#winterfell network

[mejcinta]

House of the Dragon season 2 episodes 6-8 (together with additional uncontextualized filming info) summary based on confirmed leaks so far (Freefolk, Reddit).

[branwinged]

i should've mentioned it in that dragons can plant trees post, but magic in asoiaf is partly being recontextualised through both bran and dany, in bran's case, he's (at least temporarily) inheriting bloodraven's weirwood network which he historically used to run some version of a surveillance state when he was hand. but already bran's involvement with is thematically panning out differently, bran answering theon's anguished prayers to the heart tree in winterfell is saying: this is the new face of the old gods and if they had been cold and unforgiving before, that could change. "gods do not weep, do they?" thinks theon, but we know bran does, "if i cry, will the tree begin to weep?"—now i don't entirely understand where bran's arc is going but also don't think he's meant to fully reject whatever bloodraven and the children are offering to teach him, the way sansa needs to reject littlefinger's overall cynical philosophy but there is benefit to being exposed to the realities of the world, not that it had to happen in such a violent manner. the way arya has picked up valueable skills and knowledge at the house of black and white and eventually rejecting the faceless men does not mean forgetting all that.

similarly, dragons have been historical weapons of war and tools of conquest in the freehold, yes, but already they're, i.e. the last remnant of old valyria is helping dismantle the freehold's imperial and slaveholding legacy. it's a dragon eating its own tail! and what is dany's story if not a cycle of destruction and then after that, rebirth.

[baleriontheblackkitten]

Something I find intriguing about the books is how, the more you advance through the story, the more Targeryen there are in one way or another. You start with this picture of a realm that has gone through a regime change years ago, all the royal family killed except for two kids in exile, half a world away, with no remaining connections to the land their family used to rule. And the land the Targaryen used to rule seemingly has no more connections to the old regime, and yet - the bones of the dragons are still there, underneath the main halls, hidden but very much there. There's a Targaryen in Castle Black, assumed to be harmless - a disabled elderly man whose allegiance to both the Citadel and the Night's Watch excludes him from the line of succession, theoretically wiping away his family history. And yet he is a Targaryen, and he mentors a new generation of protagonists of Westerosi politics, and surely the fact that Sam heard his words about the prince/princess who was promised and Daenerys will have consequences. There's a secret Targeryen also in the North, although very few know. There are Targaryen loyalists who are planning to topple the new regime. There's a boy who is either another secret Targaryen or the descendant of a Targaryen cadet house, either way someone whose identity (real, imagined or both of them) matters so much to many. But there are also people with Targaryen ancestry who do not carry the name because they're not descended from the male line, or descended from someone born out of wedlock, like Bellegere Otherys and who even knows how many others. And of course Targaryen blood runs through the veins of many whose ancestors married Targaryen women - the Baratheons themselves use their Targeryen blood as a crutch for their ascent to the throne, we see from Quentyn Martell that his Targaryen blood is something he feels important to who he is (although it appears not to be as relevant as he hoped to, it's still something he's acutely aware of). And of course there's Bloodraven doing what he's doing, tapping into a power no one else even understands, and also mentoring a new generation.

House Targaryen is simultaneously a ghost haunting the Seven Kingdoms, and something very much alive. After all, in this world ghosts can be things that are very much alive. It's not a contradiction. There's dead dragons under the floor, but their eyes follow you. There's more living dragons that you knew.

Speaking of which. The way the lines between dragons and Starks/weirwood trees are blurred is obviously so important. A man of Targaryen blood tapping into the power of the weirwood network and teaching a Stark about it. The empty sockets of the dragon skulls underneath the Red Keep seemingly watching you like the faces on the trees... but also the statues of the dead Starks in the crypts underneath Winterfell! It's all about the meeting of ice and fire, of Stark and Targaryen, of the Old gods of the North and the gods of Old Valyria. Aegon the Conqueror knew, he did call his prophetic dream a song of ice and fire. Rhaegar tried to figure out what that meant, at some point probably assumed the prince that was promised was supposed to be born from a Stark and a Targaryen parent. But there's probably more than that.

Also - the Starks are also assumed to be mostly dead! At some point, the general consensus (at least among those who know that the fake Arya is fake) is that only Sansa remains alive, just like the general consensus about the Targaryen is that only Dany remains alive after Viserys dies. But more Stark children are alive than most people know - there's Stark loyalists planning on putting Rickon back in Winterfell, even.

The post ended up taking a life of its own and I don't actually remember what point I was going to make initially, but hey.

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part four

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

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

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, assault, attempted sexual assault, grief mention

word count: 8.2k

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Cregan Stark grows restless as the days pass. In the late afternoon he finds himself sat in his chambers, taking a moment to organize his thoughts. 

The castle is abuzz with a low hum of anxious rumor and bated breath, given the increasing number of arrests as more and more turncoats are revealed. To round them up and sentence them is his duty, and a task he does not take lightly. It is impossible to, when he sees the young Prince Aegon. A boy of one and ten whose situation dances about like the familiar ghost of Cregan’s own past. 

Yet the vultures circle high above his head, close enough to hear the flapping of wings, only kept at bay by the army of Northern wolves. The Southern nobles bide their time, allowing him to retain power for now. But the more men that are arrested, the more fear begins to spread. Festering in the castle like an open wound. The glares he receives when he walks the halls are more venomous than ever. 

His informational network has been firmly set into place. Sooner rather than late, the scorpions will be dealt with and justice brought to both Aegon II’s poisoners and the final remnants of those who might wish to see the young prince dead instead of upon the Iron Throne.

As Cregan sits in front of the hearth in his room, his jaw tenses. The storms of his eyes stare down into the flames as they splutter and dance atop the thick logs they burn upon. A poisoned leader and a young heir. Is it fate that has him once again in this circumstance? Only this time, he is not child. Justice will be carried out properly, and swiftly. One of his fists clench tightly, his expression growing darker. 

How deeply he longs to return north, to smell the pine and feel the crunch of snow beneath his boots. To breath freely, in clear air, rid of the stuffiness of the Red Keep and the general oppressiveness of the capital. The Lord of Winterfell is quite glad to have spent his time far from here, away from the choking toxicity that seeps through the walls and penetrates minds and bodies alike.

He rubs a hand over his chin as her visage flickers through his mind.

Perhaps it is no surprise to Cregan that Lady Tyrell is as she is when she has spent so much time here. She has roots planted firmly within the weeds and she blooms beautifully in the muddy and trampled wreckage left from the war. So much so that even when presenting with lies and deception, two things Cregan has little taste for, she has ensnared his attention beyond what he can excuse as primal attraction.

It would be a lie to say that he does not find his eyes trailing her figure, absorbed by her lips and their fullness. Any man with eyes and a cock would do the same, Cregan thinks. No, it is the little flicker of truth that he sees from time to time, beneath the honeyed words. He cannot help his own curiosity, and the desire to see more burns in his chest brighter than the fire in front of him. 

One of his arms comes to rest on the side of the plush armchair. Everything in the castle is so ornate that it is almost nauseating. Longing for the simplicity of Winterfell echoes about his body.

Lady Tyrell remains the sole noble who consistently seeks out his presence, regardless of rumor or what she sees. The woman is frighteningly persistent and quite smart; if she were not so determined to manipulate him to her whims, Cregan might want her as an ally. It would be a relief, to have one amongst the vipers who is not trying to sink their fangs into him with the intention of poisoning him. Lady Tyrell certainly wants something from Cregan Stark, but at least she does not want him dead.

He believes it so, anyways. 

With the twisting of a wry smile onto his lips, Cregan finds himself with the distinct thought that if the lady wished him dead, he might just be so already considering how much food and wine he has consumed in her presence. Still, the lack of clarity regarding her true intentions claws at the back of the lord’s mind. His hand comes to rest under his chin as he considers what he might do to shed light on the truth of the matter.

It is not an impossible task. While Lady Tyrell has forced their repeated proximity for her own interest, Cregan has learned more of her just as she has learned more of him. And she is not the only one who is accustomed to the intricacies of political power dynamics. Cregan’s eyes narrow, pupils reflecting the glowing firelight.

The hour draws rather late as Lady Tyrell flips through the pages of a thick tome within the castle library. Hair falls carelessly into her face but she cannot find herself bothered enough to brush it aside, her bottom lip bitten slightly as she focuses on the words. A single lantern rests on the long wooden table, illuminating the pages as she lifts her hand to turn yet another. Her brows draw together as she continues.

The library has remained rather empty since the war began. The delicious irony of this is far from lost on her. Yet it serves as a relatively untouched sanctuary in which one can gather their thoughts or simply have a moment of peace. The tall walls of books extend out in a vast hall of knowledge, the shelves turning into each other at different points to create soft pools of shadow one might easily hide themselves within to escape the world around. The long wooden tables are dotted with carefully covered candles, many of which remain unlit. The large windows have the thick fabric of their curtains drawn closed, as the sun has recently set. 

Reading serves her in more ways than one; much is to be learned from the pages of history and so much of it is wholly ignored. Lessons that have already been learned throughout time, forgotten. Only to be learned again a hundred years later, and the same price paid. She is cautious to consume as many historical texts as might be possible, lest she fail to find valuable insight that might change her fortune. With a sigh, she lowers her chin onto her hand as her elbow rests on the cool wood of the table. There is no need to be proper when the only other visitors to the library are aging maesters who pay her little mind as they shuffle through books as thick as the one before her now.

This is why her back stiffens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots and a pressure to each intentional step that has her holding the edge of the cream page in her hand so tight it wrinkles beneath her fingers. The library does not seem so sacred any longer.

She need not turn to know whose presence has interrupted her solitude. The steps come to a stop behind her chair and the lady is met with the scent of pine and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. With delicate fingers she releases the page crinkling in her grasp as the man behind her walks around to the other side of the table. He lacks hurriedness, languidly making his way to the chair across from her and pulling it out, a soft scraping sound echoing as he does.

Her face remains innocently neutral as he sinks down, all heavy limbs and a low tilt to his chin, into the chair like molten lava in the blacksmith’s workshop. With a gentle touch, she brings together the worn pages of the wide book to close it, and one hand lingers delicately atop the cover. A sweet surprise catches in her eyes as her eyebrows raise.

“I cannot say I was expecting you, Lord Stark.” Slowly, Lady Tyrell opens the conversation with an amiable cadence and tender softness about her face. She wonders briefly how he knows where to find her, but before the thought can fully take form in her mind, Cregan dips his head.

“I was told by your handmaiden that I might find you here if I wished to speak with you, Lady Tyrell.” The Northern depth and slowness to his tone still sends chills down her spine. The library is far from cold. At his words, she blinks slowly, lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks. Her pause is not performative, but genuine surprise at the revelation that he was purposefully seeking her out – going so far as to knock on her chamber door to call upon her. 

Adelin has been smart to send Cregan directly to the lady, even without warning. This is hardly an opportunity she will pass up upon.

“And found me you have.” Delicately sweet words fall between them with the parting of her lips. Her hands reach up to push lose hair from her face, before she takes a deep breath and settles further into her chair. She does attempt to keep the intrigued glimmer from the depths of her eyes; it is only that she has been pursuing him with such ardent fervor that it delights her to see this take a more interesting turn. How repetitive it can get, her faux gentle smiles and his polite northern reservation. The heated looks down each other’s bodies go poignantly ignored in her head.

Cregan beholds her wordlessly, head tilted back and chin lifted to observe her coolly.  There is a simplicity to her gown today as well, as it had been during their private dinner. The gentle swell of her breasts can be seen more prominently in this dress, even if the lord has found the other ones dangerous enough. “Aye, I have.” 

She knows well when something is wanted from her. And here sits the Lord of Winterfell, who she knows for certain has not sought her out for the darling pleasure of her company. Taking a breath through her nose, her shoulders rise, the low neckline of her gown drooping slightly further with the movement. “Might I be of some assistance, Lord Stark?”

Cregan’s grey eyes glimmer at the quickness of her saccharine reply, the direct yet demure way she demands his cards on the table immediately. There is no sound from the rest of the library, the castle’s inhabitants seem more occupied with other matters for the evening. His hands come together on the surface of the table and her eyes drift down, catching a glimpse of the veins on the back of them. “I have a matter with which I would very much like your thoughts upon, my lady.”

Taking another slow breath, she nods thoughtfully and her gaze falls to the single candle upon the library table. A sheepish hesitance flutters across her face as if brought about by butterfly wings, and she presents him a tiny smile. “It would be my honor to offer my opinions, my lord, but I fear I know little of warfare or the ending of it.”

Round doe eyes cast themselves upon his face, decorated with the gentle glow of humility.

“It is you of all people who might offer insight,” Cregan’s hands tighten against each other slightly as they rest between them. His broad shoulders lower, his stern expression folding to become impossibly more serious. A moment of leisurely anticipation stretches between them in the pause he takes, his gaze seemingly searching hers. It is with utmost delicacy that she maintains her passive, pastel pleasantness. “It is a matter of a proposal, my lady.”

Her blood pounds in her ears. Tension spikes through her head, sharp behind her eyes and heavy on her shoulders. Cregan opens his mouth to explain his reasoning further, his eyes gazing slowly about the library as he speaks. But the Lady Tyrell pays his following words little mind, frozen like a doll left out in the cold by a little girl who had been called in for supper. All slow blinks and that eerie, easy smile upon her lips.

“I have grown so keenly aware of my lack of allies at court…” His voice is a distant drone, she pays no attention to the heavy raise of his brows and the weary sigh that droops his figure. While he speaks, she finds herself lost in the maze of her own thoughts, spinning around lost and confused. The walls of her fears loom over her, draped in thorns and ivy, at the prospect. 

It should not be as shocking as it is. They are the same age, both young and unmarried, both in need of something from the other. And yet – is this not the physical manifestation of all that she has been dreading since the passing of her betrothed? To be married off to some lord she barely knows, subjected to a life at the hands of a husband who is just as likely to treat her callously and cruelly as he is to respect her, no matter how handsome he might be? Her mother told her to win his favor, not marry him. But in truth, if this is what is takes for peace to be achieved then she is wickedly selfish for considering a mad dash for the door.

Her mouth has gone dry and her fingernails dig so sharply into the fragile skin of her hand that she fears she will draw blood and stain the book cover below it. She continues to smile. 

“Would it not serve our houses well?” Cregan’s voice drives a swift dagger through her turbulent thoughts, and she readjusts herself in her seat. Her hands fall to her lap and she agrees demurely, forcing her smile wider when she dips her chin.

“I cannot say it is not…a kind offer, Lord Stark,” Lady Tyrell murmurs with delicate, plucking cadence. She swallows, hoping to rid her tongue of its dry heaviness. The library, its calming atmosphere of scrolls and books and candles, has suddenly lost all of its usual comfort. The shelves about the hall loom ominously above her, trapping her beneath their massive structures. Cornering her here with this man and his propositions. “House Tyrell is honored by your consideration.” 

Cregan watches her carefully. Studying her for a glimpse of masked pride and pleased simpering. This is what she wishes, is it not? Power and wealth through an ambitious match.

She reaches up to twist a strand of hair out of her way with a purposeful breath, wisps of lashes aflutter once more. Her beating heart is a weighty stone inside of her chest. “If it is what you wish, I would hardly feel the need to present my opinion upon the matter, my lord.” 

“It is only that you know your sister so much better than I,” Cregan tells her with a raise of his thick brows, a hand coming to rest on his chin as he leans back in his chair. His gaze remains cast to a bookshelf, as if lost deeply in thought. “Perhaps you might have some insight upon the nature of such a union.” 

There is a heartbeat where not a single thought occupies her mind. Lady Tyrell merely looks upon the man in front of her with empty, unblinking eyes. Her smile twitches at the corners, the edges of her cheeks rounding at the movement. It feels as if her hands are beginning to grow numb, as if an hour has passed before her dry lips part with disturbed slowness. “I beg your pardon?”

It is all that she can manage to breath, giving her a moment to collect the wild frenzy of thoughts. Where there had been silence only a moment ago, floodgates have been shattered to splinters as the torrent of words spill into her brain like the ocean itself has descended upon her mind. If she could sound alarms, she would. Their blares would better suit the panic in her heart than the silence of the castle library. The nonchalance of Cregan’s tone is not lost upon her.

“Your sister – the Lady Cassia. I have been told she is quite beautiful, and of a very agreeable countenance,” The Lord of Winterfell talks as if he is simply commenting upon the shade of blue in the sky or the taste of red wine at dinner. It has been some time since she has been this shellshocked. This utterly thrown by anyone, this completely caught vulnerable and off guard. She knows her smile no longer reaches her eyes; it barely remains upon her face at all.

The obvious question is to ask him why he would not simply wish to marry her – she knows well she has not imagined the way Cregan Stark rakes his eyes down her figure and about her face. Like a man starved. But far be it from her to understand the whims of men, Northern men even less so. She gives another slow blink. He is waiting for her to say something, she realizes. With a swallow, she does at least attempt to carve something resembling pleasance onto her features.

“She is but five and ten, my lord.” Her lips hesitant around the words, betraying a slight nervousness that makes her blood spike with irritation and worry. Rapidly, she attempts to pull for excuses she can offer to prevent him from marrying Cassia. The task proves rather difficult given the quickness with which she must accomplish it. She can feel fear dulling her senses, which only sets the feeling alight further. The jumping of the candleflame between them nearly makes her draw back.

“The age of marriage, is it not?” Cregan easily provides an answer with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. Lady Tyrell knows his words to be true, but it does not stop her eyes from darting about. She lowers her chin, trying to bring a semblance of composure to herself. There is too much to think of at once; she needs time to consider.

But in her head, she knows with a sinking feeling what her mother would say. Her eyes grow dull as she realizes that if Cregan follows through with this proposal, her mother will happily send Cassia off with this stranger if it means securing peace and the future of their House. His words cannot leave this room. The realization rises with a crushing swell in her chest. 

“I do not believe she would be a suitable match, in truth.” There is a sharper edge to her saccharine tone than has ever been present, and she does not meet his eyes as she usually does. She imagines her sweet sister, who adores flowers and the fields of Highgarden and the sunshine, whisked away to a castle surrounded by snow and ice and dying trees. “Cassia is a delicate girl. I cannot imagine she would fare well in the North.”

Cregan finds it a refreshing change of pace to see her squirm for once, the delicate balance of her performance shattered by his words. Yet he still has not found the answer he is looking for.

“She would adjust, in time,” Cregan offers politely, his red hair shifting slightly to frame his face. She takes no note. “If it is for the sake of peace. Especially if she is as agreeable as is suggested.” A slight smile spreads to his face.

Her eyes flick to his with the sharpness and severity of a sword.

And she holds his gaze for quite some time. For the first time since their meeting, she looks at him without performance. Lady Tyrell meets him upon the battlefield of their game free of armor and weapons and nauseatingly sweet illustration.

Her eyes are piercingly jagged, wider as they bore into his own, and her lips are parted. A loose strand of hair falls into her face, catching stray candlelight in a haunting glow. She is just as beautiful, Cregan realizes with a start, when she is staring him down as if she intends to have his head on a spike by the end of this conversation. 

Lady Tyrell will have just that before Cregan Stark lays a hand on her sister. He will spend his final moments in agony if he believes he will take Cassia anywhere, if he thinks he can demand her. She will not be threatened by the prospect of war or the destruction of her House. The Lord of Winterfell would soon see just how many men she would let burn before she sacrifices her sister to be taken by a man who wants a quiet and submissive bride to use as he wishes. 

“It would seem I misread you, Lord Stark,” It is chilling to hear her true voice after Cregan has grown so accustomed to the gentle manner in which she presents even the few biting words she has allowed pass her lips in his presence. There is a haunting emptiness to the phrase and in her eyes that takes him aback. “It does not happen often.”

Her brows lower darkly, a shadow passing over her gentle features.  There is a barbarous sting in her tone that pulls to mind images of snakes, still yet poised to strike. Disgust curls at her lip, the look she gives Cregan as her eyes rinse over his figure dripping with poisonous distaste. “Here come the carrion birds, whispering of frost-bitten savages who will wet our gardens with blood. I watched and I waited and foolishly drew the conclusion that as great of an irritation as you are, you are not a conqueror. Not a man who would seek a young girl as a spoil of war.”

She does not blink one time as she speaks. Eyes wide as saucers, thinly veiled anger simmering beneath her skin. “Do you think I will allow you to sit across from me and demand I hand my only sister to you because it will bring about peace? Because it will ensure the enduring security of my great House? I imagine you did.”

A huff of cold laughter quite nearly twists its way past her lips. The pumping of her beating heart feels akin to nails being hammered into her chest. Anything else she would gladly sacrifice to fulfill her mother’s wishes and win Cregan Stark’s favor. But never this. “No, my lord. You shall not have my sister, nor peace.”

With the screech of a chair scraping against wooden paneling, Lady Tyrell pushes her chair back and draws herself upright, body as tight a strung bow. She glares down at Cregan with such ferocity that he briefly wonders if she might try to fight him then and there in the castle library. But she merely glowers at him, scoffing with disgust as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Find your submissive bride among the many Houses that will happily offer up their daughters as lambs to slaughter. You will not lay a hand on my sister in this lifetime.”

His eyes catch sight of the way her hands are trembling. 

She spins with such a violence that her skirts billow out in an angry storm cloud about her, the heels of her shoes echoing in the silent library. Never in her life has she been so utterly fucked, so desperatelystupid and brash. Her shaking hands ball into fists as she stalks towards the library door. Fear prickles at every nerve in her body, the immediate regret washing over her in a chilling wave. 

The sound of a chair tipping over makes her jump, her shoulders jerking and her hand hesitating on the gold doorhandle of the grand library. She does not know whether to freeze or run, unsure if Cregan is getting up to strike her for her insolence, or to simply leave. It was idiocy to speak to him as she did, she of all people knows this painfully. She turns her head over her shoulder, palms shining with sweat, catching a glimpse of him as he approaches.

Anxious helplessness claws its way up her throat, stifling her breath at the sight of his imposing figure drawing nearer. She does not have enough time to open the door, he will reach her before she leaves. Neither can she imagine she has much time to scream. As breath evades her further, she parts her lips to murmur a shaky apology against the thrumming of her rapid heartbeat. But his voice carries out into the space between them first.

“Please, my lady, a moment.” Cregan speaks the words quietly, his rich Northern tone softer than she has ever heard it. Her back presses into the great oak door as he draws nearer, stopping in front of her. She does little to hide the worry upon her face, her brows drawn together warily. There is a horrible guilt that has begun to spread in Cregan’s chest.

Confusion stirs in her gut as she looks up to find only a stoic concern in his eyes, his lips parted slightly as he searches for the words he wishes to say. A part of him wants to reach out, to try and comfort her, but he imagines it would do little but set her off. “Lady Tyrell, I did not wish to frighten you.”

His voice is scarcely above a hum in his deep tone, the quiet and tender manner in which he presents it only serves to deepen her misunderstanding. She gazes up at him with suspicious concern, searching for some sort of ploy or deception. A heavy sigh lowers Cregan’s shoulders, drooping his figure slightly. This is why he despises these ridiculous court games. “I have no intention to marry your sister, in truth. She shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

A shudder of a skeletal breath rattles its way out past her lips. Her eyes flicker, crinkling with confusion, as she regards him with wary unease. But there is nothing but seemingly genuine worry for her wellbeing as the Northern lord hovers hesitantly in front of her. 

“I do not understand.”  There is an almost petulant softness to her words as she looks up at him, clawing for an explanation so that she might regain a semblance of control as she remains pressed to the oak door, Cregan only a step in front of her. Gazing down with such eyes. 

The man opens his mouth to speak but finds any explanation he can provide for his actions will only seem cruel. Cregan has been so blinded by the toxicity of the Red Keep and the politics played by the nobles that he had acted with prejudice against her, assuming her some power-hungry bird of prey, trying to sink her talons into him to raise her own status. But here in front of him is a girl who loves her sister, who would risk incurring his wrath to tell him directly that she would do anything to protect the girl. He does not consider himself someone who toys with people’s feelings. Perhaps the capital has had worse influence on him than he realizes.

“I only wished to determine your intentions with me,” The man quite nearly winces from how stiffly aware he is of the callousness of his actions, and how terribly he is excusing them. He tilts his head, a pained expression flickering across his face like the lighting of a tea candle. “I had believed you wished to marry me yourself. I could not determine whether it was for your own gain or your House so I…”

Lady Tyrell sees it quite clearly now, even through the dense fog of her anxiety. It is a good plan; she can give him that compliment at the very least. Had he used anything aside from her sister, she might have caught on. It is Cassia above all that is her weakness, especially after the death of Helaena. She is foolishly and vulnerably blindsided when the girl is brought up. Cregan Stark likely does not even know to the full extent. Truly, a masterful scheme. 

But the anger burns hot in her chest, fueled by her fear, the flames wildly licking and spitting about in her lungs. 

Her wide eyes look up into his as the realization settles upon her face like an unforgiving dawn. A heavy silence falls between them and Cregan finds himself longing to fill it, to apologize further for behaving in a manner unbecoming of his character. 

“You must think yourself very smart, Lord Stark.” The lady’s tone is dangerously low and airy. That sickly sweet smile peels its way onto her face, an eerie ghost of the look she has given him time and time again. 

Cregan’s heart plummets in his chest. All he had wanted was to know the truth. He has seen it, clear as day, the depth of the love she has for her sister. The bravery and ferocity with which she will meet him with in order to defend the girl, even in the face of the lady’s own fear. His head tilts, his brows drawing together in gentle apology. 

“Lady Tyrell, if you would please let me-.” But Cregan Stark is not given the chance to do anything nor say anything. She turns quickly, hand gripping the golden doorhandle to yank the library door open with such force that Cregan steps back. Her body slips through the partially open door. It closes with a violent slam and Cregan is left staring at the wood, alone in the vast and silent library.

When she hears the muffled sound of a man’s footsteps behind her as she walks down the hall, she does not bother to turn around. The hour has grown late and most of the castle has drawn away to their bed chambers or to skulk in shadowy corners. She parts her lips to snap something rather barbarous about not wishing to be followed, but the words are lost in her mouth as she feels a hand grab her wrist.

After much heavy pacing, Cregan Stark finds his boots carrying him to Lady Tyrell’s bedchambers. He simply cannot allow the night to pass without the deliverance of proper apology. Despite getting the answer he had been seeking, the truth behind the nature of her character, there is no satisfaction in his chest. Far be it from him to engage in such deceptions, and yet he has offended and frightened her in a manner that is so deeply against that for which he stands. The capital will not turn his heart rotten nor dispel the sacrosanct honor he strives to uphold. 

Guards are stationed outside of her door as the lord rounds the corner, the Tyrell rose blooming in vibrant gold against the silver of their breastplates. Her personal guards, whom had not been stationed there when Cregan had knocked upon her door earlier that evening. A deep unsettling wariness finds its way into his mind, and it only increases when the guards move to intercept him as he draws nearer. The flicker of torchlight upon the walls ripples across the shining armor as Cregan’s narrowed eyes flick between the two men.

Lady Tyrell can hear the muffled exchange of words through her thick door, her eyes jumping sharply to stare at the oak.  Sharp anxiety shoots through her frayed nerves, but simmers to a hum at the deep rumble of a Northern tone. The fire in her hearth crackles as she sits on the floor in front of it, the plush rug beneath her partially balled up in one tightly closed fist. With an eerie stillness, she rises from her place upon the ground and steps slowly towards the echoes of voices, her bare feet soft against the cold wood. 

When she draws the door inwards, opening it, all parties involved in the exchange turn their heads to meet her. She hovers at the edge of the frame, one hand curling delicately against the thick wood as the remainder of her body remains obscured. Her guards turn and the taller one, Leo, gives her a deep and apologetic dip of his head.

“I apologize for the disturbance, my lady, we were sending him away at once.” Leo assures her firmly, one hand resting atop the shining hilt of his golden sword. But her tired eyes fall upon Cregan Stark’s face instead. He is beholding her with faint surprise, his lips parted and brows low, his red hair loose about his face and falling down to brush the tops of his shoulders. His eyes rest on her lips – far from the first time such a thing has occurred, but it is not through half-lidded desire with which he stares now. It is shock.

A ripening cut pulls at her lower lip, ruby against reddening and swollen skin. Her eyes reveal nothing as he finds a stern and questioning expression twisting its way onto his face as he takes a slow step back. One of the guards moves to further push Cregan away, but with an unreadable neutrality, she shakes her head, loose hair spilling down about her face and over what little can be seen of her ivory nightgown.

“It is alright,” Her voice is hoarse, as if the act of speaking is foreign in her throat. Her grip tightens on the edge of the door before she draws it open further. “If Lord Stark wishes to speak with me, he may.” 

There is no need to acquiesce to his wants, nor to prevent her guards from running him off. Performance is no longer required as she has already destroyed all of the time spent crafting a sweet disposition to charm him with. But now that her heartrate is steady and exhausted, the veins connecting to her heart too tired to thrum with the rush of adrenaline and anxiety, she can see Cregan quite clearly. There is nothing false about the firm worry he extends silently to her, a demanding question barely bitten back upon his tongue.

“But my lady--.” Leo begins with a start, concern in the man’s eyes for his lady. She shakes her head again, stepping back in an unspoken invitation for the Lord of Winterfell.

“I shall scream if need be. Do not go far.” It is a quiet order, a bitter amusement bubbling in her throat but stifled down by a rush of exhaustion yet again. The guards exchange a worried look but know better than to argue with her. Cregan stands as still as a stone statue, as she turns her back to him to walk further into her room. His stormy eyes trail after her, uncertain if he should ask her if she truly wants him to follow her inside. Yet his feet carry him forward before his mouth can form words, the closing of the door behind him. The sound echoes with a quiet tolling of finality that Cregan cannot identify.

Lady Tyrell’s chambers are expansive and comfortable, the large bed on the far side covered in satin and silk blankets and a mountain of fluffed pillows at its head. The warm oak posters of the bed spiral upwards, a sheer canopy of pink fabric shimmering softly in the firelight of the hearth. Two plush chairs stand before the hearth, before a thick rug that the Lady Tyrell stands upon. There are shards of glass at the base of her bedside table, shining like small knives as they catch light, and interwoven into puddles. A bunch of dried roses rests upon the floor, scattered haphazardly, their crisp petals soaking up the water that had once been in their vase.

Cregan’s eyes cannot be torn from her figure, and he imagines that would be the case even if the castle around them began to collapse in that very moment. Her hair is completely loose, messy strands falling in front of her face and down her back, and her eyes are dull and red-rimmed from the remnants of shed tears. There is a gaunt look to her skin, only strengthened by the small wound on her soft lips.

Even though it was her own decision to invite him into her quarters, she has to resist the urge to squirm under the heaviness of the Northern lord’s stare. It is too steady, too intense, and her eyes narrow in challenging response despite herself. When her lips open into with a callous twist, her voice comes out dry and rather cold. “Have you come simply to stare at me, my lord?”

“What has happened?” The heavy lowness of the phrase morphs it into a demand, rather than a question. Cregan’s hands are gripped in tight fists, his shoulders raised. The man is always serious, but the severity of his tone has her remembering just who this man is – the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf from the North who has forced King’s Landing into submission and rules in all but title. Towering within her chambers, mandate weighty upon his lips. The storm clouds upon his face darken as she does not answer immediately. “I have only just seen you, but hours ago. Can I not take my eyes off of you for a moment?”

The growl in his normally politely resigned tone sends a chill down her spine. She does not understand the rough urgency of his voice.

If she asks after it, she will discover he does not understand it either.

Unconsciously, her fingers reach for her reddening wrists, her eyes lowering and gazing about the room while a syrupy swallow makes it way down her throat. Cregan’s eyes flick down, taking sharp note of the marks that blossom upon the skin of her arms. His anger burns hotter, and when he meets her avoidant gaze, it is clear that he wants an answer immediately.

Letting out a huff of breath, stopping just short of muttering something about brutish Northern impatience, she turns elegantly. Wrists wringing in her hands, she lowers her eyes and opens her mouth, shoulders drawn back gracefully even in the disheveled state of her appearance. “I do not know, to be perfectly honest, my lord.”

Her eyes find their way to the fireplace, willing herself to still her hands and folding them over top of her stomach. She smooths a wrinkled portion of her nightgown before continuing, her back partially turned to him. “I was not paying much mind to where I was going, the hour was late. A hand came upon my wrist and when I pulled towards someone, I screamed. He smelled of wine and strong spirits and my shouting must have made him panic.”

A slight wobble of her damaged lower lip makes Cregan’s heart plummet further. This is not how he wishes to see her, eyes dim and thinly veiled anxiety covered with a cloak of indifference. He has grown used to the pleased glimmers in her pupils when she believes him to not be looking, that bright intelligence reading his every move and word. The sound of the crackling fire fills the pause.

“He struck me when footsteps could be heard, and then ran. He did not say what he wanted from me. He did not need to.” The vacancy that occupies her stare is ghostly, and the burdening truth hangs between them weightily. Neither of them are fools. Her chin lowers, lashes against the tips of her cheeks when she pulls her gaze to the floorboards. The rug atop them is soft upon her feet. 

Cregan takes in her bruising wrists and the cut upon her mouth, before his attention turns to the fallen roses and shattered vase. When she catches this, a bitter smile cuts through her thoughts and she lifts her shoulders slightly, hands clasped together as she walks towards him.

“That was my own doing. Perhaps not very ladylike of me.” Lady Tyrell muses with tiredly cool sarcasm, her brows raising. Cregan turns as she draws near, looking down at her with a cross between concern and frustration at her breezy nonchalance. 

There is a dimple between his brows due to the severity with which he is furrowing them. With little effort to conceal his anger, he shakes his head slowly. “Who did this?”

“I did not get a clear look at his face.” A rush of an answer, a breath she lets out while she begins pacing in small steps, the wood panels creaking slightly as she glides to and from. 

The fists at his sides tighten, pressure squeezing his fingers as he stares at her, looking every ounce the fearsome Northern lord that he is rumored to be. “Then I shall drag the men of this castle before you so that you might point him out.” 

“There is no need for theatrics, Lord Stark.” She fixes him with a dry look, seemingly unimpressed by the severity upon his face and the intensity with which he speaks. His visage darkens thunderously at her easy dismissal of his words and he has to force back a sharper retort, attempting to be gentler with her instead.

“It is a matter of justice–.” He begins, but she is quick to interrupt with a wave of her hand. A gust of cool air blows in through her open balcony, sending the sheer curtains blowing about.

“Oh, spare me your monologue on justice and duty and honor for one night,” The words drip from a curled lip with soft irritation as she casts him a rather scornful glance, drawing her arms across her chest protectively. The fabric of her nightgown is soft against her skin. “If I wished to be lectured upon righteousness I would summon a priest instead.”

In exasperation, she gazes to the balcony with a huff, eyes falling upon the moon and stars that dazzle brilliantly in the dark night. The sound of leaves can be heard outside of her window, plants growing on the outside wall blown about in the wind. A foghorn blares in echoed low tones, drifting in from the harbor.

Cregan’s jaw clenches, tightening as he wrestles back the desire to meet her stubbornness with equal force. But as his eyes drop to her lip again, he remembers with a tightening chest that he had come here to apologize to her, not to bicker like children. Before he expresses this to her, his eyes soften. “I had come to apologize, my lady. For my actions in the library earlier that were callous and frightened you.”

Although she had been quick to direct her ire at him, the start of the quiet apology draws her pacing to a pause. It is the reason she had allowed him into her chambers in the first place, that genuine concern that he displays so openly upon his face, as he had in the library once he had seen the truth of her fear. 

“I had believed you to be seeking power, to marry into my House for your own gain. Hoping to determine your intentions, I wished to know whether your loyalty was stronger to yourself or the strength of your own House.”  Cregan does his utmost to explain himself in a quiet yet quick tone, lest she might decide to interrupt and throw him out at her whim. The look on his face captivates her attention. “But I was wrong to level your sister as a weapon against you. I did not know – how much you love her. I am truly sorry.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes lose some of their harsh edge as she watches the rugged Northern lord express his regret so genuinely. Rare is it that she has been apologized to, rarer still that the apology is of such a truthful and straightforward nature. Cregan stands quite still as he anticipates her reply, the seriousness upon his face giving him the appearance of a man awaiting sentencing. 

“Do you think I enjoy playing darling here at court?” It is a softly posed question, her hands tightening as she keeps them together in front of her. “That this is a hobby I do for my own amusement?”

Her voice is laced with a weary exhaustion that does not quite fit her age. Cregan has heard a similar tone leave his own lips many times before. 

“The safety and security of my House – a house whom has no male leader at present – rests on my ability to hold my own in this twisted, toxic den of vipers. I am weak, I cannot fight. But what I can do, I have honed my skills in. I will not claim to be a saint, but I am not scheming for the sake of seizing power if that Is what you think.” Her voice quivers slightly but her eyes remain firm as she holds his gaze steadily. 

“Yet you would risk the safety of your House for the safety of your sister.” Cregan points out quietly, his hand extending out as he speaks. Lady Tyrell gives a frustrated shrug, keenly aware of her own foolishness, and shoots him a withering gaze.

“We all have something we would sacrifice the world to protect. What your suffocating honor is for you, my sister is to me.” She has always been protective of the girl, who had been her only sibling until the recent birth of her younger brother. But since Helaena’s death, the paranoia and anxiety that gather her mind in their clutches are persistent and cruel. She fears, perhaps irrationally so, of all manner of terrible fates that might befall the girl. Waking from nightmares, clothes and blankets soaked in sweat and lungs burning as she gasps for ragged breath.

Cregan keeps his gaze upon her, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. For a lady which such a delicate frame, she seems to love with a strength rivaling any warrior and a determination that is as clear as the moon in the sky outside her balcony. It is obvious to him that she is willingly to do whatever it might take to defend those in her heart, at the risk of her own safety or peace of mind. 

She stalks across the room, returning to the plush armchair by the hearth. Sinking into the soft red seat, she picks up the bandages that she had been attempting to wrap around her bruising wrist. The last thing she wishes for is for someone to see and ask questions. Adelin normally assisted in such manners, but Lady Tyrell had been in such a state that she had demanded to be left alone.

“Your apology has been heard, Lord Stark. You may leave.” She murmurs quietly, the fireplace casting a warm light upon her face and her messy hair. Stretching the bandages in front of her, the lady bites back a curse as she fumbles with the ivory cloth. Cregan watches her for a moment before a heaving sigh moves his broad chest, and he crosses the room to her with large steps. Her eyes jump up to him, slight worry and fear flickering like fireflies, but when he drops to one knee before her chair, she finds there are no words upon her mouth.

“Allow me, my lady.” The sternness to his rumbling tone makes it seem more like an order than an offer, but it is said with such politeness that despite the way suspicion swims in her eyes, she pauses. There they remain, the Lord of Winterfell on his knee in front of her armchair, the golden light from the fire bathing his features. As he looks up at her, she realizes that despite the gruff, masculine stature of his imposing figure, the brightness of his eyes and the soft nature of his red hair give him a fairness that she hesitantly describes as beauty.

The sound of a clock fills the darkness of her chambers, tick after tick reverberating into the silence.

Wordlessly, she hands him the roll of bandages. Cregan takes no time to gingerly reach for her wrist, taking it into his much larger hand. He holds it tenderly, intentionally drawing his mind away from the softness of her skin and the way his hand can wrap around her entire arm. The faint smell of vanilla fills his nose, and he feels his stomach jolt at the imperceptible breath she takes as his thumb ghosts over the pressure point on her wrist. He reminds himself to breath.

The ivory bandages are wrapped around her reddened wrist slowly, glowing in front of the firelight, the warmth carrying over to both of them. Yet Cregan’s body has already grown hot. Neither of them breathe a word, eyes cast down to the simmering points where their skin meets. When he finishes his work, Cregan’s hands jerk back slightly, as if he has been burned. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter slightly at the motion, and she draws her wrists to her with a small frown. He remains on his knee a moment longer, before rising to his feet and breaking the spell that has fallen between them. Cregan swallows thickly, his eyes cast to her wrist as she stares into the fire with an unreadable expression.

“Rest well, my lady.” He murmurs to her, before his heavy boots carry him with unnecessary quickness across the wooden floor panels and out of her door.

a/n: this was supposed to be a short chapter, but it is another monstruous piece and half of it was written on an airplane so please bear with me. i know the ‘who did this’ trope is low-hanging fruit, but i fall for it every time so here it is. i cannot believe i have written so much of this work so quickly, and i am even more surprised at the lovely interactions it has had. thank you for every like, reblog, and comment on this little story that i love.

[teecupangel]

So... There is this one (01) Winterfell guard canonically named Desmond. No last name. No more information other than him being a house guard for House Stark. I don't even remember if he has lines in the book, and he isn't even mentioned in the series.

I'll just leave this information here and let you cook it, Cup.

Xoxo Madu 😽

Man, letting me cook with all these fresh ingredients is always a toss up XD

Anyway…

Here’s a “Desmond sorta adopts Dany and Vis” idea.

Here’s a “Desmond turns into a White Dragon during HOTD” idea and the continuation.

And here’s the AC characters live in ASOIAF idea.

According to the awoiaf wiki, Desmond’s pretty much a minor character who served as one of Eddard’s main guards.

So in this one, Desmond awakens north of Westeros after using the device and became a guard because of… certain circumstances that pretty much ended with him feeling indebted to Eddard Stark.

Eddard personally believe Desmond to be a commoner who is unfamiliar with the whole world, probably from one of the small close-off village that has been wiped out by certain… evil doers that come and go on the North.

Desmond leaned onto it and used his Bleed of Ratonhnhaké:ton to make it believable.

Also, the best way to get information is to stay close to one in power.

He’s mostly known as a chill dude who is easy to talk to. Arya likes him because he never tries to make her act more lady-like. If anything, he’s a secret enabler, giving Arya secret lessons of the best way to kill someone two times her size.

Eddard knows about this and Desmond admitted Arya reminds her of his little sister that he could no longer see. Eddard assumes he means that said sister is dead like the rest of his village and not… well… Desmond using his Bleed of Ezio to talk about Claudia who is the real person that Arya reminds him of.

He’s also close to Jon Snow because he has no problem with illegitimate children and he can see how lonely Jon is at times.

To House Stark, he’s a reliable loyal guard who is faster than anyone and seems to prefer underhanded techniques that knights would have frowned upon.

He becomes part of the guard detail that goes to the South and Eddard knew that Desmond plans to leave House Stark’s employ sooner or later, especially now that Desmond could see the abuse of power and corruption plaguing King’s Landing.

Hell, he even started creating a sorta information network with the use of orphans that he’s trying to keep alive.

He’s not with Eddard when he was arrested but he was ambushed with the rest of the guards that remained in their lodgings that day. Because he was there, the ambush ended with the Winterfell guards alive (some of them anyway).

Unfortunately, they were branded as traitors soon enough and Desmond takes control of what remains of the guards. Some of the more honorable ones split soon after because they do not agree with Desmond’s methods of slinking into the shadows but Desmond doesn’t give a shit about that, he’s more worried about the Starks in the capital.

Arya actually finds him and his band of ‘traitors’ and he takes her to their hideout before rushing to save Eddard.

Eddard is an honorable man though who refuses to leave because he sees it as an admission of guilt and it’s up to you if you want Desmond to find a way for Eddard to agree to leave or not.

No matter what happens to Eddard, Desmond finds a way to save Sansa and take her away from the castle by making her pretend to be a maid.

If Eddard isn’t saved, Sansa and Desmond watches his execution with Desmond trying to shield Sansa’s eyes but failing and they leave the capital with Arya and what remains of the Winterfell guards.

The Lanisters definitely hide the fact that Sansa and Arya escaped and this leads to Rob declaring war as canon as House Stark believed that Sansa and Arya are still held captive in the capital.

[atopvisenyashill]

one thing i remain baffled by is how they decided to portray jace's visit to winterfell. they made cregan's voiceover the opening sequence of the entire season yet gave us next to nothing to explain why he gets so involved later on. it's almost like they treated the north's appearance as fan service. i understand them deciding that the accounts we have are inaccurate or biased, but if none of that was cregan's motivation then what WAS? any ideas where they're going with him???

okay a few things

yes objectively they're just treating the entire northern plot and i would argue the bulk of the riverlands arc as fan service. i think this is bad writing that came about due to the short seasons - they've talked a bunch about how hotd is more "intimate" it's about this One Family but that's just like,,,,, not true! For one thing, there's THREE different families here lmao (Targaryens, Velaryons, Hightowers) but for another even despite some of the annoying fixation on Only Targaryen Kings that F&B has, every section is about that king's COURT not JUST about the Targaryens in it and the dance specifically is about a LOT of different people. but they just prioritized the king's landing/dragonstone story lines over everything else to the detriment of every other story line so now the north and riverlands, which is INTEGRAL to the ending of the dance, is reduced to like, that unnamed prince of dorne cameo equivalent in got s8 instead of being an entire story arc in and of itself.

i think even more specifically, this season likely WAS supposed to be the same amount of eps (10) as last season but then the strike happened. they could see it was about to happen and figured they had eight scripts mostly finished so they prioritized those and are going to tack the last two eps onto the front end of season 3. this is a wildly different show but grey's anatomy did something similar with seasons one and two - they had scripts for 16 episodes of the first season but the network said they're only getting 13 episodes, so they tacked the last three onto the front of season two, so season two was like 27 episodes. the thing about that is that the "finale" of season one is still REALLY good as ending point (that "meredith i'm so sorry" "you must be the woman that's fucking my husband" is just an amazing goddamn ending to a season) so it really worked as the finale ( i honestly didn't realize it wasn't meant to be the finale until a few years later). vs this is so clearly not the finale they were gearing up to and i would bet real money on the first two eps of next season being FULL of action and ep 2 being very obviously the finale we were meant to get, and probably features the winter wolves.

beyond strike/production interference which i do think is the main issue...........the hater's take is that this is a self fulfilling prophecy wherein the main show refused to prioritize the Stark storylines (completely changing and utterly destroying both Sansa and Bran's arcs, forgetting about Rickon for years on end, turning Arya and Jon into standard Action Heroes instead of a conversation on the harm being forced to be The Action Hero takes on a person's psyche, stealing Catelyn's entire arc and giving it to Robb then cutting them both off at the knees anyway) because they thought the Lannisters and Dany were cooler, getting that sweet sweet merch money because the Lannisers and Dany have name brand recognition, then prioritizing them more in the story because that's what the fans want, then justifying it because its what the fans want, but the reason the fans want it is because they cut the Starks to begin with, etc etc. Vicious cycle here until we get the poor Cregan actor doing his best Kit Harington impression and nothing else. They obviously aren't the only people to get that treatment (see DORNE see GREYJOYS) but it's like...this is one of the main three families in this series, reduced to nothing because they're "boring." They're only boring because these bitches cut every single aspect of their story out of the goddamn show! "north story is boring" sorry but if you think the winter wolves are boring and claim you like asoiaf because it's "real and gritty" i think maybe you don't actually like the "real and gritty" parts of the story at all, i think you just want to see a hot person with a shitty blond wig kill people on a dragon. unfortunately, d&d did only want to see that lmao and that's the world we're stuck in now.

[jackoshadows]

It's baffling how this fandom keeps theorizing that Arya's subplots and role in the story can be replaced by any Stark, specifically Sansa, and it would be just the same when the show did replace fake Arya with another character - and then GRRM specifically refuted that change several times and pointed to that change on the show as where show canon diverged from book canon!

This is a fandom talking point that GRRM himself has refuted and said 'Nah, you can't do that. That plot specifically needs Fake Arya. The story needs fake Arya in the North and when the TV show replaced her with another character, the TV show then diverges from the books and becomes different canon' .

Also GRRM is not talking about the writing for show Sansa in season 6, 7 or 8 and the direction D&D took her character on the show where the only support she gets is from Littlefinger and the Vale army he rallies to help her. In fact GRRM does not even mention Sansa in this interview. He is talking specifically of 'Fake Arya' and how Fake Arya is important to that plot point in the North.

They (D&D) started making changes even as early as season one. And I remember I had discussions with them back in season one. When I was more involved in the process, when we’d discuss things and the fact that they removed Jeyne Poole was a very early thing. They actually said, oh no, Jeyne Poole is in it. You see the girl that’s sitting next to Sansa in the one scene in the feast at Winterfell. Yes, that’s Jeyne Poole, but you never hear a name and she’s not in it, but I did tell them. ‘Yes, but there’s the butterfly effect’, as I called it, deriving from the famous Ray Bradbury story, A Sound of Thunder, crush a butterfly the Jurassic and suddenly you changed all of human history from that point forward. Unintentionally. A little change in a long narrative can have big changes further on. And now, Gone with the Wind didn’t have to worry about that, cause those two children that they removed never had any impact on the story. And Margaret Mitchell didn’t go on to write 6 more novels in which the children grew up and became the leader of the Ku Klux Klan. Whatever the hell, you know, she might have done with those two boys.

And I think they were both boys, and Rhett’s daughter was a girl. So she didn’t have to deal with the butterfly effect there. You know, when we remove Jeyne Poole from season one, then you don’t have Jeyne Poole to be the fake Arya, as happens in the book. So what do you do then? The butterfly effect has done that. (---)

The butterfly effect can have that, but getting back to the whole issue of canon, the butterfly effect affects the canon. But there’s also sometimes deliberate changes in a show where the showrunners or the writers or the studio, the network, or wherever it comes from, goes in a different direction. So what we’re doing at this point in the history of A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones, Westeros, whatever you wanna call it. Yeah. We have two canons. We have the show canon, the Game of Thrones canon. And we have the Song of Ice and Fire canon.

GRRM thought Fake Arya was so important he was insisting to D&D way back while filming season one in 2010 to cast Jeyne Poole.

And even D&D realized that the Jon/Arya relationship is so sacred that they didn't even attempt to replicate that with Sansa in the North. They even had show Jon Snow make a suicidal attempt to save his little brother Rickon Stark - which show Sansa advises against because fuck family - but we never got the whole Jon breaking his NW oaths to attack the Boltons for Arya Stark happening on the show with Sansa.

The asoiaf fandom loves appropriating book Arya's plots for Sansa. Jonsa shippers love appropriating her relationship with Jon for their utterly absurd crackship all the while dragging Arya down as 'ugly' 'violent' and 'masculine'.

Non-shippers love to give away all the politicking around Arya to Sansa, take away Arya intelligence and know-how of the North because their sexism only allows them to see one Stark girl as political and leader of the North. It's not about what the author has actually written for these characters, no, it's about which character passes their standard for femininity.

So yeah, one is free to replace Arya with Sansa because one is dissatisfied with Sansa's canonical book story that GRRM has written for the character and instead prefer Benioff and Weiss' show fanfiction or want Arya's book story for Sansa's character because she's conventionally beautiful and a 'real girl' according to the tradfems.

However, keep in mind that GRRM thinks 'Fake Arya' is very important to his story and that's a Northern political sublot that revolves specifically around Arya Stark in the books.

Once again, the Stark sisters and their book subplots are not interchangeable!

[strangesmallbard]

continued my asoiaf reread btw. the foreshadowing in the beginning agot chapters is insane considering grrm changed so many initial plot lines, but here’s a few parts in cat i that really stuck out to me this time:

A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly.

“There are darker things beyond the Wall.” She glanced behind her at the heart tree, the pale bark and red eyes, watching, listening, thinking its long slow thoughts.”

if i remember correctly, bran sees ned cleaning ice through the weirwood network (and if he doesn’t, very similar poignant moments in the winterfell godswood), so it’s not a stretch to think bran is watching his parents right there :( eyes are following cat—watching and listening and thinking. understanding how all the pieces of the starks’ long history fit together.

[rhaegxr]

𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒

Was Rhaegar a dreamer? Before House of the Dragon aired, I did not have him as a dragon dreamer, but once the show gave us new info (such as the Conqueror being a dreamer), I figured a change was in order. Recently, we’ve gotten more info that has helped me better shape that headcanon, so I will elaborate on that in this post. As always, the disclaimer: all things I post here are for RP purposes. In no way am I saying this is book canon or that others should consider it so, or that I am expecting others to accept it. 

We were recently given, in show, the little detail of how Daenys the Dreamer got her prophetic Doom of Valyria dream the night after she claimed a young Balerion. Then in season one, we learn that Aegon I Targaryen, also rider of Balerion, had a prophetic dream about the Long Night (which prompted him into conquest). Then we also learn that Viserys I Targaryen, the last rider of Balerion, had that single one-time prophetic dream, and he only rode on Balerion once. We know that the dreamers aspects (and very likely the Daenys claiming Balerion and then dreaming bit) come from GRRM, so what is he trying to tell us viewers/readers?

Let’s check what we do have in books about dreams, starting with the wolf dreams the Stark children experience. They all seem to first receive these dreams when/after they get their direwolves. Direwolves are magical creatures, such as dragons are. Magic in the ASOIAF world appears to be connected, like a worldwide magical network that weakens and gets stronger. Something magical in one place can affect it everywhere (the birth of dragons after a century, for example, had ‘shockwave’ sort of events around the world). There are even certain places that Melissandre alludes to as magical ‘hinges’ of the world, with The Wall being one of them. Magic, in a sense, is almost a consciousness in that worldwide magical web; we can even consider the weirwoods as an ‘access panel’ to it for greenseers to be able to tap into. 

Using another Stark example of that magic having a ‘consciousness’ that connects all magical creatures/places, we have a passage on Jon and Ghost in books. Jon describes ‘It was Ghost who knew what to do’, with Ghost being there when he wakes from his recurrent Winterfell crypts dream. He starts getting this dream when reaching The Wall. The magic, through his bond to a magical creature, is trying to tell him a ‘truth’ about who he really is, and shows him the crypts because likely the truth is found there—Be it figuratively or literally. This is likely because the truth of his identity (half Stark, half Targaryen) will play a big role in the Long Night. This, in itself, is a headcanon, but since it’s a pretty widespread one, I am using it as an example to better explain my reasoning. 

We know that dragonlord families practiced interbreeding to keep the bloodline pure, because their blood is what enables them to bond and ride dragons. Some of them experience dragon dreams. So I do think it’s safe to say ( for the sake of the Ice/Fire parallel themes of ASOIAF ) only the Starks or those of First Men blood are able to bond with direwolves, and like them, the Stark children experience wolf dreams. And so it’s why they receive these kinds of dreams, because their magical bond to those magical creatures bestows the dreams upon them. Of course, we have characters in books and show that have had other prophetic dreams through other means, be it greensight or coming into contact with hinges or magical things (such as weirwoods), or even simply practicing magic ( like the Red Priests, the maegi, and so forth). 

And we come again to how characters like them have pointed out a resurgence of magic that makes them ‘stronger’ (after Dany’s dragons hatch). Which again alludes to the theory of magic being a worldwide web kind of thing, interconnected, with certain places, items (like glass candles, horns), elements (fire, ice, blood, etc.) and creatures serving as conduits to it. Going also by the theory of Valyrians and First Men blood being able to bond with the creatures, it would also make sense if they are more innately ‘sensitive’ to certain hinges or conduits or concentrations of magic, such as The Wall and the weirwoods; even without being ‘trained’ (as Red Priests or maegi are). We also know that ‘king’s blood’ plays a role. 

Now, after exposing all this, I do believe GRRM might be further supplementing these clues through the show bits. And I do think the message is that: dragons give the dragon dreams. Of course, we know dragons eventually go extinct but Targaryens (or those with Targaryen/Valyrian blood) continue to have dragon dreams—But the dragon eggs remain. The tradition of placing dragon eggs in the cradles of Targaryen babies continued. We know of a few of those people who had an egg or were possibly in proximity to eggs, to have been given dragon dreams. Among those dreams were the ones pertaining to the return of the dragons, and this drove a few (if not all) the dreamers into trying to fulfill what they saw. 

Dragons seem to definitely be an important part in the Long Night prophecy, so what if this obsession is also magically spurred, in a way? Even in Fire and Blood, we are told dragons seem to have an intelligence that men can’t understand—Can it be that, like direwolves, they are conduits connected to the worldwide magical network? The same that is stirring with the impending coming of the Long Night? Even Quaithe tells Dany that the dragons ‘remember’, and implies that perhaps they are trying to make Dany ‘remember’ who she is—In the same way Ghost is trying to make Jon learn the truth of who he is and is pointing to where he might find out. Because it’s all an important part of the prophecy, the Long Night, and whatever roles big or small they might have in it. 

After all this, let’s finally go back to Rhaegar and the actual reason why I wrote it. I am 99.9% certain Rhaegar has dragon dreams (always leave that .1% because this is GRRM, wouldn’t past him to just change stuff or add something that changes everything as he has done before). I used to be like a 50-50 before House of the Dragon (applied it only to AUs), and then maybe an 85%, but after the Daenys and Balerion info, I am very certain now. We are even directly given in books where and when he had those dreams: Summerhall. 

In a previous headcanon post regarding his birth, I did include the dreams as a possibility of why he was going to Summerhall but now it has been elevated into a certainty. We know Rhaegar was born during the tragedy at Summerhall, where a great fire killed half the Targaryen family. We’re not given the ‘what exactly happened’, and this is probably on purpose because it might be revealed in some big way or something later on ( because if the theory of what happened is true, then dark stuff went on there ). But we do have the bits of that half message, how there were seven eggs, the blood of the dragon was gathered and pyromancers with wildfire, before the fire went out of control, a ‘treason’ happened and Dunk saved someone ( Rhaella and -unborn or not- baby Rhaegar ). 

Here we have all the elements for the same egg hatching ritual Dany’s dreams told her to do: eggs, fire and blood sacrifice. Who was going to be the sacrifice? Unborn baby Rhaegar. Just as unborn Rhaego (oh yes, the name similarity is more than just ‘to honor her brother’ on purpose and very GRRM) was the sacrifice that gave life to the dragons in the eggs. But what matters for the purposes of the headcanon is; the eggs. We are not told what happened to those eggs so I do believe it’s not far reaching to say at least one of the eggs is still there. 

So what would happen if a Targaryen prince, already marked by the magical yet tragic circumstances of his birth, visits said ‘haunted’ place with only his harp, and comes in proximity to the egg while he sleeps under the stars? 

“Whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved.” --Daenerys IV, A Storm of Swords

His songs were tragic things (like prophecy?), and it felt like he was singing about himself and those he loved because of the emotional intensity in them. And that’s because he probably was, in a way. He did think himself the Prince that was Promised at some point until Aegon’s conception, after all. He was a musical individual and it would make perfect sense for him to ‘record’ or translate his dreams into song—Much like how we get in the show Helaena’s drawings on the walls and sketchbooks. For Helaena, we are told it was a way of escapism, so I can easily see the same being for Rhaegar (who already shows escapist tendencies). And speaking of dreamers and similarities, I do think there are bits throughout books that connect possible dreamers in personality terms. But I won’t get into that here. 

However, we know that Rhaegar read of the prophecy in some scroll or book, and that is what prompted him to ‘become a warrior’. I have already explained this bit in the birth post for him as well, but I think him being a dreamer only adds to it. We know he ‘grew up with a complex fascination for the ruins’. So what if when he first visited Summerhall, he was still a young teenager yet to read about the prophecy? What if when he first visited, he had a certain dream that had him want to learn more about what exactly happened in the place he was born? And what if when he learned of it, his dreams, his birth, his very existence, has a whole other meaning that he embraces through the prophecy? This, I believe, all fits with traits that previous dragon dreamers had displayed, subtly or not. And when paired with the show bits we are given about dragon dreamers being apparently bestowed the dreams by dragons (or eggs, as book might suggest), then it rounds up nicely, in my RP opinion.

Again, this is all headcanon for the purpose of RP as I portray Rhaegar, but thanks to the show’s supplemental info paired with the book equivalents; there’s too much coincidence to just think it’s nothing more than that. Of course, if/when we are given more info from GRRM himself or when/if Winds of Winter comes out, I will adjust as needed to fit canon as much as possible. For now, it’s fun to weave these threads we have been given together into a bigger tapestry through the magic of RP. And as always, if you read all this, thank you!

[jaimexbrienne-fic-finder]

Christmas Fics

Christmas Season starts after Halloween I think, so I was in the mood for nice Christmas stories and made a list for everyone feeling the same!

As the popular saying goes I suck at summaries, so they are straight from the author on AO3.

a winter's tale by SeeThemFlying All in all, it is the perfect Sevenmas... except for one small detail. Jaime isn't here. (Until he is).

A Date For Sevenmas by majoris When Brienne grabbed the first man standing near her in the crowd of people to convince Hyle that she actually did have a date she expected it to be one of her friends and not Jaime Lannister of all people.

From Us to You by ddagent Jaime and Brienne accidentally send out a couple's Sevenmas card.

I Don't Want to Toe the Line by everydayescapeartist Jaime and Brienne share a lot over the years, growing up the children of parents who are the best of friends. There’s something Jaime realizes they have yet to share and he’s hoping this year’s holiday party will be their best one yet. (Also known as that cheesy JB mistletoe fic you didn’t really ask for but I felt compelled to write anyway. Cheers!)

The Perfect Gift by sea_spirit Sansa and Brienne shop for the perfect gift. Later, when Brienne and Jaime exchange presents, things don't go exactly as planned.

Traditional knitwear of Tarth by tall_wolf_of_tarth Brienne moves to Winterfell and starts to knit. Jaime Lannister is cold and no one knits for him. Lots of knitting references and fluff.

I Light A Candle To Our Love by theworldunseen Jaime is in love with his best friend Brienne, and he thinks she might feel the same way, but something is holding her back.

That something? Her dad is Santa Claus.

The Gift by Lady_in_Red Brienne finds the perfect gift for Jaime but worries that it reveals too much about her feelings for him.

All Brienne Wants for Sevenmas by ikkiM Brienne Tarth is convinced no one ever looks at her Sevenmas list for the office gift exchange.

Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, and Kind by EllisJay Jaime is in love with his best friend, Brienne, and has plans to tell her….one day. Eventually. Definitely in the next year for sure. He's nearly 100% sure of that, or maybe 80% sure. A spur-of-the-moment Christmas gift bumps up his timeline considerably.

Santa baby by sdwolfpup Brienne tells Santa what she really wants for Christmas. Can he work a little Christmas magic to get it for her?

Twelve Days by Lady_in_Red Most people just buy liquor or silly socks for an office holiday gift exchange. Brienne's gifter is going way overboard. She'd love to tell them to stop, if only she knew who they were.

Merry Christmas, I'm Yours by theworldunseen Single dad Jaime Lannister loves three things the most: his daughter Myrcella, coffee, and his best friend Brienne Tarth. Also Pop Tarts. So, four things. Now that curmudgeonly diner owner Brienne is single, will he make a move this Christmas season?

A gender-flipped Gilmore Girls AU with little plot, lots of fluff, and bonus smut at the end!

Brienne and the Christmas Calendar by angel_deux Brienne writes scripts for a television network that exclusively produces shitty romance movies. That's not the ONLY reason she hates the Christmas season, but it's a pretty big part of it. Her roommate and best friend Jaime, on the other hand, is filled to the brim with holiday cheer.

Or: Jaime does the whole Christmas Advent Calendar thing, and Brienne is oblivious.

Christmas Lights by theworldunseen It's Christmas time again, and Brienne really misses her best friend and former roommate, Jaime. She misses him so much, she even decorates for Christmas, despite her well-known hatred of the holiday. All she can do is put up Christmas lights and hope the love of her life might come home.

Jaime Lannister: Christmas Miracle by LeoSapphirus Brienne breaks her leg before the holidays and is forced to cancel her plans. She expects to spend Christmas alone. Jaime isn't having any of that.

Office Christmas Party by LSquaredSTL Brienne is frustrated - her job is keeping her from going home for the holidays and she can't stand her co-worker, Jaime. The office Christmas party changes everything.

you'd better not pout! by slipsthrufingers Office Christmas means one thing and one thing only: Secret Santa. Five times Brienne Tarth was disappointed by the office Secret Santa and one time she wasn't.

[duxbelisarius]

The Dance of the Dragons: A Military Analysis (Pt. 5)

At long last, we finally arrive at the battles of the Dance! A huge thanks once again to those of you that have been following from the start; if you’re just coming across this series now, I’ll direct you to the Master Post, which lists my previous analyses!

Part 5 will offer brief analysis of the use of intelligence in the Dance, but will focus primarily on the first campaigns of the war: Stone Hedge and Rook’s Rest. I will examine the strategic and tactical decisions made by the commanders of both factions, as well as assess logistics where pertinent. A definition of terms is helpful first, as I will be making use of the terms strategy and tactics; in the context of European Warfare between 1740 and 1813, Claus Telp defines strategy and tactics as follows:

‘Strategy’ is the art of war at the strategic level, concerned with political decisions such as the definition of the war aim, the mobilization of manpower and material, the planning and conduct of campaigns and the determination of the purpose as well as the context of battle. ‘Tactics’ is the art of war at the tactical level, concerned with fighting a battle in pursuit of the strategic purpose.

Intelligence gathering and espionage in the Dance suffers from the same illogical events and poor writing by George (shout out to reddit users /u/Tribune_Aguila and /u/leonie46 for drawing attention to this). While Daemon, Mysaria and Larys Strong exert a sizeable influence on the Dance via their networks of spies and informants, their effectiveness depends on whether the plot needs them. Despite commanding the Gold Cloaks for a year and a half from 104 to 105 AC, after which he was absent for the war in the Stepstones and then was in exile from 112 AC to 120 AC, we’re to believe that Daemon’s standing in the unit is great enough to use the entire force as a fifth column in the taking of King’s Landing. Of course Larys Strong fails to detect this despite being Master of Whispers and former Royal Confessor, possessing knowledge of and contacts within the city that allows him to sneak Aegon II out of the city when it falls to Rhaenyra, and to seize control of the city from her during the Storming of the Dragonpit. Gyldan tells us that Daemon had a ‘mole’ within the Green Council, and this may well have been Larys Strong, but this information ultimately amounts to nothing and is never brought up again. This inconsistent use of intel underlines a major problem with how George writes the Dance: No matter how skilled or a effective a character or characters are portrayed to be, their quality varies considerably based on how they further George’s plot, so that their qualities are liable to deteriorate at the author’s convenience.

Referencing our timeline from Part 3, open hostilities only began a month or so after Viserys death, but the beginnings of the Stone Hedge campaign can be traced back to just after Rhaenyra’s coronation. On the 12th day of the 3rd Moon (March 12th; dates will hereafter be rendered in our calendar), Daemon and Caraxes captured Harrenhal and began gathering a host of Riverlords loyal to the Black cause. Gyldan states that Harrenhal was lightly garrisoned due to Larys Strong being in King’s Landing, implying that the bulk of the Strong household forces were with him at least. Even having lost territories during the reign of Maegor the Cruel, Harrenhal is still the largest castle in the Riverlands with substantial lands within it’s fief, but we are never told of any Strong forces fighting on Aegon’s behalf. House Bracken and Vance of Atranta are the only Riverlord houses we know of that supported Aegon, with the Tullys opting for neutrality and most of their other bannermen rallying to Daemon. 

A glaring omission through most of the narrative at this time, is how the arrival of autumn affected mobilization efforts outside the North. Gyldan tells us that Jacaerys arrived in Winterfell with autumn well advanced, and based on our calculations in Part 3 along with a distance map, the journey Dragonstone-The Eyrie-Sisterton-White Harbour-Winterfell should have taken him three to four days at least assuming a journey of c.1000 miles at 30 mph plus time for stops in the Eyrie, Sisterton and White Harbour. This means autumn in Westeros would have begun within a week of Rhaenyra’s coronation (and would last until the first half of 130 AC), while fighting began in early April following the torture and execution of Blood for the murder of Prince Jaehaerys. There was already deep snow around Winterfell when Jace arrived, and even if the the climate further south was too warm for snow we should at least expect rain, sleet and cooler temperatures. Cregan Stark was already preparing for winter at that point, and we should expect this to have been the case in the agriculture-focused Riverlands; and yet Daemon seems to have had no difficulty raising troops, with many grabbing “a pitchfork or a hoe and a crude wooden shield” and marching to Harrenhal, according to Gyldan.

The opening blows of the Stone Hedge campaign were struck by the Blacks, when raiders of House Blackwood attacked villages on Bracken land, destroying septs and homes, crops and livestock. Amos Bracken, son of Lord Humfrey Bracken and heir to Stone Hedge, leads forces to retaliate; these are ambushed by Blackwood troops at a nearby mill, leading to the Battle of the Burning Mill. As alluded to in Part 2, George resorts to an absence of security repeatedly to justify the outcomes of his battles, and Burning Mill begins this trend. Amos Bracken and Lord Samwell Blackwood are both killed, and grievous losses are suffered by both sides; Raylon Rivers, Amos Bracken’s bastard half-brother, leads the remnants of the Bracken host back to Stone Hedge. While the Brackens’ forces were fighting at the Burning Mill, forces from House Darry, Piper, Roote and Frey captured Stone Hedge with the aid of Daemon and Caraxes, and Rivers is forced to surrender to spare the lives of Humfrey Bracken and his family. 

Thus ended the first campaign of the Dance in the Riverlands, as we are told that Aegon’s supporters there followed suit with the Brackens and surrendered. We have little to work with in the way of tactical analysis, but the brief account we’re given raises serious questions. We know that House Vance of Atranta also supported Aegon, and that House Vance and Bracken controlled more land and could raise larger armies than House Tully. Even if that army was divided between Atranta and Wayfarer’s Rest in the case of the Vances, such forces should still have required time and effort to subdue. George has yet to show us where Atranta and Stone Hedge are located on in-world maps, but Atlas of Ice and Fire’s locations for them seems reasonable; despite their forces a likely close proximity, both houses are subdued without much effort and never again take up arms against the Blacks. Daemon makes effective use of Caraxes in forcing the surrender of Stone Hedge, but we only hear of Daeron utilizing his dragon in this way during the rest of the Dance, once again demonstrating the sub-optimal use of dragons by both factions. 

The involvement of House Frey in the capture of Stone Hedge is by far the most questionable inclusion by George; we have no estimates for the forces available to the Darrys, Rootes or Pipers, but we do know that House Frey has the same advantages over the Tullys as Vance and Bracken. It’s more than likely that they would have been the largest component of Daemon’s forces at Stone Hedge, which begs the question as to how they managed to get there at all. A little over half a month passes between Rhaenyra’s coronation and the outbreak of hostilities, almost the exact amount of time it would take to travel from King’s Landing to Harrenhal, while House Frey’s seat at The Twins would take twice that time to reach. The Freys would need time to muster their forces and even if they conducted a forced march to Harrenhal, they would still then have to march the length of the Trident to reach Stone Hedge and would have to fight if need be. This is where George’s inconsistency with the weather is especially telling, as inclement weather would endanger the harvest and thus delay any muster by the Riverlords; we are also told later that rain and mud delayed Aemond and Criston Cole’s march on Harrenhal, with Aemond and the bulk of the army arriving there 20 days after setting out from King’s Landing. 

The rivers offer an easy solution to this problem, though introducing river travel to the narrative of the Dance creates further problems as well shall see later. Maester Yandel’s Riverlands chapter in TWOIAF stresses the importance of the Trident and it’s tributaries; mile-long lines of poleboats are “not unknown” on the rivers, while the use of the Trident and it’s tributaries by the Ironborn longboats was crucial to the founding of the Kingdom of House Hoare. Traveling on the Green Fork means the Frey forces would only have to cross the Trident and make a short march to Harrenhal, making this the most likely outcome. The rivers are a solution to this issue but introducing them in such a way requires the narrative to be consistent in the role they play from this point on, which proves not to be the case.

This brings us to the final major campaign of 129 AC, Rook’s Rest; the goal of this campaign was to force the submission of Rhaenyra’s supporters on the mainland of the Crownlands. The impetus for the campaign came from a list assembled by Larys Strong of all of Rhaenyra’s Crowndlands supporters, which likely included Rosby, Stokeworth, Darklyn, Staunton, Crabb, Brune, Celtigar and Hayford. Lords Hayford and Harte were executed after refusing to renounce their support for Rhaenyra, but Harte is never mentioned again in the narrative, while only Rosby, Stokeworth, Darklyn and Staunton are attacked by Criston Cole. With 100 knights, 500 men-at-arms and 1800 Swellswords under his command, Criston Cole marched on Rosby and Stokeworth first, whose lords had sworn new oaths of allegiance to Aegon and so added their forces to Cole’s. Duskendale, the seat of House Darklyn, is taken by surprise and sacked, with Lord Darklyn being beheaded and his forces joining up with Cole. As with Burning Mill, we have no idea what constitutes surprise, especially not in the case of a 3000+ strong host attacking a castle; most likely they attacked during the night, or were able to secure the gates and prevent them from being closed. The Battle of Rook’s Rest itself is dominated by the battle between Rhaenys and Aemond and Aegon II, and part three addresses my issues with the use of dragons during the campaign. 

From a strategic perspective, the Greens and the Blacks had essentially traded blows with the Stone Hedge and Rook’s Rest campaigns, although the end of 129 AC found Rhaenyra in a far stronger position than Aegon II. While Daemon had succeeded in securing the Riverlands and stamping out any of Aegon’s support there, Criston Cole had robbed the Blacks of many of their loyal houses in the Crownlands. Nonetheless, Rook’s Rest was a pyrrhic victory for the Greens owing to the injuries suffered by Aegon II and Sunfyre; while Rhaenyra continued to be cut-off from her allies on the mainland, Daemon’s actions in the Riverlands combined with the support of the North, Vale and northern Reach also cut off Aegon his allies in the Westerlands and Oldtown. The stage was set for a rapid escalation of the war in 130 AC, which would bring the Blacks to the brink of victory.

[joanna-lannister]

💖 & 🎬!!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH ASHLEY 🥰❤️

💖 Which of your fics is your pride and joy?

Okay, "grieving for the living" is my pride. I don't think I'll ever top the writing I poured here, but "give you my wild, give you a child" is just my joy. I'm like giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair thinking about it (basically I love Jaime and Cersei at Winterfell with their baby on the way).

🎬One of your fics gets turned into a TV series. Which one is it and what network is it on?

"open your eyes"! I think it would be interesting to see it unfold before my eyes, like it could be a mini-series of 8 episodes with flashbacks of Cersei remembering her and Jaime's life. I would literally get to watch Cersei falling in love with Jaime again 😭 mingled with moment of domestic bliss with their babies. THE DREAM! (Also, I would get a say on Cersei's closet because Modern AU!) As for the network, I would go with HBO because of the smut lmao.

[mamagou1]

Something I think would have been funny and interesting was if Arya and Gendry got married ala Will and Elizabeth from the Pirates of the Caribbean Style. Like they’re fighting for there lives during the long night and just decide to fuck it, they don’t know if there is going to be a tomorrow, so they’re not going wait. Sandor or Beric having to marry them mid battle because they refuse to wait. Also I think this is what the show runners should have done with them. I’m pretty sure Gendry would have followed Arya to the west.

Another thing I like to imagine is Arya and Gendry owning a inn/blacksmiths shop together away from any towns or hold fasts. Them adopting kids rather than having them, and Arya accidentally making a mercenary group that likes to call themselves Arry’s Boys makes me happy. Arya being Sansa’s heir until she has children who’d rather live in the woods then in Winterfell makes me happy. Arya with a spy network makes me happy. Did this idea spawn from me wanting a Fic about Arya living her best life in Skyrim? Maybe. Do I love it non the less? Yes, yes I do.

[casimirtully]

A COURT OF ENDLESS RIVERS: A Masterlist of Wanted Connections for The Riverlands. 

all houses, characters, plots, etc. are open to change and discussion. we encourage diverse and unique cultures for this region, and this list will be updated periodically. 

The Riverlands is one of the most expansive regions of Westeros and is highlighted by its network of rivers, luscious plains, plentiful forests, and abundance of fertile soil. Though the origins of the region share ancestral roots with Brightwater Keep of The Reach, The Riverlands is widely known for its many intermingling cultures. Bordering every kingdom save for Dorne, it is known as The Heart of Westeros, and functions historically as both a crossroads for war as well as a point of immigration from regions in Westeros and abroad. The Riverlands is one of the more tolerant kingdoms of Westeros in regards to culture, religion, etc. 

The Riverlands’s current monarch is Casimir of House Tully, the First of His Name, King of the Riverlands, Lord Paramount of The Trident, and Warden of The Heart. He rules from his seat in Riverrun. 

HOUSE BLACKWOOD of RAVENTREE HALL

the lords and ladies of Raventree Hall are cousins to both the Tullys of Riverrun and the Starks of Winterfell, making them related to two royal houses directly by blood. the Blackwoods have high tensions with House Bracken, as both houses could have staked a claim to the Riverlands during the short unstable period after Grover Tully’s death when he legitimized Cian and Casimir left for Essos. (note: the current Stark’s mother was a Blackwood, as was the mother of Late King Grover Tully, the father of the current Tullys. they are first cousins to the Starks and second cousins to the Tullys.) 

OPEN Lord of House Blackwood, Hand of The King to Casimir Tully.

 Appointed to this position after the betrayal and debated murder/suicide of the former Hand of the King and eldest legitimate Tully child, Princess Emilee Tully. 

OPEN Lord(s) of House Blackwood 

OPEN Lady(s) of House Blackwood 

HOUSE MOOTON of MAIDENPOOL 

the current Mootons of Maidenpool are distantly related to the Tullys of Riverrun. Maidenpool was founded by an adventurer named Bharro Xhaar, and shares roots and culture with that of The Summer Isles. They have dealings in The Red District.  (note: the current Tully’s mother was a Mooton, though from a distant cadet branch.) 

Lord Jalabhar Qo (Qorban) Mooton, Master of Whispers 

Lord Qorban was warded often with the Tullys at Riverrun, and is one of King Casimir’s most trusted confidants.

OPEN Lady of House Mooton, 27, Second to Lord Qorban

OPEN Lady of House Mooton

OPEN Lady of House Mooton

OPEN Cousin of House Mooton, a smuggler of illicit goods

HOUSE FREY of THE TWINS 

the lords and ladies of House Frey are one of the most wealthy houses in The Riverlands, and notably better off than even House Tully. they deal primarily in illegal weapons trade in The Red District, as well as other business involving taxation and The Neck, and provided a large deal of coin and arms to the Tully Army during the Dance. it is rumored the Freys of The Twins blackmailed their way onto the Small Council. 

OPEN Ruling Lord Frey, Master of Coin 

The Master of Coin has historical tension with King Casimir Tully, having supported the claim of Late King Cian Tully, Casimir’s legitimized bastard brother. 

OPEN Lord(s) of House Frey 

OPEN Lady(s) of House Frey 

HOUSE MALLISTER of SEAGARD 

the lords and ladies of House Mallister practice The Old Way and have Rhoynish roots, similar to Houses Redwyne, Oakheart, and Rowan of The Reach, Houses Marbrand and Westerling of The Westerlands, and House Manderly of The North. the Mallisters control the largest naval force in The Riverlands, and deal in both shipwork and trade. The Mallisters via an incident with Lord Zakariya have tensions with Lys. (note: the Mallisters are cousins with the Marbrands of The Westerlands, as their mother was a Marbrand.)

Ruling Lord Zakariya Ibrahim Mallister, Master of Ships

Lady Emira Adja Mallister

OPEN Lord Mallister

OPEN Lady Mallister

HOUSE BRACKEN of STONE HEDGE

the lords and ladies of House Braken are a wealthy House of The Riverlands. They have high tensions with House Blackwood, as both houses could have staked a claim to the Riverlands during the short unstable period after Grover Tully’s death when he legitimized Cian and Casimir left for Essos. (note: the Brackens allegedly planned to have Late King Cian assassinated prior to his crowning so that they could take the throne, but there has yet to be proof.)

OPEN Ruling Lord of House Bracken, Master of Law

OPEN Lord(s) of House Bracken

OPEN Lady(s) of House Bracken

HOUSE VANCE of WAYFARER’S REST 

OPEN Ruling Lord Vance

Ser Altair Vance, Lord Commander Of The Kingsguard, Former Second Son

OPEN Lord Vance

OPEN Lady Vance

MISC

OPEN Ambassador of The Riverlands

OPEN Archmaester of The Riverlands

OPEN Second Sons, who traveled with Casimir from Essos under contract

OPEN Artisans, traders, smugglers, etc of The River Market

OPEN Knights of The Kingsguard

[kmhnsecretexchange]

All-Knowing and All-Agony

Title: All-Knowing and All-Agony

Author: @collegiate-trash (@ThatRandomFan)

For: isdisorigionale (Twitter)

Pairings/Characters: Komahina 

Rating/Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Prompt: dnd au– either they’re playing Dnd, or they’re dnd characters with a bit of self-awareness (to separate it from just a normal fantasy). they have to find Ms. Monomi’s lost hope fragments!!! to save the world!!

Author’s notes: If it feels like a fever dream, then it probably is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Life in Jabberwock is as peaceful as it can be. Blue skies, blue water, blue blood spewing out of the monster’s severed neck—

“Komaeda, do something!" 

Ah, yes.  Nothing can be much better than this!

…Except maybe not getting shoved around by his partner. It will certainly make the entire thing much better.

"What was that for? You know I bruise easily, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda Nagito huffs as he turns away from the dying monster before them. “You could have just called me.”

He can tell he hit a nerve when he spots red slowly taking over his companion’s face. So cute! 

“I did call you multiple times, you asshole!” Hinata Hajime rages, pointing at the slowly disappearing carcass of their most recent hunt. “You could have helped deal with that, but you’re all the way here looking pretty!”

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” The prince bats his eyelashes, prompting rage to take over the protagonist as he stomps back to deal with the mess they made.

He has only known the winter prince for a few weeks, but he is more than ready to throw him back into the castle he picked him up in. Honestly. His company isn’t bad half the time, but sometimes… Hinata can’t help but sigh as memories visit him while he collects their loot.

Meeting Komaeda had been a happenstance, as most of his adventures are. He heard people talking about the gates of Winterfell opening up for its decennial ball. It piqued his curiosity, sure, but more so because of the possible networking he could do while having fun. How is he supposed to know that attending means solving a curse surrounding the entire castle and saving the prince trapped inside of it all? 

He doesn’t even know what prompted him to go through all of those trials just to save Komaeda too. Sure, it feels bad to know that someone is already doomed to die, but—

“What are you doing?”

“Gah…!”

 All he hears is laughter as Hinata tries his best to calm his heart after the scare. It’s beating fast due to shock— not because Komaeda looks good from this angle. The sun makes his hair glow like a halo, but that impish smile on his face ruins the immersion of seeing an angel. “S-stop doing that! God, you’ll be the death of me.”

He knows he made a mistake the moment the prince steps closer to him, leaning down to prove just how much better he is than Hinata. “Oh, really? Why is your face all red then?”

 "Fuck off,“ he grunts, pushing himself up while pushing a few monokuma coins into his royal princely chest. "Next time, you’re on damage dealer duties.”

Komaeda simply hums as he counts his reward. “Are you sure that’s wise? You know I’m just a fragile little waif who can barely lift a weapon.” He even finishes his statement with a convincing frown. Too bad Hinata is busy holding back his laughter at that blatant lie.

The prince may look like a porcelain doll, but he certainly isn’t one. Hinata underestimated him once, and that nearly cost him his life. He won’t be doing that again anytime soon. No, thank you. What Komaeda lacks in raw strength, he makes up for with his tremendous mana and crazy analytical skills. It doesn’t help that their fight happened within Winterfell Castle—the prince’s cage for nearly half of his life. He has home-field advantage, and he really used it to his own benefit. Truly, if he wasn’t fighting for his life then, he would have been swooning at the sheer power oozing from him.

Which is ironic given how childish Komaeda looks now with that pout on his face.

“Right. Whatever you say, Your Highness,” Hinata snorts as he ruffles Komaeda’s fluffy white hair, much to his chagrin.

Still, perhaps it is a testament to their bond that the prince no longer shies away from his touch. He used to be so touch-averse when they started traveling together, until Hinata nearly fell down a ravine. Needless to say, the experience brought them closer together. Komaeda said it made them even after that Winter Ball fiasco, but Hinata can tell that something changed in the prince the moment he pulled him into his arms and out of harm’s way.

 If he ends up staring as the prince puts his hair back to its prior disorganized mess, well. No one is watching them right now. Hinata can remain purposely oblivious to how domestic that little gesture was. And while Komaeda is busy with that, he takes out their quest list to cross out the recently deceased monster’s name. “This guardian makes us what? Three fragments out of five?”

“Out of six,” the prince cheerily pipes up once he is satisfied with how he looks. “Three more, and we should be able to summon Monomi for your wish!”

 Hinata nods. Personally, he didn’t really think the legend of Monomi was real until Komaeda told him about it. It was so dumb, but the prince has a silver tongue. Hinata won’t be surprised if he tells him the most ludicrous lie in existence, and he will still believe him. Maybe that’s the reason he is off adventuring the world right now, chasing after a mythical beast that can fulfill your heart’s desire.

Ugh, it’s so cheesy, but fuck it. Komaeda looked so enthralled while telling him about the legend. How was he supposed to say no to that face? To be blunt, the only reason he hasn’t walked away now and left the prince to chase off his fantasy of meeting Monomi is Komaeda’s starry gaze. It looms over him, luring him in every single time he tries to turn away. How could he say no to that?

“Careful now. Don’t hurt yourself by thinking too much,” a teasing voice says against his ear. It completely breaks him out of his thoughts and earns the culprit a crude gesture as he stomps off ahead. “Ahaha, Hinata-kun is always so fun to tease…”

Komaeda watches him go with a fond smile. The situation may be different now, but Hajime remains as he is, doesn’t he? The thought comes unbidden and slowly sours his mood. It’s funny how quickly things turn bittersweet at a moment’s notice. Then again, he supposes it is up to him to remember where Hinata cannot.

He just hopes it won’t take too long now.

As fun as it is to roam around this made-up world as adventurers, he would really like to go back and be with his husband now. Well, that is not entirely true. He would have enjoyed exploring this world if the circumstances had been different. He doubts Hajime would approve of it, given how workaholic he became after the simulation, but…

  “Nagito-san please hurry! Hajime is…!”

  Life in Jabberwock is as peaceful as it can be. Blue skies, blue water, blue paint that he drops as soon as he hears that call—

Running has never been something he has enjoyed. In fact, he hates it with his entire being, just like every other form of physical exercise. Hajime tried to instill in him why it was a good idea for him to run, but he was just not having it. Honestly. He really regrets that decision now. Maybe if he listened to him, he wouldn’t be panting this much. Maybe if he listened then, he would be faster. And if he had been faster, then maybe things would have been different.

Except it never was. 

No matter how many times he runs the events through his mind…

“H-Hajime is in stable condition,”

“B-but, it’s unclear w-when or, or, if, Hajime will wake up." 

 "The s-scans show little, little to no activity in the brain, I’m s-sorry, Nagito-san!”

…the ending remains the same as it was when it first occurred. 

   Life in Jabberwock is as peaceful as it can be. Except it’s not anymore. The blue skies are gone, and the blue waters are tainted. The only thing left of him now are the blue tears he sheds beside his sleeping husband. Mikan may have found the cause of his comatose state, but what good will that do when he remains asleep like this. 

Days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months. All Nagito can do is wait for a miracle to occur. 

And if that miracle comes in the form of an endless dream… 

The prince laughs as Hinata huffs at his late arrival. “Ah, sorry… Were you waiting long?" 

"Does it really matter to you if I was?” The protagonist kicks a pebble as he answers before turning away. “Knowing you, you’ll just take your time even more to spite me." 

"Such low opinions of me, Hinata-kun… I couldn’t possibly spite you,” he scoffs, placing a hand on his chest as if promising solemnly. Too bad his companion isn’t having it with how he snorts at his display. Komaeda expects him to ditch him again, like earlier. Imagine his surprise when Hinata takes his hand and drags him along. 

Really, he looks so dashing with the sun shining on him. If he can keep this image alive for a while longer, can he bring it back home? Nagito isn’t so sure about that, but listening to him berate him like this…

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m only doing this because you’ll just end up in a daze again if I leave. Then, who fucking knows when we’ll get to the next guardian!"  

…Maybe it isn’t so bad to enjoy what precious moments they have left before the inevitable end. 

— 

  "What other choice do we have? It’s either this or lose him forever, Nagito-san…”

Life in Jabberwock is as peaceful as it can be. Blue skies, blue water, blue code blinding him as they seal him away—

Things were never supposed to be like this. Hajime’s little adventure game was only supposed to be used for leisure and relaxation. It was never meant to be used as another cartridge for the Neo World Program. He made it with love and with the hope that it would keep everyone together. How were they all to know that it would be used to bring him back the way he did with them? 

“Remember, Nagito-san..”

“Six fragments… for six memories…” he mumbles like a matra. His memory may be fickle, but he swears to remember this until he dies. “Six fragments… for six memories…" 

It was nothing more than a theory, but it was the best they had. When every avenue had already been explored to no avail, they had no choice but to cling to the small glimpse of hope in this risky venture. He has to get Hajime back. 

And if that means being transported to a game his husband created out of love…

"Upload successful!" 

"We just have to wait now, right?”

“Don’t lower your guards. We have to monitor them for the entire duration of the procedure.”

“Aye, aye captain! Ibuki is all set to stand guard 24/7!”

“They will be fine, r-right? …W-we checked everything but, um…”

“Nagito-san, Hajime-san… please come back soon…!”

…would it really be so bad?