#was inspired by the works of: kingsroad

[remusjohnslupin]

"It’s amazing how someone can break your heart and you can still love them with all the little pieces."

[ninetailedfoxmanchi]

The Northern Winds

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader

Warnings: mention of blood & (domestic) violence, mature NSFW content (18+), mention of sexist and misogynistic medieval notions on women, arranged marriage

A/N: The story is set a few years before the Dance of the Dragons and somewhat inspired by Cregan's first marriage from the book. Many of the characters are fictional of my own imagination but I tried to keep some and the setting as close to Martin’s universe as possible – with some changes here and there for the sake of the plot.

Plot: Arranged marriage between the Lord of Winterfell and a lady from a minor house

Words: 18k

MASTERLIST

***

Letters of more and more wildling invasions of the Wall, reports of their hosts gathering even south of the Wall reached the halls of Winterfell on a weekly basis in the past months. When young Lord Stark rightfully took his father’s seat from his usurper uncle, he also pushed the wildlings back north. However that was some years ago and winter was knocking on the door. The wildlings have become bolder even.

Lord Stark was working with Maester Bennard, his most trusted advisor, on letters of diplomacy and matters that needed the noble seal of the Warden of the North. The solar where the Lord of Winterfell worked was located in Rodrick’s Tower, the largest of all of Winterfell’s towers. A smaller tower grew from its western wall a few hundred years ago where the Lords Stark carried on their duty to their people as masters of Winterfell.

A fire was lit in Lord Stark’s solar and many more candles to light the spacious chamber. The stone walls were lined with scrolls of parchment and important letters, which arrived from both the north and the south, along with some books containing lineages and retellings of the great events of Westeros. There was a great oaken desk in the middle of the solar and yet close enough to the window to allow for some more light. Behind it sat Lord Cregan Stark in the company of his maester, who handed him the most recent letters of the lords closest to the Wall, who were all asking for aid in the fight against the wildlings.

Maester Bennard hesitated as the matters of the day came to an end. “There was another letter, my lord.” Lord Stark pressed his seal into the hot wax. “From Whytefort.” Lord Stark’s hard grey eyes rose to meet his maester’s. Although Cregan Stark was a young man, he was much his father’s son; much a Stark. While his face displayed youth on the one hand, he was a man of solemn expression and of a formidable build. The Wolf of the North commanded respect in his subjects and was regarded as an honourable man and a great warrior. Unlike the Lord of Whytefort.

“Apparently Lord Whytefort shares our struggles with containing the wildlings on the northern side of the Wall, particularly in the mountains. As you know, castle Whytefort lies—”

“At the foot of the Iceraven, yes,” said the Lord of Winterfell. Iceraven was a mountain chain stretching from the north of Deepwood Motte all the way to the Kingsroad. It was in the shape of a flying raven’s wings with its peaks covered in ice and snow all throughout the seasons, hence the name. The Whytefort was built in the foot of the mountain; its stone, white walls making the castle one with the mountain and its caves. Although Deepwood Motte was the seat of House Glover, the Lords of Whytefort had maintained their seat, on what were officially Glover lands, beneath the Iceraven for thousands of years. But what land they had, it was watery and more clay than it was soil. However, it mattered little because the Whyteforters were mountain men. They were shepherds and craftsmen. And although not particularly wealthy or strong of a house, their words read Pride is our honour.

“There was a falling out when my father was still the Lord of Winterfell,” recalled Cregan Stark. The maester nodded. “Jonos Whytefort refused to bend the knee to Lord Glover as his liege lord, not even when Lord Rickon demanded he does so.”

“Why does he send a raven now?” asked Lord Stark rather displeased. It has been a long day of tedious letters and little solutions on how to face the wildling problem. “Which noble house offended his pride this time?”

“Actually,” broke Maester Bennard, “Lord Jonos offers his men to join forces with Winterfell against the wildlings. He speaks in the thousands.”

Lord Stark frowned as he looked at his maester. Even just five hundred and a thousand well-trained even if not seasoned men could make all the difference in defending the Wall and pushing the wildlings back. It would take a significant strain off his own greybeards and the rest of the houses sworn to House Stark on whom he called for aid. Yet although houses honourable and strong like Dustin, Umber, Karstark, and even Glover were more than gland to answer their lord’s call with nothing but good favour in return, that was not the way of House Whytefort.

“What does he ask in turn?” spoke the young Lord Stark gravely.

“He …” began Maester Bennard hesitantly. “He offers his daughter’s hand in marriage, and therefore the end of animosity sealed by this marriage arrangement.”

Lord Stark scoffed. “Of course he does. Does he also suggest which one of my three wretched cousins I should have the pretentious wench wed to?”

“Actually, Lord Jonos’ offer extends only to your person,” spoke Maester Bennard cautiously.

Lord Stark’s eyes darkened at the audacity expressed by Lord Whytefort through the making of this offer. Cregan squeezed the brass seal of his house in his large hand, leaving an imprint of the direwolf on his palm. Still, as the wildling attacks grew stronger by the month, Cregan was not in an entirely clear and straightforward position to refuse thousands of trained warriors.

“My lord will have to marry sooner or later,” offered Maester Bennard in consideration.

“I’d rather have it later than sooner,” said Lord Stark. He had only been Lord of Winterfell some years. It was his duty to marry but he had rather hoped it could wait a while longer. “And you advise it, Maester Bennard? Whytefort is a small house. They have some land but most of it belongs to the mountains. Little wealth to speak of …”

“I do, my lord, under the circumstances. Winter is coming and the Wall must needs be secured before it arrives. We do not know how long the winter will last this time. We might not even have enough for our own, much less to feed a mass of wildlings.”

Cregan Stark knew of that without his maester having to say it. He looked through the window and saw the snows sticking to the grey rooftops of the castle. Although this was still just summer snow he was watching fall, Lord Stark knew one thing was certain. Winter is coming. And with it cold and death. There was no time to waste.

Lord Stark got up. “Have a raven sent, Maester Bennard. I leave the arrangement of this folly in your hands.”

"As my lord commands."

***

“Do you know what the girl is like?” asked Cregan Stark as he took his supper in Rodrick’s Tower. Maester Bennard was often by his side even at mealtimes as the work often could not wait.

“I believe you met her once, my lord. As a boy of nine or ten if I am not mistaken,” said Maester Bennard, helping himself to some black pudding. Lord Stark washed down his meal with a small cup of ale. He had no recollection of any young Lady Whytefort or the Whyteforts ever visiting Winterfell. As mountain men they more oft than not kept to their lands beneath or atop the Iceraven.

“They visited Winterfell on their way to castle Cerwyn for Lord Cerwyn’s son Erick’s wedding. You may remember from your studies that Lady Whytefort is Lord Erick Cerwyn’s half-sister.” Cregan Stark nodded although he had no memory of ever learning that either. His mind must have been on swordplay or horse riding at the time Maester Bennard instructed him in the family ties of the minor houses of the North. He was desperate, however, for his mind to conjure an image of his future wife, even if only from childhood.

“I do not remember them visiting,” said Lord Stark. There hardly passed a week in his life without a visit at Winterfell from this or that house, family, or merchant.

“They only stayed the night before riding out in the morrow, so naturally you may not recall,” said Maester Bennard. “It was a long time ago …” he spoke more quietly as he knew what his lordship would ask him next.

“What do you remember of the girl, maester?”

“I …” hesitated Maester Bennard. “I know you are of age with the lady,” said the maester but that is not what Lord Stark was asking. His grey eyes were as cold as stone as they commanded the maester to speak plainly. “I remember, I believe, as a child she was neither entirely plain nor very comely. Or particularly well-mannered for a young lady - a rebellious child. She favoured the company of her horse and dog to that of the court and needed to be forced into a dress as she preferred breeches and jerkins, often stealing them from her older brother Daeron from what I heard. It was said to be a nightmare for her lady mother,” said Maester Bennard and took a sip of warm honeyed wine. “He, Daeron, is the future Lord of Whytefort and was named after his grandsire. You may remember him better,” said Maester Bennard. He would not lie to his lordship of his recollections. However, no matter how homely, or brazen if she is to be judged after her lord father?s character, the maid might have grown up to be, the wedding was imperative in taking place.

“The brother,” Maester Bennard cleared his throat, “Was said to be the one to have inherited the beauty of his parents. He was three-and-ten when you met him, the same age as you were when your lord father died. “Lord Jonos, however, assures Lady Y/N is as comely a beauty as any northern, or for that matter, southern lady. He sings praises of her wit and promises she is an accomplished young woman,” added Maester Bennard although neither himself nor Lord Stark were inclined to trust the words of a man whose pride exceeded his sense of honour – or duty for that matter. However, to Cregan Stark they represented the same. His duty was his honour and his honour was his duty. No Stark had ever broken his word and he had given his to Lord Jonos Whytefort to marry his daughter in exchange for a few thousand men.

“We shall know soon enough,” said the Lord of Winterfell soberly as he set down his cup and retired to his private chambers. The raven sent by Whytefort’s maester read their lord and his daughter would arrive in half a moon, which meant they would arrive on the morrow when the wedding ceremony would also take place.

***

The summer snows were melted by the sun during the day whilst the nights would remain as cold and crisp as ice. It was afternoon already when Lord Jonos arrived with his surprisingly unnumerous host of noblemen and women to witness the marriage of his only daughter to the Warden of the North. The castle had been in preparation of the feast for days before the arrival of Lord Whytefort. The main hall was being decorated in ribbons and flowers in the colours of House Stark and House Whytefort, whose banner bore a carmine brown fox on a field of black with white trees, symbolising the birchwood of their lands.

The ceremony was to be held in the godswood inside the castle walls of Winterfell beneath the heart tree as was customary in the North, where the faith of the Old Gods remained. As Cregan’s own father was dead, it would be Maester Bennard who would lead the ceremony as the most senior of Cregan’s advisors and one Lord Stark personally considered a friend.

The host arrived late in the afternoon although they were expected in the morning. The Warden was irked but would not let it show. Lord Cregan stood tall and solemn as he waited for his guests, for his future bride, in the main courtyard of the castle. The sound of hooves long echoed the walls of Winterfell before a host of wedding-adorned horse riders crossed the innermost gates. Cregan Stark recognized Lord Jonos from his short visit to Winterfell quickly upon his arrival. He had mousy blonde hair and eyes as blue as the sea of Tarth. He was a reasonably tall man with some belly brought on by age and too many barrels of ale. Lord Jonos rode on a white palfrey with his son by his side on a mount of a coat that matched the Whytefort’s fox in colour. Daeron was a comely young man like the maester said, his eyes as green as summer trees with a head of rich dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He sat high in his horse yet not half as high as his lord father. The host of riders rounded in the vast courtyard, leading the way for an ornate carriage. To the onlookers, Lord Stark, the Warden of the North, was calm and dignified. But inside, Cregan felt a storm gathering. It was the displeasure of meeting a man so prideful that he would offer his daughter to the Lord of Winterfell without invitation; but mostly, a man who was too arrogant to bend the knee at the command of his most senior lord for a petty feud with House Glover over some land later won by the latter. Yet it was not only pride and arrogance that Lord Jonos Whytefort was famous for but also for containing an equal measure of tightfistedness as well as greed.

Half a dozen riders and a couple of wagons with supplies followed the carriage until it came to a stop and Lord Jonos dismounted along with his first-born and only son.

“Lord Stark,” said Lord Jonos Whytefort, bowing his head curtly. His son echoed his actions. Lord Stark was almost surprised at Whytefort’s courtesy. Yet if they had not been expressed properly, more would have been at stake for Lord Jonos rather than for the Lord of Winterfell.

“Lord Jonos,” said Cregan Stark and squeezed the man’s thick, gloved hand warily. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark. It was a surprisingly long journey.”

“Indeed,” said Cregan. “We had expected you this morning.”

Lord Jonos laughed, revealing that not only his belly but his teeth were affected by the too many barrels of ale. “Yes, indeed. The wheel of the carriage broke. There was replacing needed,” said Lord Jonos lightly although the spare wheel rested securely untouched in one of the wagons that followed the host.

“Of course,” said Lord Stark curtly although his hands itched to send Lord Jonos back to the mountains whence he came from. As he continued about their tedious journey from the security of their mountain hold, Cregan Stark’s gaze moved behind Lord Whytefort. The carriage door was held open, a woman round with curves and black hair secured in a net of pearls stepped from the carriage. For a moment, Cregan’s chest grew heavy with the burden of duty as he considered that may be his bride and Lord Jonos had tricked him by singing praises of his daughter's beauty. But the woman could not have been his bride as she must have been twice, nearly thrice Lord Cregan's age. The discomfortable thought disappeared when another figure emerged from the carriage and he realized the first woman must have been Lady Whytefort, the wife of Lord Jonos. She held her daughter’s hand and helped her climb from the carriage. Lady Y/N held up her rich black velvet skirts until her feet reached the floor. Her gown was trimmed with the fur of the carmine fox of her family’s banner and she wore a chain of white gold around her neck. The Lord of Winterfell came to realize that Lord Jonos must have been truthful for the first time in his life when he wrote of his daughter's comeliness.

Maester Bennard, who was among those to greet Winterfell’s guests, recognized the child he saw so many years ago in the young lady before him. Her eyes were still restless and deep as pools but they grew a warmth only changing into a woman grown can bring. There was no sight of men’s breeches or her brother’s jerkins. The gown young Lady Whytefort wore hugged her womanly body, the curves of her figure evident even with a heavy cloak hanging from her shoulders. The person he remembered was a child rebellious and wild, but the one standing before him was a woman grown and noble.

The cold, fresh air filled Y/N lungs, easing some of the sickness the ride in the stuffy carriage inflicted on her insides. Y/N looked up at the tall castle walls, the massive bricks of grey stone and granite towering over her. Her new gaol, she thought. She looked around until her eyes met those just as grey and cold as the castle walls. Y/N averted her gaze as her mother led her to where her lord father and her future husband were waiting. Her heart was beating hard against her ribcage as she suddenly felt as hot as if she had arrived in Dorne and not in Winterfell.

Lord Jonos went on about their journey still, oblivious of his wife or his daughter’s presence or the decency of making their acquaintances. As Lord Jonos finally reached for breath, Lady Whytefort spoke, “Lord Stark, allow me to present my daughter, Lady Y/N of Whytefort.”

Y/N bowed graciously but managed no more than a glance at her future husband’s eyes. He was taller than her father even and the heavy cloak he wore made him appear as if there were two men beneath it rather than one. Lord Cregan Stark was as formidable a figure as any she had met.

“Well met, Lady Whytefort,” said Lord Stark curtly as he kissed her gloved hand.

“My lady,” said Lord Stark and turned to Y/N. He took her hand, not ungently, and kissed the top of her knuckles. Y/N could almost feel the warmth of his large hand although the both of them wore thick leather gloves. There was a sword strapped on his back, almost as tall as he was. Ice it was called, Y/N remembered from a book she read on the Kings of the North many years ago. It was Valeryan steel and passed on from generation to generation just the same as Visenya Targaryen’s Dark Sister.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” said Lord Stark to his future wife.

"Thank you, my lord," Lady Y/N thanked him but her voice collected although weaker than her normal self. She had been fighting off suitors for years and successfully so. But there was no way she was getting out of this marriage. She would not dare as the prospect of it was too good for her family. Unlike her father, whose pride was built on wealth and possession, Y/N’s pride consisted of honour and love she held for her family.

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” spoke Lady Whytefort assuredly. “Our apologies for arriving late. We … Had some trouble on the road,” she explained although her eyes twitched towards her husband for a moment. She was a beautiful woman once with raven black hair and honey brown eyes. The children of Lord and Lady Whytefort were a mixture of their parents each in their own way.

As Y/N fixed her cloak when the evening breeze blew through the courtyard and the courtesies between Lord Stark and her father continued. She took in the many faces which observed the arrival of her family: her arrival – the future Lady of Winterfell. Just the sound of it in her head was incomprehensible to her, what more the reality of her being there, in that moment. Y/N could never imagine herself wed and bearing children for her husband. She was much happier studying books the maesters gave her, happier taking drawing lessons, even doing needlepoint. She could not imagine relinquishing the freedom of riding her mare through Whytewoods, secretly wishing she had been born a boy rather than a girl. The freedoms enjoyed by her brother were always right in front of her eyes but never hers to savour. The life she wanted was denied to her on the account of her existence as a woman. There were times when she wished for a family of her own, a husband to share her life with. But whenever her father would arrange for a suitor, Y/N knew she would rather end up an oldmaid rather than marry and relinquish what little freedom was left to her. However, when her lord father gave her the news of her betrothal to the Lord of Winterfell, to the Warden of the North, she had no choice but to accept the decision for she understood what the match would represent for her family. She would no longer have to worry about her beloved mother in the old age, her brother losing his seat to greater, more powerful houses, or even worry about her father, whom she somehow loved deeply and despised at the same time, for there would be always the power of Winterfell standing behind them.

All the while Y/N attempted to distract herself with the architecture, with the people both common and noble observing her, she could not help but feel Lord Stark’s cold grey eyes burning into her like ice. She would not meet her future husband’s gaze for more than a moment though or she feared her eyes might let in tears. Lady Y/N was very good at letting people to believe she was calm and assured of herself. And the one thing Y/N vowed to herself was that she would not allow anyone to see how she truly felt inside at the prospect of this marriage; of leaving her life behind, her family and friends, her freedoms.

***

Lady Y/N, her mother, and their handmaids were showed to their chambers where Y/N was to prepare for the wedding ceremony. Although the colours of her house were black, white, and carmine, her wedding gown did not have any black in it. Her father claimed it was bad luck. Instead, Y/N wore a gown of cream white fabric as soft as butter. The handmaids helped her with the bell sleeves and the lacing, adjusting her stockings and helping her with her shoes, whilst her lady mother placed a necklace of white pearls and a single carmine ruby around her neck.

Y/N’s hands were cold with sweat at the thought of the night that was coming. Her fingers shook too gravely to clasp her own earrings. Saera, Lady Y/N's handmaiden, who was helping her dress one final time as Y/N would be required to take new handmaids from the morrow forward as Lady Stark of Winterfell, adjusted her earrings. At last, they clasped a heavy maiden’s cloak around her shoulders. This one did sport the black of House Whytefort but only at the hem. The collar was carmine fox fur and the chain a silver link fastened around the neck. Y/N’s mother wept at the sight of her daughter on her wedding day.

It was already dark when the party descended the castle and was shown to the godswood where the ceremony was to take place. Lady Y/N could feel the fire from the torches the guests carried but her body shivered from cold. Or fear.

In the godswood of Winterfell stood the largest heart tree Y/N had ever seen. Although there was some snow on the ground with small, almost invisible snowflakes falling, the tree stood proud with blood-red leaves crowning its branches. Y/N’s breath quivered as she looked up at the guests. There were not very many and yet still too many for her comfort. She saw two dark figures right beneath the heart tree, one tall and one much shorter, the maester Lady Y/N had seen upon her arrival. The face of the heart tree beckoned haughtily for her to approach. Lord Jonos clasped his daughter’s hand around his elbow, leading her to the weirwood tree.

“Stop shaking,” he gritted through his teeth, his intense blue gaze finding his daughter’s. There was ale on his breath as Lord Jonos refused to go sober at his daughter's wedding, particularly when it was at the expense of Winterfell rather than his own house.

Y/N could not say a word, her mouth to dry to speak although she had a cup of mulled wine to warm her up as she got ready. She tried to swallow but it was like trying to swallow a spoonful of sand. “And don’t even think of anything stupid,” said Lord Jonos and squeezed her hand so firmly in his that the bones in her fingers near cracked. “The future of our house depends on this.” His words weighed even heavier in Y/N's chest.

They stopped at the heart tree opposite of Lord Stark, whilst Maester Bennard stood at the head of the party. Cregan Stark wore the colours of his own house, standing tall in the sight of the Old Gods. There was not an emotion on his face that Y/N could read other than what she had learned was his usual, formidable self.

Lord Stark, however, could not help but notice the tremble in his bride's small, delicate hands and the tension in her body.

It was beginning to snow once again but thankfully the ceremony would be short unlike the southern weddings before the Seven.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” began Maester Bennard at once.

Lord Jonos spoke, “Y/N, of House Whytefort, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I, Cregan, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who gives her?” spoke Lord Stark, his voice strong and unmoving.

“Jonos, of House Whytefort, Lord of Whytefort,” said Y/N’s father as he let go of her hand.

“Lady Y/N, do you take this man?” asked Maester Bennard. For but a moment, Y/N considered what it would be like to run away. She would not come far. She also wondered of the fury her father would inflict on her for ruining such a perfect match. Her mother would be heartbroken and her brother livid.

“I take this man,” spoke Y/N at last, her voice weaker than she intended. She glanced at her husband’s grey eyes for but a moment before looking away. Tears threatened to water her eyes but she forced them back.

Lord Stark unclasped Y/N's maiden’s cloak as her body tensed and replaced it with his own, one with the sigil and the colours of House Stark. The fabric weighed heavy on her shoulders but it was warm, warmer than her own cloak had been. Neither did it smell like her. Its scent reminded her of pinewood and cloves.

Y/N pulled the cloak closer to her. It is done, she thought, and somehow her chest weighed less heavy than only minutes ago. She did not know why because this was the easiest part. It was the night that frightened her. And the morrow. And every day that would follow.

The wedding feast was held in the main hall. There was no scarcity of wild boar, of venison, nor of suckling pig. There was hot bread and tarts, lemon cakes and pastries occupying every corner of every table. Wine was served, Dornish red and Arbor white. There was even hippocras. And ale by the barrel. Her father was the first to be in his cups, having begun before the wedding ceremony, and entertained his noble and less noble friends at the end of the longtable to where he changed seats from his daughter's side. Her mother sat next to Lord Stark chatting happily away with one of the ladies. There was no one for Y/N to talk to but her husband, a man she hardly knew; a man she knew not at all. She thought the night might be easier if they spoke other than just courtesies.

Y/N took a cup of Dornish red from one of the servants and drank until she felt the warmth in her cheeks.

“I remember staying at Winterfell as a child,” spoke Y/N, finding the courage in her cup. “It was just for one night but I thought it looked much smaller then.” Cregan did not know what to say. He looked at his wife, taken back by the sudden break of silence. She had not even looked him in the eye more than half a dozen times since she arrived, much less spoke to him. At first, he thought it vanity yet when he saw her in front of the Old Gods, he understood her silence did not grow from pride or arrogance but something else, a mystery.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lady, but I cannot recall your time here at Winterfell. My maester, however … Given what he said of your being like as a child, I half expected you would arrive on horseback,” confessed Lord Stark, not displeased with the idea at all, yet hardly being able to imagine someone as quiet and reserved as Lady Y/N to arrive in anything less than an ornate carriage.

“Would that I could,” said Lady Y/N, finding her voice as she smiled a small smile at the thought of herself as a child. “But my father insisted I ride in the box.”

“The box?” inquired Lord Stark.

“It’s just as small, it’s wooden, and it’s as uncomfortable as anything. I’d be more comfortable riding on top of a cabbage cart,” said Lady Y/N earnestly, her voice quiet, but Cregan let out a warm, hearty laugh. Lady Y/N turned to him, drawn to the sound of his laughter, which even made her smile. She dared look at him properly for the first time since they met that afternoon. He looked like as a Stark as any: dark brown hair, a somewhat elongated face, and grey eyes, which suddenly seemed a lot warmer to her than the stone cold one's she saw that afternoon. She already knew he was tall but now that he had removed his heavy cloak, she saw the rest of his body too. His shoulders were wide and his chest strong beneath the metal sigil of the wolf clasped where his collarbones would meet. He must have shaven clean in the morning but Y/N could see there were hints of stubble protruding from his strong jaw. His hands were strong and muscular; strong enough to wield that inconceivably large sword belonging to his house, Ice. The thought suddenly frightened her. Her father never raised a hand to her but his raising a hand to her mother was hardly a rare occurrence.

The smile disappeared from Y/N’s lips as she looked at her hands resting at the edge of the table. She reached for her cup and drained what little was left in it. Lord Stark must have noticed the change in her mood.

“I understand Winterfell must seem daunting, my lady,” he spoke sincerely. “I got lost here countless of times myself as a child, and I was born here.” Lord Stark spoke with a warm northern accent. Y/N gazed around the room and nodded. Not because she agreed but because she could not make herself say anything else. She paused.

“It is not the castle that frightens me,” Y/N spoke out of the sudden, regretting it the moment the words flew out of her mouth. Wine be damned.

“What then, my lady?” asked Cregan without thinking. Lady Y/N smiled to herself as she glanced down at her hands before raising her gaze to him. She looked into his eyes but for a brief moment although it seemed to him to last a century at least. Her lips parted gently but no words passed them. Lady Y/N gave him a small, reassuring smile. She looked away and helped herself to a small lemon cake that she did not finish not even by the end of the night. But it was then in her smile that the Lord of Winterfell realized the mystery of his bride’s silence – fear, not of Winterfell itself, but of him. And she hid it so well. There was an air of assuredness and confidence about her, the way she moved and spoke, even if only with her eyes. But underneath it all, Y/N found herself feeling more vulnerable than ever.

As Cregan was about to speak to his wife, Lord Jonos bid her to dance as was customary of the father of the bride. If he hand not been in his cups, he might have been a half decent dancer. Lady Y/N, however, was as graceful a dancer as any. Her creamy white skirts seemed to become one with her body as she stepped and turned to the beat of the waltz. As the song came to an end, Lord Jonos coughed from fatigue as he stumbled back to his company, leaving his daughter alone in the middle of the hall. He considered his obligations at this wedding met and returned back to the feast. As Y/N was to return to the high table on her own, a warm hand caught hers. She looked up and found herself face to face with her husband, the great Lord of Winterfell. Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise but there was no time to hesitate as the music already began to play. She moved to the beat of the music, noticing how everyone was staring at them as they became the centre of attention.

“I didn’t think you dance, my lord,” said Y/N, hardly being able to look up into her husband’s eyes. The older she got, the less desire she had to look people in the eyes.

The Lord of Winterfell seemed much more a man suited to the battlefield rather than the cobblestones of a dancecourt. He was too tall and too broad in the shoulders to dance as elegantly as any singer could, nevertheless, he was sure of step and held a strong frame.

“I don’t,” said Lord Stark as their arms locked in a figure that demanded a turn. Y/N looked at him.

“Then why …” she wondered out loud before she could stop herself.

“Because you are the Lady of Winterfell,” said Lord Stark unemotionally as the dance slowly came to an end. “And your father is a wretched fool,” he spoke with distaste just before the music quietened. Lady Y/N stared at her lord husband as he kissed the top of her fingers and escorted her back to the high table where they sat together.

“Thank you,” she spoke gratefully, so used to her lord father forgetting his manners when he was in his cups, or sober for that matter, that the gallantry of Lord Stark seemed as strange to her as the sun rising at dusk. The tone of the Lord of Winterfell's voice, however, made her uneasy.

“There is nothing to thank, my lady,” said Lord Stark, his ice-cold voice melting some.

“It is to me, my lord.” Y/N had some more of that lemon cake for she could feel the Dornish red mingle with her blood far more intensely than she had intended. She had been travelling all day and had been on the road for near half a moon. The wine stuck to her as easily as mud to boots on a rainy day.

As the guests, Lord Jonos' group of primitive nobles in particular, suddenly began shouting “BEDDING! BEDDING! BEDDING!” in unison, Y/N flinched, her hand colliding against Lord Stark’s arm as her eyes widened. She had asked her father not to do this, not to encourage this ribald practice, and he agreed. He even gave her his word. In his cups however, Lord Jonos had no recollection of making his daughter such a promise.

Y/N’s stomach twisted into knots as she grew sick with anxiety when she saw the guest approach her with their greedy hands.

The Lord of Winterfell stood up, towering over most any man in the hall. His grey eyes turned as cold as stone as his brows furrowed into a formidable frown. The music stopped and guests settled down to hear what the Warden of the North had to say.

“I would not draw a sword at anyone on my wedding day, my lords,” spoke Lord Stark in a loud, solemn voice. The bawdy smiles of the wedding guests drained from their mouths. Y/N looked up at her husband, her own lips parting. Her heart was beating so wildly, she thought it might jump from her chest.

“Least of all at my father-in-law,” said Lord Stark with ice in his voice as he looked Lord Whytefort, who stood at the head of the ribald guests, straight in the eye. Lord Jonos clenched his jaw, slowly blinking his blood-shot eyes.

“As you wish,” he spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s your wedding night, my lord.” Lord Jonos grasped his cup, having to lean against the high table to steady himself as he drank. Lord Stark glared at the singers who began to play once again immediately. The guests returned to their cups and cakes grumbling as Lord Cregan took Y/N’s hand as the feast continued without them.

Lady Y/N’s face was flushed with fever, her body tense like a bowstring. Lord Stark held her hand tightly as he led her through the hallways of Winterfell. His step was much longer and faster than hers for she struggled to keep up. As she skipped a step, Lord Stark realized how fast he was walking fuelled by fury. He stopped and took a moment to look at his wife. Lady Y/N’s chest was rising and falling quickly, the skin on her cheeks and neck flushed with heat. Her lips were parted and her eyes big and deep as pools.

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Lord Cregan and kissed her hand, holding it more gently as he calmed his anger. Her fingers disappeared in his large, calloused hand, engulfed by the warmth of his touch.

“Whatever for?” breathed Lady Y/N. I should be on my knees with gratitude, she thought to herself. Because of everything that had just happened – or might have happened. If the bedding had taken place, her clothes would be stripped from her body as the male guests would carry her to her wedding chambers, most likely groping at her body and sometimes even waiting outside the door to ensure the marriage was truly consummated.

“I …” began Lady Y/N, trying to find the words to express all the things she was feeling: the gratitude, the fear, the confusion … But before she could gather her thoughts into words, Lord Cregan cupped her Lady Y/N's face with his large hands, the thumb of his hand brushing across the corner of her lips. Goose pimples rose on her arms as he leaned down some, his grey eyes shifting between her lips and her eyes. Cregan leaned in and kissed his lady wife. The loose strands of his long hair grazed against Lady Y/N’s forehead as she responded instinctively to Lord Cregan’s touch. All the fear she felt beforehand melted from her as her hands gently leaned against Lord Stark’s broad torso. Y/N pulled away slowly but Lord Cregan leaned in once again and found her lips. The fingers of his right hand caught in her hair as they reached further, supporting her neck and jaw. The skin of her entire body tingled with fever as Lord Cregan broke the kiss hesitantly, his hand finding hers once again.

“Come,” asked Lord Stark, his voice quiet and hoarse. He led her up the stairs, some wider then others, taking turns that Y/N could not memorize even if she tried. Her body was trembling with expectation, a mixture of fear of the unknown creeping in as well as Lord Stark pushed open a great oaken door that led to his private chambers. The fire crackled in the hearth as the snow grew stronger outside the windows of Winterfell. The chambers were near as vast as the main hall split in half with its own table laden with cheese, fruit, and wine, and flowers and candles for light. There was the chambers' own dressing area and a private privy that belonged to the apartments as well. There were painted chests, ottomans, and chairs and great, ornate tapestries with scenes of hunting, the godswood, and the red and white heart tree. Opposite of the hearth was the bed with a vast feathered mattress, soft pillows, and furs for warmth.

“Some wine?” asked Lord Stark distractedly as he turned to look at his wife. His eyes were a daze of grey clouds.

“No,” said Lady Y/N quietly and shook her head. A loud bang erupted from the courtyard beneath the tower with Lord Cregan’s private chambers. Y/N winced, her eyes wide as they darted towards the window of painted glass. Lord Cregan frowned when Lady Y/N squeezed his hand and her focus shifted.

“Nothing to fear, my lady” said Lord Stark in a quiet, reassuring voice. “They are only celebrating.”

Y/N nodded to herself, “Of course.”

Cregan gently tugged on Lady Y/N's hand, bringing her closer to him. Breath caught in the back of Y/N’s throat as he towered over her, his nose brushing against hers before he kissed her lips. Her hands rested against his chest as his locked around her waist. Lord Cregan pulled on the strings of her wedding dress, releasing the bow that held the topmost layer of the gown in place. The fabric loosened around Y/N’s chest before Cregan tugged on the open wings of the back of the dress and exposed her shoulders. He left soft yet hungry kisses along her neck as his hands found the hem of her skirt. Cregan pulled the bottom of Y/N’s gown past her hips and knelt. He kissed her stomach never minding the chemise as he blindly found the strings of Y/N’s corset and pulled it apart. The fragrance of her skin, of cloves and orange blossom, urged him on as he rose and began unbuckling his leather jerkin that bore the metal sigil of House Stark. Y/N helped Cregan with the strings of his tunic as best as she could as her fingers were still a trembling mess. Y/N was no longer afraid like she expected it. Her instincts prevailed and she was surprised at herself how much she wanted it. How much she wanted him, the Lord of Winterfell.

Cregan pulled his tunic over his head, allowing for his strong, muscular body to be observed. Perhaps it was the wine or some new found courage but Y/N softly pushed Lord Stark towards the bed where he sat down. They were almost at a height now. Cregan’s hands slid from her upper back to her hips where they settled securely, pulling her to his lap without ever detaching his lips from hers. He reached for the hem of her silken chemise and pulled it over her head. In nothing but her stockings, Y/N helped Cregan undo his breeches as he kicked off his shoes absently, his lips tracing the line from her neck to her chest.

“Gods,” Cregan murmured against her hot skin, his voice as hoarse as broken glass. He left soft, hungry bites and kisses along her breasts as his hands gripped onto her hips securely. He laid Y/N on the bed and quickly pulled off his breeches before his lips found the one place he felt they belonged: between his wife’s soft, creamy thighs.

Y/N gasped, her fingers digging into the furs and linen. She closed her eyes and forgot to breathe as her toes curled in pleasure. When a soft whimper escaped her lips, Y/N’s cheeks flushed redder still but Cregan did not seem to mind. Rather his arms wrapped even tighter around his wife’s thighs as his kisses were fuelled with insatiable hunger. A mass of heat began forming in Y/N’s abdomen, the tension in her body growing higher and higher. She tried to contain her moans but could not help herself. The pressure dispersed from her body as she remembered to breathe and she breathe heavily. Y/N’s eyes closed involuntarily as one of her arms rested across her forehead. For a moment, she was both lost and found, at peace and in chaos.

“S-Stop …” Y/N managed a small stutter as Cregan thought to continue. “Please …” she begged. Cregan did as she asked, leaving one last kiss on the inside of her thigh as he rose. His face was flushed and his eyes as striking grey as a lightning sky. Y/N’s breathing slowly calmed and she opened her eyes, coming down from her high. Cregan was leaning on his elbow beside her, patiently watching her recover. He leaned in carefully and waited for her to tell him to stop but she did not. She responded instead with a kiss, a hungry kiss with which she vowed to repay the pleasure he had made her feel, a pleasure she had not expected.

Cregan pulled her body closer, wrapping Y/N’s thighs around his hips after he pulled off her silken stockings. A quiet gasp escaped her lips as he entered her, his eyes closing in pleasure as his eyebrows furrowed into a heavy frown. He moved slowly at first, evenly. Then his body began moving faster and more desperately. Cregan’s hands roamed Y/N’s body until he had to steady himself against the headboard, feeling himself nearing to his climax. A moan of pleasure caught in Cregan’s throat as he leaned his forehead against Y/N’s, his eyes closed and his breathing heavy. Y/N’s hands rested on Cregan’s broad back, his head on her chest. She was breathing heavily as well as two fat tears escaped her eyes. A pool of emotion bubbled inside of her whilst she observed the carved wooden ceiling but not really seeing it, only once again beginning to feel the weight of her life and her duty. She was to make her husband happy. Is he happy, she wondered. Is he pleased? Do I please him?

Another loud bang boomed from the courtyard. Y/N gasped in spite of herself, her body wincing involuntarily. Cregan tensed with her in his arms. He glanced up before he rose once again, leaning against his arms. He looked into Y/N’s eyes but she still could not hold contact for longer than a moment.

“It’s alright,” he spoke once more. “You’re safe, my lady,” said Cregan quietly before pressing a soft kiss on Y/N’s lips, then another on her forehead. Y/N nodded before Cragan leaned on his side and pulled her closer. She rested her head in the nook between her husband’s shoulder and his chest. He pulled one of her legs across his thigh where he rested his hand beneath her hip, drawing soft circles into her skin. In spite of it all, Y/N could not relax. Her body was tense once more, her mind rushing with thoughts of apprehension and self-doubt, even shame. She was a woman wed; it was her duty to give her husband children. What made her feel shame was that she had enjoyed it so.

***

Y/N’s eyes opened when the morning broke, startled by the unknown surroundings. She did not move as she looked around, the memories of last night, only a few hours ago in truth, came back to her. For the hour or two that she managed to close her eyes, Y/N was consumed with a kind of sleep that made one wake up more exhausted than one went to bed. Thoughts and memories of the day past rushed and disfigured in her mind when she slept. Y/N’s chest rose heavily as she looked at Lord Stark lying beside her. He was sleeping on his front, his broad, bare back moving gently with his breathing as he was sound asleep. Y/N was suddenly aware of her nakedness, the recollections of last night made her cheeks flush with shame once more. The wine had made her bolder than she ever would have dared on her own.

Lady Y/N left the bed quietly and slipped on her chemise. Although there was hardly any fire left, only burning embers, the chambers had not grown cold. The walls of Winterfell were built in a way that allowed the hot spring water to rush within them and keep the castle warm.  

Y/N glanced over her shoulders, seeing her husband sound asleep. She carefully walked the heavy wooden floors to the dressing area yet none of her things have been brought up yet. There was only a basin and a pitcher. Y/N took one of the soft cloths folded on the washstand and poured some water over the fabric. She washed herself not realizing her thighs were not only painted with her husband’s seed but also her blood. Rosy red stains appeared on the soft white cloth. Y/N could not recall feeling any pain, not any that would disturb her. But there was still blood.

“My lady?” asked Lord Stark. Y/N gasped as she jumped around, clutching the cloth in her hand as the other went over her heart. Cregan’s voice was gentle and quiet but it startled her nevertheless in the hour of the nightingale.

Y/N curtsied instinctively. Her face grew hot at the sight of her husband’s bare chest although he was wearing smallclothes.

“Are you alright?” asked Lord Stark, his eyebrows locked together into a frown.

Lady Y/N nodded. “It’s just … Sleep evades me, my lord,” she spoke, avoiding her husband’s storm grey eyes. Y/N felt exposed in only her chemise although Lord Stark had seen her nakedness and more but hours ago.

“Cregan,” corrected Lord Stark as he took the cloth from her hand. He brushed away a small remain of blood from her calf before standing up. Y/N nodded although she could not make herself say his name out loud. It felt odd to even consider calling the Warden of the North by his first name.

“Are you feeling well?” asked Lord Stark once again, his voice more solemn than before. “Are you … hurt in any way?”

Y/N realized what he was asking. “I’m alright, my—”Lord lingered on Y/N’s tongue as she stopped herself in time. Lord Stark’s stone hard eyes lingered on his wife a moment longer, studying her features. She could not have lied to him even if she wanted to under his formidable gaze.

Cregan nodded to himself and asked her back to bed. It would be hours before anyone other than the smallfolk would consider breaking their fast after the night of festivities. There was no need for the Lord of Winterfell to jump to his duties at the crack of dawn as he normally would, not on this day. Yet it was obvious that neither him nor his wife would find any more sleep that morrow.

It became clear to Y/N that moments of desire and the rest of life were two separate ordeals. One’s courage when powered by lust dwindled in the face of achieving the intimacy of a comfortable silence. Y/N did not know what to say or how to navigate the quietness that settled between herself and her lord husband. She was lying on her side, facing away from him when he spoke.

“Your belongings will be brought up in the morning,” said Lord Stark absent-mindedly. “I was told your new handmaids and ladies-in-waiting were also chosen for you in terms of the seniority of rank …”

Y/N turned on her back, her eyes searching the ceiling. “Alright,” she whispered almost soundlessly. She came to realize once more how drastically her life would change, how it already changed. The people she knew, the persons who had formed part of her every day would suddenly be replaced by strangers she had never met before. Her private rooms were no longer hers but ones she shared with her husband. Y/N shut her eyes tightly and paced her breathing. Tears forced into her eyes but she pushed them away.

“You … You are going hunting today?” asked Y/N to stir her thoughts in another direction. Her lord father boastedabout going on a hunt in the Wolfswood with the Lord of Winterfell in the honour of his daughter’s wedding.

“Am I?” asked Lord Stark. The tone of his voice sounded displeased but Lady Y/N could not be sure. She looked at him.

“I only thought … I heard …” she tried to explain but could not find the words that would not expose her father. The stone in Cregan’s eyes softened some when he saw the fear returning to his wife’s beautiful features although she tried to mask it.

“If Lord Jonos wishes a hunt in the Wolfswood, I will not deny him,” said Cregan absently. He was in no mind to entertain his father-in-law any more than duty commanded of him. The Lord of Winterfell had no taste for arrogance, particularly not one that mingled in one as selfish as he was covetous.

“Ser Duncan Greycliff can take him. He is the master huntsman,” spoke Lord Stark somberly.

“You do not have a taste for hunting?” asked Lady Y/N in an attempt to get to know her husband although she could almost hear him thinking “I do not have a taste for your father.”

“I do,” said Lord Stark instead. “But I prefer swordplay and horse riding.”

“So do I,” said Y/N more to herself than to her husband. “Horse riding, I mean.” She had tried herself at swordplay once as a girl. The sword was hardly a dagger compared to Ice yet it weighed so heavy in her hands that she cut her leg the first swing she took. The blade did not cut through the fabric of her brother’s breeches that she wore but it still parted her flesh on the side of her knee. Her father never learned of it as Y/N’s lady mother made her swear she would not speak of it or else it would not bode well for either of them. The maester bandaged her injured leg and she would never touch a sword again.

“Horse riding then,” decided Lord Stark. He had a scarcity of engagements to attend to that day, still being his wedding day in a way. “We should set off after breaking our fast. The snowing may grow stronger again later in the day. You have a horse with you I take it, my lady?” asked Lord Stark. A true rider never parts from their preferred mount.

“I wanted to bring my mare, Blackspur,” said Y/N as she nodded. “But my father … He said my husband has wealth enough to buy me a horse if I want one,” confessed Y/N. A cluster of anxiety gathered in her throat at the thought of leaving her mare behind. She had her since she was a child. And even if Blackspur had already been past her days as a filly then, she was one of the fastest horses in her father’s stables.

Y/N shook her head and smiled to herself. “Little does he know I asked my cousin to ride her here,” said Y/N, turning her gaze to her husband. “He never even noticed,” her smile grew wider. “So I would only ask for a place in the stables for her.”

Slowly Y/N looked away. Asking anything of her husband, a man she had known for a day, brought her discomfort and shame. She was raised never to ask for anything.

“I will have them build an entire stable for her if that is your wish, my lady,” said Lord Cregan. Y/N could not help but laugh as butterflies awoke in her stomach although there was no doubt in her husband’s voice that he would truly do so. He smiled nevertheless at the sound of her small but bright laughter.

“A stall will do, my lord,” said Y/N as the smile lingered on her lips. Cregan pulled her closer by the waist, Y/N’s back arching against his touch. Their faces were but inches apart as Lord Stark leaned in slowly, his gaze focused on his wife’s soft lips. She was the opposite of everything he had expected from a daughter of a man like Jonos Whytefort.

The heat of Lord Stark's body made Y/N’s arms cover in goose pimples. There was not a hint of Dornish red left in her veins yet Y/N leaned in herself, her hand resting on her husband’s cheek as her lips met his. A soft, almost soundless whimper escaped her mouth as Cregan pulled her closer, his strong grip secured on her body. As his hand reached beneath Y/N’s chemise, there was a knock on the door.

“For Gods’ sake,” growled Cregan, his voice rumbling from his chest. He glared at the door. “Not now!” he called and returned his attention to his wife. The smell of her skin drove him mad with desire, the feel of her soft curves, her gentle touch on his body. He had not imagined it would be so. Cregan Stark was used to perform his duty in all matters and he believed this marriage would be no exception. Little did he expect duty to taste so sweet.

There was another, more persistent knock on the door. “I said NOT NOW!” the Lord of Winterfell rose his voice to a formidable boom. Y/N’s body grew tense in Cregan’s arms, his eyes darting back to her. But before he could speak, another, more familiar voice came from outside his chambers.

“Forgive me, my lord. The matter is of great importance,” sounded Maester Bennard’s voice.

“Gods be damned,” muttered Lord Stark in frustration and fell back into bed. His eyes shut tight for a moment as he gathered his calm. Cregan sat up and pulled on his breeches and tunic in an attempt to conceal the evidence of passion. He opened the door where Maester Bennard awaited. Y/N pulled the linens closer to her body although the bed was hidden from the door’s view. The maester spoke quietly and she could not hear what was said. But there was one word she unmistakably caught – wildlings.

The ladies-in-waiting presented themselves after Lord Stark rushed to Rodrick’s Tower to speak with his lords and advisors. Lady Y/N’s belongings were brought to her chambers along with the wedding gifts of the nobles who attended the marriage celebration. Lady Y/N was helped into a gown of sage green embroidered with string-of-silver. She was asked of her preferences and of her well-being while the servants changed the bed linens and cleared the table with food. One of the ladies-in-waiting, Helaena or Harriett Dustin or Umber, fastened a necklace of white gold and deep green emeralds, which Y/N received from her mother on her sixteenth name day, around her neck. Y/N traced the jewellery with the tips of her fingers, her chest growing tight with pain. She would have to say her fare wells to her mother and to her brother after her lord father returns from the hunt. She will have no one left from her old life, save for her mare Blackspur.

“The breaking of fast will take place in the main hall today, m’lady,” informed one of the servants. She curtsied as best as she could before Y/N’s ladies-in-waiting escorted their Lady of Winterfell to the main hall. The women were kind enough yet unfortunately they were all perfect strangers to Y/N.

The way around the enormous castle that was Winterfell presented itself much clearer in daylight than it did in the hour of the wolf although they remained quite confusing still.

The guests rose as Lady Y/N entered the main hall, her eyes growing wide as she glanced behind her. They rose for her. She was but a young lady of an insignificant house no longer than a day ago. Sometimes people did not even bother to curtsy to Y/N when she was not in the company of her lord father and now an entire hall of noblemen and women stood at her presence.

Y/N sat down at the high table next to a grand, ornate seat reserved for the Lord of Winterfell. Wolves were carved into the handles of the seat, the sigil of House Stark showing off proudly from the top of the back rest. Y/N’s own seat was carved in the same fashion only slightly smaller in size. She sat, allowing for everyone else to do the same. Her cheeks flushed pink as Y/N became acutely aware of everyone staring at her. She knew what they were thinking behind their bawdy grins and hidden whispers, and it cost her her appetite.

One of the serving girls poured her some warm honeyed wine which Y/N gladly accepted. She glanced at the empty seat beside her once again. The seating was different than at the feast. Many of the guests were missing, doubtlessly still asleep. Y/N noticed her lady mother, however, speaking to who seemed to be Lady Hornwood. When Lady Whytefort’s eyes met her daughter’s, she gave a warm, encouraging smile, which reassured Y/N some.

“Is the food not to my lady’s liking?” asked Y/N’s lady-in-waiting, Daela Manderly, the most senior in rank and the one who earned her seat beside the Lady of Winterfell at the high table. She was a girl of seven-and-ten, not much younger than Y/N herself. Lady Daela was tall with long red hair of House Tully after her lady mother.

“I do not have much of an appetite,” confessed Y/N but forced herself to have something at least.

“Are you well, my lady?” asked Lady Daela with great concern. She even went as far as to take Lady Y/N’s hand. Y/N was not accustomed to people touching her, not even Saera who she had practically grown up with. The only person Y/N welcomed touch from was her lady mother. Nevertheless, it was not so much Lady Daela holding her hand that brought Y/N discomfort. Rather, that she was asking on the account of the passing night being Y/N’s wedding night.

“I’m alright,” assured Y/N as she helped herself to a slice of white wheat bread and some butter. She reached for the jar which smelled of sweet blackcurrant and raspberries, spreading some of its contents across her buttered bread.

“Is breakfast usually held elsewhere?” asked Y/N, earning a puzzled look from Lady Daela. “The servant said that we will break fast in the main hall today.”

“Oh,” said Lady Daela. “There is a smaller hall. It is warmer there but Lord Stark often breaks his fast in his solar with Maester Bennard when Winterfell is not host to noble guests. The ladies and myself usually eat in our chambers,” the lady-in-waiting explained.

Suddenly, the people of the main hall rose as did Y/N herself even before she could even see the Lord of Winterfell enter the hall. The last time she saw him that morning he was in his wedding breeches, his white tunic hanging loosely from his shoulders. He had a change of garments since and a clean shave, his long dark hair combed neatly.

Lord Cregan took his seat at the high table, letting the bountiful breakfast to continue.

“Good morrow,” said Y/N gently, unable to explain the reassurance she felt at her husband’s presence. Suddenly, she felt like no one was looking at her at all anymore.

Lord Cregan’s gaze found hers, his stormy eyes raging with thoughts. A dark, solemn expression rested on his already formidable features that Y/N had not noticed when he sat down beside her.

“Good morrow,” spoke Lord Stark nevertheless while he helped himself to eggs, cooked ham as well as bacon and half a dozen slices of rye bread.

Y/N felt as if she somehow misspoke yet she could not have; she only greeted her husband. For a moment, Y/N contemplated it might be Lord Cregan prefers quiet in the mornings since he often eats alone. Yet as Lady Daela claimed he sometimes shared his meal with Maester Bennard so that could not have been the answer. Something must have happened when he was called away that morning.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” asked Y/N carefully as if she were threading on ice. Her voice was soft and discrete as she leaned in ever so slightly. Although they had spent the night together, Y/N did not know Cregan Stark in the least.

Lord Stark stopped his eating, his brows forming into a small frown as he looked at his wife. Y/N thought terribly for a moment, expecting he might throw a plate at her as she had often seen her own father do. Instead, Lord Stark's gaze flickered between Y/N’s big eyes that waited patiently for his reply. She looked away when he did not say anything, focusing on the food in front of her instead before she glanced around the room. Her father would have announced it is none of her business if it had been him she were asking. That or worse.

“Everything is alright, my lady,” said Cregan out of the sudden, interrupting Lady Y/N chain of horrible thoughts. “We will talk of it later,” he added as their eyes met once again to which Y/N could only manage a nod.

After their broke their fast, Y/N changed into her riding gear. She had her father’s castle tailor make her gowns that could be parted and worn with riding breeches underneath and that were able to fit a proper saddle. Y/N picked out a garment of dark blue, brown leather gloves and a fur cloak. The cold winter breeze and the nightly snow made it less than ideal for a nice, long ride yet Y/N could not wait to get out of the castle. She had arrived to the stables before her husband where Blackspur was already waiting for her.

“Hey,” soothed Y/N gently as she glided her gloved palm across the mare’s neck. Her coat was as black as pitch save for the white boots on the three of her four legs. The horse responded to her mistress’ presence, nudging her great big head in her direction.

“Shh …” Y/N leaned her face against Blackspur’s back and caressed her quivering body. For a moment, she could feel the weight of the world storm down on her. For a moment, Y/N’s eyes filled with tears and disappeared in her mare’s coat just as soon as they appeared.

Footsteps approached from the other end of the stall. Y/N wiped away what traces of tears had remained on her face as she patted Blackspur and took a deep breath. The presence that appeared at the stall’s entrance was Lord Stark himself. He did not say anything for a moment. Cregan’s eyes moved across his wife’s attire, never having seen anything like it. Another man appeared behind him, one of the stableboys, offering to saddle Lady Y/N’s horse.

“That’s alright. I will to do it myself,” said Y/N, stroking Blackspur’s neck. The stableboy did not know what to do at such a request from a lady, his small blue eyes flickering between the Lord of Winterfell and his lady wife. Y/N realized they had been staring and she herself froze as her lips parted.

“If I may, my lord,” she spoke much less assuredly, lowering her eyes from her husband and to her beautiful horse whom she caressed still.

“Of course,” said Lord Stark. “Benjin, fetch a saddle for Lady Stark.” Y/N froze at the sound of her new title coming out of her husband’s mouth. She felt like a pretender when she thought it herself. The words coming out of the mouth of the Lord of Winterfell however, carved them into stone.

Lord Stark joined Y/N in the stall, running a hand along Blackspur’s neck himself. The horse shifted at the presence and touch of a stranger.

“Don’t stand too close to her face. She might bite at you,” said Y/N’s arm instinctively stretched past her husband’s body as if to protect him. “She is wary of people she does not know.”

Cregan glanced at his wife’s hand and took it but also stepped back with her as Y/N warned. Her face grew warm when she realized she had tried to ‘protect’ the Lord of Winterfell, who stood even a few inches taller than Blackspur.

“She is a lot like my wife it would seem,” said Lord Stark and closed the space between them. Breath caught in the back of Y/N’s throat as her husband’s lips brushed against hers, seeping into a deep, hungry kiss, when the sound of the stableboy’s returning footsteps filled the silence.

“Gods be damned,” cursed Lord Stark as he pulled away from his wife’s soft lips. Lady Y/N could not help but smile. She took Blackspur from her stall where she could saddle and prepare her for the ride.

Once she was in her saddle, Y/N felt like herself again. The sense of freedom returned to her even if but for a moment. The northern wind swept through her long hair as she gave her restless mare a turn around the courtyard by the Hunter's Gate.

Lord Stark rode a deep brown courser with mane as black as night, hence the name Nightkeeper. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell rode out together, taking no escort as they roamed the snow peppered grounds surrounding the mighty castle. They passed the winter town on their way through the main castle gates. Its houses were mostly empty still but as the winter approached, more and more people would return to stay once again beneath the walls of Winterfell.

The horses picked up their pace when they reached the open fields. Lady Y/N could not hide the smile growing on her lips when fresh air filled her lungs and her breathing became faster.

“Forgive my prying, my lord, but—”

“Cregan,” said Lord Stark. Y/N looked at him. “You need not call me ‘my lord’ when we are alone,” he said once again.

“I fear it may take me some time to get used to that,” confessed Lady Y/N, offering a small smile. The Lord of Winterfell smiled in turn as they steered their mounts up a field path west.

“About this morning,” said Y/N more carefully, “The important matter that needed your attention …”

Lord Stark nodded, his features growing somber. “A growing party of wildlings gathers just north of the Last Hearth,” he explained. “There was a letter in the night from Lord Umber urging we send men north.”

Y/N listened patiently, nodding to herself.

“I will have to ride out soon,” said Lord Stark. “With your father’s host of warriors joining us, we stand a good chance at pushing the wildlings beyond the Wall for good. Or at least for a good many years.”

Y/N’s heart grew heavy. Once her family and her handmaidens leave Winterfell, she will have no one for company but her husband. And Blackspur. Lord Cregan did not count much yet since Y/N was unsure as yet how much she could confide in him as a friend rather than her lord and husband.

“When do you expect to leave?” asked Y/N, even her words growing heavy as she considered being left completely alone at Winterfell.

“In half a moon’s turn,” said Lord Stark gravely. “Sooner if we can gather the men.”

Y/N nodded.

“It will be enough for you to get used to your duties as the Lady of Winterfell. You will rule in my stead when I leave for the north, of course,” said Lord Stark. His voice was laced with thick northern accent.

Y/N’s chest gave a squeeze as she suddenly realized the weight of her responsibilities. Her own lady mother often deputized for Lord Jonos when he was away yet governing over Whytefort could not be compared to ruling Winterfell, much less the North. For the first time since Y/N learned of the marriage alliance between herself and Lord Stark, she could truly feel the weight of duty of her new home rather then her childhood one.

Y/N looked at her husband. He had been the Lord of Winterfell since he came of age at six-and-ten and lost his parents three years prior to succeeding his father’s seat as the Warden of the North. She could not imagine the heavy weight that rested on Lord Cregan’s shoulders nor how he managed to carry it so well; how he made it seem so effortless and natural.

Cregan caught Y/N staring. She looked away quickly and made Blackspur pick up her pace as she gently nudged her belly. Lord Stark did the same and matched her speed, both of the horses shifting from a trot to an easy gallop. Y/N raced her mare up the nearby hill, having Blackspur come to a halt where the view was best. Y/N took in the scenery as she paced her breathing. The fields were neither green nor covered in snow, towered by the mighty grey castle that was Winterfell. From this distance, the castle could fit in the palm of Y/N’s hand. There was forest too as far as the eye could see; dark pines standing strong whilst the summer trees were slowly but surely dropping leaves.

“It is all yours,” said Lord Cregan not without pride when he saw Lady Y/N staring.

Y/N licked her cold-dry lips. I don’t want it, she wished to say. It was too large, too vast, and too many people depended on it; depended on her. Yet for better or for worse she was the Lady of Winterfell. The duty was hers to bear.

“Mayhaps we should go back,” suggested Y/N quietly. “The winds are growing colder.”

“Winter is coming,” agreed Lord Stark as he turned his courser around.

They spent the majority of the ride back in silence yet Y/N could feel her husband’s eyes burn into her for the near entirety of the way. She could not make herself look back at him nor ask about his thoughts. Y/N had spent her entire life as an insignificant lady of an insignificant house leading an insignificant life. She knew her place among the noble lords and ladies – it meant she was to be invisible, quiet, and respectful; never looking them in the eye for too long, never speaking out of turn.

“My lord,” called Maester Bennard as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell returned from their ride. The old maester was waiting for them in the courtyard by the Hunter's Gate, holding a scroll of parchment. “A quick word. Another raven arrived following the one of the morrow.”

Lord Stark dismounted as one of the stablemen took his horse. He stepped away with Maester Bannard whilst Lady Y/N dismounted as well. She had only been able to unsaddle her mare when a party of riders and their dogs entered the courtyard. The lords had gone hunting as per Lord Jonos’ request although the time of day was less than ideal. Nevertheless, Y/N spotted that a wild boar had been the result of their labour in Wolfswood.

“What is that beast doing here?” shouted Lord Jonos when his bright blue eyes saw his daughter’s mare; the one that he had gifted her on her ninth name day. His voice caught the attention of the entire inner courtyard, including Daeron Whytefort, who took part in the hunt. Lady Y/N jumped around, her heart in her throat.

“I told you that nag is to stay at Whytefort!” Lord Jonos slid off his mount and stormed towards his daughter, his whip still in his hand. “You will pay for this trick!”

Lady Y/N’s heart dropped as her eyes grew wide, her back hitting against Blackspur’s side. She held her breath, unable to take her gaze off her lord father, when a man of as stout a figure as any stepped in Lord Jonos’ way. Ser Harwyn, the master-at-arms of Winterfell and a bull of a man, grabbed hold of Lord Whytefort’s whip arm.

“Threatening the Lady of Winterfell is treason and cause for death, my lord. Lord Stark will have your head for that,” warned Ser Harwyn, his grip on Y/N’s father as firm as his words as Lord Jonos tried to set free of the master-at-arms’ hold. Lady Y/N knew Lord Jonos would go for his dagger and he did.

“Don’t!” the Lady of Winterfell cried at her father as her brother could not do anything but watch.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Lord Stark.

“Nothing, my lord,” said Lady Y/N quickly though her voice was weak. The sight of Ice strapped on her lord husband’s back and Ser Harwyn's words made her stomach twist into knots.

Lord Stark turned to his master-at-arms for answers as he saw his wife’s eyes were laced with fright.

“Lord Whytefort threatened Lady Stark. I said it is treason and you will have his head for it, my lord,” Ser Harwyn glared at Lord Jonos. The master-at-arms had trained Lord Cregan at swordplay since the now Lord of Winterfell was in his swaddling clothes. His loyalty to House Stark was unwavering.

“Is this the truth of it?” Lord Stark turned to his lady wife. Y/N’s eyes were big with fear, her lips parted with surprise. She had not thought he would ask her of what had happened. Yet Lord Stark already knew Ser Harwyn’s words had the truth of it. He only wanted to see if his wife would lie to him, even if it was to protect her foolish father. Hot tears welled in Lady Y/N’s eyes.

“It is the truth, my lord,” she spoke quietly as tears stung her cold, wind-lashed cheeks. Cregan’s brows hung in a dark frown, his frame as stoic and formidable as ever. Yet something in the parting of his lips, the colour of his stone grey eyes softened as he studied his lady wife.

“She is my daughter and I forbade it!” Lord Jonos defended his actions. “I forbade that she should bring that beast to this castle,” he insisted.

The Lord of Winterfell turned to him, his cold, hard eyes finding the whip in Lord Jonos’ hand.

“She may have been your daughter yesterday, and you could do with her as you would have seen it fit then, my lord,” spoke Lord Stark, his voice growing darker by the word as he approached Lord Jonos until he towered over him with ease. “But she is my wife now – mine,” Cregan assured to his father-in-law who was as taken aback by his lord’s words as was Lady Y/N.

“I will have you leave the grounds of this castle immediately for I am no longer inclined to extend you the courtesy that no harm shall befall you as my guest,” said Lord Stark with ice in his voice. “But remember that it was you, Lord Whytefort, who forfeited that right as my guest when you threatened my wife, the Lady of Winterfell.”

Lord Stark’s cold gaze rested unblinkingly on Lord Jonos.

“Leave. From this day on you are only welcome at Winterfell at the invitation and pleasure of its lord,” Lord Stark said his final words.

Gentle snowflakes began to fall once again as the Lord of Winterfell showed Lord Jonos his back, commanding his lady wife to follow him inside the castle. Lady Y/N tried desperately for her eyes to meet that of her father but he would not look at her. Lord Jonos yanked his arm free from Ser Harwyn’s hold and spat on the floor before he commanded his men to prepare to leave at once.

Y/N hurried after Lord Stark, hardly matching his pace of long, furious strides. Once in the privacy of their castle walls, of their private chambers, Lord Stark spoke.

“If he so much as speaks another word out of turn, I will have his head,” promised Lord Stark, his voice calm and steady yet ice cold as he faced his wife, the daughter of the most insolent man he had ever had the displeasure to meet. If it had been anyone else, Lord Cregan would have had his head on a spike by then. Or better yet, have him sent to the Wall where he could externalize his impertinent arrogance to winds and snow if they would have him.

“It is my fault, forgive me, my lord,” said Lady Y/N desperately and bowed. “If I had not brought Blackspur with me, this never would have happened.” Y/N shook her head as she looked away when tears welled in her eyes. She could not believe that she had been so foolish. She should have known her father would find out and it would lead to no good.

“I do not say this to blame you, wife,” said Lord Cregan incredulous.

“But I am to blame,” said Lady Y/N. “I should have obeyed his orders.”

“If he had as much as laid a finger on you—” Lord Cregan stopped himself before he could finish his thought. He was holding Y/N by her arms, not ungently, trying to make her understand without him saying anything out loud. Lord Cregan was not a man of words, nor a poet who could sing his lines. The only thing about Lord Stark that sang was his greatsword when he swung it.

Lord Stark let go of her arms, his palms tingling with the warmth of his wife’s body. He gathered his thoughts, pushing his emotions aside.

“I have duties to attend to, my lady,” said Lord Cregan in his usual solemn manner. “And you must needs time to settle in as well. I will see you at nuncheon.”

The Lord of Winterfell left for his solar. Y/N curtsied when Lord Stark was already at the door, his back turned to her.

Y/N sat in one of the chairs by the fire overwhelmed by emotion. She contemplated everything that had happened. Her father announcing the betrothal, the journey, and the wedding ceremony. Last night and this morning, the invigorating ride and the terrible quarrel afterwards. Y/N did not know whether to laugh or cry or to scream. Everything was new and she was so very tired. Not only her mind but her body as she had only a few hours of restless sleep.

There was a knock on the door.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but your mother, the Lady Whytefort, asks to speak to you,” said a knight of the personal guard of Lord Stark, the one assigned to the new Lady of Winterfell.

“I will see her,” said Lady Y/N almost desperately as she jumped to her feet.

“Very well, my lady,” the knight bowed.

Lady Whytefort was shown into the room, the heavy wooden door closed behind her. She wore skirts of umber red with golden-silver embroidery on the bodice. A necklace of pearls and matching earrings decorated her pale skin.

“Mama,” cried Y/N as she wrapped her arms tightly around her mother’s body. The thought of her leaving made Y/N’s heart part with white-hot pain. As a child, Y/N and Lady Whytefort were not particularly close. Yet as Y/N grew older so did her mother and their relationship not only mended but flourished. They were each other’s best friend, protector, and confidant.

“Oh, sweetling, it’s alright,” spoke Lady Whytefort but neither she could disguise the cracks in her voice. Her cheeks were wet with tears with her daughter’s arms locked around her body so tightly. Lady Whytefort caressed Y/N’s hair, unsure whether it was to comfort her or herself.

“I do not wish for your to leave,” whispered Lady Y/N for if she attempted to speak with her voice, it would surely break.

“Oh, I do not want to leave either, my sweet,” said Lady Whytefort as she pulled away, wiping the tears from her daughter’s cheeks. “But I have to. This is your home now and I have to return to mine.”

Y/N nodded in understanding although more hot tears streamed down her face.

“I will visit as soon as I can, I give you my word,” vowed Lady Whytefort.

Y/N’s chest broke with a painful sob. She began shaking her head, “Y-You cannot.” Her crying grew heavier.

“Why not, my sweet?” asked Lady Whytefort as she wiped away the tears off Y/N’s face. “You mean the quarrel between your father and Lord Stark?”

Y/N’s sobs quietened as her gaze rested on her mother’s. “W-When did … How ... How did y-you know?”

“Your brother told me when I came down to meet him after he and your father returned from their hunt,” explained Lady Whytefort unconcernedly. “Besides, I fear half the castle is talking about it,” she said, less pleased that there would be gossip in such a noble castle.

“I don’t understand,” Y/N shook her head. “How can you speak so lightly?” Her cheeks grew wet with tears once more. She shook her head, “I … I don’t know what to do.”

“You do not have to do anything, my sweet,” comforted Lady Whytefort. “I already spoke to Lord Stark—”

“What?” blurted Lady Y/N. “When?”

“Just now,” said Lady Whytefort. “I went to ask for pardon on the behest of your father but Lord Stark would not hear of it. Mayhaps if Jonos came to him himself and swallowed that foolish pride of his …” said Lady Whytefort tiredly. She had been mending her husband’s messes for years, decades even ever since they were wed.

“What am I supposed to do? And it is my fault—” cried Lady Y/N in desperation but her mother cut her off.

“Whilst the Lord of Whytefort is not welcome at Winterfell unless upon the invitation and pleasure of its lord, the same does not extend to the Lady of Whytefort,” said Lady Whytefort with a small, growing smile. “She is welcome to the hospitality of Winterfell at the Lady Stark’s wish.”

“W-What?” breathed Lady Y/N. Her heart was beating hard enough to escape her chest. “Lord Stark … Lord Stark said that to you, mother?”

“He did,” promised Lady Whytefort. “You will beg me to leave for I will be here so often.”

Y/N could not help but laugh through her tears that her mother brushed away for one last time.

"And the quarrel was never your fault, my sweet," swore Lady Whytefort. "It gladens me that you have Blackspur here with you. At least you will have something of your own ..."

“I will be leaving with your father, however,” explained Lady Whytefort. “So we best say our goodbyes now.” Y/N nodded as she locked her mother into a tight embrace. She would miss the smell of her perfume, the touch of her hands. But mostly, she will miss her voice and her company.

Y/N said her final goodbyes to her family after nuncheon, her beloved lady mother and her brother. Lord Jonos would not look at his daughter, waiting impatiently on his milk-white palfrey. As her family and the host of guests disappeared behind the castle walls, Y/N felt alone in the world. A darkness settled in her body, a sadness for Whytefort, her private chambers, the people she knew, the halls she had walked thousands of times before, a sadness for her home. Yet Winterfell was her home now.

Y/N spend the rest of the day with her ladies-in-waiting, slowly but surely remembering all of their names. Daela Manderly, Ellyn Mormont, Jocelyn Karstark, and Harryett Dustin. Y/N found Lady Ellyn the most agreeable of the lot. She was a few years Lady Stark’s senior with long hair neither brown not gold and eyes the colour of rain.

The ladies showed her the castle from the Great Hall to Benjen's Hall where the meals were usually held, the broken tower and the ladies’ quarters where they spend some time at small talk and a warm cup of mulled wine. Lady Daela was a woman of petite stature who could not handle more than a cup or two before the grape had stuck to her blood. She told a rumour about one of the ladies of the court but Y/N had no taste for it. She neither knew who the lady was nor did she have the energy to keep up with the conversation.

“If my ladies will excuse me,” said Lady Y/N and got up. The women mirrored. “I will retire to my chambers for it has been a long day,” she apologized. “Lady Mormont, if you would be as kind as to escort me.”

“Of course, my lady,” said Lady Ellyn as they left the ladies at their wine. Lady Daela seemed conflicted between her wish to be called upon the new Lady of Winterfell to accompany her to her chambers and between her thirst for more honeyed wine and leisurely whispers.

As they climbed the staircase of Rodrick’s Tower, Y/N’s thoughts drifted off to her husband. They had not spoken at all at nuncheon other than the courtesies demanded of them. Yet come supper, they will be alone and after her lord father’s outburst that morning, Lady Y/N was unsure of how she felt – of how her husband felt. Lord Stark had allowed Lady Whytefort to visit any time she wishes, yet what if he resented that she would come and ask for her husband’s forgiveness; that she would want to change his mind and question his orders. His silence to Y/N weighed terribly on her mind.

Y/N sighed heavily as they reached her private chambers.

“Is everything alright, my lady?” asked Lady Mormont.

“I hope so,” said Lady Y/N more to herself than to her lady-in-waiting. She was yet unsure how much she could trust Lady Mormont. In reality, Y/N was less than hopeful. Her mother was right when she said she had been cleaning Lord Jonos’ messes since they were wed. His difficult character and more oft than not unjustified pridefulness made life difficult not only for him but the rest of the Whyteforts. 

“May I suggest a bath, my lady?” offered Lady Ellyn, waking Y/N from her thoughts. “It might help relax you.” Y/N had not even thought about it, yet the idea of it seemed sweeter than heaven in that moment.

“That would be more than welcome, thank you,” she agreed.

“I will have the servants ready it for you, my lady,” Lady Ellyn smiled before she disappeared down the narrow corridor.

Lady Y/N entered her private chambers, making it straight to the bed. She laid down on the comfortable feathered mattress, her fingers running through the soft furs. Despite a headache forming, Y/N wondered if tonight would be the same as last night. The memories of it made her skin tingle with warmth as she battled against the feelings of guilt and shame.

The servants prepared a bath for Lady Stark to which she added some peppermint oil to help relieve her headache and relax her muscles. After the servant girls helped her strip to her undergarments, Lady Y/N asked them to leave. Although many ladies enjoyed having others wash them, Y/N cherished the silence and the solitude whilst soaking in warm water.

Y/N stripped and stepped into the bath. The water was unusually hot as it often already grew cold whilst the servants brought it up to the rooms. Y/N sunk into the fragranced water, allowing for the heat to embrace her. She had had a bath on the day of her wedding, yesterday, yet it seemed to her as if she had not had one in months. If the prospects of supper had not loomed over her, Y/N would be sure to fall asleep that very moment.

As the water grew cold, Lady Y/N washed with soap of orange and had a change of dress. She wanted to look her best. In her own way, it was a way of apologizing for starting the quarrel with her father, which lead to a falling out between the Lord of Winterfell and Lord Jonos. Lady Y/N chose a dress of dark carmine red with golden embroidery on the sleeves. She paired it with a delicate belt made of mountain blossoms of matching gold. Although the gown had long bell sleeves, it exposed the shoulders and had the bosom in the shape of a heart. It was one of Y/N’s best and favourite gowns. She wore pearl earrings in the shape of tears but allowed her hair to fall naturally.

The skirts of Lady Y/N’s gown rustled as she walked down the main staircase of Winterfell. She had her ladies-in-waiting accompanying her, all four of them walking closely behind her. When Y/N reached the bottom of the staircase, she came face to face with her husband. He must have been outside for there were snowflakes slowly melting away in his hair and his coat. Lady Y/N curtsied.

“Husband,” she spoke in a way of greeting. Her voice was stronger than she had expected although on the inside she was trembling.

Lord Stark’s mouth parted ever so slightly as he took in his lady wife’s attire. The scent of peppermint and orange blossom on her skin made his arms prickle with goose bumps.

Y/N had almost accepted that Lord Stark would not wish to speak to her when he finally uttered a curtsy.

“My lady,” said Lord Stark. He paused as if there were something on his mind yet he did not say anything.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell sat down at their high table at Benjen’s Hall where wild salmon was being served in a crust of herbs. There was warm, fresh bread, wine and ale. Yet although Lady Y/N’s plate was full, she could not find a proper appetite, not with her thoughts raging as wild as they had.  

“What is it, my lady?” asked Lord Stark, not unkindly. His face, however, held a grim frown that Y/N could not quite read. He seemed tired but not angry. “You have barely touched your food.”

“Nothing,” said Lady Y/N, wondering whether to even raise the subject at all. “I only … I only wished to thank you,” Lady Y/N managed at last. “I was able to speak with my mother, the Lady Whytefort, after she had spoken to you.”

“There is nothing to thank,” said Lord Stark, his frown softening some. “Lady Whytefort had given me no offence, neither you as far as I am aware. She is welcome at Winterfell if you wish her company.”

“I do,” said Y/N earnestly. “And I thank you for it,” she added quickly, her hand instinctively wrapping around Lord Stark’s forearm to profess how grateful she was. She soon realized what she had done and in front of other people of the court that shared their meal although no one remotely noticed in the midst of the music and the laughter.

“Forgive me,” said Lady Y/N quickly as she took back her hand. Little did she know that the Lord of Winterfell wanted nothing more but the small feast with the final guests who had yet not left to finish so that he may be alone with his wife. His mind had been drifting off to her all day. Even as Maester Bennard read him letters of more complains of the wildlings, of disputes over petty lands and water rights, Lord Cregan struggled to keep his thoughts on the matters at hand. His mind kept returning to Lady Y/N and her soft hair, the smell of her skin, the touch of her body in his arms. He remembered her smile when they went riding, the flush in her cheeks. Cregan never minded his duties as the Lord of Winterfell, he even enjoyed them sometimes. Yet that day every one of his lordly duties that impeded him from returning to his private chambers proved more tedious then ever and seemed to last an eternity.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” said Lord Stark whose forearm tingled with warmth. He focused on his meal to keep himself from throwing Lady Y/N over his shoulder and taking her to their private chambers. For a moment Lord Stark considered his wife had chosen the red gown to torture him for the falling out with Lord Jonos. Yet after Lady Y/N thanked him for giving her lady mother the hospitality of Winterfell, the Lord of Winterfell considered the gown either a way of thanking him or a plain but no less torturous coincidence. Carmine was indeed one of the colours of House Whytefort yet even so the red gown hugging Lady Y/N’s curves made Lord Stark’s body prickle with heat.

Lady Y/N returned to her meal, finally being able to think clearly. She could still notice her husband’s gaze on her yet he looked even more grim and formidable than ever.

Lady Y/N was already done eating when Lord Stark finished his meal. He washed it down with a cup of ale before he got up, done with displaying courtesy to his guests. Lady Y/N rose as well as did her ladies-in-waiting and the rest of the court. Before they could even do so properly, Lord Stark had already taken Y/N’s hand, nearly dragging her from Benjen’s Hall.

The moment the doors to their private chambers closed behind them, Cregan’s lips found Y/N’s. Y/N gasped but responded immediately. Her husband’s touch made all of her thoughts quieten down, all but one. Cregan’s fingers caught in Y/N’s hair as he guided her lips against his. His kisses were deep and hungry for more. Y/N could feel his hardness against her body, wishing desperately for him to take off his garments.

“S-Stop,” Y/N managed to say in between kisses. Lord Stark would not hear her at first. Yet once he realized what she had said and felt the push of her delicate arms against his chest, an alarm sounded in his head.

“If you are hurt …” breathed Lord Stark, the only reason that would have him control his desire.

“I am not,” whispered Y/N quickly, finding the clasps of her husband’s jerkin as she undid them. Then she pulled apart the strings of his tunic which Cregan gladly removed, encouraged by his wife’s boldness. He near tore off her exquisite red gown, unable to find the time or the patience to deal with the intricate lacing. Y/N turned around for him to undo the corset supporting her figure. A moan escaped her lips as Cregan’s hands found her breasts. He stood behind her and kissed her neck as his arms held her close. His hips moved as if there were no garments separating their bodies when a deep, raspy moan broke from his chest as Cregan found the release he had been chasing since that morning.

Y/N’s hands were locked around her husband’s strong forearms as he still held her tightly. She, like Cregan, breathed heavily still, yet a part of her wished it had not been over so quickly.

Y/N thought to take off her corset properly and get ready for bed but as she tried to unbind herself of Cregan’s embrace, he would not move.

“I am not finished yet,” Lord Stark whispered against her ear before leaving her neck bruised with ravenous kisses. He spun her around, his lips finding hers once again when his arms went beneath her bum. Y/N yelped quietly as Cregan picked her up and carried her to their bed. Her back hit the soft, warm furs as Y/N pulled him closer, eager to feel the weight of his strong body on top of hers. Cregan pulled of his stained breeches, a groan of pleasure escaping his chest as he entered his wife. Y/N gasped. She was still sore from last night although it did not cause her pain, rather pleasure. Her silken white chemise with the hem of Myrish lace left little to the imagination. The delicate fabric was rolled up to her waist and although it still covered her chest, the shape of her breasts and the colour of her nipples remained seen. Cregan’s lips went to them as his hands wrapped around her wrists. He had pulled out, leaving his wife for more. He took off her chemise, her body all to himself. He could not even imagine sharing the sight of her nakedness with anyone else should the bedding ceremony have taken place.

Moans lingered on Y/N’s mouth when Cregan left sloppy kisses down her stomach, teasing her until he found what they had both been yearning for. His arms locked around her soft thighs as he pulled her closer with ease. Y/N’s legs quivered with pleasure at the skill of Cregan’s mouth. She could no longer contain any of her cries and moans of wishing and wanting for more.

“Gods,” whimpered Y/N, raising ever so slightly before her head hit the pillows and her eyes shut in divine pleasure. Shivers ran through her entire body, her thighs shuddering. Y/N’s breathing began to slow down when she opened her sleepy eyes. Cregan kissed her softly, the taste of her lingering on his lips but she did not mind at all.

“I will be quick, I promise,” said the Lord of Winterfell, his voice low and as warm as crackling embers. Y/N did not think to reply, only allowed herself to be taken further away.

Cregan had her sit on his lap, his arms wrapped around her small back as he held her close. She hardly needed to do anything as he moved his hips eagerly, this time much more slowly. Although drowsy from her own pleasure, Y/N’s fingers tangled in Cregan’s hair, her arms secured around her husband’s shoulders. She kissed him deeply, trying to convey her gratitude for the way he made her feel. She moved against his hips, responding to his body. Cregan’s moans became more and more frequent, his eyebrows furrowing into a heavy frown as he neared his pleasure. He held Y/N's body greedily when he groaned against the delicate skin of her neck as he reached his climax.

Cregan lied down with Y/N still tightly secured in his embrace. Their synchronised breathing slowly calmed down in the gentle silence that their private chambers provided. Fire burned in the hearth whilst it snowed outside the castle windows and Y/N scooted even closer to the warmth of her husband’s body. Her fingertips brushed against an unusual shape in Lord Cregan’s side.

Y/N opened her eyes despite herself and her dying need for sleep. She rose her head slightly. She had not noticed last night, but her husband’s torso was peppered with scars that could only be caused by swordplay or sometimes an arrow.

“You have a lot of scars,” whispered Y/N as she unintentionally voiced her thoughts. Lord Stark’s grey eyes opened slowly. He glanced down at himself.

“Just so,” he spoke easily although his voice was even deeper than normally. Cregan ran his long fingers through Y/N’s beautiful hair.

“Do they … Do any of them still hurt?” asked Y/N carefully.

“I sometimes have an ache in my shoulder," said Lord Stark absently whilst Y/N's entire focus shifted to her husband's arrow scar right beneath his collarbone.

"A wildling arrow," he explained as he saw the question forming in his wife's eyes. She nodded and looked away when his gaze found hers.

“I wish you could feel more at ease in my presence,” said Lord Stark earnestly. “There is apprehension and uncertainty in your every move when I am near. Why is it so different when we are alone?” asked Lord Stark, his eyebrows forming a frown as he stared intently at his lady wife. But Y/N did not have an answer.

“I wish I knew, my lord,” she whispered, her fingers drawing shapes in his side. "Cregan," Lady Y/N corrected herself. She looked up into her lord husband's eyes and held her gaze longer than she would. Her eyes lowered to his lips. Y/N's fingers grazed over Lord Stark's lips as she leaned in. Cregan took her hand and kissed her fingertips before their lips met for a kiss.

***

The days and weeks went by like a breeze. Every day Lady Stark would discover a new corner of the castle grounds and every day she would assist her husband in his duties, learning how to rule Winterfell. The maester instructed her in the affairs between the noble houses sworn to House Stark, yet more importantly, he told her of the ways of the lords who attended Lord Stark's councils. Y/N spoke to her husband on Maester Bennard's thoughts and found they most often concur on the characters and motives of House Stark's bannermen.

Nevertheless, the affairs of the council and the ruling were not the only things Y/N had learned in the days before the Lord of Winterfell would have to march north. Y/N learned of her husband's character. She knew that he was sometimes quick to anger but mostly a very patient man. She discovered that he was nothing like her father, who was arrogant and greedy and more oft than not an unkind man. When he trained with his men in the courtyard, Lord Stark was a strict but patient man, whose faith in his men was unrelenting. Y/N learned the little things too. She learned that he disliked lamb and parsley but would not ask the cooks to prepare something else if it was served before him. She learned that he preferred ale over wine and snow over heavy sunshine. And when they slept, Cregan would always have a part of their bodies touch - be it the hold of a hand, their legs entwined or their bodies embracing fully.

Lady Stark watched the Lord of Winterfell and his master-at-arms train the young boys in swordplay. They would not be leaving for the north with the grown men on the morrow but they are to stay and protect their families.

Y/N's chest was heavy with worry as she watched her lord husband evade one of the boys' training sword with ease. It was already growing dark outside and this would be their last night together after he would leave for what could be months. Lord Jonos' host of warriors would meet them west of the King's Road at the foot of White Knife, the lake where sprang the river of the same name.

There was a large feast for the warriors, the lords, and the commanders of tomorrow's host against the wildlings. But neither the Lord or the Lady of Winterfell stayed long. As they lied in their bed exhausted and their arms wrapped around each other, a horrible silence threatened to settle itself between them.

Cregan caressed Y/N's cheek, brushing away the hair sticking to her face. "Will you take a cup of wine?" he asked her. She shook her head against the pillow.

The bed shifted as Lord Stark got up and poured himself a cup of wine. His back was to Y/N and only then did she feel strong enough to tell him what had been burning inside of her for days.

“Cregan,” spoke Y/N. “You … You will return safely, will you not?” she spoke quietly. Lord Stark froze before he slowly set his cup on the table. He turned around and climbed back into bed, trapping Y/N beneath him as he leaned his arms on each side of her.

"Of course," Cregan assured whispering before he kissed Y/N on the lips. "It might be some time but I will return."

"You might be great with child by then," thought Cregan, a small grin hiding in the corner of his lips.

"Mayhaps," whispered Y/N. She had not thought she would ever wish for children, not truly. But it was different with Cregan. Something changed inside of her with him. The thought of bearing him a child, of having a child with his grey eyes and dark hair filled her heart with unexpected warmth.

Cregan kissed Y/N's forehead and pulled her closer, his strong arms wrapping around her gentle frame as they lied down to sleep. Y/N’s hands found their way to her husband’s back and rested there as she nestled against his bare chest. She let out a long-held breath, savouring the last night with her husband by her side in what could be months.

***

Despite the feast lasting late into the night, the host was ready in the hour of the nightingale. The pale yellow dawn broke the darkness as the Lady of Winterfell watched her husband mount his courser. Her heart was in her throat as she neared him, saying her last goodbyes.

"I will pray that you come back safely, husband," said Lady Y/N. As much as she tried to control her emotions, Y/N's eyes welled with tears. Should something happen to him in battle, this was the last time they would see each other.

Y/N handed Cregan a silken handkerchief with an eight-pointed mountain blossom embroidered in one of the corners. Cregan's brows frowned on his storm grey eyes. His heart had never been felt this heavy leaving Winterfell. He was always battle-hungry and unremitting in defending the name of his house on the battlefield.

The Lord of Winterfell looked around at his men who were already riding out. He cursed them all as he leaned down in his saddle and took his wife's chin in his hand. He kissed her ardently and spoke the words 'I love you' before she watched him ride out into the northern winds.

PART 2

[huramuna]

selkie's song - chapter 1.

night's watch aemond x wildling shapeshifter ofc work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

this is wholly inspired by @lonelymagpies depiction of Night's Watch Aemond. please go check out their beautiful work here!

i am also partial to selkies bc irish 🤭 i'm going to take some liberties with wildling lore since we don't know too too much about them and mix some of my own heritage into it (indigenous american and irish) , which i feel would meld really well.

previous | next chapter

word count: 2.2k

content: smut (eventually, specifics will be under the cut of chapters with it), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, canon divergence, ofc is a menace to Aemond and he kind of likes it

who is she? - I MONSTER • dead! - my chemical romance

The blood of the dragon runs hot and thick, pulsing through Targaryen veins like molten lava. His mother always snuggled him as a child, citing him as her own personal furnace. 

If only that would come in handy now. Aemond thought he knew cold, way up in the skies, skimming the clouds upon Vhagar’s back, feeling the chill away from the heat of the earth. A frigid autumn breeze going through his window, causing him to bundle up in two blankets— although he usually kicked them off sometime during the night. 

But this— this was cold. Ball freezing, bone chilling, blue lipped cold. He was stuck up in the ass of the North, stationed at the wall, dressed all in black. He puffed up the collar of his cloak, trying to find some respite from the gales of glacial air. 

“Saddle up, Targaryen,” the lord commander grunted. He was a broad man, some disgraced Northman who rose his way up the ranks of the Night’s watch. Aemond could hardly remember his name, “We’re goin’ beyond the wall. Scouts said wildlings gettin’ too close.” 

“Mm.” Aemond grumbled in response, not wanting to waste his energy talking to the ogre of a man when it could be better used for warmth.

The stable boy, no older than nine name days, tugged his palfrey to him, “I’ve got ‘em all tacked  up for ya, prince.” 

“Oy, Ryam,” the lord commander snapped. Lord Ennard Fir, that was the commander’s name, “He ain’t no prince anymore, so stop callin’ him as such. He’s just one of us now, eh? A man in black.” 

Ryam nodded slowly, handing the reins to Aemond. The boy’s face was tinged red as he puffed air into his cupped hands, trying to keep warm. He was a boy from the south, just like Aemond— a butcher’s bastard boy, Ryam Waters. He had accompanied the now scorned prince on his ride up the Kingsroad. He reminded Aemond greatly of Daeron.

“Stay warm, boy,” Aemond said, giving the youngster a stiff nod of his head, “Take the fur from my bed, it’ll help.” 

Ryam puffed out his chest, “Uh huh, your grace,” he giggled, speaking the title in secret. 

It almost made a smile come to Aemond’s lips. Almost. He tried to remember the last time he smiled– it was on that fateful day near Storm’s End, over Shipbreaker’s bay. He was taunting Lucerys, finally being the stronger one, the one who had control. He laughed and smiled like a madman, chasing his nephew on his puny hatchling of a dragon. He felt like a god.

Then Vhagar snapped her jaws, ignoring Aemond’s commands. The sickening crunch of Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon still lived in his mind. It played in his dreams, making them into nightmares. He constantly woke up in a cold sweat, muttering, “It was an accident, it was an accident, I didn’t mean it.”

His eye began to ache and he clenched his jaw as he mounted his horse. Glancing around, he saw that five other men were joining him. He tugged his hood up slightly before his hand rested on his blade. He donned two weapons; a standard issue castle-steel short sword, and the Catspaw blade. He had watched his father carry it for years, he watched his mother brandish it in his name and cut Rhaenyra— and now it was his. 

Not by precedent or bestowment, he actually stole it. When he was being sent to take the black, he pilfered it from Daemon’s chambers. The old fucker already had one ancestral blade, he didn’t need two. It was the only thing he had left of home, besides the sapphire in his socket and his eyepatch. It was gorgeous crafted Valyrian steel and he always kept it on his person. 

His thumb grazed over the ruby gem on the hilt of the dagger absentmindedly as they descended on their journey, spurring their horses further across the threshold of the wall. Lord Fir was at the front, with Aemond holding up the back in their procession of ingrates and outcasts. 

If he told his younger self that he was to be lumped in with bastards, thieves, rapers and ne’er-do-wells, he would’ve laughed in his own face. It was a ridiculous notion for a Targaryen prince to be even entertaining the idea. And yet, here he was. Living it out. 

He wondered what his mother was doing currently. Had she taken Helaena and Aegon to Oldtown with the children? Did she stay in the Red Keep to be squashed under Rhaenyra’s heel? 

“Aemond Targaryen, you stand before Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, protector of the realm,” Ser Westerling had shouted, “You stand accused of treason, conspiracy to commit usurpation, and nepoticide. You murdered Lucerys Velaryon in cold blood above the skies of Shipbreaker Bay.” 

Aemond had been in chains, his face haggard and stubbled from not being able to shave. They stripped him of his eyepatch and sapphire at the hearing, sending him down to his knees with his barren eye socket to behold. 

“How do you plead to these charges?” Ser Harrold asked. 

Aemond said nothing. 

Rhaenyra sat upon the Iron Throne, tapping her finger incessantly against the metal, “Brother. I’ve granted you the courtesy of allowing a hearing to your… crimes, rather than simply sending you to the block. Mayhaps I was too lenient on my decision to let you say your piece.” 

Aemond still said nothing, looking down at the ground. He heard his mother shuffling near him, off to the side in the throne room, murmuring something hurriedly to someone. 

“I have nothing to say. Lucerys is dead— nothing I can say will bring him back or undo what’s been done.” he finally grit out, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

“So, you have no objection to being punished for your crimes? The crime of Kinslaying is the most cursed,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward, “Mayhaps I will grant you a death by dragon— I would honor you the same way you so graciously honored Lucerys, hm? Mayhaps have Syrax and Caraxes rip you limb from limb and scatter your parts over Blackwater Bay.” 

Aemond didn’t respond.

“Y-your grace,” Alicent spoke up, walking to Aemond and standing in front of him, “Please, have mercy upon him. Your son wouldn’t have wanted this—“

“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME WHAT MY SON WOULD’VE WANTED,” Rhaenyra bellowed, standing up from her seat, “Your son took away his ability to want anything, and for that there should be repercussions! A son for a son.” 

“Rhaenyra, please,” Alicent murmured, “Please, I can’t lose him— it… it was an accident. Aemond, tell her it was an accident!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to admit their family’s greatest fear was true; they did not have complete control over their dragons. 

Rhaenyra gazed at Aemond’s pained expression, then at Alicent, “He will be punished. But I would not become a Kinslayer— I do not wish to be as accursed as you, brother,” she strode back to the throne, twisting the rings on her fingers, “He will take the black and be sent to the wall. He will have no titles, no land, no wife or children. He will have nothing for the rest of his life except for the Night’s Watch.” 

Alicent was stunned, as was Aemond. He wondered if he would’ve preferred death. 

“In addition,” Rhaenyra continued, “His claim to his dragon, Vhagar, will be severed. He will undergo the Valyrian ceremony for it.” 

“You can’t,” Aemond growled, “You can’t!” he panicked— Vhagar had been the only thing he ever achieved in his life, truly. He lost his eye for her. 

“Take him back to his cell and prepare him for the ride up the Kingsroad.” she said with finality, looking down at her hand as she sat back on the throne. 

Aemond saw— she had been pricked by the throne, blood beading at the tip of her finger. 

Mayhaps there are still small mercies in this world. 

A particularly strong gust of cold air snapped him back to reality, his hand still itching over his dagger. They reached the thick treeline that stretched out for miles, their horses trudging through the snow. 

They were at least ten miles out from the wall now, the Seven Kingdoms left truly well behind them. A small river trickled near them and Aemond saw the shadows of fish— large ones at that. 

He had been in the Night’s Watch for at least seven moons now, and this was his first expedition outside of the wall. It felt like a whole different world— a world without laws, without political duty, without fights of succession over a throne made of swords— there was something freeing about being here. It was only a remnant of what he felt soaring the skies on Vhagar, but it would have to do. 

The wind whistled through the branches of the trees, fresh snow beginning to fall. He heard a fly buzzing near his ear. No, that couldn’t be right. Surely there weren’t flies in the cold? 

It wasn’t right— another fly whizzed past him, sticking into the man in front of him. Those were the arrows. 

“Ambush! Wildlings!” Lord Fir shouted, reeling in his horse. 

Aemond went to unsheathe his sword when his horse went haywire, rearing up on its hind legs. “Lykiri, lykiri!” Be calm, be calm. He shouted at the horse, tugging at the reins as the wildlings descended upon them. He felt like he was above Storm’s End once more, screaming for Vhagar to heed his commands—

His horse bucked him off, sending him tumbling into a deep snow drift. He dropped his sword somewhere aside— his hand immediately went to his waist, gripping around the Catspaw dagger. 

A breath of relief washed over him as he rolled and hid behind a tree, unsheathing the dagger. He twirled it around, waiting for someone, anyone to cross his path. 

He then felt the cool pressure of a blade against his throat. 

“Don’t move, crow,” a voice said. It was almost diminutive, soft in tone— but it was threatening all the same, “I don’t need to paint the snow red with your blood just yet. Drop the dagger.” 

Begrudgingly, he dropped the Valyrian steel into the snow. 

“Now turn around, slowly. Keep your hands out.” 

He turned around, expecting to see an ugly wildling in his gaze. He had only heard the tales of them, that they were more ugly than not. 

His breath caught in his throat as he looked upon her— she was small, much smaller than he, her skin somewhat pale and cool toned, freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. It was her eyes that caught him— one was a deep, rich brown, and the other was a light blue, with fragments and shards of brown in it, like a mountain against a clear sky. Her hair, dark chocolate brown with one streak of white in it, was tied into a haphazard braid. She wore earrings made of the lower jaw of some small mammal, inlaid with opals. She was holding a dragonglass dagger to his throat, the hilt of it carved from a deer’s antler, encrusted with a matching moonstone. 

She wore a long, white coat— it looked to be the skin of some animal, but Aemond couldn’t tell which. It was spotted and fluffed. 

His brow narrowed as he noticed that she was soaking wet, dripping water from her nose and hair, the sheen of moisture shining from her skin.

He could only imagine how astonished he looked staring at her— but she stared back at him in the same manner, her eyes wide. She had huge eyes, Gods be good. 

“Fucking hell, you’ve got a purple eye.” she murmured. 

“You should see my other eye.”

A harsh crack across his face— she had slapped him, “Don’t be a pig.” 

Aemond blinked profusely, “By the Seven— I meant my actual other eye,” he grunted, “May I?” he gestured to his eyepatch. 

“… better be worth it, crow.” she murmured, nodding slowly. 

He lifted his eyepatch off, revealing the sapphire underneath. 

Her lips were slightly agape as she ogled at him, “You’re a fancy crow, aren’t you?”

“Hm.” he grumbled. 

She retrieved the Catspaw dagger from the ground, stowing it at her hip, “I’ll be keepin’ this for right now.” 

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” he asked, perplexed as to why he wasn’t dead yet. 

“Not yet— you got interesting eyes, I wanna show my papa,” she retrieved a leather cord from her belt and wrapped it keenly around his wrists, “Caught myself a crow.” she hummed, seemingly entertained with herself. 

Aemond rolled his eye, letting her hoist him up into a standing position. He towered over her, to which she didn’t seem too bothered about. 

She led him past the battle, which was now over. He saw three of his Night’s Watch brothers slain, and it looks like two others had run off like cravens, including Lord Commander Fir. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“My tribe,” she replied, stringing him along. 

“Your… tribe,” he repeated, “And what is your name?”

“Euna. And you, crow?” 

“Aemond.”

[lya-dustin]

I just love how Alicent and Rhaenyra are both parallels (and inspired by Cersei)

Reasons below as this shit is long

Like she gained power via a shitty marriage to a king (Alicent)

Had three bastards and one of them was named Joffrey( Rhaenyra)

Had a daughter who she used to secure power(Alicent)

Committed incest regularly (Rhaenyra)

Her parents were cousins (Rhaenyra) *but Otto also couldve married his cousin as cousin incest was okay for the andals too so we can't say no but also not yes since we know nothing Lady Hightower*

Husband was fat(Alicent)

Her dad was the Hand of the King and was fired twice(Alicent)

Usurps the 'true' heir (Alicent, Rhaenyra if you are team green)

Son they crown king is really a shit stain of human being even by westrosi standards (Alicent)

(In)directly caused the death of all her children(Alicent)

Associated with the color Green--green eyes, green wildfire, green emeralds in her crown--(Alicent)

Mother died giving birth to younger brother (Rhaenyra) **we don't know wtf happened with lady Hightower so its plausible she went that way too**

Father was shitty(Rhaenyra and Alicent **Tywin might as well be Otto if Otto wasn't compensating for being a second son**

Assumed she'd marry a Targaryen Prince as a child (Rhaenyra and Alicent ** really are we gonna believe Otto didn't try to offer his daughter to Daemon since he or his brother could get the High Septon who lives in the house to annul his marriage?**

Alienates her allies (Rhaenyra and Alicent)

Known for being very pretty and wearing extravagant clothing(Rhaenyra and Alicent)

Gains weight (Rhaenyra)

Has beef with a child because they are younger and possibly prettier and most definitely will take their power away(Alicent)

Only likes one of their siblings(Rhaenyra)

Resents not being born a man(Rhaenyra)

City riots because of laws they pass( Rhaenyra)

City descends into poverty because of a war they helped start( Alicent)

Goes insane (Alicent and Rhaenyra)

Their most important house trait is gold--cersei's hair, Lannister wealth-- (Rhaenyra, Syrax)

Their son Joffrey died horribly at a young age(Rhaenyra)

Their house is known for its wealth(Alicent)

Bankrupts the Crown( Alicent, the Greens did that to cause riots for Rhaenyra thanks to Tyland Lannister)

Kingsguard is their pet murderer(Alicent)

Cuckolded their husband(Rhaenyra)

Kids do not look like their husband(Rhaenyra)

The internet is obsessed with their younger brother (Rhaenyra)

People in the fandom hate them (Rhaenyra and Alicent)

There is a witch with a thing for fire who is fucking your brother(in-law) (Rhaenyra)

Foreign Master of Whisperers who is working against them and doesn't have a penis and a possible slave background(Rhaenyra)

Branded a whore (Rhaenyra)

Killed bastards (Alicent)

They piss off the Baratheons (Rhaenyra)

They were involved with a handsome Targaryen Looking Velaryon (Rhaenyra)

There son killed a person that was important and started the war(Alicent)

Their lover who is related to them left with a younger woman who isn't pretty(Rhaenyra)

Their younger brother married a peasant prostitute(Rhaenyra)

Their hand gets murdered by the opposing team(Alicent)

Their brother is killing a lot of people and setting fire to the riverlands( Rhaenyra)

Their child gets disfigured under the care of a Dornish person (Alicent)

Their female opponent has a dragon (Alicent)

Their husband is obsessed with the dead person they were with before them (Alicent)

Husband neglects kids (Alicent)

The way their opponent died reflects badly on them(Alicent)

Husband had bastards(Alicent and Rhaenyra)

The only reason they didn't lose the war within the first year was because of the Lannisters(Alicent)

Lannister Master of Coin(Alicent)

Lord Commander of the Kingsroad is replaced by their ally(Alicent)

Said Lord Commander slept with them(Rhaenyra)

Too many relatives(Alicent)

Rules through her children(Alicent)

[grey-joys]

WIP Word Search

If I keep doing these, you’ll have all of my works, @ship-ambrosia … but maybe that’s your plan

Heart | Brave | Sweet | Tears | Strong

* all titles are working titles so I can identify them! They could change

Heart: Pomegranates (Theonsa, dark-ish Sansa WIP)

“ He would have given her his heart to sink her teeth into if she’d asked, and she just as well had. He knelt before her, his fist pressed to his chest ”

Brave: In a Crowd of Thousands (Anastasia inspired Theonsa)

“What of lord Theon?” Sansa asked softly, twisting a lock of her hair between her fingers.

The man paused, his lips twisted into an expression that could only be described as pained, “he was executed,” he said, voice hollow, “when his father rebelled, Lord Bolton had him flayed alive.”

She felt tears prick her eyes, her fists clenched. “Not Theon” was all she could think. Not Theon, who was raised along side her family. Not Theon, who would play knights and princesses with her, no matter how many times she asked. Not Theon, who came to save her and Arya that night so long ago. Not Theon, who had been gallant and brave and protected her from the Boltons. Not Theon.

Sweet AND Tears: Pomegranates

Her eyes fluttered shut, forbidding tears from falling down her cheeks. A numbness had filled her, turning her heart into stone as she lie in the petals strewn across the bed, the sickening sweetness of rot filling her nose. She could have screamed, but she knew no one would hear as her screams pierced the stone walls around her. Or they did not care to listen

Strong: In a Crowd of Thousands

Theon looked between the two before giving a nod of his own, “alright. You’ll need to run as fast as you can to the stables. I want you to take my horse, he,” Theon faltered for a moment, “he’s strong and fast. He’ll take you where you need to be”

“And where is that?” Sansa asked, her own voice shrill in her ears

“Ride to the Wall. Jon and your uncle are there…” he took a shaky breath, “stay away from the kingsroad. They’ll be looking for you there….”

Tagging @selkiewife

Your words are:

Fear | Salt | Gentle | Calm | Storm

Good luck!

If you also want to take this challenge, pay the iron price for it!

[writingwenches]

OC Spotlight: The Ryvertribe

House Erenford of Haronfort

sigil — A golden heron, beaked and gammed black, standing with a silver fish in its beak, on pink house words — tbd 🏳️‍⚧️transrights🏳️‍⚧️ location — western most shored of The Bite, on the Kingsroad, neighboring lands to House Frey and The Twins, near The Neck current lord — Lord Forrest Erenford and Lady Violet of House Reed current heir — Robyn "Little Lord" Erenford (age 7); followed by Lord Erenford's brother Ser Chett Erenford themes — period typical murder and mayhem; I wanted to make gender queer characters, while still being period typical, they are working towards the only life they can imagine and doing what it takes to survive...and killing TERF coded wildling tribes in the process

Lord Ryver Erenford — Red Ryver

The poison drips through, and Ryver says daddy likey. served as squire to Lady Sabitha Frey during Dance of the Dragons, alongside Sabitha's youngest son Ser Oswalt Frey Ryver knew who they were for as long as he had memory, and he knew he had to work twice as hard as anyone else to achieve anything. Living at the epicenter where The North, The Vale and the Riverlands meet, there is a need for mighty warriors, so a mighty warrior he became. Red Ryver is his moniker, known for a wide for his sadistic ways of torment and torture to all those who he thinks deserve it. He decorates the Haronfort Keep with the bones of those he's killed, but it's super charming because he's doing it to live him best trans-life so everything he does is totally moral in the end, I've done the math. Ramsey Bolton wishes they were as horrific and terrible as the mighty Red Ryver and his warriors. I just really enjoyed the idea of transmen ripping the head off terf-coded mountain clans and vouging with their dismembers limbs. face inspo — Elliot Page playing Micheal Cera as a blood thirty warrior accidental blood magic — Ryver took the phrase "I will sow the fields with your blood!" a little too literally, and goes around burying the dismembers bits of his enemies in the fields, mainly because they have too much energy and nowhere to put it, but also as some sort of offering to the old gods. Because of this, the Erenford fields are relatively prosperous for the area and I have a fun lil idea that as Ryver ages, they experience an effect similar to taking testosterone because nature says "life finds a way bb"

Oswalt Frey — the ally

"I could live anywhere, but Ryver can't, so why would I want to be anywhere else?" Oswalt is the youngest boy of Lord and Lady Frey, born a few months apart from Ryver Erenford. Lady Erenford preferred to spend her time at The Twins, with Lady Sabitha Frey, so the children grew up together. Once old enough to venture on their own, Oswalt and Ryver spent most of their time at Haronfort with Lord Erenford. At a tourney in their youth, Oswalt won his only match when his leather pants accidentally split during competition, the ladies gasped, the crowd cheered, and his opponent instantly surrendered. It is the current noble gossip sweeping the realms about House Frey. Oswalt is rather embarrassed by the situation. face inspiration — I promise I picked his face after making him, but like obvs it had to be Barry Keoghan (in Banshees) because it obviously couldn't be Lenny Kravitz [tr*mp voice: 'uuuuuuuge]

ficlet snippet from a young mens tourney the TargTower boys participated in "secretly" lol

“Ahh, Lord and Lady Frey,” Ser Gwayne waved as they neared a familiar tent. Ser Criston held his head low, attempting to hide his face. Years ago, Forrest Frey had boldly asked for the hand of Rhaenyra Targaryen while Cole was stationed at her side. He remembered her laugh, and the look of disgust she shared with him when she met his eyes to mock the man who dared pledge her his loyalty. She had been a viper then, he only had to see it for himself to believe. 

“Lady Sabitha, you look dashing as ever. You look as if you are ready to fight for a Squireship yourself,” Gwayne laughed, as he kissed the top of the lady’s hand. 

“My future squire," she replied, allowing her hand to be kissed, “will need to best me if he ever hopes for a knighthood, Ser Gwayne, as you well know.” The woman sighed, as she took in the sight of the beautiful, blond, knight. In her youth she had wished for someone so beautiful to steal her away, but alas, that was long ago. “And you?” she asked, as her eyes regarded the equally handsome man in Ser Gwayne’s company, perhaps she was wrong for dreaming of a blond haired man when this type of man was also an option. 

“Ser Kale,” Gwayne replied, before Cole had a chance to blow his cover. “Sworn to the Lannisters, we are here with some of their house’s lads.” 

‘Ser Kale’ bowed politely to the Lady Sabitha and her Lord husband, who did not seem to recognize Cole at all from their former meeting. Nor did the Freys seem to remember that the Lannisters ranks were lush with daughters this generation, lacking greatly for young sons to continue their knightly traditions.

The adults minded the young boys, their silver hair shorn short, and hidden under caps, looking no different than any other noble blond boy in the realm. Aemond and Daeron were using a sword to drop a frog onto their older brother’s shoulder, which caused him to squeal and squirm. 

“Ahh,” Lord Frey said, “Splendid!” He finished his cup of wine and gestured to a servant for another. 

“And who have you brought to compete?” Cole asked, leaning into his new persona by playing with a Lannister accent, one of his eyes blinking more than the other. 

Lady Sabitha motioned towards the two young men in her charge. “My youngest, Oswalt, and his childhood companion, Ryver,” she said. One of the boys was using their sword as a makeshift cock, swinging it back and forth while the other searched their grassy field with great interest, flicking something crawling on his breaches. “Mum! There’s ants over here!” the boy shouted when he noticed he caught his mother’s eye. 

The adults waved. 

“Ryver what?” Gwayne asked.

“Just Ryver,” Lady Sabitha said, plainly. 

“Were we ever that young and stupid?” Ser Gwayne joked, as both Frey boys began to wildly itch inside their pants. 

“My wife assures me that I still am,” Lord Frey hiccuped into another glass. 

Lady Sabitha took Ser Gwayne’s arm and led him towards her tent. Cole was reluctant to join them, not wanting to let the young princes out of his sight. More afraid the princes would hurt themselves rather than meet with illish brutes. 

Robyn Erenford — Little Lord

At the age of 7 years old, he is current heir to Haronfort, as the first "true born" son of Lord and Lady Erenford. He follows Ryver like a shadow, and constantly wears an overly large silver helm. He is an impressive archer, and has killed way more people than you.

Ser Morgan Lodge — Lady Morgana Large

*bob the drag queen voice* suspiciously large woman The family Lodge owned a large and prosperous inn along the Kingsraod, going back countless generations. Do to their massive size, Lady became a knight, and was a good one. They met Ryver and everything changed, fighting for whatever he was trying to build. info: they/them, lumberjack/bearded man in a dress aesthetic

Lord Forrest Erenford

It was strange for a man to raise his children, and granted he didn't start until they were out of diapers, but Lady Violet had no real interest in mothering, and Forrest was surprised he liked it so much. He is mocked by surrounding Lords and men, until Ryver showed such an aptitude to killing. After Ryver took out a terrible and ancient Mountain Clan with less than 5 soldiers, it was hard to argue then...publicly.

Lady Violet Erenford of House Reed

Lady Erenford preferred to spend her time at The Twins, with Lady Sabitha Frey, so the children grew up together. Lady Sabitha was very supportive of Ryver's preference towards presenting as a man.

Ser Chett Erenford

A second born son, who has always dreamed above his station. He wants the Lordship of Hareonfort, as he believes Lord brother is doing a better job as a nursemaid to strange children. The young Erenford boy is the only thing standing in the way between Chett and being Forrest's heir. If that ever happens, for good measure Chett will make sure to hang Ryver, in case anyone gets the idea that Ryver could succeed his father.

Feast Keep — Their Valhalla

Briarwood Hall — Ryver has found an abandoned Keep, high atop the mountain peaks in The Vale. It once had a thriving foresting trade of its signature briarwood trees, a lightly red wood that smelled faintly of roses, and grows beautiful blood red flowers. In a suspiciously strange trade, Ryver gets enough coin to purchase the abandoned Briarwood Hall from House Arryn by Lady Cinda Lannister, not long before the death of King Visyers. Anyone is welcome in Feast Keep, as long as you pull your weight. Liberated woman from local slaughtered mountain clans make up much of the small settlements population. Everyone is trained in weaponry, and there is a well-oiled system guarding the Keep from any who would wish to do them harm.

a/n: as always! always open to hearing opinions, muses, and anything else~ Also, I always love hearing how our OCs fit in each other's universes, so any ideas coming from that I'd love to hear~

[jade-masquerade]

I'm looking forward to Captive and War is a Woman's Work!

Thank you! :)

In “Captive,” Mance Rayder and the wildlings devise a plan to kidnap Sansa from the Wall to lure Ned and the northmen beyond the Wall to show them the threats posed by the White Walkers and convince them to join forces against them. A quick excerpt from when Sansa is taken from Castle Black below:

“When she was placed back on the ground and freed from her ties and blinders, it was nearly dawn. The world had shifted from black to a sky streaked with pink and purple. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon, its reach merely a line of pale gold across the horizon, and her heart sank when she realized perhaps Father or any of the others wouldn’t have even discovered she was missing from her bedchamber yet.

Sansa glanced over and saw the wildling with the long, untamed hair beside her. He had evidently carried her all this time, first over his shoulder and then in his arms like a babe. Sansa shivered now that she stood alone in the cold whip of the wind; at least he had been warm.

She looked up and saw the Wall. Mist rose along its length, its ice glittering in the dim morning light. Under any other circumstances, the sight would have been breathtaking. The longer she looked though, the stranger it became.

Where was the kingsroad? What had happened to the iron winch that carried the men on watch to the top? Even Castle Black seemed to have disappeared overnight. Only when she turned to take in the endless barren plains of ice and snow did Sansa realize.  

They were on the wrong side of the Wall.”

As for “War is a Woman’s Work,” I’ve always wanted to write a historical Jonsa AU and I was inspired by the story of Clara Barton and how she got her start by starting organizations to care for men during the Civil War, and I thought Sansa would be a similar kind of character. She serves as a battlefield nurse to the Union army, and Jon is a soldier who she knows from back in Winterfell and who she continues to cross paths with over the course of the war and their relationship deepens from there. 

Of course, working on these is contingent on finishing my current WIPs and keeping up with my ever-expanding list of ideas for one-shot fics, but maybe someday they will finally hit the dashboard of AO3! ❤️

[monster-bait]

I love Torben's story so much! I want a big cuddly teddy bear boyfriend 😍 do you have any new fics coming out?

Aaaaaaaa, thank you!! Torben’s story was really fun to write! I like werebears and @monstersandmaw was a super fun canvas to work with! 

Fun Fact about Torben: I wanted to make him a good match for the character I created for Ghosti, who is uber talented—she writes gorgeous, consistent content, she draws, she sculpts, she paints, she does metal work...high standards! I wanted Torben to be an artist, but also fun and funny, and then I remembered The Glassmaker.

Some years ago, I was visiting the island of Murano in the Venetian lagoon, and stopped into one of the numerous Murano Glass studios. The owner chatted with us, told us about the history of their studio, and how their master glassmaker had been studying the craft for eons, had apprenticed with the previous master for 6 years, etc etc. 

This big, cuddly guy comes bumbling in a few moments later. Probably only in his early 30s, tall, broad, barrel-chested. With mine own two eyes, I watched him walk into the side of a showcase, bounce into the doorway, and stumble down the three steps. He was a huge klutz.

He was the master glassmaker.

Even though my initial impression of him was of a klutz, we watched him work magic right before us: pulling a molten piece of glass from the ginormous (oven? kiln? I don’t know, big fire) and with a few twists and turns, he created a perfect little unicorn figurine—it was magical. But wait! It was not perfect—the unicorn possessed some tiny, microscopic flaw that only the big klutz could see, and he cast it back into the flames, as a true master craftsman would.

He was my inspiration for Torben, right from the get-go. I’m so glad you enjoyed his story!

As far as new fics...I just published another Monster Match tonight, a continuation of Alon the Sea Krait with a NSFW ending, and I’m hoping to post the first part of my Girl’s Weekend sequel “Parties” next week!

If you’ve not seen my Fav Fan Friday posts, I posted a continuation of one of my Ye Olde Kingsroad Orcs, Lisette & Gelgrah last Friday. This Friday will be a flash fiction featuring my cutie mothman Merrick & his human.

Thanks so much for the ask! Remember—if you post on Anon, I reserve the right to give you an unrelated dissertation! 😇 

[dorkyungsoowrites]

Exo in "Game of Thrones" AU

Part of my crackhead saga in where I imagine the Exo members as characters in different universes they don't belong in for no reason other than fun.

Inspired by this post and this picture.

Minor spoiler warning if you haven't seen the show (obviously).

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Minseok:

Training to be a maester. From Lys. Doesn't understand why the other acolytes are so fascinated with his stories of home. Was going to be a concubine but got sponsored by a noble to study instead. "It would be a crime against the gods to waste such a sharp, discerning mind on the pleasure houses." Is not ashamed of his beauty, but always fighting to prove he's more than only an object. Sometimes finds himself longing for the gorgeous twilight hours of home; holding his palm behind the candle on his work desk beside a tome. Imagining the flickering flame receding is the setting sun across the isle.

Junmyeon:

A knight of Tarth. Trained with Brienne. Got his ass kicked whenever he sparred with her. Loved every second of it. The Lord of Tarth likes having him stand next to him during hearings to intimidate the defendants. Can often be found "patrolling" the gardens. Will compose his loved one horrible poetry as a way to get them to laugh.

Yixing:

Fled from Yi Ti after accidentally assassinating a merchant prince. It wasn't his fault the guy fell and broke his neck getting out of a carriage, but no one else would accept his word on it. So he took all his wealth with him and now lives in hiding as a gardener in Sunspear. It's a dry heat as opposed to the humidity of the jungles, but otherwise much the same. Finds joy and solace in his well-tended landscape. The Prince of Dorne complimented his calla lily and anemone arrangement one time for it's likeness to the country's flag. Was devastated when Marcella died. She used to always say her favorite place was the gardens. He planted marigolds in her honor.

Baekhyun:

Born in the North. The real North. Clanmates joke about how it's a miracle he's managed to stay alive with such little meat on his bones. "You couldn't even pick your teeth with 'im." One of their best archers. Somehow always finds ways to keep their spirits up, even in the most dire situations. Hot springs are his favorite thing in the world. He would spend every night sleeping in one if he wouldn't drown. When all the clans join forces a few find it strange that he doesn't have his own tent, but instead shares with a different person almost every night, until they find out it's because he cuddles them for warmth. He just has such a strong bond with everyone in his clan that it's a normal thing. When they go South of The Wall they're amazed at how many women fawn over him. Struggles with the decision to return with his clan or stay South after The Great War.

Chanyeol:

The oldest squire in Westeros. Idolizes knights. Often pretending to sword fight with the back half of a broken jousting staff in between rounds. Had a few chances to prove himself, but could never actually win a fight. Always ended up with major injuries, one of which was self-inflicted. Would've died years ago, but his knights protect him out of compassion and brotherly bond. Much like Podrick without the swordsmanship skills. Gets treated like a brother-in-arms at tourneys by almost all the knights because he's just that well liked. Makes a mean rabbit stew.

Jongdae:

A noble in Essos. Known for his singing and harp playing at parties. Can't even drink a mouse under the table, but will try; resulting in exuberant dancing and laughter. Doesn't really understand the difference in times to be ridiculous versus serious, to the chagrin of his council. Once went undercover at a tourney in Westeros to test his musical skills against the finest minstrels. He lost, but losing to the Targaryean with the famed angelic voice wasn't so terrible. He's still yet to discover another voice so lovely that it moved him to tears. Loves lounging while eating peeled grapes on the balcony of his family's castle overlooking the grass plains that bleed into desert, and horseback riding. On quiet days he sits under the large tree in the garden that his childhood swing was tied to and composes songs about finding love one day.

Kyungsoo:

Grew up on an unremarkable farm in the North part of Westeros. Went out at a young age to travel. Has made it as far East as Volantis, as South as The Summer Isles, and as North as Braavos. Would have gone to The Port of Ibben and Asshai if it weren't for the Dothraki, and the fear of becoming a slave. His Northern blood eventually brought him back home where hard work, honesty and loyalty are paramount in character. Settled down between Winterfell and Moat Cailin. Works as a cook for a tavern there. Using all his knowledge he gained from other places, turning it into the only place travelers will stop on their journeys up and down the Kingsroad there. Famed for his cuisine. After word of his food spread whispers of him using magic grew. Saying he learned some sort of spellcasting while in the East. The secret is his friends in The Reach and Braavos. He travels to White Harbor to trade the best ingredients no others in the North can claim naturally. His biggest import is the fruit from Highgarden that's impossible to farm in the North, and spices the Braavosi have traded from just about everywhere else.

Jongin:

A dancer that travels in a troupe with other performers. Wears veils to cover his hair, nose and mouth. Says he learned in the Summer Isles so he can be an "exotic" dancer. Actually never traveled outside Dorne before joining the troupe. Doesn't speak much, but is known for the dance with seven skirts where-in by the end of the song all the skirts are laying on the floor. Has performed it at many nobles' parties at the behest of their wives, or where the husband said as much, anyway. Can always find him after performances laughing with the rest of the troupe at the local tavern. Enjoying the merriment and freedom of life.

Sehun:

Probably pissed off someone who hired mercenaries. Was gone before he could even fully gasp.

[serpentorn-blog]

RAISE YOUR GLASS FOR  aashirya sand,  the red priestess hailing all the way from dorne.  the word on the kingsroad is that they’re known as the serpent,  and apparently they can be manipulative and deceitful,  but at least the gods blessed them and made them beguiling and influential.  no one is positive as to their intentions but they’re loyal to house martell,  so they can’t be all bad.

INTRODUCTION     ;     look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t.

@ chel     ;     hey it’s ya girlie, hyped af to be joining this group, i’m a hoe for period / fantasy rps n can’t wait to write w. all you gorgeous people, and also a major hoe for plotting so hmu whenever ! btw since i’m from new zealand i might be on at random times but i’m also lowkey useless n tired so forgive my late ass lmao. so here’s some notes on my precious bb aashirya, they’re kinda all over the place but come at me.

inspired by melisandre from got, the tv show not the book version bc you know my lazy ass won’t pick up a book smh. but also bits and pieces of other characters i.e. lady macbeth  and margaery tyrell, although i’ll leave their inspo out of my notes atm.

aashirya was born a slave, her earliest memories being of sea salt and mournful wails within a slave ship moored at the docks of dorne. 

her surname came to be known as sand: a label for bastards within dorne. 

her lack of disease and physical ailment meant that the young aashirya could work within the castle walls of sunspear, her origins among the martell nobles being her early years as a servant girl. 

at the age of eleven, while running errands within the market square, aashirya suffered a seizure, swarmed by dornish locals and its thick summer heat. some choose to believe the child when she says she saw a vision of the old gods appear before her. the young girl spoke in old tongue ; a rune based language, as if the deities were choking her throat with their words.

rumours bled through the streets of dorne, eventually reaching an aged priest, and a maester in his own right. he took her in, a prophecy blooming like spring. 

aashirya grew, learning of language and politics, the anatomy of an economy and most of all religion. the girl became devout under his teachings, growing in the faith that she was meant for something bigger than the slaver’s chains that burdened her.

small acts of charity turned into small congregations. the woman had a bewitching tongue, and drew in many commoners from across dorne, preaching of her faith to many. 

it was true that politics and religion benefited each other, and aashirya managed to catch the attention of the council and finance ministers within sunspear. now a matured woman, no longer a servant girl but a handmaiden to the martell princess, she advanced in position once more, now as advisor to the lord and lady of the house. (think rasputin vibes, a close confidant of the noble family)

aashirya’s intentions are not honourable. her words of faith or purely to line the pockets of herself as well as to aid government finances and that of the martell’s. she believes she acts as a vessel of the deities, but only to serve the martell house, and aid in their prosperity.

she is vv. charismatic and persuasive. she is a diplomat before she is a preacher, and knows how to manipulate the tales of the gods to serve her own purpose. 

rumours have it that she is known to manipulate men in much the same way. whispers tell of foreign envoys and diplomats that have shared nights with her, often in an effort to leech out information. 

to many she is called the serpent. known to weave herself among people, trapping them in her charms and lies, before sinking in her poisonous bite.

[awolfhowled]

yooooo! hello, tags! this is a blog i’ve created to be able to share this fic thing majingy that i’ve just started pumping out. i don’t have much to say on it cause all the details are below, but what i can say is that i’m stoked and hope y’all will get something fun (by fun i mean an emotional rollercoaster) to keep you busy during this lengthy hiatus.

A TOUCH FOR SILENCE

Series: Part 1 of To Freeze or To Thaw Rating: M Pairing: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen

CH. 01: A BLUE FLOWER IN A CHINK OF ICE

Summary: Daenerys lost everything the day Euron Greyjoy blew that accursed horn, enslaving her children and banishing her from Meereen. She traveled for months to get to the one place where she could find the shelter to develop her plans: the Wall. Now, she stands before the Lord Commander, a young man by the name of Jon Snow, a plea on her tongue and fascination in her eyes. With one single choice of his, their lives will change forever.

Word Count: 2,293

READ ON AO3 | READ ON FF.NET | READ BELOW

NOTE: how's it going, fellas? i present this story both nervously and excitedly because it means a lot to me and i can only hope it will bring you all as much joy as it does to me.

first things first, this started out as some sort of a project between myself a friend of mine. dany's povs are largely her doing while jon's (and several others') are mine. like the tags say, this is a particularly ambitious slow burn, but trust me when i say that the payoff will totally be worth it. we started working on it during the hiatus before season 7 and it's still ongoing, so plenty of material awaits.another thing: we've mixed book and show elements. we kept the stuff in the show that we liked more (like davos and daario or jon looking like kit hair and eye color wise) and kept plenty of things from the books (val, satin, dany's and melisandre's appearance, etc.)

anyway, i won't keep babbling on for much longer. this story is my baby and i'm really excited to share it, so if you would like to experience the wonders of jonerys in different circumstances, grab your popcorn and enjoy the ride!

DAENERYS I

As a child, Daenerys had heard tales of the harsh winds of the North. Her brother had spoken about savages, giants, and a giant wall of ice that would stretch from west to east, as tall as the horizons and grazing the clouds. With all the things she had heard, it was clearly a contrast to her own life in Essos, where the sun always burned, where the sand dunes could quickly erase all tracks and paths in the desert. The sun was the enemy on the other side of the sea, it was life and death. She had seen what the sun could do to people, how delirious thirsty people were and how sick it could make children, horrors of peeling, scorched skin haunting her dreams. She had never thought she would miss its intense warmth, but traveling through the North and with barely a single ray of sunshine breaking through the thick layers of clouds, she found herself longing for its blazes, no matter how much damage they were capable of causing.

The North certainly had its own beauty. At first, it was rough, and wild, and green. There were endlessly rolling hills, mountains, and great grass plains with nothing but plants and stones. The beauty truly captivated her when she saw the ground was covered in white. At one point, she promptly got off her white horse, much to the dismay of her company. A hand gingerly craned out as she crouched by the side of the road, a curved, pebbled path through the woods, away from the curious eyes lurking on the kingsroad. Her fingertips pressed into the winter blanket, the cold bolting through her veins, leaving her skin numb. With eyes wide in fascination, she scooped some of the snow into her palm, ignoring the uncanny burning senzation that developed in her flesh. With one reluctant close of her fist, she started feeling it melt, gradually warm up against the heat of her skin.

The moment hastily ended, for she had to resume her journey to the far end of the North. She had to reach the Wall before her enemies learned of her destination. Standing back straight, she whirred around, taking a moment to observe the same gleams of fascination etched through the faces of her loyal followers – Unsullied, six in total, as much as she could get away with during the chaos of her escape. At the Wall, no one could touch her as soon as the gate closed behind her. She would be safe at Castle Black if only she could convince the Lord Commander that she was worth protecting. She had been told that no women resided there, she had been warned of rapists and thieves, but even criminals were better than falling into the hands of Euron Greyjoy and ending up the victim of his crazy ambitions.

Thinking back on that abhorrent moment was not easy for Daenerys. Euron Crow-Eye had shown up on her doorstep during a great moment of need, when Meereen had been spiraling out of control, when all she had been able to dream of was how blessed it would be to find new allies, a bigger army, and, most importantly, ships. The latter was what the Greyjoys specialized in, his brother, Victarion, had proudly proclaimed. Euron had arrived with an armada at his back, forces of the ironborn, and promises of his unwavering loyalty, for all he sought was independence for his kingdom.

Of course, that had not lasted very long. Somewhere in between this newly forged alliance and that dark day, Dany had crossed paths with Tyrion Lannister. When allowed to spill his wisdom, one of his first pieces of advice had been to sever ties with Euron and Victarion. The Greyjoys knew nothing of promises and honor and she ought to expect a great price for his help some day. And when she had dared confront Euron about what his intentions truly were, that was when hell had unleashed.

He had stepped out into the balcony of the Great Pyramid, unsheathed a strange horn tied at his hip, and blown it once. Daenerys had heard a screech, the flutter of dragon wings, and everything after had been a blur. When Drogon had started raining fire down on the stationed Unsullied, her own horror had left her paralyzed. It had been Grey Worm and the other five that were currently with her now that had escorted her outside, despite how hard she had clawed, and fought, and screamed out of fear for her children, who no longer listened to her.

At the exit, she had only been given a fleeting moment with Tyrion and Varys, both of them who had brief and quick directions to give. “Sail to Westeros,” Tyrion had said, the pained screeches of dragons booming in her ears. “Varys will find you allies in Westeros. Go to the Wall. It’s the only place that knows no allegiance, that knows no king.”

She had barely made it away and to the docks, where a ship that allegedly transported fish between Meereen and Pentos awaited. It turned out the crew had been paid generously by the Spider to safely get her across the Narrow Sea. She had sailed through the waters of Slaver’s Bay again, picking up whispers of the chaos tearing apart Astapor and Yunkai. They had gone through the Gulf of Grief, forced to make a detour past the ruins of Valyria; the captain had been too afraid to sail on the waters of the Smoking Sea. They had made stops at Volantis, at Lys, and at Tyrosh, constantly on the run, knowing Euron had sent his acolytes to trace her steps.

And then they had finally reached the Narrow Sea, voyaging past Estermont, and Tarth, and Dragonstone, which her heart had ached for even though it had been nothing but a distant blotch on the horizon. When they had passed the Fingers, leaving the Narrow Sea behind for the Shivering Sea, that had been the moment when the cold started to creep through her bones. The ship had turned left past the Three Sisters, docking after months of travels at White Harbor, as far as this particular ship had been allowed to travel. From then on, Daenerys had been forced to make the journey on foot, crossing almost the entirety of the North through deserted roads hidden among tall and scrawny trees.  

After another night of freezing in a tent left to the mercy of the cold and the harsh winds, she could finally see the Wall in the distance. Even from a great distance, the border and defense between the North and the frozen lands beyond it looked awe-inspiring and impossibly great, unjustly described by her brother seemingly eons before. She retold the story of Bran the Builder as she remembered it to her companions. She only recalled fragments of the hero of House Stark, but it was enough to entertain her loyal guards, who had been quite literally thrown into a whole new world.

As they got closer, Daenerys felt herself actually feeling nervous. She had no right to stay at the Wall and, worst of all, she could do nothing if she was going to be sent away. She had no trust in the great houses, the Greyjoys had betrayed her and so could the others. Why would anyone follow her without her dragons? She had nothing to offer, no promise of protection or aid could be given to anyone, not until her children returned to her. Her fate was left to chance, she depended on others to show her the mercy that she had provided her own people once. Much to her dismay, she had to rely on the empathy and pity of a man that she knew nothing of.

All of these thoughts were abandoned when the small party reached the gates. Her hood shielded her identity from the guards standing above and her eyes were fixed on the white mane of her horse. “We seek refuge from the cold,” she called out, trying to keep her voice composed against the frigid thrills of the cold. “We come with provisions.”

Dany could not decipher what words were being exchanged between the guards next. She stood rooted in place in silence as they descended from their posts, opening the gates to greet her and her party outside of Castle Black’s walls. “What kind of provisions?” asked one gruff man, his chest puffed and shoulders high, clearly trying to make an impression.

“Meat and wine,” Grey Worm interfered, fortunately. She was grateful to see the attention of the three guards adverted toward her companion. Even though her silver-gold hair was safely tucked underneath a hood, the lilac bloomed in her eyes could easily betray her identity. And if she were to be turned away, she refused for it to be at the hand of anyone but the Lord Commander.

Grey Worm and the three chatted for a while and then, finally, one of the black-donned men strolled toward the gates, pushing them open some more. “Go on inside then.”

Dany heaved a small breath of relief, quickly transmuted into a cloud against the harsh cold. She had been told the promise of a great meal and a cup of wine might soften the hardened men of the Night’s Watch, but moons on that godforsaken ship had left her disheartened toward the smallest of things.

When the gates were properly opened, she rode in before her guards had the chance to. She might have to hide her true identity at first, but she would leave no doubt of who was the leader. She could feel eyes on her as she rode through the courtyard. They will all stare at you. They are not staring at the Dragon Queen, all they see is a woman, she recalled the warning she had been given by the crew on the ship. The men of the Night’s Watch were not used to women, they were isolated in the dark castle with only each other for company.

A whirlwind of whispers was unleashed all around her. Some were subtle, some were not.

“I dreamed of her last night,” Dany heard, accidentally listening in to the conversation closest to her.

“Fuck off,” grunted another man. “You’d be lucky to get on with her horse, Rast.”

The rest of the exchange was lost to her as the steps of her mare led her further into the courtyard. But something told her she did not wish to know how it ended regardless.

She dismounted her horse when one of the men in dark cloaks took a hold of the reins. She avoided eye contact with the man as he led her mare away to the stables. “She is not used to the cold, I would be grateful if you give her extra hay for warmth.” The words were soft but commanding, she only hoped that the boy would take orders from a woman. As the men gathered around to watch the party, she could feel her guards getting into position behind her, ready to defend her if need be.

“I wish to speak with the Lord Commander,” Dany said to anyone that might be listening. She held her head higher as the words left her mouth. Her voice was slightly trembling but not with fear, the cold was still harsh even in the courtyard. Dany was frozen to her bones, she had hoped the fire in her blood would have kept her warm, but it stood no chance against the icy winds of the North. She caught the gaze of a young man when she noticed no one was moving to fetch their leader. She opened her mouth to bark out another order, but she soon heard a slight commotion on the stairs above her.

She raised her gaze slightly and her eyes quickly landed on a figure dressed all in black like all of the men around her, but she could tell by the way that the others stepped aside that he was their leader. Her own people had shown her that respect once. She kept her eyes on him as he neared her, not wanting to appear weak or frightened. Her blue cloak whipped around her dark dress, but the hood with the white fur lining withstood the wind and kept her identity hidden. Her name had only ever inspired two reactions – either her Targaryen name demanded loyalty or it awoke hate and anger, there had been no in between yet. This was neutral ground but she was unsure of where she stood, no one had ever looked at her with neutrality, everyone always had an opinion of her before even meeting her.

The man got closer, allowing Dany to distinguish his image better, catching side of a tangled mass of dark curls and equally dark eyes. She tucked her hood closer around her, able to only hope this man would not judge her before knowing her. The Targaryens were not loved in the North, but all she would ask for was a chance to prove why she and her men were worth protecting. She just needed a chance to speak with him. Daenerys tried to prevent herself from shaking under the cloak, but the ride had been long and hard, it had drained both her warmth and energy.

When he halted, she took it as her cue to speak, “Lord Commander?” Her tone was hesitant and trying. After all, she was still unsure of who she was actually addressing. If this truly were the Lord Commander, the man was younger than she had expected. Could he truly be the one to determine her fate?

NOTES: whew! here we go! this was more of a prologue of sorts rather than a proper chapter, but the dany and jon interaction starts next time, so do not fret. lots of exciting things are coming, so tune in for future chapters and let's get engaged in this feel fest together, ya-ya?

this fic will be updated weekly once every 4-5 days.

[theheadbangers]

NIGHT DEMON – Release 7’’ Single “Kill The Pain”

Night Demon are thrilled to announce the worldwide release of their new single, “Kill the Pain”, which marks the band’s second single release of Spring 2020, following hot on the heels of the scorching Empires Fall.  Night Demon fulfilled a lifelong dream by recording this single at Sweet Silence Studios in Copenhagen, Denmark under the watchful eye of famed producer Flemming Rasmussen. Of course, Rasmussen has left an indelible mark on heavy metal history through his work on Metallica’s Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets, and … And Justice for All albums, among many others.

“Kill the Pain” is a tough-as-nails bruiser of a song that showcases Night Demon’s signature sound, a revved-up modernized take on classic British and American metal. Lyrically, however, the track marks a thematic departure by delving into serious, deeply personal subject matter. It tackles the heavy topic of suicide, forged in the pain of life experiences but with an inspiring message of hope and perseverance through adversity. The B-side of Kill the Pain is a blistering cover of Cirith Ungol’s “100 mph,” with Night Demon’s Jarvis Leatherby and Cirith Ungol’s Tim Baker sharing lead vocal duties. Given the brotherhood between these two Ventura-based bands, and their years of traveling and performing together, “100 mph” marks a special collaboration as they join forces to breathe new life and power into this oft-overlooked gem from the One Foot in Hell album. The single will be available as: Red 7inch (ltd. to 300) – Band Shop via Kingsroad (US & EU) White 7inch (ltd. to 200) – Century Media US Online Shop (100) White 7inch (ltd. to 200) – High Roller Records (Germany) (100) And can be ordered HERE!

Night Demon is: Jarvis Leatherby – Vocals, Bass Armand John Anthony – Guitars Dusty Squires – Drums Night Demon online: Facebook Website Instagram Read the full article

[warsofasoiaf]

I am a graphic artist working on a few pieced westeros related. One is set in Dorne during Aegon's I attempted conquest, one is set in the Dance, battle of the Kingsroad to be specific. The last being the battle of Bells during Robert's Rebellion. I know little about swords (or other medieval arms) I was hoping you could point me in the right direction as far as what specific time periods might be helpful to look towards for historical inspiration of weapons that could fit with the battles.

You probably want to look at High Middle Ages and Crusade eras for good inspiration for swords, specifically the knightly sword would probably be what you are looking for. You might also want to check out the Persian shamshir for a curved blade. That’s about the level Westeros is at.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[sassycabs]

Game Of Thrones S8, E3

There will not be a show with the same gravitas, impact, and scale as Game of Thrones for a very long time. This show has changed the way battles are shot and directed, the way dialogue can have layers and layers of subtext (although this is mostly thanks to GRRM’s writing), and the way different actors’ chemistry are showed on screen as their characters. That being said, fuck this episode.

Here I outline all the arguments I keep having with myself, after reading reviews and Reddit threads, and watching numerous 30-minute analysis videos. And no, I still don’t know exactly how I feel. Betrayed, yes. Dissatisfied, yes. But is this the end for me? No, I want to know if my dissatisfaction is only a hurdle I need to cross to end up with a great sense of relief and pleasure for what’s about to come in the last three episodes.

Of course, all information and assumptions are based on the TV series since I’ve never read the books, and whatever information I’ve gathered about/pertaining to the books, I researched only online. I’m a med student, okay, as much as I want to, I have no time, energy, or patience to read books anymore.

Visuals and Direction

Miguel Sapochnik and Fabian Wagner don’t dissapoint. As the director and cinematographer for both Hardhome and Battle Of The Bastards, we knew to have high expectations and they were met -- sure. Yes, the entire episode was dark and dimly lit, but it is called “The Long Night.” It may be annoying but it’s seriously one of the lesser sins of this episode.

The direction is also obviously inspired by other apocalyptic/zombie films, TV shows, and maybe even games. Of course people will never forget to compare it to Helm’s Deep, which is way, way above this episode’s league; this episode is not even in the top three battles in the entire series. But you can also see some instances of World War Z, The Walking Dead, hell, even The Last Of Us. Arya’s scene in the library? The Last Of Us underground train station vibes.

Overall, the visuals were great--not the greatest, and not even as great as some people say it is, but still, I doubt any other pair of people could achieve what was done.

Addressing and Justifying Everything That Happened

We have to start with the big picture: why and how is the Night King already dead? Yes, he’s and his army of the dead have been hyped up, foreshadowed, and talked about by every single character in the series and we’ve established that they are the biggest threat to humanity itself. But, just as everyone else who isn’t from or hasn’t gone to the North is asking, what’s his deal anyway? Well, most people, myself included have forgotten that one scene from Season 6 when Bran finds out that the Night King was made by the Children to defend themselves from Men. Obviously, as we know now, that didn’t really work out as they planned. The Children and the First Men ended up joining together to keep the Night King away into the North of the Wall/“Lands Of Always Winter”. So after all the hype and the theories, the bad guy really is just some bad guy: something made to defend but ended up becoming an evil that wants to take over the world (Ultron, is that you?). So where does that leave us? Apparently, back to giving a shit about who sits on the Iron Throne.

It isn’t a secret that GRRM is deeply inspired by LOTR, and after reading more about it, you’ll find out that his favorite part of the story is the Scouring of the Shire: 

I love the way he ended ’Lord of the Rings.’ It ends with victory, but it’s a bittersweet victory. Frodo is never whole again, and he goes away to the Undying Lands, and the other people live their lives. And the scouring of the Shire —brilliant piece of work, which I didn’t understand when I was 13 years old: ’Why is this here? The story’s over?’ But every time I read it I understand the brilliance of that segment more and more.

So GRRM’s leaning towards this type of ending: bittersweet. The heroes win, we literally defeat death and save humanity, but people still end up squabbling over stupid things like... who gets to be the big boy/girl sitting on the Iron Throne. Really, it could be great and I have little doubt that this is the outline GRRM gave to D&D on how to end the series.

Lastly for this portion, of course Arya kills the Night King. In Deep Geek explains all the reasons why better than I ever will. But since I started lurking in Reddit threads, she’s always been my best bet to kill the Night King and I’m glad she did. Having Dany or Jon do it does not do anything for their character, not even for any prophecy. Dany and Jon’s story arcs have been moving towards gaining responsibility, power, and respect of people--in two contrasting ways (that will warrant its own rant on itself) and killing the Night King doesn’t add any value to their character’s progression. Dany is on a quest for the Iron Throne and as we now know, this is just a side quest for her. Jon has also been on the path to the same power and importance, all unknown to him, but he earned it just as much as Dany, and I would go as far to say that he’s earned a lot more Throne Points™ than she has. But what does killing NK do anything for their ascent to power? How does it play against what has happened and what they’ve learned so far in the story? Dany and Jon have been focusing on doing what they think is best for the living; what they haven’t learned about is fighting, killing, or death. I think Battle of the Bastards and The Long Night battle tactics are enough of an argument for us to know that’s true; so thank you Stark Sisters for saving their asses on both occasions. As Ideas of Ice and Fire puts it, Arya’s journey has always been about death and defeating it. If I go on any more about Arya, I’d just be retelling what IOIAF already said, so just watch the damn video.

Now that we know what we’re talking about, let’s now argue why it’s all wrong.

Me Complaining For 7 Paragraphs Straight

For years now, we’ve been building up the story that the White Walkers and the Night King are the biggest threat to Westeros’ humanity and I’m not gonna lie, along with the rest of the fan base, I’m really disappointed. After learning about the Scouring of the Shire, yes, I feel the bittersweet-ness of it now and I hate it. I guess I’m still the 13-year-old GRRM asking, “Is this really it?” I said this is probably the outline GRRM gave to D&D, and I’m open to accepting it only I’m not convinced this is exactly how he meant to play it out. All GRRM gave was an outline; as someone who has been trying to figure out how to end the books, he probably doesn’t have it all figured out himself, how could we expect the showrunners to know? And that’s the problem.

Despite GRRM being inspired by Tolkien’s work, are we really expecting an exact copy paste of the formula? This, I doubt. And I’m gonna say it now: yes, I agree that the writing of Game of Thrones has suffered tremendously since they ran out of book to copy-paste dialogue and pacing from. Just watching Robert and Ned’s conversation on The Kingsroad from Season 1 will show you how incredibly different and layered even simple dialogue is and how it still pays off even now. The problem is that GRRM’s writing had set down rules and pacing that the fans of the show have grown to love, and delivering a payoff to 6 Seasons (yes, six!) of build-up with just 6 expensive episodes does not give the story and even the characters any justice. So yes, this may really be the checkmate ending to A Song Of Ice And Fire, but no, this is probably not exactly how the pieces will move in the books.

I’m still dumbfounded by the fact that the evil was defeated so easily, by some sneak attack, and we’re left to Scour Westeros, with dragonfire instead of ice. We already know the people are afraid of the dragons; but they will never know about the reality that the dead literally rose with the arm raise of an ice man, that they can dampen dragonfire suddenly like they’re wet pieces of cloths, and that they can take seven seasons to get to The Wall but only three episodes to get from The Wall to Winterfell. All this will just be another Northern folktale to the hard-headed Southeners. To have this “great evil” be defeated so easily and have what is now majority of the humans in Westeros think so little of our “heroes” because this threat never even met the horizon for them feels like it missed the purpose of being the evil that it is. The people in the North have been warning the world about this threat, and it came--for them, but it didn’t come to those who it would have mattered.

We could say that Cersei was the greater evil after all, but now that the evil has been defeated, what does she have against two dragons, invincible characters, and her own brother/lover? She has nothing left but sell swords and a pirate. The story could have moved forward the way GRRM had outlined it, but there are too many cracks popping up in a story that started out air-tight and it’s impossible to just turn a blind eye just because you loved the beginning. There’s a reason why GRRM is taking so long to write: he’s been building a world that has rules, with characters whose actions have consequences.

As a show that was released in the same speck of time as Endgame, I can’t help but feel like GoT is out of touch with the standards fans have with the stories showrunners and filmmakers get to tell. We can argue that, yes, Thanos is not the most complex villain out there, but his brand of villain has deviated from the cookie-cutter villains previous films have been feeding to us. Watching GoT after watching a year’s worth of great TV shows and films with the most exceptional writing and direction that has ever been shown in history (i.e. The Good Place, Into The Spiderverse, Eighth Grade), it feels like this show has just turned into pulp and fan-service. 

I’ve always been a firm believer in asking more from these big companies that are the moving blocks for the type of entertainment that is readily available to us. We as fans deserve better than feeling good that our favorite character didn’t die, or even worse, having the ease to recline on our chairs and know they won’t. Most of the best stories don’t end up making us feel relieved, they make us question characters’ motives and actions; they induce our critical thinking skills. We deserve to come out of a theater or to put down our laptop and have some sense of introspection, even just for five minutes. The development of the first four seasons made us feel this way: for Jaime, Olenna, Sansa, Tyrion, Jon, and many others. Now the story just feels as if it’s just moving towards the plot goal rather than individual characters’ actions driving the collective story forward.

It could take me all day to rant about Dany and Jon’s battle tactics, despite having some of the best military minds in their group of heroes, or how the plot armor is so thick right now Rhaegal and Drogon are still lost in it, or even just the physiology of Wights (how did they go from walking like glaciers to Usain Bolt after season 7?). But all of these complaints are already everywhere online, you just have to find the Reddit threads for them. I’m hoping the next episodes will surprise us, maybe half of the heroes die by Cersei and Euron’s hands after all. And oh dear god, bittersweet or not, I hope the quote still stands: 'If you think this has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention.'

[racingtoaredlight]

Game of Thrones Monday Musings - Dragonstone

Thanks to Spencer for doing a post on Danny Gatton to provide a theme song to these posts this season since I’m more committed than ever to nit pick the shit out of this show for no reason other than it’s fun. Normally I bristle at any accusations that I hold an opinion for contrarian reasons since I usually don’t proclaim something just to be a devil’s advocate, I usually believe the shit I espouse. But there’s something to the overwhelming chatter about a show that’s pretty good but hardly great that just inspires something deep within to lash out at something simply because other people like it. Thankfully the season premiere provided ample opportunity to do just that.

Before we proceed I’ll just mention that I’ve been drinking beers for a bit and probably can’t remember everything that happened in this 60 minutes of set up.

Not that it was a difficult prediction but I nailed this one pretty good, I feel like we do this song and dance every season to kick things off but that doesn’t stop folk from playing up how excited they are for the first installment. I envy still being able to get that jacked up for an hour of mild entertainment, I really do.

This episode teased breaking the mold with a cold open of Arya killing all the Freys by putting on old Walder’s face (which I guess means she can speak like him and is his height or something? All that time wasted in Braavos and they never really explained how this shit works) and poisoning everyone. I’m guessing it was supposed to be obvious to everyone what was going on but it was still kinda fun.

Arya got a second scene on the Kingsroad (or whatever the fuck she was on, she’s going to King’s Landing so I’m going with it) running into some Lannister soldiers including some musician Ed Sheeren I’m only vaguely familiar with. Once she started taking stock of where everyone’s sword was I was expecting some badassery but alas. At least she got some blackberry wine out of it.

The dipshit Greyjoy brother turned up in Cersei’s throne room with a marriage proposal and a fleet of ships. He was obnoxious to the point of my starting to long for when this show had proper villains. They’ve done lazy storytelling in bringing people back from death or near death before with whatever the fuck magic before, let’s get Tywin back in the game.

There’s beef in the north brewing between Jon and Sansa over who runs Bartertown because there’s too many episodes to go before the finale to just let things be cool up there while they wait for the important war. I liked Sansa having a line about how Jon needs to be smarter than Ned and Robb, about time someone realized those mopes were dumb as hell.

Speaking of the north, it’s probably time for everyone to just pump the breaks on losing their shit every time Wee Lady Mormont says something in a stern voice. She’s fun and all but we get it.

Sam’s still at the library and we were treated to a Requiem for a Dream-esque montage of him emptying bedpans, filling I think those same bedpans with soup and filing books away. This kept going for what felt like two days. But now he’s sneaking into some forbidden section so this should pay off after another 5-6 hours of show.

Oh, Bran turned up and is now back south of the Wall. That’s literally all he did other than get a vision of the White Walker army which we’ve known is coming since the first season. Maybe we didn’t know there are zombie giants now, I can’t recall.

The Hound dug a grave and I guess is a servant of the Lord of Light since he can read fire. This scene felt pointless but the Hound was ornery and when asked why he was in a bad mood said “Experience”. I love the Hound.

White Hair and her folk have landed at Dragonstone which Sam learned sits on a mountain of dragon glass. I love it when a plan comes together.

I kept expecting the Red Woman to turn up by herself at Dragonstone or something interesting to happen but nope, just a bunch of long shots of Dany slowly looking around the castle before getting to Stannis’ giant RISK board to say it’s time to begin and then cut to black. Woo?

[kraimind]

An urban plan for postwar King’s Landing (ASOIAF)

This is probably my first public contribution to a fandom, and it’s a VERY nerdy one.  There’s the pretty solid assumption that, at the end of the ASOIAF books, King’s Landing is going to end like London after the fire of 1666. So I put my best fantasy Christopher Wren costume and made a new urban plan for Westeros capital that takes it off some of the worst things of the pre-modern city. My proposal has two phases:

Phase I

Yellow lines are Priority 1 developments, orange are Priority 2 ones. Light grey polygons are new squares or enlarged already existent squares.  My plan’s first objective is to improve mobility across town. The now crowded and narrow streets and avenues should be widened and properly paved. The second objective is to develope and improve neighbourhoods like (and specially) Flea Bottom. Indeed. I propose to build an cultural/academic/college “district” in its place. Current dwellers should be relocated in new neighbourhoods or displaced to be employed in proyects in the line of @racefortheironthrone​ economic develovement plans

I should point that this last part is related to my proyect to build a Parlamient building over Dragonpit ruins, but i’m still working on it

Phase II

Phase II is basically the development of the Blackwater Rush west bank. I propose a new “district”, called King’s Borough. Inspired in the city of Amsterdam, it’s a sequence of concentric canals with radial avenues, one of witch is a renewed southern Kingsroad. Its focus is mainly to become the new portuary and trade centre, but it could be used to residential uses with improved public health standards. Also, it could be seen as a second line of defence, based on previous experiences at the War of the five Kings, for example. A critical point to this phase is the construction of a bridge over Blackwater Rush, already proposed in Phase I, that replaces the current ferry system. I’m working on it, but here is a rough sketch (without access ramps).

Hope that you like it. Feel free to make me suggestions or questions.