it myself.” You spoke sternly as you removed the blade. He grasped at his throat, a small amount of blood trickling down his throat and hand.

You turned to open the carriage door when you looked over to Ser Cole. His face was one of not shock but a pleasantly surprised one.

You opened the carriage and stepped out.

“Lady (Y/N), are you alright?” A knight asked as Ser Cole followed after you.

You looked to the white horse tied to the back of your carriage, Lika.

You pointed to her, “Untie that Horse.” You commanded but the Knights attention was diverted when Baelish stumbled out of the carriage.

He began to loudly scold, “(Y/N), If you abandon your arrangement-”

“Your arrangement.” You loudly corrected back as Ser Cole mounted his own horse.

“If you abandon it, it will leave me in an uncomfortable position.” He pathetically pled,

You scoffed, “Don’t turn this on me, I don’t want your cloud over my head.” You looked again to a knight, “My horse,” you commanded again.

“(Y/N), Tyrion Lannister has wed Sansa Stark.” The words hit your heart like a steel blade. Though she’d be better off with Joffrey, she was a child, “I hear she is very eager to flee her own cage.” He said with a dark and devious tone.

“My horse!” You ignored him, commanding once more.

The knights did not budge, some were conflicted and confused by the scene laying out before them. Ser Cole then loudly reaserted, “The Lady of the Vale has commanded you.”

The knight looked at Ser Cole with disdain, “We’re under the command of Lord Baelish.”

You held your head high, and spoke with clear conviction, “You are sworn to serve the Vale under House Arryn. My father Jon Arryn is dead but the Arryn blood is not. You’ve sworn allegiance to my blood, to me. Let it be known I (Y/N) Arryn, rebuke the succession. You can either stand with me, or against me.” As you finished another Knight climbed off his horse and retrieved Lika from the back of the Carriage. Baelish stared daggers at the Knight but he did not care. As you Mounted Lika, Ser Cole then announced,

“Swear anew your oath to (Y/N) Arryn as your rightful Lady of The Vale, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. If you support the usurper let it be known now. But let this be known if you swear loyalty only to choose treachery later, you’ll die a dishonorable death.” As he finished, nine of the fifteen Knights left their positions and aligned with yours.

“(Y/N), my little dove.” He attempted once more to manipulate you, using the name your late mother would call you.

“I want you to remember these words. If you choose this fight. You will die, screaming.” You said, as you tugged on Lika’s reins, turning her away and pushing her forward. The men followed, and of course Ser Cole was by your side.

“My Lord?” A knight asked, wondering if he should detain you.

“Let them go.” Baelish said, still holding onto his bleeding neck.

And so began the war

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Sandor opened his eyes, he was in a warm tent, surrounded by candle light, in a comfortable cot wrapped in a blanket.

He coughed, getting the attention of a shorter man with hard hair, “The fuck am I?” He asked, his voice was hoarse.

The man looked a bit surprised to be hearing the wounded man speaking, “In a small hut.” He replied with an amused smirk.

Sandor looked around with only his eyes, he hardly even had the strength for that, “(Y/N), (Y/N) where is she?” He asked, his words shaky and unstable.

“No one by that name here.” The man shook his head, his eyes narrowed on him. Curious of him.

“I gotta- got to find her.” he spoke as he shook his head restlessly attempting to get up,

The man placed a single hand on his chest, pushing him back into the cushioned cot below him, “You’ll find her later. Your bone snapped in half, you need rest.”

Sandor was slightly breathless, “Thought I was dead.”

The man nodded, “Thought you did a few times. Even when I found you, your leg was broken and you were covered in blood and bugs. Tried burying you but you coughed, nearly shit myself.” He laughed to himself,

Sandors eyes weakly tried to focus on the man looming over him, “Who are you?”

“They call me Ray, I’m a septon.” His tone was calming to Sandor,

Sandor closed his eyes, wincing from the pain in his now bandaged leg, “I don’t want to hear a sermon.”

Ray laughed again, “Wasn’t planning on telling one.”

“Ye all are.” Sandors voice was gruff and deep.

“You’ve met many?”

His eyes still closed tightly from the pain, “Met enough to know.”

“Must’ve been a big man to cut you down.” He said, looking at the massive man who laid on the cot in front of him.

He shook his head “It was a woman.” He corrected weakly,

Ray laughed as he left the tent that held the wounded Hound. Leaving him to only stew more on the thought of you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you rode on now further North than you’d ever been, you looked behind you. You felt a growing sense of power. Two of your men had left you, going back to Eyrie to gather more men. And even though you’d only seven men, you knew there’d be more. And only more would follow.

You looked then to your new companion, he was the closest thing to a Hand that you had. So you might as well treat him as such. “Ser Cole,”

“Varys, my lady.” He smiled at you, you smiled back slightly. Pleased with his insistence of familiarity with you.

“Varys, tell me about Jon Snow. Do you know anything about him?” You asked, your eyes narrowing slightly.

He nodded, “Yes my lady. Words have crinkled down from the North that he rose from the dead. Rumors of course but as I have heard it’s been done before. He’s been released from the Night's Watch and is forming an army.”

You looked at him somewhat confused, “An army? An army for what?”

“An army for the dead, my Lady.”

You raised an eyebrow and scoffed a bit, “The dead? Ser Varys, am I traveling to see a mad man?” You teased,

“Less mad than the man you were originally traveling north for.” You nodded in acknowledgment.

You looked back at him, with a soft earnestness in your eyes. “What of Sandor Clegane? Has there been any news of him?” You asked as if there was no emotion. But there was indeed quite a bit.

“No my Lady.” He spoke softly,

“Arya Stark?” You asked again, emotionless. Though your tone deceived your true emotion. And Ser Cole knew that.

“No my lady.” He spoke again in the same softness.

You took a deep breath in, allowing all your anxieties and sorrows to be pushed down, changing the subject to avoid more emotion, “Well if an army he needs he shall get it.” You looked back at the road ahead of you, “A war for a war.” You said as you tighten your grip on Lika’s reins.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

A week had passed, Sandor had made a surprisingly quick recovery, however his leg was still too weak to journey yet. So he took it upon himself to help the struggling sept build their community.

As he sat alone, eating the meal the commune had prepared. He looked up at the sky, blue and bright. It, as all things did now, reminded him of you.

He wondered where that falcon had gone, he missed it somewhat. Maybe it was you, maybe- he couldn’t finish his thought before he heard a familiar voice behind him,

“I think some of the other men are a bit afraid of you.” Ray said, stepping towards Sandor, handing him a drink.

“I’m used to it.” He said washing down a mouth full of bread with a cup of ale.

“(Y/N)” Ray said softly, Sandor looked up at him quickly, his eyes filled with anticipation, “You mentioned her name a few times when you were laid up.” Ray questioned softly, He pointed to Sandors bad leg. “She does that, do you?”

“No.” He asserted quickly, he looked back down to his bowl, “She was…” He struggled to admit it,

“Your woman?” Ray gathered,

Sandor nodded softly, “Aye. Got separated a ways back. Could be alive or not, don't know really.” He shook his head as he held it low.

Ray sighed, “If she’s meant to be here she will be. I thought you died a dozen times. You were stinking and covered in bugs. A bone sticking out here. But you kept breathing.” Sandor looked at him, “What kept you going?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Hate.” He nodded.

It wasn’t really a lie. He hated what the brotherhood did to keep him from you, hated the Lannisters for what they’d done to you, hated Baelish for stealing your land, Hated his brother for what he’d done to him. But mostly he hated whoever might have harmed you.

“No, there's a reason you’re still here.” Ray studied Sandor,

“Yeah I’m a big fucker and tough to kill.” He said, taking another bite of the bread in his bowl.

“No, the reason.” Ray asserted, standing in front of Sandor, “God’s not done with you yet.”

Sandor scoffed, “I've heard that before, man was talking about a different god though.”

“Maybe he was right, I don’t know much about gods.”

Sandor chuckled slightly, “You’re in the wrong line of work.”

“Oh, there's plenty of pious sons of bitches who think they know the word of god, or gods. I don't. I don't know their real names. Maybe it is the Seven. Or maybe it's the Old Gods. Or maybe it's the Lord of Light, or maybe they're all the same fucking thing. I don't know. What matters, I believe, is that there's something greater than us. And whatever it is, it's got plans for Sandor Clegane." Ray hasn't revealed that he knew who he was before. Sandor was slightly taken aback.

But Sandor sat with the words for a moment.

He looked at him, his gaze vulnerable but hard, “You didn’t know me back in my time, you don’t know the things I’ve done.”

Ray looked at him with a deep look, a darker one, “I’ve heard stories.”

“If Gods were real, why haven’t they punished me?” He found himself asking genuinely,

“They have.” Ray said, before walking away.

He wasn’t wrong. He was left not knowing if the love of his life was dead or alive. Left haunted by your scent and your memory. Haunted by the touch you gave to him.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As you approached the looming black castle. You’d never seen such a thing.

You turned to Ser Cole beside you.

“Grimm looking place.” You said wearily.

He leaned in closer to you, “You can do this, My Lady.” he said quietly only to you.

Your eyes focused on Castle Black, assessing it, “Even if I can’t, I have to.” You said quietly but sternly.

And with that you pulled the reins of Lika, pushing her forward, and your men followed behind you.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Jon walked across the training yard to his commander’s chamber when he noticed Tormund looking into the Dining Halls.

Tormound turned around and noticed Jon walking closer, giving a look of confusion.

“You’ve a beauty waiting for ye’” Tormound said,

Jon raised an eyebrow as he opened the door to the Dining Hall. He saw you and Ser Cole, with seven other knights. You and your men stood.

“Lady Arryn?” He asked, taken aback by your unannounced presence.

“Lord Commander.” You lowered your head in respect,

“I’m not the Commander anymore.” He said walking towards you,

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.” You smiled softly, trying your best to be friendly. “You are my cousin's blood. And so by some length I suppose you and I share some kind of… familiarity.”

“We don’t.” He said

You took a brief pause, giving up on an attempt to establish any kind of familiar relationship. “I hear you’ve seen the dead, walking.” Your eyes narrowed,

“Aye. Beyond the wall they march.” He spoke with an earnest fear.

“You’re building an army?” You asked

He nodded, “Aye, My Lady. I’ve been traveling to many great houses to ask for their aid.”

“But not mine?” Your eyes narrowed even more,

“Northern Houses. Besides, I’d rather not do dealings with Littlefinger.”

You almost interrupted him “Littlefinger is not head of House Arryn, Jon Snow, I am.” You said defensively, Jon was slightly taken aback, he nodded to your words, “I’ve not seen what you have. I cannot say that I am convinced, though I’ve no reason to assume you’d lie.”

“You’ll give your men?” He asked with a raised brow,

“I will.” You nodded, but before Jon could thank you, you continued, “But this exchange would need to be mutual.” You held your head high, “As you said you rather not do dealings with Littlefinger and recently I as well as more than half of the Knights of the Vale have decided the same.”

“You’ve rebuked the succession?” He took a step closer, his words sounded somewhat accusatory.

“The Lady of The Vale has claimed what she is owed.” Ser Cole spoke,

You raised a hand implying for Ser Cole to stop, “I have. The vale is a large and strong land. The Eyrie itself has never in three thousand years been breached. It would be invaluable to you and your armies.” You spoke with confidence, “If the house swayed in my favor, I would sever all ties with house Lannister. I would do it whether you offered aid or not. But I would join your forces. My house would swear obedience to yours. The Knights of the Vale would be at your service.”

“But you don’t have that?” His voice again turned to one of accusatory.

“I have half that.” Your confidence unwavering

“But not all of that?”

“Do you want the men or not?” You brought the confrontation to a dead end.

He thought about it in deep thought. “Will it be enough?”

“It will be.” ‘it would have to be’ you thought, you held out your hand “A war for a war.” He shook it.

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

As Sandor laid in that cot that was far too small for his body whilst being nursed back to health, he would often hold a pillow against his chest. Pretending it was you. Though it didn’t have your scent, your body's warmth, your plumpness, your weight, but it was all he had. He tried to remember the way your ways would look into his.

Your eyes always spoke loudly, they told him everything you felt.

From anger, sadness, fear, lust, ecstasy, and his favorite was joy.

Gods he wanted you badly. Like water, or wine preferably.

He laid there and thought of you, of all of the gentleness you gave to him. He didn’t deserve it, he knew that. And yet here he was dreaming of it at night. With his cock hardening against the soft fabric of the cott he laid in.

He moved off his bad leg rolling onto his stomach, using his strong leg to hold himself up as he clutched the pillow in his arms and grinded into the cott.

The pressure against his aching length was good, but it did not compare to the satisfaction only your cunt provided.

Gods he thought of how perfectly you fit with him. Your body molded to his and his to yours.

He rocked himself into the cot whilst he tried his best to remember how your walls would tighten against his cock, how your lips would find his.

He missed the wetness of your cunt, the plumpness of your breasts, the softness of your body.

He remembered the first time he’d taken you, truly and properly. You’d taken him so well, it was as if he’d been made for you. You held him so sweetly as his cock pushed in and out of you.

A sweetness he’d not ever forget. He needed you badly that was for certain and all he had not was a pillow and a cot.

“Seven hells” he hissed as he reluctantly filled back back into his back and pulled himself out of his breeches and began to stroke his length. He imagined the sounds you’d make. The beautiful moans of pleasure that you’d sing to him, the lustful and vulgar sounds your cunt made when his cock slipped in and out of you.

But what always had done him in was your eyes. Gods your beautiful beautiful eyes. They showed no fear, pity, or disgust. They showed a love he’d never seen before. How warm and soft they were- “Fuck!” Sandor hissed as he spilt his seed out onto his stomach.

Perhaps now he’d be able to sleep. But of course he couldn’t.

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Later the next morning, Sandor was deep within the woods and far from the community. He was finally well enough to walk and run further and further from the commune. That’s the way he liked it. Being far from the rest. He didn’t need any men and he certainly didn’t need any women.

As Sandor chopped wood, he heard a scream, a scream of a woman. Sandor dropped what he was doing and ran as well as he could with his limp he still had.

When he finally reached the sept everyone was massacred, and Ray, the closest thing to a friend he’d had since you or Arya, was hanged in the middle of the sept he helped build.

He picked up his ax and went hunting.

Hunting for the men who did what they did.

NOTE:

Does this one lowkey suck? Yeah. And what about it? This is going to serve as a good catalyst for the next chapter I promise.

K love you, xoxo

Bambi

Beloved Tags:

@dontfollowjuststuff @helpmeescapethisreality @merfic @broadsdrinkwhisky

@the-queen-of-sorrows @eddiesbongwater @not-neverland06 @symonedoesart

@wyvernnest @bdudette @frosch-thefrog @patrick-hockstutter

@drymushroomfics

259 notes · View notes

naggascradle · 3 days

Text

thank god for elden ring honestly because its really busted my eye open for grrm's thing for dualities in his writing. like you cant make me look at radagon & marika's dual natures and then have me turn back around and look at a series literally titled a song of ice and fire and not start noticing how much he plays this parallelism game here. the knights of the vale behind their gates of the moon to the dornishmen in sunspear. the dothraki and ironborn as cultures built on pillaging off of others while the dothraki way fears the sea and where horses cannot travel, the ironborn dislike being tethered to the shores for too long, or their shared aversion to spilling blood as a spiritual belief leading them to find ways to kill in a much more brutal fashion. the titular icy other who shall never be named to rhllor the lord of light and fire. the last children of the forest finally found so far north as the last dragons are hatched in the known world. robb stark has the world in his hands and loses it all for a nobody named jeyne. theon greyjoy who has nothing left and yet saves a nobody named jeyne in order to regain what little self he can. the ice covered wall to keep the wights out to the hot burning sea that holds the doom of valyria. you take the black and you take the white its all the same vows to guard the realm or guard the monarch, never have a family, but the difference is a matter of prestige and location. the blood of old valyrians being dragonlike and few of them left with an almost ethereal nature to them vs the blood of the first men passing down the chance to have the ability to warg and be connected with nature itself. following with that the exile of the last targaryens and distrust of their "mad" nature despite formerly being desired & seen as godlike, compared to the first men's descendants being mostly wildlings who are shunned and kept away from most of westeros. there's really nothing i love more than a good parallel

#grace post #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf meta #asoiaf meta analysis

89 notes · View notes

kitnjon · 28 days

Note

Any Jonsa fics in which characterization and physical appearance of Jon is closer to Canon?

Hi,

I am assuming you mean closer to book canon? Honestly I haven't really read that many book jonsa fics. I am more of a show jonsa fan and mostly read modern AUs 😅

Few book fics I have read are post ADWD. Sharing them below -

1. The Wolves of Winter by JustAWhiteQuill

~When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.~ Beneath a wall of ice, a crow died and came back a wolf. Now, he is crowned King in the North and faced with the immense task of preparing his battered kingdom for the Long Night. Atop the lonely mountain, a little bird grew fangs and came back a wolf. Now, she is the Princess of Winterfell and taking care of the only family she thinks she has left. When news reaches them of the other still being alive, a chain of events is set in motion. Winter is coming, and with it, the darkest hour of the night. The time for wolves is here. All the while, the dragons and lions south are battling for a throne covered in fire and blood.

2. I Can't Steal You (Like You Stole Me) by @thewolvescalledmehome

Seeing the only family Sansa Stark had left to her was the only motivation keeping her astride the horse. Jon Snow is at Castle Black. He’ll protect you. It had been so long since she felt safe, felt protected. She yearned for the security of familiar arms and someone who cared for her because she was Sansa and not a Stark. The nerves she may have felt over arriving at Castle Black alone to see the half-brother she had not seen—had barely thought of—in years did not consume her, nor did she allow herself to feel disappointment that it was not Robb or a trueborn brother to save her. Only, upon her arrival, she is told of the mutiny. Then she is asked an impossible question: What would she give to have him back?

Lyric title prompt on Tumblr from the song "You" by The Pretty Reckless.

3. Beasts of Seasons by Simonetta

She had prepared her words and her actions meticulously. She hadn’t prepared to actually see him. Or, Jon and Sansa reunite and things don't go according to plan, forcing Sansa to reevaluate her identity and her loyalties and forcing Jon to come back to himself. Post-ADWD, bookverse fic. Jon and Sansa reunite on campaign to win back Winterfell.

4. The Thawing of Winter by @jade-masquerade

Sansa knew Jon married her—married Alayne—for the Vale, or maybe, because of his past, he saw her as a fellow bastard and meant to raise her up the same as his people did for him, how they chose Lord Eddard’s sole surviving son as King in the North. But when she looked at him, she saw nothing of the sort in his eyes, only a flash of desire, the way a man ought to look at his wife, before he steadied his gaze. If this was truly wrong, she wondered, then why did the gods let it feel so right?

Putting this in tag so others may add in as well.

Thanks for the ask!

#my asks #jonsa #jonsa fic #sweetalison007-blog

91 notes · View notes

stheresya · 26 days

Text

Similarities between the twins Baela and Rhaena and the sisters Arya and Sansa:

“Baela is too wild, […] “How can she rule the realm when she cannot rule herself?” (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) "Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. 'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it." (Arya II, AGOT)

"Where Rhaena delighted in being the center of court life, Baela bristled at praise, and seemed to take pleasure in mocking and tormenting the suitors who fluttered around her like moths." (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) […] And it is past time that Arya learned the ways of a southron court. In a few years she will be of an age to marry too." "Sansa would shine in the south, Catelyn thought to herself, and the gods knew that Arya needed refinement." (Catelyn II, AGOT)

"[...] In the Vale, Rhaena had enjoyed a life of comfort and privilege as Lady Jeyne’s ward. Maids had brushed her hair and drawn her baths, whilst singers composed odes to her beauty and knights jousted for her favor. The same was true at King’s Landing, where dozens of gallant young lords competed for her smiles, artists begged leave to draw or paint her, and the city’s finest dressmakers sought the honor of making her gowns." (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) [...] And the Vale of Arryn was beautiful, all the songs said so. Perhaps it would not be so terrible to stay here for a time. (Sansa VI, ASOS) Alayne's apartments in the Maiden's Tower were larger and more lavish than the little bedchamber where she'd been kept when Lady Lysa was alive. She had a dressing room and a privy of her own now, and a balcony of carved white stone that looked off across the Vale. (Alayne I, AFFC) "You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight, as lovely as your lady mother at your age. […] Keep a good long spoon on hand to beat the squires off, sweetling. You will not want green boys underfoot when the knights come round to beg you for your favor." (Alayne I, TWOW)

Baela’s time on Dragonstone had been more troubled, ending with fire and blood. By the time she came to court, she was as wild and willful a young woman as any in the realm. […] Baela lived to ride…and to fly, though that had been taken from her when her dragon died. She kept her silver hair cropped as short as a boy’s, so it would not whip about her face when she was riding. Time and time again she would escape her ladies to seek adventure in the streets. (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) […] Yet somehow she felt calmer than she ever had in Harrenhal. The rain had washed the guard's blood off her fingers, she wore a sword across her back, wolves were prowling through the dark like lean grey shadows, and Arya Stark was unafraid. (Arya I, ASOS) Both horses were lathered and flagging by the time he came up beside her, reached over, and grabbed her bridle. Arya was breathing hard herself then. She knew the fight was done. "You ride like a northman, milady," [...] (Arya III, ASOS) No one spared Arya a glance. They were looking for a highborn girl, daughter of the King's Hand, not for a skinny boy with his hair chopped off. (Arya I, ASOS) "Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart's desire." (Catelyn VII, ACOK)

Even more gravely, Baela had a taste for unsuitable companions. Like stray dogs, she brought them home with her to the Red Keep, insisting that they be given positions in the castle, or be made part of her own retinue. [...] Septa Amarys, who had been given charge of her religious and moral instruction, despaired of her, and even Septon Eustace could not seem to curb her wild ways. (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) Sansa knew all about the sorts of people Arya liked to talk to: squires and grooms and serving girls, old men and naked children, rough-spoken freeriders of uncertain birth. Arya would make friends with anybody." (Sansa I, AGOT) […] I despaired of ever making a lady of [Arya]. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. (Catelyn VII, ACOK)

Lady Rhaena proved to be as tractable as her sister had been willful. She would of course wed whomever the king and council wished, she allowed, though “it would please me if he was not so old he could not give me children, nor so fat that he would crush me when we are abed. So long as he is kind and gentle and noble, I know that I shall love him.” (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) ""Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong." (Sansa III, AGOT)

“Baela’s dragon brought down our late king. There are many in the realm who will not have forgotten that. [...]" (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) The queen stepped forward. “You know full well, Stark. This girl of yours attacked my son. [...] That animal of hers tried to tear his arm off.” (Eddard III, AGOT)

“It must be Rhaena. She has a dragon, her sister does not.” When Lord Corbray answered, “Baela flew a dragon, Rhaena only has the hatchling,” (The Hooded Hand, Fire & Blood) The girls do not even have that much, he thought. Their wolves might have kept them safe, but Lady is dead and Nymeria's lost, they're all alone. (Jon VII, AGOT)

This is obviously not word-for-word similarities but in general terms, their personalities and journeys etc. Both sisters from a great house. One of them willful and tomboyish while the other of a more gentle and conforming nature. The two being separated as they're about to reach adolescence. One of them growing up "peacefully" in the Vale while the other grows amidst war. One of them losing their animal companion. I don't like making speculations on characters based on other characters, but I think it's worth pointing out that the Targ twins survived the war and played a major role in reestablishing peace in the realm. Will the Stark sisters take the same route?

#baela targaryen #rhaena ii targaryen #rhaena of pentos #sansa stark #arya stark #stark sisters #f&b #asoiaf #parallels #valyrianscrolls

57 notes · View notes

meganwhalenturner · 24 days

Text

Eric Ravilious

The Vale of the White Horse

#bath children's literature festival #hodderscape #the queen's thief #queensthief

48 notes · View notes

anghraine · 14 days

Note

If you have the time, O Aragorn Expert, could you please point out a few places in the text(s) where it's described what Aragorn actually *did* during his long rule? There's the bit in the Appendices in Éomer's section where it glancingly mentions the two of them saber-rattling together, but is there more than that?

I don't think anyone has ever called me an Aragorn expert before, lol, but thanks for the interest! Off the top of my head, the main descriptions of his rule are in the glowing but vague description in LOTR itself:

He became thus King both of Arnor and Gondor, and overlord of the ancient allies of Mordor to whom he now granted mercy and peace.

In Peoples of Middle-earth, less euphemistically:

All men that had allied themselves with Sauron were slain or subjugated.

In the passage in the Appendices you mention:

And wherever King Elessar went with war King Éomer went with him; and beyond the Sea of Rhûn and on the far fields of the South the thunder of the cavalry of the Mark was heard, and the White Horse upon Green flew in many winds until Éomer grew old.

And, in the most detail, in Letter 244, which is actually about Faramir:

Also, to be Prince of Ithilien, the greatest noble after Dol Amroth in the revived Númenórean state of Gondor, soon to be of imperial power and prestige, was not a 'market-garden job' as you term it. Until much had been done by the restored King, the P. of Ithilien would be the resident march-warden of Gondor, in its mean eastward outpost - and also would have many duties in rehabilitating the lost territory, and clearing it of outlaws and orc-remnants, not to speak of the dreadful vale of Minas Ithil (Morgul). I did not, naturally, go into details about the way in which Aragorn, as King of Gondor, would govern the realm. But it was made clear that there was much fighting and in the earlier years of A.’s reign expeditions against enemies in the East. The chief commanders, under the King, would be Faramir and Imrahil; and one of these would normally remain a military commander at home in the King's absence. A Númenórean King was monarch, with the power of unquestioned decision in debate; but he governed the realm with the frame of ancient law, of which he was administrator (and interpreter) but not the maker. In all debatable matters of importance domestic, or external, however, even Denethor had a Council, and at least listened to what the Lords of the Fiefs and the Captains of the Forces had to say. Aragorn re-established the Great Council of Gondor, and in that Faramir, who remained by inheritance the Steward (or representative of the King during his absence abroad, or sickness, or between his death and the accession of his heir), would [be] the chief counsellor.

#anon replies #respuestas #legendarium blogging #lord of the rings #peoples of middle earth #letters of jrr tolkien #jrr tolkien #aragorn critical #long post #faramir

29 notes · View notes

labuenosairesfrancaise · 2 months

Text

Coleshill House

Hi guys!!

I'm sharing Coleshill House. This is the 16th building for my English Collection.

I decorated most of the house, but accompanied the floor plan for reference.

History of the house: Coleshill House was a country house in England, near the village of Coleshill, in the Vale of White Horse. Historically, the house was in Berkshire but since boundary changes in 1974 its site is in Oxfordshire.

The building may have been designed by Inigo Jones, and built by Sir Roger Pratt around 1660. Nikolaus Pevsner described it as "the best Jonesian mid house in England". It was gutted by fire in 1952 and demolished in 1958. The Coleshill Estate is now owned by the National Trust.

Coleshill House was a double-pile building, influenced by Jones's Queens House in Greenwich, and combining Italian, French, Dutch and English architectural ideas. It measured approximately 120 by 60 feet (37 m × 18 m), with two main floors of nine bays, above a rusticated basement, and an attic with seven prominent dormer windows and four tall chimney-stacks on each side of the hipped roof. The roof was topped by a flat deck surrounded by a balustrade with a central belvedere cupola. The main floors had equal heights, unlike the Palladian emphasis on the piano nobile.

The two main façades were very similar, with external steps leading up to a central entrance. The pediment above the door at the main front was topped by a rounded segmental pediment, and that to the garden at the rear with a triangular pediment. The dormers alternated rounded and triangular pediments. The entrance door from the main front led to the entrance hall, and the entrance from the rear led to the salon, with the hall and salon taking up the central third of the house. From the hall, a grand staircase with flights to either side climbed to a first-floor landing leading to the dining room above the salon; central corridors on each floor provided access to the other rooms. Several rooms were decorated with elaborate plaster ceilings. The services on the basement floor included an early example of a servants' hall, so the servants could eat away from the great hall.

For more info: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coleshill_House

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

This house fits a 40x30 lot.

Hope you like it.

You will need the usual CC I use:

all Felixandre cc

all The Jim

SYB

Anachrosims

Regal Sims

King Falcon railing

The Golden Sanctuary

Cliffou

Dndr recolors

Harrie cc

Tuds

Lili's palace cc

Please enjoy, comment if you like it and share pictures with me if you use my creations!

Free to download!

#sims 4 architecture #sims 4 build #sims4 #sims 4 screenshots #sims4building #sims4play #sims 4 historical #sims4palace #sims 4 royalty #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 simblr #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #the sims4 #sims 4

26 notes · View notes

sirjerrywesterby · 6 months

Text

Quad 1, Harwell Campus

#Harwell #harwell campus #Oxfordshire #vale of the white horse #photography #pixel 7 pro #quad one

2 notes · View notes

forkingandcountry-if · 2 months

Text

The Great Houses of For King and Country

House Wynd

Title: Lord Paramount, Emperor Edmund Wynd

Ancestral Seat: Wyndham Castle

Region: The Wetlands

Coat of Arms: Partizan Spear with Grey Cloth tied to end

Motto: “Strike True, Strike Once”

Vassal Houses: Gray, Freymen, Cole, Dustin, Courtney, Cadfael, Douglas

House Radwell-Cadderly

Title: Lord Paramount Cade Radwell-Casterly

Ancestral Seat: Two Prince's Crossing

Region: The Princeland

Coat of Arms: Two Inverted Golden Crowns and a Golden Sun Between

Motto: “Only One Crown Above Ours”

Major Vassal Houses: Royce, Roy, Vardy, Barclay, Harvey, Godwell, Radwell, Carter, Cadderly

House Merivale*

Title: Lord of the Vale, Lord Paramount Lancet Merivale

Ancestral Seat: Kingsport

Region: The Vale and Great Lakes

Coat of Arms: Golden Crowned Falcon and Golden Buck on Split Green and Blue Background.

Motto: “Honor From On High”

Major Vassal Houses: Uplands, Grenplace, Loras, Lorelei, Flowers, Blondewood, Darley, Greenspan

House Abbey

Title: Lord Paramount Finneen Abbey

Ancestral Seat: Oldchurch

Region: The Midlands

Coat of Arms: Silver Crown in White Star

Motto: “Steel to clean the hearts of men”

Major Vassal Houses: Morrel, Coffer, Abney, Woods, Arden

House Chamer

Title: Warden of the Hinterland, Lord Paramount Ornold Chamer

Ancestral Seat: Mount Reave

Region: The Hinterlands and Firth

Coat of Arms: Bucking Horse

Motto: “All things can be ordered”

Major Vassal Houses: Cramer, MacAffey, Mulholland, Vicar

House Champion

Title: Warden of the Greater Realm, Lord Paramount Hal Champion

Ancestral Seat: Guard's Round Hall

Region: The Borderlands

Coat of Arms: Knight in a Field of Wheat

Motto: “Faithful Unto Death”

Major Vassal Houses: Daunt, Gallant, Richard, Radclyffe, Reeds

House Fischer

Title: Stewardess of the Royal Woods, Lady Paramount Moira Fischer

Ancestral Seat: Diver Castle

Region: The Greenwood

Coat of Arms: Wooden Keep

Motto: “Swift to sow! Swift to swords!”

Major Vassal Houses: Keats, Trent, Pole, Diver, Greenwood, Hart

House Parish

Title: Lord-Governor of the Plain, Lord Paramount Merritt Parish

Ancestral Seat: Fortress Merill

Region: The Plains

Coat of Arms: Burning fortress flanked by rivers

Motto: "First to Fury"

Major Vassal Houses: Murgatroyd, Everly, Eccleston, Farnham, Gladwyn, Dane, Dwerry

House Galagar

Title: Lord Paramount, King o' the Rock Brent Galagar

Ancestral Seat: The Rook

Region: The Highlands

Coat of Arms: Heraldic Eagle flanked by Lions

Motto: “In Our Own Right, Kings”

Major Vassal Houses: Aron, Link, Broeker, Burnes, Arrowsmith, Keeper, Fletcher

*You are an heir of House Merivale up in the Vale and Great Lakes.

#forkingandcountry if #for king and country lore #author speaks

23 notes · View notes

istumpysk · 1 year

Note

I came across an anon of yours saying that ashford theory has been 'debunked' because they and a lot of other people believe george created Harry Hardyng as replacement of Robert Arryn for scrapping the five year gap.

First of all, I would want to know what purpose only Harry could achieve in Sansa's story that Robert couldn't because of younger age, that George felt the need to create a considerably older suitor? I understand all the bnfs get boners at the idea of Sansa getting married to Harry and staying in the Vale forever, but again the same could've been achieved with Robert too. Its not like Tommen isn't his age and not married to Margaery. In actuality, normal people know Harry is dying because of 1) the Young moniker and 2) Sansa's wish of him falling, and again Robert could've died in his place easily too, to 'free' Sansa.

And if the purpose of his creation in event of not following the five year plan, wasn't an older betrothed/husband for Sansa, what was it?

Problem with the fandom is that they put too much emphasis and focus on things we know nothing about. Like when or how George decided to scrap the five year gap plan. Its pure speculation that it was between 2000 and 2005. And it is even more speculation that he had no plans to introduce Harry Hardyng before scrapping it, or that he was a last resort (which as I showed, there was no need of, as Robert, even five years younger, fulfills those purposes). Its the same with the original outline.

And there is too little focus on the actual canon, which is that Hardyng is a minor house with no other mention except in the Hedge Knight. Even if George DID create someone last minute, it is TOO much of a coincidence it just happened to be a Hardyng and that Sansa wishes for him to have an accident with his horse in the tourney like Humfrey (his counterpart) did in the Ashford tourney. In her latest chapter in 2015. Even if he did not intend it to be intentional, he sure seems to be retconning it. This is not even considering that all the other champions also share parallels with their Ashford counterparts:

Lyonel=Lion=Joffrey; Baratheon and Lannister champions defeat the maiden's brothers; Willas Tyrell is straight up called another Leo Tyrell; Valarr's father was named after Baelor the Blessed=Rhaegar was called another Baelor the Blessed. He himself is called a black prince with a white guardian=Jon.

George must be blind if he did not see any of this while writing it because one or two names similar, I can accept as coincidences, but ALL the champions have parallels with Sansa's suitors.

Well said, anon.

Let's address this head-on: the biggest problem with the Ashford theory is that the first person to discover it made a mess of it. Now, they wander the internet, asserting authority and attempting to undermine it, simply because they disagree with its clear conclusion.

The theory was so thoroughly botched that people think it can easily be tossed aside due to a technicality involving Robert Arryn or the tournament's disruption. As if that could ever be enough to dismiss the abundance of other similarities, many of which they're not even aware of.

Can you imagine the fandom insisting on any other theory being this airtight?

#stumpy ask #anon

78 notes · View notes

what-the--curtains · 1 year

Text

Fire & Ice

Chapter 6 - Dances & Diatribes

(Robb Stark x f!Targaryen!Reader)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: Tenuous bridges are built with the arrival of a wedding present from across the Narrow Sea. Bridges that are tested by a visit to the Vale

Authors note: She's Baaaaaaaack (by unpopular demand) Let me know if you want to be untagger I know I've been gone a while!

TW: Fighting, Swearing (maybe?), mentions of blood, hallucinations, alcohol

Taglist: @kittykylax @winxschester @mihrimahsultan03 @stargaryenx @the-desilittle-bird @roselibrary @luxlisbonlover @r1dd1kulus

Word count: 5.1k

Playlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snow dusts the foliage around you. The quiver hangs on your back, reigns grasped loosely. A hushed barter with a stable boy allowing your escape for a few hours most mornings. The woods are silent this hour. You basque in the quiet knowing the men would soon return from the front. The sky glows copper as the sun rises, blood has been spilled.

You slow your horse to a walk stopping when tracks appear in the distance. Three pronged digits jut out from a large base, the prints were uncanny, unfamiliar, distorted. The air goes silent as you raise your bow. No birds chirped above, no crunch of the frosted ground beneath you, no wisp of the wind.

Nothing. Not even the sound of your own breath reached your ears.

Something is watching you.

You turn and a chill shoots down your spine, every hair on your neck lifted. Your heartbeat fills the empty space as cold breath hits your neck. You grab an arrow and drive it backwards, but it falls to the ground imprinting in the snow that dusted the remaining grass, the sound of the forest returning.

Your hand reaches back again and you fire into the nearby bush pheasants flocking upwards and you shoot two down.

You were spending too much time alone, too much time with your head buried in books full of tales meant to scare children. The chilling legends that had always managed to find themselves lodged in your head. These occurrences were the last thing you needed, a senseless distraction.

You prayed Jorah's return with the rest of the men would settle you, though you hesitate to share your visions with him considering your lineage. Unless it progressed further, it was best kept a secret.

In addition to the sense of comfort you hoped Jorah would provide insight into Talisas departure, you had your suspicions but you weren't one to breathe life into rumour before it was fact. The thoughts are fleeting and they dissipate as you dismount inside the stable. Coming forward to thank the mare for her efforts.

“Thank you for lending her to me, and for your discretion,” you say to the sable haired boy appearing from the shadows of a stall he was cleaning. He smiles, but it drops slightly as footsteps approached. Had it followed you back from the woods? You look over your shoulder to see Robb freshly returned from war, unwashed and bloodied.

“Fear not, he is not nearly as ferocious as he looks, and he only turns into a wolf on the battlefield” you whisper to the boy who smiles.

“You ride?” Robb asks, rinsing his hands of blood in a nearby barrel.

“A long time ago, in another life,” you admit, your wedding gift from Drogo passing through your mind. You hand the saddle to the boy who runs off as quickly as he came.

“You're working in the stables now, is he sharing his pay with you?” Robb asks.

“Yes, and you should pay him more, it's hard work. Do not blame him I am very convincing,”

“Seems people find you impossible to refuse,”

“I can think of at least one person always ready to refuse me,”

“Your lack of broken neck suggests you ride well, you should take your pick'' Robb states, “save for the white mare, she's mine. ” he relays storking the creature's speckled face, one of his fathers final gifts to him.

“She’s beautiful, do the rest not have owners,” you ask, hanging the pheasant on the wall as the boy leads the horse back into the stable, you hang them on the wall as you wash your hands of the mud.

‘Four in the back lost their riders, they would do well to have someone keep them in shape, try them, choose your favourite. Did Ser Darrion shoot these?” he asks, before you have time to thank him.

“I shot them, your Grace.” His eyes flit to you then back to the birds “they go to the boy, he takes them to his family, that was part of our deal,” you relay pulling them down off the wall “He wanted nothing of course but I told him to never do anything for free, especially if the person asking is wealthy,” Robb’s laugh catches you off guard

“Aren’t you angry,” you ask, turning to make sense of the lightness you felt in the conversation.

“Quite the opposite. You’ll have to teach my youngest sister, Arya when… if we find her,” he relays, stone faced. “She would like you,” he admits.

“I look forward to meeting her,”

“His family must be well fed, you're a good shot,” Robb says, looking the birds over.

“I've been hunting for a long time your Grace, though Visery didn't think it a very lady-like hobby so naturally…”

“Well my mother would agree, but if it keeps you out of my hair for a few hours I see it as a benefit to our union,”

“Did you come here to land an insult or was there something else you needed?” you ask

“I believe I just paid you a compliment,” he states

“What was your intended purpose here then?”

“A gift arrived late last night, a wedding present for you,” he says as you re-don your cloak.

“A compliment, a horse and a gift. Seems a very fortunate day for me. Why haven't you opened it yourself?” You ask, looking down in confusion at his arm extended to you.

“They are not addressed to me” he states, “And we may as well look the part” you link your arm in his and exit the stable. Appearances were crucial now, and any effort on his part at this point seemed miraculous. “You’ve grown more accustomed to the cold, last I saw you wore three cloaks when you went outside,”

“We run warm, I just needed some time to adapt,” You explain, though the heat radiating from your arm was welcome as days grew colder.

“Blood of the dragon, I almost forgot,’ Robb states.

“Was that a joke your Grace,” you ask looking at him.

“Was that a compliment?” he replies, mouth cautiously upturned.

“I don't recall saying it was funny,” you remark dryly as he pulls the tent flaps open. Perhaps there was a reason his men followed him to death after all, now he was no longer blaming you for his anguish; he was, dare you say it, tolerable. Your heart skips seeing Darrion inside, and you instinctively drop Robb's arm.

“Ser Darrion, Ser Jorah,” you address “It does my eyes good to see you both alive and unharmed,” your eyes trail down to the chest before them.

“Thank you Ser Mormont for delivering this to us, safely and for ensuring it is not tampered with,” Robb states, so Jorah had brought them back.

“Who are they from?” you ask

“An Iilyrio Mopatis, you stayed with him a while as a child after the maesters. I told him you were married and he said he had been saving it for the last true dragon,”

“Rheagar was the last true dragon,” you reply, “but I will not refuse a gift from someone who cared for me when the rest of the world would not. I will entrust you with a letter of thanks that is to be delivered to him, I will write it myself,”

“Yes, your Grace,” Jorah replies

“You may leave us,” Robb finishes throwing his gloves down on the desk. Your eyes involuntarily stuck on Ser Darrion as he bows, his own eyes trailing up your body causing a heat to flush throughout your inside.

“Are you going to open it?” Robb mutters, removing his blood stained linens and rinsing himself with the water from the basin, warmed by the hearth burning beneath it.

“Have you always been so impatient or are you just used to getting what you want?” you prod playfully, looking over your shoulder quickly.

“I have always been good at getting my own way,” he relays

“Privilege of being the eldest,” you replay, kneeling before the chest on the floor.

“Topped only by the preference for the youngest,” he counteracts, watching your hands ghost over the box, hesitantly.

“It has been checked, both by Jorah and Darrion, though I can open it if you…”

“I am fine your Grace, just admiring the craftsmanship, appears to be welded in Dothraki gold,” you click the latches open slowly pushing the wooden lid eyes widening as the contents are revealed.

“What has he sent?” Robb asks, unable to hide his curiosity, noting the look on your face your hands reach in, pulling out an egg, the size of a man's head, a bright gold.

“Dragon eggs,” you reply breathlessly, wonderment plastered on your features as your hands trace down the scales, warming them. “Three of them.”

“All gold?” Robbs queries, watching you intently as you carefully place the first down on the hearth.

“No. It’s rare any within a brood are remotely alike,” You lift the other two together, one black and one green reuniting them with the gold on the hearth.

“Dragon eggs have to be kept warm if you want them to hatch, they cannot survive in the cold and before you start I know they are decorative in a likelihood, but you have your gods and we have ours. To leave them in the cold would be disrespectful,” you explain looking up to meet Robbs own gaze of bewilderment at the mythology placed before him.

He pulls a clean shirt on and sits down in his chair rolling up his sleeves before decanting wine into a glass, watching curiously as your hands gently stroke the scales of the matte coloured eggs illuminated by the embers.

“I realise now I know nothing about you, or your family or your beliefs. Well apart from what I assume are the most horrifying details and some of which I assume to be less than true,”

“Whose fault is that?” you counter eyes still on the eggs, hands trailing across them.

“Must you always be so difficult,”

“Me?” you begin, but when you turn towards an argument he's smiling at the wall, so you forgo it. It was the first time he had asked you a question about yourself, the first time either of you had to be fair. “Well some of the atrocities are certainly elevated though many I fear to inform you are true. Tell me then, your highness, what it is you wish to know,”

“Is it your highness now? Is that better or worse than your grace,”

“I am only trying to uphold the standard of address you set for me when we first met,”

“Tell me about the dragons. They were the only part of my lessons I could focus on from what I remember,”

“Oh I find it hard to believe you were anything but the perfect student. Would you like to hear the truths or the myths?” you ask and gently stroking the tops of the eggs, the scales lining the shell shine in the flames, and for a moment you swear you feel them beating.

“Are they different?”

“You have much to learn your Grace,” you replay standing, brushing off the ash from your skirts.

“Then teach me, perhaps some of your ability to perceive strategy will rub off on me,”

“As much as it pains me to say, you would survive without me, most of my conclusion are easily found once you know what you're looking at,”

“Yet none seem to find them,” he replies

“Was that another compliment? Two in one day, have I strayed into a dream?” you joke

“Eye for an eye,” he replies, a playfulness playing off you both, previously unknown.

“Very well, I concede, what would you like to hear about the dragon's your highness”, you ask, curtseying, causing Robb to shake his head.

“Where did they come from?” he asks as you pour yourself a glass of wine. It was bitter compared to that you'd had in Dorne, but you were growing accustomed to it.

“Depends on the source. Some say they were born from deep beneath the mountains. When Westeros and Essos parted and the earth cracked open, ash and fire rained down from the sky as dragons crawled out from the centre of the world. Others say they fell from the moon, a gift from the gods,”

“Why was your family so favoured by the gods,”

“The gods simply placed the dragons on this earth, the Targaryens learnt to train them,”

“How did they manage that?” he continues.

“My fore-bearers knew of their breeding grounds, before kings and kingdoms existed, before Targaryens and Starks and Lannisters and Baratheons. We lived alongside them in trust until a rule was broken. An egg stolen, dragons devastated bruning the land before them,”

“Creating the red waste,” Robb finishes, enraptured in your words glad for your immersion in tale lest you see his stare, one he could not seem to deter as the warmth of the light illuminated your features drawing him further in.

“See, the perfect student,” he chuckles, “ Well the dragon went into hiding as the kingdom of men grew, and relationships strained. It became a tradition, a ritual, a rite of passage; it was the entrance into Targearyn lineage. Before the incest and the inbreeding a Targaryean was any who would be bold enough to survives the dragons nest and return with the eggs. Then it became a customary practice of marriage and engagement, and eventually even a gift for children, but populations dwindled. The dragons became few and populations inbred shrinking them making them vulnerable and weak in the mind, an easy correlation perhaps to my own family history,” you admit sadly, swilling your wine around in the glass. “You know, we once rode them to war,”

“I have heard that tale, They said your forefathers would ride to war a back them,”

“It is not merely a tale nor was it only the men. Women rode alongside their husbands; you'll find that in any book you read.”

“Will I,” he challenges

“Are you calling me a liar,” you press

“Perhaps I'll believe it if I ever see it, for now the hour grows late, so I must call a truce,” he states, weary from battle, your tales having entranced him into a state of relaxation he rarely felt.

“I accept,” you reply, placing the glass down, going once more to the eggs to bid them goodnight. Your arm reaches down but they are caught before they make contact. You look up to Robb whose thumb runs gently over your wrist. “You’ll burn your hands beyond repair touching those now…” he drops your wrist, realising the intimacy of the moment “ without gloves at least,” words fail you, but he clears his throat.

“There is another piece of business that demands a truce,” he admits and you look at him. “ We are stopping at the twins. My grandfather survived another year, he is to celebrate his name day at the Vale, and my mother demands our attendance. I agreed with her on the sole condition that more support is needed if we are to win. While you need not attend, I believe you would be an asset,”

“Truly,”

“Yes,” he confirms.

“If you believe I will be useful, then we shall attend,”

“Be warned, since her husband's death my aunt has gone somewhat mad, try not to take offence,”

“Salt helps well with the blisters,” he says, nodding down to your hand “They stop forming once practise with the blade is consistent, they should heal up by the time you meet my grandfather, I do not know what kind of chastising I will get for allowing you near a weapon. Also, it may also be best if you address my by my name when around family,”

“Is your grace giving me permission to forgo his initial request?”

“Robb, is very much indeed asking that of you,”

“Very well, if your grace demands it, who am I to refuse,” the haze of the wine had seeped into the surrounding air, the whole room slightly out of focus when you blew out the candle and pulled the furs over your shoulders. “Goodnight, Robb,”

“Goodnight Rhaeanya,”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Vale

Light blue garments adorned your body, intricate silver clutching around your waistline flowing up into trees and woodland scenery and downwards into roots, starks colours for the night.

“You look well,” Robb says, offering his arm as you meet him by the base of the stairs.

“As do you,” you reply, taking it, you had arrived a few hours ago from the front, Cat had arrived early in the morning. The ride to Riverrun was silent for the most part, Robb having fallen asleep, saving you the need for unnecessary small talk, less chance of irritating the other.

“The celebration is due to begin shortly but I will first introduce you to my aunt ,nephew and grandfather,”

“Lysa, Robyn and Hoster,” you list

“Very Good, my Uncles will likely be here as well, The blackfish and Edmure. The former is interesting and the other is relatively useless but harmless.”

“Lots of family, once again my job is much harder than yours. I only had one and that proved so difficult for you to remember you killed him,” you state, relieved by Robb’s huff of amusement.

“Best behaviour, just for Lysa and my grandfather, the rest well they are easier to converse with,” your feet almost trip over one another when you enter the large room, taken aback by the woman sitting high atop a throne nursing what appeared to be an eight year old boy.

“Lady Arryn,” you curtsey “I wish to thank you for your hospitality, your home is truly a work of fine craftsmanship, and its upkeep impeccable,”

“The last time I saw a Targaryen here was when I was a few years younger than you, I believed you all dead,” she states, a carelessness that implied neither malice or hatred, neutrality was better than you had expected.

“We are sturdy folk, hard to be rid of my lady, and my lord. Your son looks well, may I ask his name”

“Robyn,” she replies, the boy looked sickly with large eyes and runny nose perched atop a somewhat frail frame.

“Robyn Arryn, a gentle name, but a strong one as well. One of good fortune and friendship, it is a name as high as honour one that carries the Tully spirit with the Arryn name,” she smirks.

“And your name,” she asks

“Rhaeanya, my lady,”

“Flowing with grace in the common tongue, we shall see if that holds true,” she replies, sushing Robyn who had begun pulling at her hair.

“I hope it does, my Lady“

“And what of you my beloved nephew come forward you need not stand in her shadow of all places. The king in the north , avenging your father and your uncle against the evils birthed of lannister incest.”

“Thank you aunt, your husband gave his life for my family, that will not be forgotten, but I must see the guest of honour before the festivities begin,”

“He is with your mother, and Edmure no doubt gossiping without me,”

“It was lovely to meet you lady arryn and you as well lord robyn,” you smile at the boy whose brown eyes stare at you as if you were an apparition. Though your features were likely obscure in the north especially to a boy who hardly left the tower walls.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Please my lord do not rise on my behalf,” you begin

“Fear not you grace, I am old but I am not dead yet,”

“You have her likeness, your mothers,” he says sitting down at the dresser, and your heart drops

“I am glad to encounter one who knew her, though I warn you I may bore you with many questions now we are acquainted,”

“Tales I am happy to share, none find my words interesting these days, not since they were children, and I am always happy to share the past especially with one so full of beauty,”

“I see Robbs charm is not merely a product of the Stark lineage,”

“The Tullys were always less serious my dear,”

“Where on earth would you get the idea Robb was serious?” you joke opening the door allowing his dressers to enter.

“Speaking of serious,” Robb interjects, “There are matters I hope to discuss,not tonight grandfather not on your name day but there are things that need seeing to before we depart,”

“Of course, my boy, tomorrow we will discuss before you leave but tonight we celebrate. Rhaeanya, a pleasure to meet you, and what a joyous thing for you to be apart of our family,”

“It is my greatest joy to have found family here, I thought it lost to me forever,”

“Well you shall have children soon enough, I hope to meet them,” your chest tightens, your throat closing as you swallow your panic, fear of being caught for the fraud you were. Unable to complete what was needed to ensure a war won.

“Well my aunt only slightly insulted you, and my grandfather seems to want you for a son, so all in all its going quite well,”

“Had you not prepared me for the breastfeeding that would have thrown me, how old is the boy?”

“Must be nearing 8, and for once you are speechless. I suppose we should make our way down to the festivities am I still presentable,”

“Are you asking if you appear kingly,”

“Yes,” he replied, his earnestness catching you off guard, you refute the joke sitting behind your teeth and take a step back. You move forward, hands reaching up, his gaze following you as you shift the crown on his head just to the left.

“It's never quite fit right,” he mutters,

“It fits, and more importantly it suits you, shall we,” you ask. There is a steadiness to him as you enter the hall, despite the eyes and the whispers, the paranoia you felt entering a room was absent in him. You wonder if he felt through your facade. You watch intently as he pulls out your chair waiting for you to sit before taking his place next to you taking up conversation with his grandfather.

“And you must be the new bride,” a rough voice speaks out.

“Perhaps the old bride now, but yes, no longer a Targaryen by name,”

“But in appearance, the lineage is unmistakable”

“You must must the Blackfish,”

“Aye your Grace, I see my reputation precedes me, I hope you don’t think too ill of me,”

“Well, hard to pass judgement while rebelling against a kingdom that deemed my entire family an outcast. Perhaps we are more alike than you think,”

“And how does Westeros compare to Essos,”

“Essos is warmer, the wine is sweeter and it smells less of piss and more of flowers,” you relay, causing the Blackfish to cough into his drink caught off guard. “Apologies my lord, but I assumed you of all people would forgive such low language. Now tell me for I must know, what was he like as a child, I imagine he came out stern faced and serious, shouldering the weight of the world before he knew it,”

“In ways he was, but unlike now it was attributed to an almost unbelievable shyness,”

“Shyness,” you respond, shocked at the revelation.

“I believe so, but duty always prevailed and he always did what he needed to,”

“Well that what not nearly as fun as I had hoped, nor did it provide me with any such ammunition for teasing,”

“He use to be funny, though now I fear joy may be lost on him, make sure he finds some,”

“I will try, though I do admit I may not be the best candidates,”

“Well you made me laugh, and that's a victory in itself these days,” he nods his head back and you turn your attention to where your name had just been called

“Rhaeanya, when may I expect a great grandchild, I will be first in my family to see such a sight,” Hoster states loudly, Robb seemingly gone white

“Soon, we hope, I pray everyday” you say, taking Robbs hand in yours.

“Unfortunately the situation with the Targaryen lineage,” Lysa chimes in from further down the table, “they are mad and rumours say their offspring have been born deformed and scaly, monsters. You should have found better breeding stock for your eldest son, such a fine young man surely others would have been willing,” Lysa shouts loudly, words clear over the crowds clamour, you feel Robbs hand tense as your eyes glaze over.

“Lysa,” Catlynn warns, but she doesn't let up, and you feel your demeanour shift, cowering inwards at the fear of being found out. An uncharacteristic meekness that caught the attention of another.

“Your highness,” Ser Darrion interrupts, you release Robbs hand and tune back into the crowd “may I request a dance with your wife,”

“It is her decision, though I encourage it. Conversation here has grown tiresome, she has my permission if she wishes to leave,” you feel his eyes on you

“Thank you Ser Darrion. I would be glad to leave the scene,” you state standing from the table and making your way to the floor.

“Her stock is higher than any I am aware of, she's the only with a true claim to the iron throne, and in addition to that she is invaluable in the war room. She does the work the Lannisters entire counsel cannot. As for scaly children, perhaps you have fallen victim to propaganda dear aunt, ” Robb defends. “A war your father supported,” Lysa fires back

“A war that saw her entire family slaughtered, and would have seen her dead had my father not intervened,”

“Enough, no more of this on my name day, celebrate, the night is young and I am old, I do not wish to spend my last days listening to family squabbles,”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Apologies for interrupting your conversation,” ser Darrion whispers.

“Is that what it was, felt more of personal attack from a woman who still breastfeeds her son,” you mutter

“I have missed you,”

“And what about me is it that you have missed,”

“Every aspect, you face, your voice, your laugh, your stories,”

“Enough of my stories, I need a few of yours,”

“Anything you request,”

“You have known Robb since childhood”

“I have,”

“Was he always so… well… him,” you chuckle

“Yes, but infinitely more reserved. He never danced, hardly laughed, was always shy, and very serious. Keep to himself, drove most of the girls to him of course, man of mystery and all,”

“Is that jealousy I sense in your voice,” you joke

“I’d like to say I’ve gotten over it,”

“Oh i'm sure you did just fine,”

“Well I was able to make them laugh, does he make you laugh” the lightness of the conversation shifted.

“He is my husband,” you reply, hoping to avoid broaching an intimate topic so publicly.

“If I was your husband I would ensure your happiness,” he whispers “My hands would never leave you, there would not be a day that went by without my love for you being expressed,”

“Ser Darrion,” you whisper

“Rhea,” he replies seriously,

“You forget yourself,” you mutter sternly, eyes boring into his, resisting every urge in your body. You stare over the shoulder to see Robb staring directly at you grey gaze amber under the light as the music ends

“Thank you Ser Darrion, but you should be on your way,” you reply, and he kisses your hand.

“If you ever wish to leave this behind you need only ask,” he states, and your stomach drops, heart racing. Your eyes watch as he leaves the floor, ignoring the women walking towards him.

Your heart flutters, beating up into your ears. Against better judgement you lift your skirt and follow him, but by the time you reach the outer room he’s gone. You walk off into a hallway looking around when you turn to go back you see Robb. Concerned at the look in your eyes during Lysas trade, seeking you out as another olive branch, only to see you following another. He had not been concerned with the dance, not until he saw you rushing out after Darrion.

“What do you think your doing?” he asks

“I… I was… what was I doing with what?” you stutter.

“Don’t act stupid, we both know you are not,” he relays, and you shift into defensive mode.

“So you get to go gallivanting around into every whorehouse in Westeros, but I am not allowed to walk in the same direction as a man?”

“I will not have an uncertain heir, I cannot, do you understand,” he states firmly

“Are you jealous,” you ask, echoing back words he had once shouted at you.

“Of what? I seem to remember getting an earful about making you out to be a fool. You dancing closely, so closely with your guard makes me look foolish. Do you understand that? They will not follow a man they do not respect. If you cannot see that then perhaps I overestimated your intelligence,” he scolds.

“Do not mock me,” you reply evenly, feeling smaller than you expected

“You do it so easily for yourself in your hypocrisy,” he digs further into you.

“You are being unnecessarily cruel,” you snap.

“Perhaps you bring it out in me,” he states

“Apologies, your highness have I awoken the dragon,” you shoot back.

“Do not compare to that man,” he states, anger now evident in his features.

“Then stop acting like him,” you state clearly

“Perhaps if you were not such a spoiled brat…”

“Me?” you laugh, “ I am not the one currently in the throes of a tantrum. You have had everything handed to you since the day you were born, the perfect prince, beloved by his kingdom, adored by all. Well perhaps not so perfect considering your failures of late,” there it was. The dagger behind your teeth sharpened to a point, always ready to strike, always to kill, never willing to only wound.

“I am well aware of my failures, I know my fathers death , and my sisters' continued torture falls into my hands. So yes I am a failure to them. I need not have a stranger remind me of this,” You feel the truth in his words and guilt washes over you.

“Tonight by all accounts has been a success. So we will go back inside, we will dance, we will drink, we will stay a night then we shall return to a war I'm failing to win. Join me once you have composed yourself,”

“Robb,” you call and he turns around

“Save it, I do not care to hear anymore from you tonight besides what is owed to my family.”

#robb stark au #robb stark fanfiction #robb stark x oc #robb stark fanfic #robb stark fic #robb stark x reader #robb stark x you #robb stark x y/n #robb x reader #game of thrones fanfiction

125 notes · View notes