#wolf and raven dreaming

[eiuuei]

‘Blue Lily, Lily Blue’ an animation.

[wolf-and-raven-dreaming]

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[dragonnan]

Surprise gifting for @wolf-and-raven-dreaming

Been starting to get into animating and this is the second one I attempted. :)

[felassan]

this post is under a cut in case anyone would consider it to be DA:D spoilers, as the things it mentions came from the leak a year ago (spoiler warning for link) that included screenshots and a gif of the game. (the things this post mentions are therefore not new information and this does not reference a new leak)

I'm just thinking again about Rook (which seems to be the PC's name or title) and the imagery conjured by the name. ◕‿◕ this post is just speculation and overanalyzing for fun. also this post is a now-finished draft from my draft section from a while back.

I think it would work as a surname (like "Hawke") or a codename (think Leliana's spies and contacts such as "Butler", "Farrier", "Butcher", "Charter", etc although these are all professions that end in "-er" or "or" iirc). it could also be a title (like Warden, Hero, Champion, Inquisitor, Herald) or a nickname - like maybe it's short for "Rookie", it's a Varric-assigned nickname and it references how the DA:D PC is the newest member of the team after he recruits them?

I think it sounds catchy, and cool - it's snappy and short, Hawke-like in this way. and it sounds like the kind of name a spy or secret agent might have in a fantasy, superhero or sci-fi-type setting.

a rook is a black bird, Corvus frugilegus, a member of the corvid family. rooks have been perceived as vermin and nuisances by people in the past, and persecuted due to this. they bear a resemblance to their crow and raven relatives, both birds which have a large cultural footprint and lots of symbolism in areas such as folklore and art. Hawke obviously also had a bird motif going on from their surname and associated art pieces. corvids also bring to mind the Antivan Crows (assassins, thieves, & spies), reminding of the stuff about how in this game the PC may be trying to operate under the radar, and the reporting on a previous iteration of DA:D which had the game concept as being focused on spies and heists. rook plumage is inky black, bringing to mind darkness and shadow.

from the bird angle, a "rook" sounds neat opposite a "wolf" imo. wolves are obviously another animal that have large footprints in culture, myth and folklore. in the natural world there is symbiosis sometimes between wolves and corvids when hunting/feeding. there are lots of photos of wolves and corvids together.

a colony of rooks is called a rookery. of course, the fortress of Skyhold has a rookery. it's from there that Inquisition Spymaster Leliana operates (operated) sending her black birds on missions with letters and messages to her many agents and spies throughout Thedas. what if Rook is one of Leliana's... "rooks"? a spy or agent of the remnants of the Inquisition.

A rook is also defined as "A cheat or swindler; someone who betrays" [noun], "mist, fog" [noun] and "to cheat or swindle" [verb]. it's also a type of trick-taking card game. these sorts of things bring to mind a rogueish, stealthy aspect, and the shady, shadowy dealings and card-game played in Minrathous Shadows.

a rook is also a chess piece. they're castle-like (since "rook" can also mean a castle or fortification) and usually have their top in the shape of a battlement. they can move in any direction along a rank or file on a chessboard on which they stand (horizontal/vertical, not diagonal). they can also do the "castling" move. in history, rooks have also been called towers, castles, rectors and marquesses. in chess, each player starts the game with two rooks at opposite ends of the first rank. chess itself is a game of strategy and tactics. "the chessmaster" as a trope is a character type who manipulates events, tugging on strings and moving 'pieces' into place on a metaphorical chessboard. [Solas' DA:I dialogue about his past, like the one he has with Sera about cells of spies/agents, hark to this]

in the castling move,

"Castling is a move in chess. It consists of moving the king two squares toward a rook on the same rank and then moving the rook to the square that the king passed over. Castling is permitted only if neither the king nor the rook has previously moved; the squares between the king and the rook are vacant; and the king does not leave, cross over, or finish on a square attacked by an enemy piece. Castling is the only move in chess in which two pieces are moved at once."

castling rules often cause confusion, even occasionally among high-level players. historically the move has its roots in the "king's leap", of which there were two forms and which arose in part it seems due to increasing importance of king safety as other pieces were given increased powers through time as the game developed. "the king would move once like a knight, or the king would move two squares on its first move. The knight move might be used early in the game to get the king to safety or later in the game to escape a threat." basically it moves the king away to safety and the rook to a more active position. there is also kingside castling and queenside castling. I wonder, symbolically.. is Rook more the king's rook, or the queen's rook? (reminds me of the Left Hand and Right Hands of the Divine hh). who or what is the king in this hypothetical analogy? the World of Thedas itself? as a castle or fortress.. Rook is the bulwark against what's to come? [over-thinking ik ik, tis just for fun hh].

by now we're all familiar with the chess game Solas plays in banter dialogue with Iron Bull during DA:I. in the in-world chess game, rooks are called towers. Solas moves his right-hand tower once. at a later point in the game, Iron Bull's "Arishok" piece takes Solas' left-hand tower, getting a check and leaving him feeling triumphant. Bull asks Solas wth he is doing as Bull takes Solas' remaining tower. "Your last tower, by the way". Bull, a spy and liar himself, bears down on Solas' pieces "with his full army", thinking a win is in sight. Undeterred, Solas executes a few moves in a sneaky plan and entraps Bull in a checkmate, winning the game after sacrificing various pieces to enact his plan.

rook also brings to mind the Tower tarot card and its meanings. it's associated with sudden, disruptive revelation and potentially destructive change. it connotes danger, crisis, sudden change, destruction, higher learning, and liberation, as well as adversity, calamity, deception, ruin and unforeseen catastrophe. reversed, it connotes things such as negligence, carelessness, apathy and vanity (vanity.. pride). in this depiction of the Tower tarot, lightning strikes from the sky, striking a crown (hubris) off the top of a tower and setting it alight as people fall from the tower to their doom. this imagery and the upright meanings of the card bring to mind the sudden massive change Solas seeks to bring about (destroying the Veil), the revelations and liberation for some that it might bring, his identity as Fen'Harel Lord of Tricksters (deception) as well as the destruction he seems to think the Veil destroying action will cause ("as the world burns in the raw chaos"...). the 'Tower scene' has also already played out once before in Thedosian history, when Solas created the Veil and sealed the Evanuris away, leading to the fall of Arlathan and its wonders. in modern Thedas, Morrigan and Flemeth (as well as possibly some side 'prophecy' type things) both allude to a big change coming to the world.

in DA:I, the Tower tarot card is ofc none other than Solas' ending card, if he is not romanced. in the DA:I version of the card, we see Solas, cloaked in a dark robe and holding a mage staff under a half-moon or eclipse. darkness seeps from his shadow, stark against the orange sky, and blends with the giant black Dread Wolf, looming ominously and open-mouthed above him with its many eyes. (the Tower tarot card Solas scene is later referenced in DA:D promotional art and DA:D-era in-world murals). it makes sense to have assigned this to Solas given the above discussed meanings of the Tower tarot card, but it's a verrry inchresting choice imo to then give "Rook" as a name/title for the DA:D PC.

and most inchrestingly, there's the symbol from the front of Mark Darrah's mysterious Red Book. this mysterious red book shows "a flaming rook" on the cover. the book was an internal guide for developer and publisher eyes only that summarized the vision for DA:D, in its Joplin iteration. we know that the Joplin project has since been revised to an extent that it was the newly codenamed Morrison instead, but the red book is known to still contain plenty of ideas likely to appear in DA:D. most pages of the book remain highly classified. it's the symbol on the front that's of most interest to us though for the purposes of this post. there is a castle, tower, or rook, like a fortress or the chess piece. above the tower, a fire burns, reminding us of the burning tower from the Tower tarot card imagery and what that symbolizes, as well as Solas' "world burning in the raw chaos" line from Trespasser. inside the fire is a wolf, the Dread Wolf, in a now very-familiar and repeated motif in DA:D art, merch, murals, teasers etc. whatever else "rook" may connote, it feels like it's not an accident at all that the PC's name is apparently "Rook", given this depiction of a fiery rook and the Dread Wolf together.

what do you think? ^^

[sarahreesbrennan]

sorry if you have already answered this, but are we getting any queer rep in Long Live Evil? 💕 i am super excited to see what you've cooked up for us either way!

I came back after I'd gone off on one, seeing the post had struck a chord and being thankful but fearful of my inbox. Let me say with delighted surprise that all the asks are very kind.

Thank you for this one, sweet anon. I am so excited and so nervous about my best beloved, Long Live Evil, and about coming back with a new book of my own after so long, when I believed for a long time it was hopeless.

I'm really grateful to find readers waiting for me. But I know readers are naturally more invested in characters they know: I extremely appreciate you taking an interest in the future.

So, short answer: YEAH you are!

Long answer: Long Live Evil wouldn't exist without its queer narratives.

C.S. Pacat and I were talking in our virtual Brookline Booksmith event recently about our favourite Disney villains. C.S. Pacat picked Maleficent, a fine choice. I picked Snow White's Evil Queen. We agreed we loved most of them.

Here's the relevant excerpt I was quoting in my last post from Carmen Maria Machado's In The Dream House, saying 'I think a lot about queer villains, the problem and pleasure and audacity of them.' Well... me too.

I think many of us have experienced feeling made wrong in some way - for not wanting what society said we should or being what we were expected to be - and that one step along that journey of discovery is going 'Okay, if it's wicked, I'll just BE wicked.' And that's part of why those characters appeal - because they seem free, and free of pain.

But modern storytelling isn't confined to coding, and audiences can now feel free to expect, not the certainty, but the possibility characters who aren't introduced as such still might actually turn out to be LGBT+. The essays I've read about Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Sherlock, Ted Lasso, Fox 9-1-1... I think the latest argued Jaime Lannister was bisexual. (Pretty persuasive.)

I remember reading the Raven Cycle going 'oh? OH.' I remember being at a writing retreat in 2013 and running through the halls screaming about Nico diAngelo. Ten years later we got a Nico diAngelo book co-written by Rick Riordan and the amazing Mark Oshiro. I watched Red, White and Royal Blue with a friend and she said 'honestly I hope the guys get together, but...' and I (having read the book) silenced myself with a herculean effort and watched her hopes come true. I didn't know about The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and almost dropped the book in a swimming pool. But I've also read and watched many things thinking, just maybe... oh, no. Still that hope existing is meaningful, the thought that if the story had gone differently, if this revelation had happened, if this realisation had happened, if, if, if...

Long Live Evil is a story about the story going differently and asking yourself questions about your own nature, and the escape to fiction of those who really need escape. The book is based on that 'if,' and the 'if' itself is joyous, and brings me back to the idea of gleefully transgressing the narrative that much villain love is based on.

It's also an ensemble story with a rogue's gallery of characters and multiple PoVs. (I was much inspired by the Six of Crows ensemble.) So it isn't about any one character's romance, and by the book's nature there exist many possibilities. A critique partner read and said 'I didn't know you were going THERE' and I responded 'Should I?'

I've never been one to confirm where stories are going, and I won't do so now. I'm not talking about any one character or telling you a direction.

I'm just saying yes to rep. It's baked in.

[lattes-and-kpop]

✨Manifesting a new season of Finding SKZ in 2025✨

[lulivalu]

worst time to make a limbus oc but i made one

[daemonsblackbird]

I like playing what if…

what if it all worked out

[papillondusublime]

Or se baigner au fleuve irradié d’un astre! C’est le mien – je le veux striant les âges pâles, A lui, le fier courant vers la cité qu’encastre Un rempart bruissant d’allégresses florales. Garde à la tour sonnante, archer, darde tes flèches : Ma meute, en abois rouges, s’agriffe aux créneaux – Mais fuis plutôt : déjà, mes hautes flammes lèchent Ton mur veule où tournoie un vol fou de corbeaux. Cependant que, très doux, – aux musiques des palmes! – Amoureux seulement de la tulipe noire, J’arrose le jardin de mes floraisons calmes Et le mire en un flot d’or où voltent des moires. Qu’il combatte bien loin mon bon fleuve de guerre : J’évoque mon ciel tendre en triomphes d’étoiles… Pour capturer le rêve frêle d’éphémères, L’araignée incomprise a tendu là ses toiles. -"Frontispice", Adolphe Retté

[knightoflove]

Ignore that I’m sending in asks for every game I love you and hope you feel better<333. Bastardcore for the aesthetics game :3

I actually really appreciate it, thank you for sending them in. I’m feeling a lot better now that some time has passed and I’m thoroughly distracted.

🖕Bastardcore🖕 ~ Are there any “flaws” of your F/O that you find endearing?

Unfortunately it’s the emotional repression, or the attempts at it. Otherwise I wouldn’t date three emotionally unavailable men, now would I?

No, but in more serious answer characters that would be considered more uh… “aloof” or even perhaps “cold” are so good to me. Especially when thinking about the logistics of hanging out. As much as I still adore characters like Jaskier or Peter or Adrian, they ARE going to want to fill in the silence and I’m AWFUL at small talk (though Jaskier probably has a lot of experience filling the silence on his own)

Which is why characters like Morpheus and Geralt are so appealing to me! We can just sit in silence and both be perfectly content. Parallel play and all that.

While Geralt is prepping his sword for the next monster or Morpheus is reading his books we can both be totally content in just leaving it at that. No need for awkward conversation.

[novaursa]

Cregan Stark Masterlist

main list

- NSFW Alphabet - explicit 18+

- The Silent Game - When your family took the side of King Aegon II, the usurper, you felt the need to support the rightful Queen and your husband, the Warden of the North. No matter the cost. - mature 16+

- The Weight of Ice - You try to lift Cregan’s ancestral greatsword which he wields with ease. It doesn't go as planned. - mild 13+

- The Wall - Cregan takes you to see the Wall, and Silverwing comes with you. - mild 13+

- The Wolf's Desire - After the Dance, Cregan took position as the Hand of the King until the realm under your younger brother’s rule is stabilized. But Cregan's thoughts today are far from establishing order and justice to the capital. - explicit 18+

- Fox in Wolves Den - You were instructed by Larys Strong to spy the northerners, to thin their ranks. But today you faced the Warden of the North himself. - mature 16+

- Winterfell's Warmth - Cregan takes you to be his wife, a fire to his ice. And it's not long until smallfolk notice just how much Lord Stark is devoted to his Targaryen bride. - mature 16+

- Daisy - Heavy with your and Cregan’s first child, you get suspicious when your husband starts to sneak out to see Daisy. - mild 13+

- The Cold Embrace (1/2) - When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to the Warden of the North as an alliance offering, your world crashed. Because you knew one thing: dragons die in the North - and not even honorable Lord Stark could change that fact. - mature 16+

- The Cold Embrace (2/2) - As time passes, snow begins to melt. - explicit 18+

- Valyrian Bride - When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon. - mild 13+

- Valyrian Bride (Continuation) - mild 13+

- Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter) - mature 16+

- Valyrian Bride (dragon eggs) - Cregan was expecting a quiet day. But nothing is ever truly quiet with his dragon-blooded children. - mild 13+

- Valyrian Bride (dragon's bath) - You invite Cregan to join you in a warm bath. - mature 16+

- Valyrian Bride (nameday) - Cregan notices his wife and children doing strange (well, stranger than usual) things for him throughout the day. - mild 13+

- Winter's Solace - Specters of the past came back today once more to hunt you, but Cregan holds them back. - mature 16+

- The Cycle - Cregan leaves with his duty to the Wall and you are left alone with a choice Larys Strong brings. - explicit 18+

- The Cycle (one for the price of two) - alternative scenario - Explicit 18+

- The Cycle (justice) - Cregan delivers justice for your son and Grey Ghost. - explicit 18+

- The Frozen Throne - You and Cregan win the Dance. - mature 16+

- The Gullet's Price - The day you received the news about the death of your brother, another life was lost. - explicit 18+

- Dreams of Fire - You brought gentleness to the harshness of the North, and Cregan finds himself warmed by your presence. - explicit 18+

- The North's Fiercest Catch - You challenge Cregan to hunt down a dragon. - mature 16+

- Fire meets Ice - A short story about how you challenged Cregan to bring more fire into your bedchamber. - mature 16+

- Winter's Eve - A short story for Christmas Eve. - mild 13+

Works (velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark) below are listed in chronological order:

- The Dragon and The Wolf - Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You. - mature 16+

- A Union of Ice and Fire - After your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, approves of the marriage between you and Cregan Stark, you marry under watchful eyes of gods of old. And one week later, a raven arrives carrying dark news. - explicit 18+

- The North Remembers - You return to Dragonstone, where you mourn with your family as you receive the message from Cregan. - explicit 18+

- The Heir of Ice and Ash - A little less than a year into your marriage with Cregan, you give birth to your first child. - mature 16+

- Fires That Never Freeze - You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins. - explicit 18+

- The Wolf's Flame - When you take your son flying, Cregan keeps fires warm for your return. - mature 16+

- Hour of the Wolf - Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South. - mature 16+

[wolf-and-raven-dreaming]

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[dragonnan]

Whispers in Blood for @wolf-and-raven-dreaming

View on AO3

Dream has been rescued. However, the trauma of his imprisonment, torture, and assault remain ever present.

Warnings: Implied rape/non-con, blood and injury, PTSD trauma, depictions of violence

Full image under the cut.

[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

Masterlist

Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn)

Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Pre Series Content and Extras:

Scattered Memories of the Starks

Shadows of their Hatred

The Quiet Wolf's Reminisce

The Stag and The Young Wolf

The Lost Chapters of Jon Snow

A New Life's Darkened Lust

Interlude of Jealous Desires

The Trials of Resurrection

The Injured and the Perverse

NSFW Alphabet (contains spoilers for part 3 and 4)

Woes of a Modern Day Love (a modern!au)

Fresh Heals of Old Pain (a modern!au part 2)

The Aftermath of Envy (a modern!au part 3)

Stoking the Flames (a modern!au part 4)

Then Came the Explosion (a modern!au part 5)

A Family Conflicted (a modern!au part 6)

A Jealousy of Infighting (a modern!au part 7)

A Small Bundles Flash Forward (a modern!au part 6.5)

A Snowy Wolf Pup (a modern!au holiday drabble)

Part 1:

Wolves of the Lone Stag

Mouth of the Lion's Den

An Intrigue Drenched in Blood

Standing Behind a Betrayal

A War of Tragic Beginning

Part 2:

King and Queen in the North

Shadow of a Fiery Stag

Reunion of New Enemies

Pleasure of Conflicted Desire

The Sanctity of Children

What Lies Beyond The Veil

Part 3:

The Cost of Our Sins

Dragged Through the Violence

Only the Cold

Fire for the King's Blood

Part 4:

Ashes of Various Grey

Plans of Pain and Horror

Afraid of a Ravens Flight

Trust in the Gentle Rasps

Visions in Eyes and Flames

A Bastard or The White Wolf

Part 5:

Home of Bloodsoaked Stone

Blazing Fire of Storming Ice

Ghostly Dreams of Old

Sailing Through the Glow

The Last Dragon

The Winter Rose

Part 6:

The Clash of Three Kings

Shrouded Truth in Sickness

Winged Shadow in the Sky

Light in the Darkest Storms

Peeking the Realms Woes

Blood, Roses and All Lies

Broken Love of the Dead

The Souls Tethered in Death

Wolves of the Past and Back

The Crows and The Sight

Part 7:

A Brewing of New Mystery

Great Wolves of White Mists

Darkness Heavy in a World

Past Becomes the Present

The Thing in the Night

Waving Tides of Turmoil

Greenish White Boodraven

Dark Blood of Blinding Light

And Wait for the Snows

Part 8:

Into the Haunted Forest

Fist of the First Men

Through the Frost Fangs

News From the South

Lies Within the Sunlight

Night of Two Distances

Screams of Cracking Ice

The Final Marching Trek

Fear Overtakes a Night

Wolves Teeth and Claws

Part 9:

Forcing Past Our Safety

One Whirlwind to the Next

Court of the North

Glimpse into the Rains

Scattered Pieces of Truth

Reunions and Realizations

Laws of Gods and Men

A Mockingbirds End

The Cold and the Rats

Blood Filled Danger

Memories of a Dead Past

The Winterfell Sept

[xoxo-surfergirl]

dawn of winter

aemond targaryen x fem!stark!reader

abstract: just moons ago, the realm was at peace and you were stealing kisses with aemond in the red keep. now, the dance of the dragons has begun, aemond has arrived at winterfell knowing your brother would bend to rhaenyra, and nothing feels certain. themes: winter vibes, lovers to enemies to lovers, light smut, romance, angst (because they enemies!), forbidden romance if you squint, hand stuff, you are lady stark, aemond goes for what he wants, the northman not being happy abt it

lucy's notes: ao3 link. just a little something for the new year :) the north is cold and that is my holiday connection 😤 (that's what i'm telling myself because I really wanted to write SOMETHING for this time of year but didn't fully know what). jacaerys did not leave for his mission quick enough and aemond beat him to winterfell 🫢 cregan still hates him tho. and since aemond didn't go to the stormlands lucerys lives too. this will probably be a one shot, though I started a short epilogue which might be posted. it's just an excuse for romance and vibes. i hope you enjoy this story! any interaction is deeply appreciated <3

word count: 7.2k

What little sun there was fettered a white glow in the ever-churning snowfall. The winds of winter had begun their journey south from beyond the wall just a few moons ago, but their strength had built furiously since then. The treetops hadn’t seen a pale morning’s dawn in over three moons, and the wolf’s choir had grown in numbers near Moat Cailin. The elders of Wintertown had spoken of a harsh winter then, noting the heavy fog in late summer, thicker tails on the burrow rats, and tougher skins on the onions. 

It had certainly come. The storm that had hung low over Winterfell, carrying all the way from Castle Cerwyn to Deepwood Motte, had settled thick winds and heavy snows on every stone, tree, and fort. And to mark the special occasion, the Great Hall of the castle would be set alight for winterfest. 

All families of bannermen were being called to share in the centuries honored tradition of hosting a great feast and celebration in honor of the coming snows. And, as happenstance may have it, there was urgency to discuss the matter of succession in the south. 

As if the usurpation of your Queen wasn’t enough, unexpected guests had descended upon Winterfell. One of which had bronze wings as wide as a small keep, and another bearing a halo of Targaryen silver hair. 

Upon your return home, you had dreamed of a moment like this: Vhagar bared in the snow, each frozen flake blistering against her scaled skin. A mountain of her own, even the closest ground to her steaming from her eternal heat. 

But things were not as they were those moons ago, hands and touch lingering under the beat of the southern sun. The water there had been warm enough to swim in, ankles brushing against the lapping tongues of the break and toes worming through the sand. There was no snow, and the realm was united. 

The men had armed themselves at the sight of her shadow, hands gripping their weapons tight. Movement in the castle was always a flurry of feet, but now all were either frozen or frenzied at the arrival. All the feelings of summer pooled in your belly, the taint of winter now upon them. Shouts of men filled the battlements, calling for the warden of the north to meet the crown prince of the realm, the unspoken part following in silence: brother to the usurper. Your belly sank, dragging your heart with it. 

Any pleasant thoughts of Aemond’s arrival had long faded the moment a raven had arrived from White Harbor. Things were different now. Vhagar’s proximity to the gates of the castle had to be an intentional act of dominance, her wings spread to their fullest length in a show of size and prowess. The thought certainly soured things more than they already were. 

Men in heavy blue wools and leathers ran past you, gathering at all posts. Servants gathered the young children and corralled them inside. Your feet caught on the ground, unsure whether you should run or join the entourage gathering to meet him. Watching from above, you could see the doormen heeding orders to open the gates to the castle, hesitation in their every crank of the pulley for what awaited them on the other side. As the gate lifted, so did what felt like your last defenses, no matter how meager they felt against a dragon. 

The Umbers and Flints flanked your brother on their exit from the Great Keep, and you knew you must act now. It calmed you to watch them: each northman walked with pride, furs sitting as a second skin against their long dark hair. It was a show of strength you needed, though you were sure you were not alone. 

Your boots clicked in a scurry down the steps of the battlements, pushing hurriedly past any servant or workman that stood in your way. Ultimately, you decided that if Aemond did have any care left for you, your presence might de-escalate any arising tension. By the time you had entered the courtyard, the east gate had opened and Aemond stood as one against many in greeting. 

A black fur sat wide on his shoulders, but the large cloak that fell beneath it hardly concealed the hilt of the swords he carried at each hip. He looked every bit as lethal as his dragon’s head rearing over the gates. Your heart ached against your rational judgement at the sight of him, and you slowed your movements. 

A figure made in the image of Gods, you were sure of it. Imagining his silver hair and sharpness in your mind’s eye did no service to the beacon of beauty he was in the flesh. For a moment, it was summer again, and your stomach bubbled in cheerful anticipation and not caution. 

Tentatively, you emerged from behind your brother’s side, snow crunching lightly beneath your boots. The moment he noticed you, the air turned warmer. 

“My Lady Stark,” he bowed to you, his eye fixed loyally to yours. 

It was beneath him to honor you with a bow. Your belly twinged at the thought of him being so brazen, and the eyes that gazed upon you with a new peculiar interest. 

The formalities felt foreign and out of place, but arising more suspicion with familiarities felt worse. “Prince Aemond, I welcome you to my home.” 

Before another word could be spoken, Cregan placed a firm hand on the back of your shoulder. “The prince is here to talk over some official matters. Come, let us get warm inside.” 

Introductions were passed away from you, Cregan continuing his tight lead on your shoulder. 

Northern furs suit him quite well, you thought.

—

The sun had long descended over the hills, the icy night’s breath beyond the wall welcoming anyone who stepped outside. The Great Hall was adorned in pine wreaths and winter berries, and cedar cones and noble fir dressing for the festivities. Candle holders layered upon another to flay light across the walls, the wax of days upon moons dripping down the sides of the holders like heavy icing on cakes. 

It felt like ages since all of the Stark bannermen had been together, and old friends across families traded stories and card games over spiced ale and honey mead. The raucous had already begun, the succession crisis and Aemond’s presence be damned. 

But you were less immune than the others to southron matters. If it was any other night, you would have abandoned your seat to join the Mormonts the moment dessert had been served. You had hardly flinched from your seat, Aemond sitting on the other side of Cregan. 

It wasn’t just you that struggled to enjoy the festivities. Rickon sat solemnly, and though you couldn’t see her, you could feel Alysanne’s itch from across the table. In your memory, there had not been a sup as tense as the one before you now. Not even during the most raucous moments of Bennard’s regency. 

From what you could see, Aemond sat chin up at your brother’s right hand in the Great Hall, daring to meet the eye of anyone who looked directly at him for too long. 

Did he remember? Joining in the merriment felt far as Aemond’s closeness held your mind and heart in the great bind that you had all fallen into at the defiance of Aegon’s coronation. Between the warmth of your southron days in a peaceful realm and the uncertain tidings of the inevitability of your families splitting across enemy lines, your stomach turned at the matters in Aemond’s head. 

Cregan stood, the jolly room following the attention of their liege loyally. “Prince Aemond Targaryen has graced us with his presence for our winter festivities.” 

“The honor is mine to be in the north at such an important time.” At his own recognition he stood, raising his cup. 

“Hear, hear!” Cregan cheered, the tension in his jaw visible to no one but you. Cups flew in celebration, horns clattering and ale spilling. With a signalling of his hand, the bards began fiddling with strings and bells. 

Dismissing himself from the table in what you knew was an act meant to soothe himself before he swung Ice at the nearest unlucky post, your brother stepped down to greet the Reeds. Mulled wine danced in your cup, the dark purple echoing cinnamon and anise. There was now nothing between you and Aemond besides the empty chair of the head of house Stark. The hearths were lit—the giant towering stone was hardly cold—but there was no stopping the twinge of a shiver. 

So many words had been shared before Aegon had stolen the crown, and you wondered if he remembered all of them. It had been moons since you had seen each other last, and there was no promise of what played in his intentions anymore. 

Your mouth was in front of your head. “These are curious times, but winter comes anyway. The one force we must all bow to.” 

“And you celebrate instead of damning it?” 

You had imagined begging the gods to bring you two together again. But winds can switch within weeks, days even. It was a child’s folly, or a wish upon a monkey’s paw—you couldn’t decide which. 

“Aye, we do. The longer nights, nature calls us to rest and gain our strength,” you paused.  “We could stare at it for the death it brings, but it’s more than that.”  

“Hmm,” his eye washed over the scene below: jubilant dancers shedding their furs, others shoving their faces with cranberry roast goose while the songs bounced in the high halls of the winter kings. There was a carefree nature of your fellow northmen that you had never seen in the south, and you wondered if the warmth built up more layers than it shed. 

“I know you southerners don’t understand our ways. I’m sure this is very new to you.” 

He turned, eye dancing over your face. “I find it interesting.” 

Dragons rarely came north. Aemond stood lone. 

Perhaps it was the merry presence of all those you loved dearly, or the choke of death you could sense from miles away, but the distance between you and Aemond felt treacherous. Or worse, traitorous. 

You met Aemond’s eye. For so long, he had been a figure in your mind, his presence almost a hypothetical. He existed in a warmer land, one where the sun and sea sparkled off of one another and the dirt sprouted grass and red brick rose the heights of the cliffs to the heavens. Crisis in the south were always so far away, great rivers and mountain passes requiring over a moon’s journey lying between. But he was here now: skin flickering in the flames burning not for light but for warmth as well, Targaryen silver hair feathered down his back like the hands of a ghost, scar dividing his face, as beautiful as the day you had first seen him. 

He studied you just the same. Between you, wintry tunes twiddled by the practiced fingers of the musicians sung of the kings of winter, slayers of skinchangers and defenders of what lies beyond the wall, the keepers of knowledge that southerners can not begin to grasp find their home here carried through your blood. 

This was your time to share those stories, celebrate the old kings and the promise of winter’s darkness with the singers and all of those that had gathered here for what is thoroughly a northerner’s celebration. Yet here you were at an invisible crossroads with the prince of the realm who would not stand to be denied in mind or matter. His royal blood continuously pulled at you to attend as if you were still in the Red Keep and not in your very own halls. 

A Targaryen or two had visited Winterfell once, though the last was under much less grievous circumstances. Alysanne’s was the last dragon to brave the frozen lands, her and Jaehaerys on a true diplomatic mission with no threat of doom hanging over their heads. 

You lot were wolves, fur thick and jaws tight, sturdy and hard enough to endure the ice—and yet dragons cowed the winter kings. Aemond’s presence was a cold reminder of that. Dragonfire had never teased Winterfell with ash, but the threat of it lingered now like a stubborn ember in the hearth ready to erupt if a nasty draught came through. 

Cregan settled back to the table, his face stern and carrying judgement. He took his seat between you once more, dissolving your attentions.

“My father swore an oath to Rhaenyra,” he began, unbreaking of his eye contact and at a level only detectable by those sitting closest to him. “A Stark never forgets an oath. I would have assumed our reputation would be well met.” 

“I understand this, Lord Stark.” Aemond began. There was no hesitation spared from the proud dragon prince. “I simply wanted to make our stances official in the name of the crown.” 

Apprehension and distrust hung in the low firelight. The bells beat on behind the attention of the table, singers caroling the haunt of winter between the silence of the prince and the lord. 

“Your dragon may be fierce, my prince, but we will not be intimidated.” At Cregan’s declaration, you could feel the ears of the northmen sitting the closest to your table perk up, straightening their backs and harden their own faces—an assertion of pride and a foregoing of the fear that painstakingly had etched itself in their movements at Vhagar’s every grumble. 

“I do not seek to intimidate you. Only to draw our lines.” Aemond sat back in his chair, eyeing you. 

“Very well then. Our lines are drawn.” Cregan’s brow tensed, and you knew he was biting down hard in restraint. 

The singers sang their songs of winter’s past, and the promise of an eventual spring. 

—

“He wants us to see that fire breathing monster—

“He’s come to sabotage our army, or count our numbers, or—” 

“Aye, I don’t trust him. There’s something not quite right, the Targaryen madness—” 

The hour was late. Spittle had spattered across the table, fists flying, heads nodding, voices climbing higher and higher to be heard. The bards had returned to Wintertown, and all the celebration left with them. The northmen were restless, and understandably so with bellies full of too much ale and a dubious dragon prince lurking in the halls.  All you lot had prayed the days of clandestine meetings were over once Cregan took the seat of Winterfell, but it had been too soon to hope. 

Volleys of theories here or there made their rounds back and forth from all ends of the table. A pack of barking dogs was no better than the fur cloaked rowdy men who were in the heat of spitting at each other now. Cregan’s fist slamming on the wood was enough to draw quiet. “Enough. I demand order to this conversation.” 

The hounds had been admonished, tails sinking between their legs at the scolding of their master. There was a moment of reprieve, where sensibility was able to override unordered chatter. 

Satisfied with the settlement, Cregan nodded. “Aye, let us speak about this reasonably.” 

It was most prudent to speak quietly anyways, considering the halls reeked of dragon. The candle marks were ever shrinking and your energy with it into what had to be the longest night you’d endured in ages. No amount of shouting could awaken you, though you prayed a reigned conversation would allow you to slip into your chambers faster. 

Until the words spilled from Wylis Manderly’s mouth and promptly stole not only any draft of sleep in your body, but the breath in your chest as well. 

“I know why he’s here,” Manderly started. “Her.” 

It wasn’t supposed to be an accusation, but it sure did feel like one, the way it made your chest nearly cave and your defenses rise. The finger he pointed at your forehead felt like an arrow finding its target: lethal and sure of itself. The rest of the eyes at the table followed suit, curious. 

“He’s here for her.” Manderly repeated, as if his pointing wasn’t enough. 

There were very few times that you had been the subject of a council meeting, and you preferred it that way. It was no fun to have yourself torn apart and examined, no matter the purpose. Your eyes found those of your brother’s reflexively, breath catching in your throat in disbelief. 

He returned it carefully. “Explain, Wylis.” 

“His eye finds ‘ers. I know the look. He fancies her.” Manderly cocked his head. “She spent more than a few sun’s turns in the South. ‘Twas not more than about seven moons do I remember you comin’ home. Enough time to court our fine lady of the north, don’t ya think?” 

The Lord of White Harbor might as well have stripped you bare, prying each layer of your dress with his claw-like hands to leave you exposed in view of the table. It wouldn’t feel any different.

“Is it true, sister?” 

Fingers danced across your flesh, platinum hair sliding through your fingers. His thick, masculine moan vibrated on your tongue as his hands tested the weight of the flesh of your hips through squeezes and shakes. It wasn’t a sennight before that when your own fingers twirled your bud and you discreetly thought of him, despite everything. 

“Prince Aemond and I were acquainted as friends. Nothing more.” 

There was hesitancy in the way the men looked at you now, men of your own blood and land. A separation only possible between those with a cock and those without: the innate distrust that comes with the potential of reaching across enemy lines for the sake of living in a singer's tale.  If you could sink down between the floorboards, you would have. 

Cregan furrowed his brows, eyes never leaving you. “To you, maybe. The prince may feel differently.” 

A bow of your head was all you knew to do. There was no need to deny anything further and spin a mummer’s tale. Lies never sat well in your stomach, to your brother no less. 

The lords were dismissed per the late hour and the dreadful sense that Manderly was right. The back of your chair scraped along with the others, but your leave was halted. 

“Not you, sister.” 

It felt like being a little girl again, and your shoulders tensed to be scolded. 

Voice small, you obliged. “Yes, brother.”

He walked towards you, placing his hands on your shoulders. Cregan’s grey stormed eyes passed through yours in a knowing, but you dared not say a word. Once the door had shut behind the very last man, he exhaled. 

“He’s a dangerous man.” You could see the other words on his tongue, but you never heard them.

“I know.”

He held you there for a moment, and you wondered if he would tell you what was on his mind, what exactly he believed, and you wondered how you would react if he did. All you needed to spill yourself was one more weak push. One more word and he would know how you knew Aemond cared for you, he had promised several moons ago that he would come see you. 

But he never asked, and the truth stayed buried in your throat. 

—

In the darkest cave of the night, silence was unyielding. Every wolf’s howl was clamped over the mouth by  snow, each sound buried alive in the cold white. It made each scurry of a mouse or crackle of a hearth in the castle stiffeningly louder. 

Including your footsteps, which you were carefully navigating for discretion all the way to Aemond’s chambers. There would be no sleeping without putting your own matters to rest.

Unthinking, you reached for the door handle and rattled against the lock that held it tight. Your urgency felt out of place in the quiet tranquility of the night. His footsteps within were hesitant and slow. When the door opened, Aemond stood dagger pointed. For a moment, you felt what it was like to be on the other end of his blade, neck laid for the slaughter and his own eye hardened at the intruder who dared seek him at this hour. 

At your wide eyes, he softened. 

“Lady Stark.”

You didn’t want to waste any time. “Why are you here?” 

“Hmm. I think you know why I’m here.” Aemond stalked closer. “I told you I’d come, little wolf.” 

“They know.” 

“Do they now?” a faint smirk played on his lips now. He stepped aside to welcome you in. “And what did they say about their fairest maiden and their newfound enemy?” 

You stepped inside, unable to meet him. “I did not tell them.” 

Aemond’s movements stopped. “Why not?” 

For all the time you knew him, Aemond was supposed to be smart. A learned man who you could count on not just for knowledge but strategy and cleverness. His stubbornness to see your reasoning surprised you.

“It’s too dangerous. We’re entering war times.” 

He scoffed. “If Winterfell wasn’t the safest place for you to be, I’d drag you on dragonback to King’s Landing. The second most safe place to be is by my side.” 

“My father swore an oath to Rhaenyra.”

Aemond hardened then, cocking his head. His silhouette reflected that of his warrior nature. 

“Are you sure you Starks are strong in your word?” His glare tore through you and you knew the memory he had held on so tightly to come all this way. So he did remember everything. 

“I never promised my hand.” The moment the words left your lips, you felt their harshness. Guilt crept in, sinking in your heart. 

Aemond exhaled sharply. “Did you have to? Was a pledge of your feelings not enough?” 

“Aemond,” you warned, a careful hush of urgency in your voice, “I can’t.” 

He burned. You could see it plain. “War is coming. You will stay here in Winterfell.” 

It wasn’t as if you wouldn’t—he had told you nothing you were not already beholden to. But you saw Cregan and the others, thick in furs and heavy swords strapped to their backs marching south. Every further thought sickened you: dragons overhead, iron-melting flames casting over them. 

There was a promise in his words, unspoken but just as present in the implication of safety. I will not bring war to Winterfell. 

“I don’t want this.” The words slipped mindlessly. It was helpless to speak aloud. Aemond knew it, as did you. 

He stalked towards you, face solemn yet set in the firmness of him. Gently, he took your hand in his, raising it to his lips. “I will come for you when the war is done.” 

“But my brothers—” 

“I don’t give a shit about your brothers.” 

“Aemond,” you scolded. 

“Do you not want this?” Aemond said in both query and anger, as if he could not fathom the idea of not being with him.

In truth, you couldn’t either. Memory melted in the sun, the cold that knocked on the gates of the castle chased away by the bright burn of a summer’s passion. Days watching the sweat on his brow as he swung his sword at Ser Cole, using the trivial training yard victories as reason to celebrate with your hands on his chest and his on your waist. Feasts spent sending cheeky looks to each other in a tease as he sat on the high table with the royal family, until he could come down and join the likes of you.

There was something precious between you, far beyond drunk desire in flesh. It made each kiss you shared all the sweeter. 

You enjoyed it, the way that at first, he pretended like he wasn’t desperate for your affections. It made things fun, because the truth rested in his eye the moment of your first meeting. Over time, the mask melted and the truth was in his words, actions—and nothing he felt for you wasn’t returned. 

At the time, your secret tongues and lips found themselves in the only shadow that you knew existed. but there were many more beyond your knowledge, whispering about what you had believed to be a decided matter of succession. 

Winter had come and things were so, painfully different now. 

“I want this, but I can’t.” Every bit of what you felt was evident in your voice. “How can you not see that?”

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“We are on opposite sides, Aemond.”  

He shrugged. “You’re a lady. It’s not like you’re going to fight.” 

“My brothers are. My men are. They will be on the battlefield, as will you.” 

He pursed his lips, looking away from you in resignation of the truth. “Let us hope that our paths do not cross.” 

The sink of your stomach was heavy enough that you took small steps backing away. The depths of the winter night whipped at your window. The wind sang a deathly tale, a warning to any who may try to brave it. Or maybe it was for you, the old gods finding a way to tell you that you were damned, as was he, as was whatever it was that lay between you both. Aemond stood, all of the fire in the hearth catching in his long starlight hair, the determination of the warrior he was—and would soon become—deep in his being. 

“Don’t look so afraid of me.” 

“Why shouldn’t I be? You’ll be commanding armies against mine. And you have a dragon.” 

He took careful steps towards you, reaching a tender hand towards your face. “I would never hurt you.” 

Words came to your tongue, but the feeling of his skin on your cheek dissolved any refute. He was even nearer now, the bend in your neck needed to find his eye. Aemond’s other hand found your bare cheek, and you stopped yourself from melting in the comfort of his gentle hold. 

“Let me just be Aemond, not a prince,” his thumb caressed the pillow of your cheek lightly. “Let yourself just be you, not Lady Stark. Just this once.” 

It was a nice thought: an escape from the lurking turmoil of metal on metal, metal on skin. The sword at his hip pressed into the side of your belly, the very thing that by winter’s end will have the blood of hundreds soaked through. Prince Aemond Targaryen, the deliverer of souls to their eternal sleep, whether it be damning them for choosing black or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dragonflame was like that, wild and uncontrolled.

And you, Lady Stark, sister to the keeper of the north who had chosen black, who must follow in the steps of your kin for the sake of upholding honor. Who will sit in the dead of the north by the weirwood each day and pray to the gods that her brother will return, that her burly friends will join her by the fire once more to shoot the shit, that no one will be so unlucky to be caught beneath the wings of the beast that lay outside the castle walls or under the blade of the man in front of her. 

No, you couldn’t be her. Not right now. Your lips parted in a pitiful protest—the very last you had in you, you knew—but his desperation silenced you. 

“Please,” he nearly panted. His lips came closer, breath hot on your lips. 

Was it honorable to feel the tongue of someone your family had sworn against? No, perhaps not. But—you reminded yourself, in a sorry attempt to make excuses—for now he was just Aemond. 

And ‘just’ Aemond had delightfully silky locks to lightly twist your fingers in as your kiss deepended. 

His doublet was thick and you wondered if he had it made for his visit. His visit to you. Running your hands along the sides of him, you felt the daggers at his hip, subtle but ready. Aemond was already feeling through your own dress, sifting through the layers to get to your skin. Each of you searching for one another’s flesh. 

The heel of your foot lifted out of your slipper with the help of your other toes. Aemond was reaching to unclasp the buckles of his doublet, the both of you doing your own part while keeping your mouths on each other in your climb to get close. 

Of all your frolicking, you had yet to see each other so bare. Your time in the Red Keep hadn’t allowed for many private moments. Kisses were frequently stolen between training sessions and feasts, but the risk of being found in Aemond’s chambers—or him in yours—could be far too incriminating for your reputation. The one or two moments where you did find yourself alone in his chambers solely to see a book or another in his favor, and you were never there over a candle mark. 

Winterfell was different from the Red Keep. There were far fewer vipers and spiders on the hunt. The hour was late, even later than any potential vipers may burden themselves to stay awake for.  If one happened to see you, they served wolves and not dragons anyway. It was freeing to have him like this, a moment you had been long waiting for. 

Aemond’s kiss was a seal of your condemnation, for from the first touch of your tongues those moons ago, you knew that at no point after tasting such a sweet nectar would you not seek it out over and over again. It was just as mind bending as it had been every other time: soft at first and leading into fullness. You had dreamed of his tongue on yours again, down your throat and lips on yours to consume you. He was hungry and you gladly fed the beast within him. The blood beneath his flesh burned hot, and the buds on your chest hardened at the feel of your bareness against his. 

Long platinum locks lightly brushed over your shoulders in a sensual dance. Your hands roamed his body in curiosity and a thirst for closeness. It was hardened and soft all at once, the shape of him only feeding the burn of your desire. 

It was difficult to admit to yourself how much you had needed this, having pushed it down when the sun set day after day and you struggled to remind yourself that Aemond was now a traitor to your queen and therefore your honor. His hands in your hair, feeling the dips and curves of your own body. Now, such things dissolved in the spit that passed from your lips to his, the animal of desire breaking through any code you clung to. 

Holding you by your hips, Aemond backed you against his bed. His hands urged your thighs upward so your back may rest on the bed, as if he was preparing you for himself. You followed his lead dutifully, each graze of his fingers along your bare legs sending your belly alight. 

Aemond leaned above you now, having joined you on the bed. “You’re all mine.” 

“Yours,” you replied, rejoining your fingers to lace in his locks, holding his face as if it were a holy grail.

His fingers trailed lower across your stomach, past the heat between your legs and the dip where your leg met your hip. At their slight movement, you could feel more wetness begin to drip out of you, the teasing motion of his hands feeling so close…yet so far. Wide palms and lithe fingers moved to caress the skin just deeper than the inside of your knee. Featherlight touches on your skin reached outward towards your 

Aemond moved patiently over your wetness with time to spare, despite your squirms and soft moans telling him that you were more than ready to feel the pads of his fingers. Soft kisses lined your cheek before dipping his lips and tongue into your mouth in deep union. His cock, covered by the cotton of his small clothes, sat heated and heavy on your leg. Every feel of him made you want him more. 

Breaking you free from your prison of desire, his fingers finally brushed over your center. They most delicately gathered the nectar at your lips, playing with it against the flower of your entrance. The simple movement, yet another tease of his touch, weakened you into a puddle beneath his hand. His thumb found your clit, beginning slow circles there. 

He was winding you up like a toy, playing you on his hand to make pretty noises. If he had asked you to do anything at that moment, you would have said yes. 

Aemond’s other had reached up to meet your bottom lip, letting the pad of his thumb rest there. With wide eyes you accepted it to sit on your tongue, drawing it softly into your mouth before pulling back once more. 

“That’s it, my little wolf” he said, releasing your lips their fixation.

There was little else you cared for, sitting on your bed in the humble guest chambers, hearth warmed and Aemond’s fingers sinking deep into your core and curling deliciously. 

“Shh. You don’t want your northmen to hear, do you?” He said it, punching his words with another tight movement at the perfect place deep within you in a smug maneuver that he knew would have a moan choking from your throat despite the deep silence that surrounded you. 

He was right, you didn’t, but you hardly cared if it meant his hands continued their sync. Every drop of hesitation and secrecy you had so desired earlier had been drowned out by the tight wanting of your core, wetness slipping down his fingers and coating the very inside of your thighs. 

When your pleasure peaked into ecstasy, your honey soaked walls squeezed and fluttered around him, arms looped and holding him tight to you in breathy moans that were meant for him only. There were truly no boundaries wrapped between you now, even if just for a moment, the long absence of his touch and feel sinking deep into your essence. 

Humming in satisfaction, Aemond slid his forefingers coated in your syrupy sex into his mouth. “I didn’t know the honor of a Stark tasted so delicious”

All the furs that had once sat heavily on the bed had slid off. Flesh against flesh, you were content in your afterglow, pushing away thoughts of tomorrow or the day after. Aemond’s hands were hungry more, his own desire hardly satiated. His cock weighed on your stomach, hips needily pressing into yours. 

“Baby, you’re so soaked. Your body needs me inside you,” Aemond brushed his nose with yours, cock sliding over your pillowy lips. 

He must have been a devil of some kind, the enemy, for trying to convince you that your maidenhead could be sacrificed while he was on a diplomatic mission. 

Sensing your hesitation, he hummed into your mouth, drawing you into another kiss. 

“Who would I be to leave you like this? You need to be fucked.” he purred into your ear, and your own hips flexed in release. 

It was tempting. It was. But your virtue remained imperatively prudent, and no amount of Aemond’s want would change it. “I’m a maiden. You know this.” 

“Does it matter if I want to marry you anyway?” His voice was lust-drunk, buried in your neck and leaving traces of kisses there. 

You giggled, shifting under him. “Yes, Aemond.” 

“Hmm.” He grumbled, lifting himself onto his elbows to look you in the face. “Guess I’ll just have to do it now then.” 

It passed between you then, a faint look of heartbreak at the reality of what such things would mean, or what they would take. The betrayal of your brother, of your fellow bannermen—the question of Aemond’s truest allegiances, marriage or not, always sitting in the back of your mind. Roiling dragonfire and singing blades sliding against another in strain. 

“I don’t care where we stand. You’re mine, Lady Stark. Nothing will ever change that.”  

A kiss was your only reply, caught in the trouble and pleasure of his words, a sentence that fulfilled everything and nothing that you wanted to hear. Desperate and searching it was, searching for an end to the madness you were both inevitably walking towards and away from your unity. 

With your limbs intertwined, heart to heart, each of you felt all of the possible flesh you could. You let yourself close your eyes in his embrace, candles dying in the latest hours of the night. Maybe, you thought, this moment could be eternal if you let it: if you were truly present in his warmth and flesh, it could anchor you both in time, allowing you both to feel and hold each other for centuries. No blood would soak into the dirt nor stain your hands. Never had you clung to an idea of peace so hard. 

In another world, Rhaenyra ascended the throne just as the realm had thought. Your journey south would have been fulfilled just the same. Someone of importance would take note of your affinity for each other, and given that you were not being clearly stowed away for one dragon versus another, a marriage proposal would be signed and sent to your brother north. He would read it and scowl at the thought of his sister being tied to the Targaryen blood almost all Starks were partial to hating, but at the sight of your ease, he would relent. A wedding would be hosted in the Great Sept to please your prince and southron overlords, and another at the heart tree of Winterfell’s godswood. 

You clung to your fantasy in the low hours until your knuckles turned white, Aemond’s soft breathing warming your cheek. But clinging to anything fleeting often meant bloodying your hands or being dragged until you let go. 

Those in the south lived in an endless summer, whether they realized it or not. Many would claim a chill or swear they felt the winds change. Perhaps snow even fell occasionally—but such a faint dusting would cower in the face of the fronts from beyond the wall. Such a front scratched at the window of Aemond’s chamber now. It was a most cruel master to any bare skin unlucky enough to bear it, beating it raw until cracks formed and blood spurred. A similar iciness was threatening to drown you from the inside, only made stronger by the beat of Aemond’s blood in your ears. 

No matter how much you wished it not be true, your honor could not allow you to stay in his arms for another moment. Especially not after you had indulged yourself on his fingers and lips. 

Sloughing off the furs, you crept carefully to the mess of layers of your dress on the floor. It was late—or early, put differently—enough that you could do your best to get away with not wearing your full dress back to your room. As long as your previous state of savagery wasn’t obvious, the essentials would do. 

When your eyes awoke once more in your own bed, it was to the ancient cry of a dragon. Your heavy legs and eyes ran to catch up with what you knew was happening, what you must confirm quickly in a hazy winter’s light. From the window, you could see Vhagar lifted her bronze head into the sky, fire threatening to leave the cavern of her throat. Her solemn grumbling echoed through the valley, swirling with the wind singing through the trees. 

Cradles of snowflakes fell as falling stars, silver embers burning in the early light. It was still night—constellations just barely beginning to fade. Grabbing your furs to quickly wrap around your shoulders, you rushed out of your chambers. The torches in the hallway burned low. It was the last hour before they would be re-lit for another day’s warmth. Flames flickered past you in your hasty steps to the outermost walls of the castle. 

You caught sight of Aemond, stalking into the arms of the frosted northern wild, a sickened determination—or resignation, you didn’t know which—in his steps.  The black of his furs cradled his silver hair, a delicate, feathery mix of dark and light. 

A goodbye wouldn’t have been wise, for you knew if you hadn’t left his chambers you would both wake up and refuse to leave each other’s side—or rather, he’d refuse you to leave his. If he was in front of you, he knew he could convince you of anything. There was too deep of suspicion for the prince to arouse the maiden Lady Stark, and Aemond was a smart man.

Or at least you told yourself so, hoping that he wasn’t bitter like he was in your fears, and that he understood. 

The battlements on which you stood were tall enough to rise over any enemy that Winterfell might face. Thousands of years had seen enemies fall in front of the stone giants that guarded the innermost castle. Enemies of centuries past faltered against all kings of winter, sound in their defenses and strong in their charge. Any enemy but Aemond. 

Heavy wings wafted through the north wind, the shadow of Vhagar draining the moon and snowlight from the sky in the shape of war-torn wings. With a large curl of her body, she turned to the walls on which you stood. Muscled and bronzed, Aemond and his beast came closer. You had never seen a dragon in flight so near to you. Her heavy legs hung in the air, the claws themselves thicker than your largest studs. 

A few men below began howling in fear, but you knew something they did not. Even as she drew nearer and her wings covered Winterfell in shadow and her maw roared close enough you could see her blood soaked teeth and feel her boiling breath in the chapped air. It was warm against your cheek, a balm against the pale morning’s frost, comfort blooming where it touched. Near everything but the foundation of the castle itself shook against the dragon’s cry, mountainous wings curling wind through your hair. 

There was a time when Harren the Black had seen a similar sight: the interchange between day and night, a beast larger than a small keep looming over his home, an impenetrable castle. Fire had burned deep in Balerion’s chest, and his black teeth were the gates of hellfire to all those who rested in Harrenhal. Aemond and Vhagar loomed above Winterfell now in a fierce stand, leaving you and all of your men as nothing but ash in the wind if he so desired. 

You knew he didn’t. 

Vhagar roared again, something painful desperately clawing from her chest, and you could feel the solemn echo of Aemond’s own turmoil. Her wings lifted higher through her cry, large body clawing through the sky until the darkness of her ascended into the heavy snow clouds. 

The next time you saw the prince, the crown of the conqueror sat on his head as if it was made for him, and winter had licked your skin raw. 

[toastnotonfire]

Show Me Yours.

"All the bad dreams that you hide

Show me yours, I'll show you mine"

-Phoebe Bridgers

pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

wordcount: 1453

Summary: You remember the night Daryl showed you his scars for the first time, while you were patching him up from a failed supply run.

A/N: guys i am so sleep deprived and swamped with work and coursework but i really wanted to get back into writing for the new year and revive my page, so sorry if this is absolute dogshit I honestly cant tell!! As always my asks are open and any spelling errors or critiques pls let me know! Happy New Year Lovelies!!

The archer was simply not what many people had preemptively assumed. He shouldn't be defined by his exterior or the way he lashed out when threatened, like a wild and dangerous wolf caught in a snare, because it's simply just not him. You know that better than anyone else.

You remember the night he dropped his walls to you, back at the prison, which felt like a lifetime ago; it might as well be.

It was storming badly outside; the wind howled and thrashed against the prison walls loudly, drowning out the sounds of walkers ravenous growls, yet the noise couldn't drown out your incessant worrying for the archer who had set out earlier that very day.

The rain seemed to pick up in momentum every time your brain screamed the different possibilities to itself. You couldn't sleep. You wouldn't until you knew he was safe and sound.

Some god might have been listening that night, he might have taken pity on your poor mortal soul for all that you'd lost, maybe the higher power who sent him back to you knew you'd need him yet. The sound of the large prison gates being pulled open was the sweetest music to your ears.

You remember racing out towards the gates to greet him, your joy faltering slightly as you took in his sorry state, soaked to the bone from the unrelenting rain and some gashes that decorated his cheek and arms, but alive nonetheless. Breathing is all you can ask for in this unforgiving new world. You know that now, more than ever.

That night you took him up to your room, the small cell in the furthest corner, which you claimed the first night you all fought your way into this block, although you didn't actually sleep in it for a good while. The fear overpowering your exhaustion. You can't really remember the cell walls anymore. The memory slipped from your brain slowly the more places you sought refuge in throughout the years.

You had walked him in slowly, closing the curtain behind you to conceal you both behind a screen. It almost gave the illusion of safety, being in a little room like that, secluded from prying eyes.

"Are you hurt badly?" you asked him quietly, grabbing a small towel and filling a bowl with some lukewarm water.

He shook his head from left to right, eyeing you warily as you lowered yourself to sit next to him with the now damp towel, gently dragging it up and down his bare arms to clear the grime away, your movements featherlight as you ghosted over a gash on his arm. A silence laid between you both, heavy but not exactly uncomfortable.

"Where else are you hurt?" you whispered, breaking the fragile silence, Daryl seemed to go ridgid at the question, staring straight ahead, chewing nervously on his bottom lip, a habit you had observed from him since way back at the quarry.

After a few long seconds in silence Daryl gently makes a move, removing the soaked leather vest, which fell to the ground with a wet plop, and slowly unbuttoning his dark grey shirt to reveal his back to you.

You held back a shocked gasp as you took in his back, long deep scars stretched across his back, colouring him in deep purples and reds. The scars have ragged and angry edges, and your body nearly ached at seeing them, mirroring his own pain in yourself. There was a new cluster of gashes where he must have skinned his back falling today. You gently shook yourself for pausing so long and sprung back into tending to his wounds. Thinking better than to acknowledge the blatant vulnerability in the moment for fear of scaring him off.

You reached out slowly to press the damp towel to his back, wishing desperately to somehow absorb the years of pain from his body, to take it into yourself and erase this past from him. However, as much as you wanted it to be possible, it wasn't. So you had to make do with easing the pain of his newest wounds, hoping to god you could convey the affection you held for him.

You cleaned his wounds with the utmost care that night, gentle movements that ensured the sting of the antiseptic was numbed, as you contemplated breaking the long, vulnerable silence.

"Daryl?" you had whispered attentively, the end of his name lilting up into a slight question. You weren't exactly sure what you were going to say yet.

"It's fine" He replied quickly, practically cutting you off, his tone gruff and almost defensive.

"it's not... it doesn't have to be fine" You whisper back, a small correction, desperately wanting, needing him to know that you cared.

The silence afterwards was long and painful, you were scared to move in case he snapped out of it, snatched his shirt back and left. in case he never spoke to you again after this, in case you pushed too far, crossed some line, some barrier he had.

What happened next was what you had least expected at the time. His shoulders, imperceptibly, started to tremble. it was such a slight movement that you could have missed it had you not been paying such close careful attention to the man before you.

You lay your hand carefully on his shoulder, offering him the slightest physical reassurance, the movement unsure and hesitant. You gave him space and time to flinch away, to turn sharply and tell you off before leaving.

But he didn't go. He didn't snap or shout or push or shove.

You kept your hand steady on the archer's back, slowly leaning forward to wrap your arms around him carefully, slow and steady in a deliberate effort not to startle him. After nearly a year in his company you had learned that Daryl startled easily, lashed out quick, and now you were beginning to understand the root cause. You cursed yourself for not seeing the signs sooner, for resenting his attitude in those first months, for arguing when he pushed you away.

It made sense now, and it broke your heart.

He let out a broken, shaky sigh as your arms wrapped around him, his breaths coming faster and irregularly as he finally let every defense crumble. In that moment nothing could have pulled you away from him, nothing at all. You were consumed by the need to comfort him, to soothe his aches and pains, to take the unbearable weight off of his shoulders.

After what felt like an eternity, and simultaneously not nearly long enough, the archer finally spoke.

“S’a hell of an ugly sight” He mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically broken, soft.

“No. no it's not… it… you could never be.” You whispered back, your voice hushed and gentle. You pulled back, gently beckoning him to turn to face you, desperate to tell him to his face.

“You're perfect, scars and all.” you whispered, grabbing his face up in both hands, urging him to believe, to understand. He just stared back stunned, his eyes searching yours long and hard. For a fleeting moment you were worried you had once again overstepped, that he would push you away and leave, running from you and the prison walls. 

All doubt left your mind when he leaned forward, the horrific world surrounding you was suddenly forgotten as his lips met yours in a soft, gentle manner. It caught you off guard before you softened against him, giving in to the magnetic pull between you both. The world turned off around you, the horrific, awful things you'd seen, and done, together became irrelevant as he pulled you in. Your hands stayed cupped around his jaw as your other went to tangle in the hair as the back of his neck. 

When he finally broke the kiss, he leaned back to give you a long, meaningful look, his eyes taking in your facial features, your short and rapid breaths mingling with one anothers in the inches between both your faces. 

The storm raged on outside the prison walls, but the threat that night had been swiftly forgotten as you curled up in the Archers arms, so naturally it was as if you had been doing it your whole life. 

That night will never leave your mind even now, when youre looking at him from across the room in your apartment in the commonwealth, watching him chasing RJ about the house as laughter fills the air, or when you're standing in the doorway, listening to him read to Judith.

It was the night he dropped his guard, the night he was brave enough to rip down the walls he had built to keep you out. The night he became yours.