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yns-world · 2 years

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Yandere GoT Headcanons

a/n: This is just a work of fiction and meant for entertainment purposes only. I do not condone this type of behavior in real life.

In this imagine, your obsessive lovers are: Jon Snow, Robb Stark, Petyr Baelish, and Sandor Clegane

Gender neutral, race neutral, and size neutral reader

Warnings: this is GoT we’re talking about, so your normal GoT warnings

Jon Snow:

The Raven

The most peaceful of all stalkers (initially)

His obsession started out as pining that grew into a one-sided romance-- a romance that you weren’t even aware of because he couldn’t muster the courage to tell you

Weeks upon weeks were spent daydreaming about you, fueling his madness

He was always naturally protective, so you didn’t think much of it when he was around you more often

You also didn’t notice the deep scowl he always wore or the death glares towards anyone that came too close or was a little too friendly

Jon would never dream of harming anyone in your name, he knew how it would kill you if he did, so he resorts to intimidation tactics to keep people away

When he can’t be around you, Jon has a personal raven sent to watch over you at all time

He told you that this raven was a gift from him, something to look at and remember that he is always with you

You are never truly alone.

The gift was touching, but sometimes you’d catch the raven watching you too intently through your window

There would be some nights when you’d wake up from a horrendous nightmare of Jon leaning over your bed, his hands wrapped around your throat as he intends to snap your esophagus-- only to look out your window and catch the beady eyes of the raven staring at you with a heaviness that reminds you of the feeling of Jon’s hands at your throat.

The next time you see Jon, you would confide these dreams to him and he’d pull you close and rub your back soothingly, telling you that these are only dreams and that he would never do that to you

Depending on how your friendship goes, there may come a day when he’ll come out of his stalker phase, but only if you guys happen to start dating

If you never pursue him, or worse, you date and then break up, he’d become depressed and blame you for his grief; his oath to never harm you or your social circle would be off the table.

Why can’t you just see that he’s the one for you?

Robb Stark:

The Dutiful Soldier

A stubborn, steadfast man-- just like his father.

He grew up hearing tales of how men were supposed to chase after their lovers, taking them like conquests; Robb’s parents were like those couples in those fairytales.

He was raised to believe that he must chase; and chase he does.

At first, his stern attitude and title intimidated you but Robb used his status and power to get close to you

You’d find him watching you across the camp as his advisors stood around him like a flock of birds

He’d personally send you to run his errands for him-- whether that be in Winterfell or in neighboring villages

Whenever you’d come visit him (only because the King demanded it), there would be the charming and kind Robb that only a select few know

Robb knew very well how effective his personality was, so it was no trouble getting you to agree to his spontaneous marriage, to the protest of his mother

At first, you thought Catelyn despised this marriage out of loyalty to the Frey, but it was really because she knew just what kind of a monster her son was.

After the honeymoon, you would finally meet the man that you had married.

He locked you inside the castle walls, just like how Ned kept Catelyn inside Winterfell at all times.

But unlike his father, Robb took it three steps further-- having you guarded with at least one soldier at all times.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought that it would get better over time, but his grip around you turned into a chokehold.

By the time of your first anniversary, Robb would barely let you out of your room-- the magnificent chamber that turned into your prison cell.

He always says that he does this out of love and for your own safety, but it’s bullshit and you know it.

Nobody can save you but death, it’s just a matter of who will pass first; you or him?

Petyr Baelish:

The Puppet Master

You had fallen for his trap long before you ever met him.

Everything about your life was orchestrated, from the time you met him, to all the meetings after that

He’s been keeping tabs on your for years now

His love for you began when he had caught a glimpse of you, a brief glance where your eyes locked his for a moment, and there wasn’t that trace of hatred or judgment in them like everyone else has

In that moment, you made him feel like a normal, random stranger

And ever since then, he knew he had to have you.

You wouldn’t even be aware of his manipulation game until many years into your marriage, with kids running around. (Unlikely you’d ever find out.)

By then, it’d be too late.

The key difference between Petyr and everyone else is the illusion of choice that he gives you.

He lets you believe that you can leave at any time; he lets you believe that you are in control, but you were never once in control. You never had an ounce of power against him.

From that day you briefly locked eyes, you’d been under his thumb. He was the one that orchestrated your job assignment to King’s Landing. Petyr was the one that memorized every detail about you so that he could become the perfect match for you.

And he didn’t become the perfect match by mirroring your likes and dislikes, no, he became the perfect man by learning what aspects of his personality would work with you, and what didn’t.

This man adopted a brand new personality just for you, and you can call him a fake, conniving bastard, but he used this personality for so long that it’s become ingrained in him.

He used to switch between personalities depending on whether he was around you or others, but he eventually grew tired of it and stuck with the personality for you.

This personality has been stuck with him for so many years that he doesn’t remember his old personality.

Alongside his old personality, he doesn’t remember his true, original memories.

That’s because he also had to create anecdotes that he felt would resonate with you. Tricky, yes, but it worked in the long run.

He recited these stories thousands of times-- to himself, to his colleagues, to strangers at the marketplace-- just to make sure he would never miss a beat. And he never did.

In a way, you could say that he became reborn as the man for you. Alternatively, you could call him the scariest man the Gods have ever seen.

He doesn’t regret what he’s done. His actions are only proof of his devotion to you, and he’d gladly do it all over again to keep you for eternity.

I must warn you, the only reason you would even be aware that Petyr was manipulating you would be because Petyr allowed that thought into your head. He’s always ten steps ahead, there’s a reason why you’ve been allowed to come to this conclusion. (It’s all a part of his scheme to bring you closer to him.)

Regardless of what he did to have you, you had genuinely fallen in love with him and couldn’t imagine leaving him.

You should’ve known better than to trust a Baelish.

Sandor Clegane:

The Loyal Dog

As if his aptitude for violence wasn’t bad enough, his obsession didn’t make it any better.

He kills anyone that looks in your general direction, he knows he shouldn’t, but whatever self restraint he had before is out the window when it involves you

You tried to appease him just to save the lives of your friends and family, but you learned quickly that nothing would end the blood trail that followed you unless you severed the ties yourself.

You spent most of your days holed up in your shared home (a home he forced on you), and your sour mood didn’t dampen Sandor’s spirits at all.

Inferiority complex to the MAX, he steals items of yours-- undergarments, trinkets, jewellry, anything you wouldn’t notice-- and has a hidden shrine of it.

In private, he worships you like a god, your word is gospel to him

You want him to overthrow King’s Landing and put you on the Iron Throne? Of course, anything for you.

You want him dead and gone? Just tell him when and where.

The one thing he’ll never do is let you leave him.

You were the first person that ever treated him like a human being, he would never let you go.

You could hurl your worst insults or try to physically harm him, but he wouldn’t budge

No matter what you say or do, he knows (falsely believes) that you love him deep down.

i hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, please consider reblogging because that helps my account :)

i had so much fun writing this and would love to make more yandere got content because there's not enough <///3

as always, please check my pinned post for request rules and i hope y'all have a great day! catch y'all in the next post <3

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horror-aesthete · 2 days

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PIN..., 1988, dir. Sandor Stern

#horror aesthetic #horror movies #PIN

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cinemacrypt · 7 months

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Pin: A Plastic Nightmare, Dir. Sandor Stern (1988)

#mars says stuff #goddd this movie so weird and fucked up and sleazy but it COMPELS ME #pin 1988 #psychological horror #moodboard

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winesink · 1 month

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Heart of the Melt

Sansan one shot. One of those Cersei panicked and married 'em off AUs. PWP, orgasm delay/denial, breeding kink

summary: Sansa hadn't even known women could find pleasure in the marriage bed before him - proper little ladies knew only enough to keep them from fainting in shock on their wedding night. The rest was up to their lord husbands to dispense as they saw fit. Sansa was lucky, really, her husband was very informative; Sandor told her all about her wifely privileges, had ensured she fully understood all the pleasures the marriage bed could bring before denying them to her.

It was said that Starks did not do well in the South; tended to melt in the heat. Sansa had always written it off as silly superstition, or maybe a thinly veiled threat from weasley southron lords who didn't like the presence of the stern northmen. But now, with flimsy silks soaked to her sweaty skin, unshed tears of frustration clinging to her lashes, and her lord husband's fingers working through the slick of her woman's place, Sansa couldn't think of a better way to describe it. She was melting, sure enough, and it was only a matter of moments before her ancient, noble bloodline ended as little more than a puddle on the floor of an abandoned storeroom in a southron keep.

"Please," Sansa begged, only realizing she was drooling slightly when the word dribbled down her chin. She hoped it landed on the floor with the rest of her - her silks would stain with the trace amount of his seed to be found there, she knew all too well. She would be embarrassed if she had the capacity to feel anything besides oppressive pleasure - or if she wasn't already drowning in more pressing reasons to be embarrassed.

"Please, is it?" Her husband rasped cruelly, his ruined lips and unkempt beard pressed flush to her sweaty temple. The fine hairs there would be unmanageable after this. "She chirps like a proper lady, my little wife, but the things she asks for…" he trailed off, curling his long, thick fingers more forcefully against some sweet spot inside her only he could reach - not that she hadn't tried, alone in their rooms at night when he had guard duty; in her bath with her dainty feminine oils and the water lapping gently at her nipples; when he was feeling generous, letting her touch herself on their solar table while he watched and ate his dinner, telling her she could have her pleasure if she could find it herself. It never worked: Sansa was too proper to bring herself off. Her husband liked controlling her pleasure, and Sansa liked being a good wife. He knew it too, knew only he could give her her release.

But he rarely ever did.

He liked her in this state: needy and frustrated; skin perpetually flushed in arousal, splotchy with her ever-shortening temper; nipples constantly, embarrassingly stiff under her thin southron dresses; breathless with little more than a brush of his hand; rocking minutely in her seat at court while he stood at the dais and undressed her with his eyes, fingers flexing suggestively on the hilt of his shortsword.

Her husband was a cruel man, but his was the softest cruelty she'd ever felt.

"Sandor, please," she tried again, knowing full well that no matter how much he liked to hear his name on her lips, it wouldn't earn her any pity. The Hound wasn't capable of pity. "Need to cum," she all but sobbed, the word no more taboo to her now than his manhood. He'd certainly made her ask for it often enough, he simply never relented.

"You sound like a whore, Lady Stark," he informed her almost conversationally. "What would your septa say if she could see you now?" His pace increased, the flex of his fingers never pulling completely away from that delicious spot inside before pressing back in. The thick leather of his gloves was supple but too stiff; not what she needed, but likely all she would get today. Her inner walls contracted against the intrusion rhythmically, desperate to make do with whatever he gave her.

"Perfect little lady," he continued, whisper-soft and reverential as he licked the sweat behind her ear, "falling apart on the Hound's fingers."

If Sansa could manage anything more than a whine, she might have cursed him. It was hard to maintain her propriety when he actively drove her to wantonness every day.

"Are you going to sing for your lord husband, little bird?" It was a trap, she knew - a cruel fowler's kloben for her to alight upon where he would snatch up another bite of her pride - but in the moment she couldn't care. Let him have it, she didn't care how much he stole from her so long as he kept giving her reasons to sing.

"Oh please my lord, please," she breathed into his chest. He smelled like leather and metal. Sansa was never sure if it was the heavy scent of his weaponry, or blood.

Sandor groaned, pulling away from her enough that he could curl over her. The action brought his lips to the crown of her hair, made his palm rub against the hypersensitive nub at the top of her woman's place. There was a seam in his glove there, where the sleeve of his thumb joined the flat of his palm. Sansa ground down on it while Sandor was distracted, scenting her hair like an animal.

She was supposed to tell him when she was close, but he'd always been better at gauging it than she was. He waited until her clenching was nearly violent and the rocking of her hips demanding, waited until each of her breaths puffed out with a soft groan, and then he stopped.

Sansa sobbed deliriously, the grip she had on his forearm would have worked on any other man as she tried to keep his hand where she needed it. But she may as well have tried to tear down the wall. Sandor moved quickly but gently, at once pulling his hand out from under her skirts and crowding into her space more thoroughly, hushing her cries with messy kisses at her hairline.

He was mumbling something into her braids but Sansa could barely hear him over the rush of blood draining from her head, the throbbing of her woman's place. Even her skin felt too loud, itchy where Sandor's rough woolen tunic pressed against her damp silks. She wasn't melting anymore, she was shaking apart - or would do if not for how sweetly her husband held her together in his strong arms.

They stayed like that until her mewling stopped, Sandor's clumsy paw moving to smooth her dress once he was convinced she wouldn't fall over, careful not to touch her silks with his soiled glove. Sansa watched his face as he inspected it. He wasn't an expressive man, her husband, but he always seemed the most pleased with her when she wasn't very pleased, herself.

And in some mangled, twisted way, Sansa lived to please him so.

"Such a dirty bird," Sandor breathed, his eyes soft as he regarded his own handiwork. "Proper ladies don't like being fucked by a pair of work gloves in a storeroom, Sansa." His tone was reprimanding but his face was almost reverent as he brought said dirty work gloves to his own mouth, licking her essence from between his fingers. He eyed her over curiously, his gaze settling on her parted lips. When he brought his soiled fingers to her mouth, she lapped at them eagerly just to watch him sigh happily. Her own flavor was tangy, though not strong enough to cover the barn scent of the glove itself. It was gross, but the soft texture against her tongue was soothing. Sansa found the same seam she'd worked herself over and tested it against her tongue. Occasionally he would push his thumb too deep just to annoy her, shushing her huffy little noises with soft hums from deep in his chest that made her nipples tighten.

And then he was pulling away, a thin thread of saliva snapping against Sansa's swollen lips, and Sandor's voice was the cruel rasp he used at court. "You'll want to change for dinner, girl. The queen has requested your presence."

***

Sansa wasn't stupid. She wasn't a pitiful creature, a naive little girl, or an abused woman either. But the looks she drew at court now would have one believing she were all that and more. Anger on her behalf from kind Margaery, open appraisal from the Kingsguard, disgust from the king. Even fat Lollys Stokeworth eyed her commiseratively. They were fools, all of them, too dim to see how she'd grown to glow once the king had set her aside, too stupid to remember how the Hound had been the one to save her from the bread riots.

But the queen… the way the queen watched Sansa now amused her the most.

Cersei wasn't as cunning as Sansa had always thought, it turned out. The wedding between dog and wolf had been her idea, she'd proudly confessed. A silken bow to tie house Stark to the Lannisters, even after the royal wedding had been called off. Sansa hadn't been fooled then, same as she wasn't fooled now. If Cersei had simply meant to keep the Starks in check, she could have married Sansa off to her cousin Lancel, or gods forbid even to her twin Jamie. But Cersei was greedy and cruel in equal measure and she'd wanted to shame Sansa, to keep her frightened and meek with the living sword she'd been bound to.

It had worked at first, the Hound had always frightened Sansa and nothing was more frightening than the prospect of marrying him. But Sandor had only ever been kind to her, in his own way, and he certainly hadn't stopped after bringing her under the cloak of his protection.

Sansa hadn't even known women could find pleasure in the marriage bed before him - proper little ladies knew only enough to keep them from fainting in shock on their wedding night. The rest was up to their lord husbands to dispense as they saw fit. Sansa was lucky, really, her husband was very informative; Sandor told her all about her wifely privileges, had ensured she fully understood all the pleasures the marriage bed could bring before denying them to her.

In this way the queen had won - Sansa was endlessly frustrated and openly shamed; but Sansa had won in every way that mattered. So when Cersei eyed her slyly, when she noticed the mark at Sansa's neck and covered her smirk demurely, when she made her barbed quips about whores over roasted quail and tittered conspiratorially - Sansa only smiled blankly back, content to remember Cersei herself would never be able to marry her own lover and protector.

***

"Proper ladies don't sit across the table having fun at the queen's expense, Sansa." Proper ladies didn't let their husbands thrust between their arsecheeks either, Sansa was fairly sure, but Sandor wasn't complaining about that currently. "But if Her Grace had wanted the company of a lady, she'd not have invited the Hound's whore, would she?" He continued, words almost as vulgar as the slick sound of his movements.

"She would not have, my lord," Sansa peeped, voice teetering on breathless as Sandor's fingers explored the lips on either side of her woman's place. She wiggled, trying to guide him closer to where she needed him but he just chuckled cruelly and dipped two fingers in, using her mons as a handle to hold her in place while he continued his ministrations.

"So desperate you won't even let your husband take his dues without thinking of your own pleasure first," the Hound rasped, tutting at the moans he elicits when his free hand tugs at her hardened nipples. "Go on then, do it. Show me how much you want it."

"C- can't," Sansa gasps, arms shaking with the weight of supporting herself and she widens the set of her knees, hoping her husband will bring himself closer. Sometimes, in this position, the head of his cock will catch on her rear hole, and the shocking sensation in combination with how absolutely wild it drives her husband will rocket her to the edge in no time.

"Whores can come like this, Sansa. Who are you trying to fool?" To prove his point, Sandor flexes the fingers still inside of her just enough to stroke against the sensitive place only he's ever found. Clegane Keep, erected and settled in the fertile fields of her cunt.

"Husband, please. I need -."

"Need more?" The Hound grunts, leans in close enough that Sansa can feel the coarse hair of his chest against her back. "Forgot how loose my wife is for me. I'll get you more, girl," he promises; and perhaps Sansa should know better by now, but she is too naive to hear the threat. Simply vibrates excitedly when Sandor removes his fingers from her cunt and reaches lower to line himself up.

There are times when the ghost of Sansa's former life rears its head, leaves her frigid and tense, shirking her husband's touch. Those moments have been fewer ever since Sandor has set himself on a path to keep her endlessly frustrated and there are days Sansa wonders if that is his end game. Certainly, she can't be blamed for meeting his movements with a low groan, dropping herself onto her elbows to better take his length. She may have grown wanton, but it can't be helped when her lord husband has made it his life's mission to make her so.

"So fucking wet, little bird," Sandor groans, and Sansa can only whimper in response.

Sandor is a big man. He's never forced her. She can't take him if she's not ready. It's an embarrassing notion, knowing that she could end this torment if only she could find it within herself to be disgusted by his actions. The embarrassment, however, only serves to melt her more, the arousal between her legs growing each time Sandor's manhood coaxes a wet sound from her channel.

"Always so ready for your husband, eh? Love taking my cock."

"Yes, husband, please!" He liked to be called husband as he took her. And lord, and ser, and all the other titles he shunned at court. It wouldn't earn her any favor, but Sansa didn't mind, as these courtesies came naturally to her.

"Please what, my lady? Need more?" Teeth at her ear, fingers curling over her woman's place, teasing at her gate where she was already stretched tight around him.

"Sandor no, please, I can't."

"Can't, is it? A good wife takes what her lord husband gives her, Sansa."

"You give me too much, ser!" She's crying already. It will be a long night.

Sansa can feel the Hound's grin against her scalp. "As you wish, my lady," he growls, and removes himself from her, stroking himself until he releases across her cunt with a deep grunt.

***

She had been given a proper mare to ride after the wedding. A beautiful chestnut palfrey fully outfitted with a proper saddle and lovely black and yellow tack as befit her new surname. When she'd asked the stable hand who had done such a lovely thing for her, the boy had simply informed her it wasn't proper for a wedded woman to still ride a pony. Sansa had therefore assumed it was the queen's doing, but one trot around the bailey had clued her into the real culprit.

The saddle, it seemed, was specifically designed to drive her mad.

Sandor liked watching her ride. He liked watching other men watching her ride. More than either of those, he liked riding with her deep into the king's wood and pinning her against any tree that looked up to the task, calling her a whore for letting other men see her come undone the way she did when she rode.

Once, on the return ride, all the teasing combined with the slick slide of her husband's spend to push her over the edge and she came, after weeks of torture, grinding herself against her pommel like a pup with a blanket while Sandor held her reins and cooed sweet appraisals at her.

But her husband was mercurial at best, and he'd had her over his knee about it later that night, playing with her cunt in between harsh smacks until she was just as wet from arousal as she was from tears. He let her cum thrice more that night, though he punished her for each. When they lay in bed later, sated and exhausted and so tangled she had to check for body hair before she could be certain whose arm was braced across her chest, Sansa asked why he'd let her peak so many times if he was just going to reprimand her for them.

"You seemed to be enjoying your punishment just fine," Sandor grumbled, kissing behind her ear.

"That's so," Sansa conceded, and Sandor's answering laugh rocked her a bit as his belly jumped.

"You'd already broken our streak today, seemed a waste not to enjoy it before restarting tomorrow, aye?"

"We have to restart tomorrow?" Sansa pouted, and her husband's answering grin was terrible enough she knew it would have made her burst into tears if she were still a little girl.

"Of course, little bird. Have to make you into a proper lady, no?" But his strong thigh was already slotting between her own, his hand guiding her hips to rock against him. "Proper ladies don't enjoy these things, Sansa, but seeing as you said you were sorry…"

***

The longest their game had ever lasted was twenty seven days. By the end of it, Sansa had peaked just from squeezing her thighs together as her lord husband used her throat.

"Such a dirty thing," Sandor had accused her cunt, barely backing up an inch as he spoke into her there, his lips dragging wetly across her sensitive flesh. "Didn't even make it a full month. You know we'll have to try again."

"Please, Sandor, let me -."

"Ride my face, wife, I'll give you what you want."

***

They didn't last a full month the next round either. It had been a long week of waking up with her husband already inside her, evenings spent reading to him while he rocked her on his cock almost lazily. He hadn't spilled inside her in almost a moon's turn, and Sansa hadn't realized how much satisfaction she took in taking her husband's seed until he was denying her that as well. It made her desperate, had her riding him harder than she would normally in hopes of bringing about his peak before he even knew what he was about. It hadn't worked yet, but tonight, as Sandor makes her rub the soap of his bath into his skin using her whole body, she's willing to try again.

Her nipples are hard and pebbled as she rubs them against the Hound's chest. It's an odd sensation, the smooth slide of the oils combined with the coarse grit of his pelt. He notices immediately how it makes her press harder against him, and then he's making her straddle him so her cunt is subject to the same sensation, broken intermittently only by the hard, hot flesh of his manhood slotting perfectly through her lips each time. She shutters when it catches against her clit and Sandor smiles behind his goblet. Before he swallows, he grabs her by the back of the neck and Sansa knows what he wants immediately, pushing herself up enough that he can pour the wine from his mouth into her own. He still drinks sour reds, only feeds them to her because he knows how much she hates them. It's sloppy, red staining their skin in bolt shaped streaks. Sansa licks one off his pec and he groans.

"Are you going to properly thank me, wife?"

He doesn't mean with words. She reaches back and slots him into her channel. As she sinks onto him, she rubs her body against his the way he'd instructed her to do when he first drew the bath, and she was pleased by how well he filled her while still offering some friction against her pearl. Sandor groaned as she bottomed out, one hand slipping below the water to cup her bum and bounce her shallowly a few times.

"That's good, little bird. Always so wet for me. What did it this time? You like being used like a rag?"

Sansa blushes, but thankfully it's not visible through the flush the warm bath has brought on. "Your… hair, ser."

"My hair?" Sandor demands, his face twisted in confusion. Sansa tactfully avoids eye contact as she pets at his muscled torso and Sandor throws his head back laughing. "Of course, my mistake. Feels good against these sensitive little teats, doesn't it?" He pinches her nipple cruelly and soothes it with a wet thumb when she hisses. "Such pretty little things," he muses. "Can't wait to get you fat with my babe so I can suckle from them."

'You'd have to give me your seed first.' She doesn't say it out loud because she doesn't want him to know she was thinking of it, as that would make her mission less likely to succeed.

It's strange, how her first thought upon hearing how her husband wants to suckle at her breast isn't abject horror. Just one more transgression for the pile.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" Caught, Sansa just hides her smirk in her husband's arm pit and continues to soap him up as he instructed. "Naughty bird," Sandor chuckles, voice deep and dark.

"I only want to please my husband," Sansa chirps, giving his manhood a firm squeeze that has him grunting. He swats her ass, but the bathwater hinders his movement so it winds up being little more than a tap. He compensates by squeezing the soft muscles there and hums approvingly.

"Please me plenty, girl." His grip is firmer now, guiding. Sansa goes just lax enough to let him control her movements. It used to startle and scare her, how easily he could bend and shape and hold her. But he always knew best, and she was happy to let him guide her. Besides, his arms flexed so deliciously when he was moving her on his cock like a little poppet.

"I'm good?" Sansa asks, eyes wide as she uses her hands to soothe the Hound's flanks. She knew the answer, but Sandor liked to say it when he was breathing heavily like this, and she liked to hear it.

"Perfect, little bird. My perfect little wife. Fuck, Sansa, squeeze me again." She did and he groaned, "Can't ever get enough of you, woman. You know how hard it is to stand on that dais every day, remembering the noises you make?"

He was making his own noises now, those masculine grunts she herself had trouble forgetting. Sansa went completely lax for him, gasping as he just grabbed her around both thighs now, thrusting up into her as he pushed her back down. He still had her against his chest, slick skin on skin, his mouth pouring filthy words right into her ear.

"Take my cock so well, every time. Always so bloody wet for me. I could keep you like this forever. So desperate…"

"If it please you," Sansa pants.

The Hound chuckles darkly. When he continues, his voice is dark and sharp as Valyrian steel. "Is that it, girl? If it please me? Look at you." He tips her back, folds his thighs up enough that she can lean back against them. She carries on his pace without being asked, planting her hands on his knees for leverage. The awkward angle pulls her chest back in such a way her breasts perk up, pebbled, steam rising off her heated skin. Sandor's hands roam her body, tweaking her nipples, guiding her hips, palming himself where he juts through the flat of her belly. He presses there in hopes of earning a reaction, but Sansa's pace does not falter and Sandor grins cruelly as his hand sinks lower, thumb grazing her pearl. Sansa suppresses a groan behind gritted teeth but still never slows, desperate to earn her prize.

"Look at you," he repeats. Sandor's hair hangs wet and limp over the twisted half of his face. It casts harsh shadows across his visage, eyes dark as flint as they consume her. "Haven't cum in weeks but you're still only worried about my pleasure. Just so desperate for my cum. You've finally learned, haven't you? A proper lady only cares about taking her husband's seed."

"Yes, Sandor. Please-."

"Please what, little bird?"

It's strange, after months of begging for her own release, to look her husband square in the eye and ask for his.

"Fuck, take it," the Hound growls, jaw as tight as the hand that grips her hip, keeping her in place as he fucks up into her in aborted little thrusts which keep him lodged tight against her front wall where she can still see him twitching inside herself.

"Sandor, I'm-!"

"That's it, little bird," Sandor coos, and this time when he presses down on her tummy, his cock still pulsing right up against her gate, Sansa nearly shakes apart, moaning like the whore he so often compares her to. "Fuck, just like that, girl. Come on my cock."

And Sansa's always aimed to please.

After, as the water cools around them and she's slumped back against her husband's thighs while Sandor's wide palms soothing over her own, Sansa apologizes for breaking their streak again. "That's alright, little bird," he says, thumb finding its way back to her pearl. "I know just how you can make it up to me."

#sansan #sansan fanfiction #sansan fic

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reppyy · 10 months

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mybworlds · 3 months

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Chapter 10: Into the depths

Pairing: The Hound x Sansa Stark

Summary: Arya, Sandor and Sandor continue their journey. Arya and Sansa keep arguing, while Sandor notices how different the two sisters are from each other.

Chapter Warnings: language, violence

Masterlist

Before to start... thank you to follow me, if you want to be tagged in the next chapters, please let me know! if you want to ask me smt, you can write down here or you can inbox me. Please remember English is not my first language. And in this chapter you can read about the scene between Arya and the Hound in the 8th episode of the third season of Game of Thrones.

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

"You're a bloody old hick!" cried Arya.

"One more word and I'll make you eat that tongue!" barked the Hound angrily.

"You're a murderer, you're … so horrible that even Hell doesn't want you!" resumed Arya.

Arya and the Hound had done nothing but quarrel since they had left the Whispering Wood, Sansa in contrast had become tremendously taciturn. Sansa sighed from time to time and prayed that she might be able to save her mother and brother lives.

"Say something to this-this filthy worm!" hissed Arya, turning for the first time to her sister in the hope of finding support, but Sansa-who sat on Stranger-only gave her a long, stern look. Arya seemed to see her mother's reproachful gaze and lowered her gaze, finally becoming silent.

"Seven cursed Hells be thanked!" blurted out the Hound, and Sansa smiled.

However, Arya's verbal - and then physical - confrontations toward Sandor Clegane continued so that he finally blurted out in exasperation, "Next time you try to hit me, I'll tie your hands behind your back. Next time you try to run away, I'll tie your feet. Scream, screech, try to bite me, and I'll put a gag on you. We can ride together, or I can slam you sideways into the saddle like a slaughter sow. The choice is yours."

Sansa turned a glance toward her sister; she wanted to silently tell her to stop acting like a wild horse, but her sister mimicked an obscene epithet with her lips that made her blush violently.

The two sisters stood together, but each ignored the other: Sansa watched the fire crackle and felt tremendously alone. Arya stood aside in a tree with her legs dangling.

The Hound was watching the scene and for some strange reason, he felt almost obliged to approach the little bird who had a tremendously sad expression painted on her face.

"Your sister is not easy," he said as he approached her.

"Yeah. She always has been in truth, but since she has been completely alone she has gotten worse. She's aggressive, always furious, always … looking for something."

"Revenge." completed for her Sandor "She in a way reminds me of me, angry and always wanting to avenge the wrongs she has suffered."

"Yes, but she takes it out on me for everything. Even if it rains! I am the cause of his every misfortune, maybe I was wrong to take Joffrey's side, but … I thought doing so was the right thing." she tried to justify herself "Arya will never forgive me."

"Maybe." he said, "Or maybe time a moon or two and she'll laugh about it."

"Arya? You don't know her." contradicted him Sansa "Besides, she hates that I take your side, she says you're … a murderer."

"But I am," he agreed.

Sansa looked at him "I know who you are, but I also believe there is good in you."

Sandor looked at the red-haired girl "You're too good, you only see what you want to see." he shook his head and for a moment looked at the flames "But there is nothing in me but death and destruction. Those four pricks in that cave reminded me of that."

She looked at him in amazement "So the words of Beric Dondarrion and Thoros were enough for you to believe this again!"

"I am that! Only death and destruction for Sandor Clegane."

"I don't believe that! I mean look at what you are doing for me and for Arya! Isn't what you are doing a commendable act?"

"I'm doing it for money, not for the fucking desire to travel, sleep in the open, and piss wherever!" barked the Hound.

Sansa swallowed as she looked away: she didn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it.

In truth, he did not believe it himself, but he said it in a tone that was particularly convincing that the eldest of the Starks desisted from further words on the subject.

Sandor did not sleep that night: he watched over the two Stark sisters. The youngest went to sleep away from the fire and hid behind a bush; when Sandor went to check on her she addressed him with an epithet worthy of Flea Bottom. The eldest, the one who had entrusted herself totally to him, curled up not far from the fire and fell asleep shortly after telling him, "I trust you."

Why was that sweet little girl constantly reminding him how much trust she placed in him?

What did she really want from him?

But had she really seen his face?

Didn't she know that he is a murderer, a monster?

But what expectations?

Yet she persisted in seeing that tiny, invisible part of him that she called "good."

The Hound thought he would do anything for her, but especially not to disappoint her expectations.

If Stark was under the illusion that those pretty little words she liked so much were enough to turn him into a prince or a lord, she had completely mistaken the person!

He was a free man whose goal was to bring a person home in exchange for money, period. What could have been praiseworthy or good about that?

Nothing, he answered himself.

But then why did he feel that those words about making that trip for money suddenly rang false to him?

With that question in his mind, he slowly slipped into a sleep tormented by the heat of the fire and the burning of flesh, of his flesh.

At the first light of dawn the first to awaken was Arya who would have very, very much wanted to strike and kill that monster, but she saw with horror that instead the monster had fallen asleep within a stone's throw of her sister; she approached Sansa who was sleeping with her lips parted and her arms abandoned near the now extinguished fire and roused her.

"Wha - ?" she made to ask Sansa, but Arya clamped her mouth shut.

"Let's go away." she mimicked with her lips so that the Hound would not hear her.

Sansa shook her head and stood there, still.

Arya took her sister's hand "Do it for our family." she told her in a whisper.

"He," Sansa said, pointing to Sandor, "is taking us to our mother and brother."

Arya shook her head "It's a deception. He wants to sell us. I heard that."

Sansa thought perhaps her sister had a point, but something made her trust the man as strong as he was uncouth, and so she did not move.

"You are so stupid," Arya scolded her.

"He is our best protection," Sansa reminded her.

Arya cursed her sister and went off to train somewhere.

Sansa was now awake, the Hound was still resting, so she told herself it might be best to freshen up: she walked over to the river and gently bathed her feet. The water was cold, but Sansa found it most pleasant. She closed her eyes and prayed that they might make it in time to get the rest of her family to safety, that Arya might love her again, and that the Hound might find some serenity.

Praying to the gods, she took off what was left of her dress and carefully observed that the scratches and bruises from that horrendous episode in the woods were almost completely gone, then she entered the water and felt a sense of well-being, wet her hair and sang a dirge that her mother used to sing to her when she was a child.

When the Hound opened his eyes Arya and Sansa Stark had disappeared, he got up suddenly and drew his sword, where on earth had they gone?

Had someone kidnapped them?

But as he wondered this, he barely got into the grove and saw that little demon Arya Stark prancing and moving like a Braavos dancer.

He approached her, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Practicing." she replied concentrating and resuming moving her little sword and doing a little somersault in the air shortly after.

"In what? Ways to dying?" he asked, mocking her.

"No one's gonna kill me," she replied confidently.

"They will if you dance around like that. That's no way to fight."

"It's not fighting," she explained to him, "it's water dancing."

"Dancing"? Maybe you ought to put on a dress. Who taught you that shite?" he laughed.

"The greatest swordsman who ever lived: Syrio Forel, the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos."

He spat upon seeing that kind of dance "And where is he now?"

"He's dead."

"And who killed him?"

"Meryn Trant."

"The greatest swordsman who ever lived, killed by Meryn fucking Trant? Any boy whore with a sword could beat three Meryn Trants."

"Syrio didn't HAVE a sword! OR armor!" she screamed.

"The greatest swordsman who ever lived didn't have a sword?" he laughed again "All right, you have a sword. Let's see what he taught you."

Arya twirled the little sword and struck the Hound, but his armor was too thick and Arya's sword too blunt to really do any damage, and so the only result was that the little girl's weapon barely grazed Sandor's armor, who, tired of the little Stark's words and gestures, struck her and reminded her that it was useless to try to hurt him or send him to Hell: he was the only chance to try to get to the Twin Towers before his uncle's wedding.

Then he turned away to go look for the other one, the little bird.

As he thought about where she might be hiding, he heard an angelic voice singing a sweet song, a song he did not know, and he slowly approached and saw her in the river. He should have immediately retraced his steps, but the backward vision of that little body stopped him in his tracks, her small back, the curve of her buttocks half disappearing between the waters of the stream and her arms washing over her paralyzed him.

He felt as if gripped by a force that even he could not defeat, even if he wanted to.

His heart began to beat strangely and differently in his chest….

A noise roused him from those thoughts that were taking on sinful overtones, and then, not to be caught looking at Sansa, he shouted looking the other way, "STARK!"

Sansa winced and covered her breasts bringing her arms to her chest and lowering herself just to cover her buttocks, how long had the Hound been there?

"Wait, please don't turn around," she shouted to be heard and having said these words she stepped out and covered herself wearing that little dress-once so beautiful and precious-now tiny.

The dress adhered to her figure leaving little to the imagination of others.

When she reached the man, he took a long look at her and she felt … strange.

"You're cold." he told her in an almost amused tone.

"I'm not." she asserted, but she was lying.

Sandor observed her body noticing her nipples turgid from the cold "Your body says otherwise."

Sansa looked at herself, then blushed and replied by telling him, "Don't look at me!"

"It's impossible not to, little bird," he bounced her, smiling wryly.

"Well, do it!" she ordered him, "From today, please don't look at my body anymore. You make me uncomfortable!" he added.

And it was true, every time Sandor looked at her, even a handful of seconds longer, it made her feel uncomfortable, something she could not even define, but it started from inside, from the center of her body and made her feel … incredibly strange and nervous.

Sandor smiled, grotesquely, but he smiled.

How long he had not been smiling he could not even remember!

With that little girl by his side, however, everything was easy for him, even smiling at those nervously charged words from her.

A few moments later Arya caught up with them, but she did not greet her sister nor did she have any kind words; on the contrary, she reprimanded her, telling her that with that dress on she looked like a whore. Sansa lowered her head deeply humiliated, perhaps that was why the Hound was smiling?

Because she looked ridiculous?

"Stop that right now, little girl!" scolded Sandor.

He hated that little girl by his side, hated how she posed, but especially how she spoke to her sister. Agreed, he was not the man who could make judgments about sibling relationships, but hating a sister for a damn wolf and some unspoken words in her defense seemed too much even for someone like him.

"What do you do otherwise? Draw your sword and kill me like Mycah?" the younger one taunted him.

Sandor shook his head and set Sansa on Stranger.

Arya looked at that scene and a strange sense of foreboding came over her.

"What did you really do to her, monster?" she asked him.

Sansa and Sandor looked at her for a long time.

"My sister is a fool and it must have only taken two little motions for her to believe who knows what! What did you promise her? A castle, that you'll get her a prince and in the meantime she can bang you?"

"ARYA!" shouted Sansa, the girl somewhat clumsily got off her horse and hit her sister with all the strength she had causing her to fall backward "Talk to me like that again and I'll have you left here."

None of the three spoke again for the next few hours: Sansa was wounded, deeply wounded in her soul; Arya was disgusted by her sister's attitude of total trust in the murderer who was escorting her - according to Sansa - home; Sandor was astonished at how the former had struck her sister, but Arya had brought it on herself!

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reginarubie · 1 year

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I'm thinking of making the rounds of asking meta authors their thoughts on who/which characters best represent the 7 faced gods. Because my friend and I have vastly different interpretation and we're looking for guidance lol. The mother, father, maiden, crone, etc

Ciao nonny!,

sorry for the delay in replying, this ask has been sitting in my ask box for more than a month, but I was not in the right space of mind to reply to such a very interesting and difficult query.

Let's start by making a sort of mind-map of what each God of the Faith of the Seven represents, so that we know what we are speaking about — this is, usually, my method to write metas and such, so you will be partaking in me study before a meta as I am quite ignorant on the Faith matters in the world of asoiaf — so instead of giving you all the concluded version of my reply let's build it together, because I feel that like when we speak of real religions we have to take into account many things.

So let's go ahead and study a bit of the Faith of the Seven!

THE FAITH OF THE SEVEN (or simply THE FAITH)

So, the Faith of the Seven is actually the Faith of the Andals and thus has reached Westeros during the Andal invasion, so originally the FOT7 (which is how I will be mentioning it from now on) arose in Essos and was brought to the 7K thousands of years before the events of asoiaf where it supplanted the other religions (only the Old Gods in the North and the Drowned God for the Iron Islands of the original religions of the First Men remain during the events of the books, though there are red priests from the east who have been sent to the 7K to convert them, think of Thoros of Myr and Melisandre of Asshai).

Now, unlike how we are used to see it in the show, and how some characters intend it in the books too, the FOT7 doesn't worship seven different gods, instead they worship one single God who has seven faces. In fact it is said that those who follow the New Gods «worship the Seven who are One».

Now, the seven faces of this God represent imo not only the different archetypes, but also the different moments of men and women's lives. Those faces are (as you pointed out in your ask):

The Father who is depicted as a man with a long beard with a stern long face. To the Father is connected justice and protection as it is prayed for people to follow the Father to be just and to be protected.

The Mother who is considered lovely and protective of her children (think of the Hymn of the Mother which Sansa sings to Sandor Clegane to calm his fury). The Mother is the one who gives the gift of life and fertility and she is sought and prayed to, to protect the innocents and those who cannot protect themselves.

The Warrior always depicted with his sword, and who protects the followers of the FOT7. He is the patron of courage. Imagine him as a champion for the Father and the Mother (as well as the other faces of the God).

The Smith is patron of the creational impulse, and is always depicted with his hammer, he is the mender of the broken things and he is prayed for, for his strength.

The Maiden is depicted as youthful and innocent looking as she represents the archetype of youth and purity; in fact she is the patron of all maidens (young or old that they may be) and as she represents the purity of this world she is the one to whom ask for forgiveness when a woman uses her ‘womanly weapons’ to get a man to do her bidding.

The Crone, is depicted exactly as what she sounds like, an old, wise woman who has seen much and thus as the patron of wisdom she is often depicted holding a lamp to light the way. In fact people pray to the Crone to receive wisdom and guidance.

The Stranger, is neither male nor female yet both at the same time (which you'll admit is very intriguing as a concept), thus despite most sources referring to the Stranger as ‘him’ I shall refer to this face of the God as ‘they’ (it feels more fitting doesn't it?). As they are neither male nor female and both, they are neither human and more than human at the same time and an outcast. They have the face of Death and they carry the deceased to the other world. Often outcasts may pray to the Stranger.

Now, seeing all of above, as usually has been pointed out, it'd be way too easy to refer to the Starks as the Seven faces of the God of the Andals, which may be also hinted at during the scene of the arson of the Seven by Melisandre, as in the text is pointed out:

"Their beauty will make them more pleasing to R'hllor," Melisandre said when she told Stannis to pull them down and drag them out the castle gates.

The Maiden lay athwart the Warrior, her arms widespread as if to embrace him. The Mother seemed almost to shudder as the flames came licking up her face. A longsword had been thrust through her heart, and its leather grip was alive with flame. The Father was on the bottom, the first to fall. Davos watched the hand of the Stranger writhe and curl as the fingers blackened and fell away one by one, reduced to so much glowing charcoal. — Davos I, ACOK

This, easily, can be interpreted as to refer to the Starks, and I agree up to a point. As we have the Maiden embracing the Warrior (which reminds me of Sansa — who easily is the most representative character of the Maiden — and Jon — who at the same time with his whole oath to the NW as the defender of the Realm of Men is clearly the Warrior). Then we have the Mother with flames licking up her face (which reminds me of Catelyn and her marred face, tendrils of flesh hanging from the wounds there, also because Lady Stoneheart returned with the purpose of purging the world of Lannisters and Freys alike to avenge her son, and the idea of the long sword thrust to her heart reminds me of that change from loving mother to avenging mother); and then we have the Father at the bottom (which makes me think in the South) which statue is the first to fall, which obviously Ned whilst the hand of the Stranger is turned to charcoal which reminds me of Arya because she is an acolyte of the Faceless Men, and she was hindered from trying to save Ned (which the focus on the withering hand proffered toward the Father, as the text suggests to me)

The gods in the pyre were scarcely recognizable anymore. The head fell off the Smith with a puff of ash and embers. — Davos I, ACOK

The Smith imo is Robb, as Robb carves a new road for the North and his family. Also, the very idea of them being unrecognizable as Robb with the direwolf' head sewn over his neck seems to hint directly to this possibility.

They were all afire now, Maid and Mother, Warrior and Smith, the Crone with her pearl eyes and the Father with his gilded beard; even the Stranger, carved to look more animal than human. — Davos I, ACOK

I was unsure on who to connect with the Stranger if it fit more Arya or Bran, but then I read ‘The Crone with her pearl eyes’ and was reminded of Bran and his training with the Three Eyed Raven and the fact that Bran is in a way ‘the memory of the world’ which reminds me more of the Crone.

But now, more intriguingly your ask wanted to focus on a single character who depicts ALL THE FACES OF THE SEVEN GODS, which, I believe is even more difficult to pin down.

I am sure there will be several takes on who might be this character, but I think we can rule out several characters easily:

Sansa Stark —› she's quite clearly connected to the Maiden and the Mother for her purity and her being merciful, she will be connected to the Father (as it is not a coincidence that she's the one presiding LF' trial in the show, which I despise for the way it was done) as the Father is called upon to be just as Sansa is hanging on for dear life to Ned's teachings which LF is trying to have her unlearn. She has some hints of the Smith too, as she is forging new alliances but she has little connection imo to the Stranger and the Crone. So I'd rule her out.

Arya Stark —› she's connected to the Warrior, the Smith and the Stranger. But she has little connection to the Maiden and the Mother (though she is learning the difference between vengeance, which a Mother gone astray can represents— see Cat turned Stoneheart— so there's some connection to the Father). She's connected to the Crone too, for the wisdom she is learning from her trials.

Brienne of Tarth —› Brienne is connected both to the Maiden and the Warrior, she's connected to the Smith due to her circumstances as a lady seeking to become a knight and act as such. She's also connected to the Father, for her bravery and courage and capacity to protect the weak and defenseless even against seven men against whom she feels she has no chance. But as she says “no chance and no choice”. Though I'd rule her out as, as of now, there are no connection to the Mother (though we may think there's an hint of it when Brienne saves Podrick even going against her morals and accepting to bring Jaime to Lady Stoneheart) and I don't think she'll have a connection to the Stranger (beyond what Lady Stoneheart presence in her arc) or the Crone.

Catelyn Stark —› obviously has connection to the Mother and the Stranger and a strange mix of both when she's Lady Stoneheart.

Ned Stark and Robb Stark —›are both connected to the Father (as both are seen giving justice and paying the price for it), to the Warrior (fighting wars) and to the Smith (Ned helped unthrone the Targaryens — and hid one in his family which could change the tides of the Realm once again — whilst Robb declared independence from the IT). Both also are connected to the Maiden because of Ned's romantic hues and Robb loosing his whole life and war to honor the duty he had toward a girl he had deflowered.

Robert Baratheon —› clearly is connected to the Warrior and the Smith, though not as much to the Father since he left most of the ruling to Jon Arryn and later to Ned as his Lord Hands.

Daenerys Targaryen —› is very clearly connected to the Mother (see also Mother of Dragons/Mother of monsters) and to the Warrior and the Smith as Daenerys would've liked to fight herself with her men in the taking of Meereen and as it was her strategy which won her the Unsullied and Meereen. The Smith because despite agreeing or not with the changes she makes, she's is carving her own way in the world and changing traditions — being the first ruling khaleesi with her own khalaasar and bringing back the dragons to the world with the blood sacrifices — but she has little connection to the Maiden (and only in her earliest chapters) and none with the Crone and the Stranger. She has some connection to the Father as she is seen in her ruling, though she's more a conqueror than a monarch.

Jon Snow —› «Edd fetch me a block», yep, totally see the Father connection here and to Jon Snow's time as Lord Commander of the NW. He's clearly connected to the Warrior and to the Smith as he is the one making an alliance between wildlings and northmen possible, also he tries to break centuries of tradition of the NW by going to war against the Boltons when he thinks they had Arya, lost her and mistreated her. He dies because of it, and remains warged into Ghost and will return to life, which connects him to the Stranger. He has even some connection to the Maiden, if we think of his romantic character. But he has little connection to the Crone imo, though he has some connection to the Mother as he shows Ygritte mercy and doesn't kill her even when he's told he should execute her.

Tyrion Lannister —› has connection to the Smith, imo, as he forges an unlikely alliance with the Mountain Clans in the Vale and because of his intelligence. He has some connection to the Warrior for his bravery in battle, whilst he has some connection to the Maiden if only because of his arc whilst being married to Sansa. But I can't honestly see any other connection save for the Father during his time as Lord Hand, if only a little.

Jaime Lannister —› he's clearly the Warrior and the Smith, and in part the Maiden. He's also connected to the Mother as he did all he did to protect his family. He may have some connection to the Father at one point, but not now.

Cersei Lannister —› is clearly connected to the Mother and the Maiden as well to the Smith as well as the Warrior. But she isn't connected to the Father due to her being «as dangerous as wildfire» and clearly unable to distinct between wisdom and cowardice and real slights and perceived; which rules her out of any connection to the Crone and the Stranger too.

Elia Martell —› even only mentioned she's clearly connected to both the Mother and the Maiden as well as the Warrior and the Smith, as it's entirely possible that it was solely her doing to ensure that her son could survive thanks to Varys' schemes. She's also connected to the Stranger as her ghost still haunts those who loved her and still move plots, her son possibly is still alive and set on avenging her and his father and his sister. Despite JC attempts Young Griff is more Elia's son than he is Rhaegar and I have every faith the coming books will showcase exactly that. Both of Rhaegar's remaining sons will prove their more their mother's children and the Realm will be better for it, mark my words.

Arianne Martell —› is connected to the Maiden and the Warrior as well as the Smith and the Father (for her role and her entire plot to crown Myrcella). I think she is connected to the Crone because of her trials to gain wisdom (which she is) but not to the Stranger.

Doran Martell and Oberyn Martell —› are clearly connected to the Father and the Warrior, as well, in Oberyn case to the Stranger. But I see no connection to the Maiden or the Smith (as those are depicted in Arianne and the Sand Snakes in the dornish plot)

I think we can assume that most of the key characters can depict more than one archetype of the Seven Gods, and yet I feel like only one actually can be connected to ALL of them and that person is:

BRAN STARK

Bran Stark is connected to the Warrior (for his bravery, because I believe he truly is brave), he is connected to the Father as we can see in several occasions (as he holds Winterfell in Robb's name, as he does when he promises himself that once the Starks are back in Winterfell he will repay any kindness paid to him tenfold), and he is also connected to the Mother (as he protects his people and his brother, whom he considers his responsibility, and also wishing he could turn forever in Summer so that he could smell the girls out and go save his sisters and keep them safe), he is connected to the Maid because of his young age, the purity of his character (even tho he is walking a thinning line as he is trained by the Three Eyed Raven) and possibly because of his peculiar condition as a cripple. He is connected to the Smith because he is paving a new way himself, he is learning ancient skills forgotten and will forge a new way thanks to them (possibly sacrificing his connection to magic — and his ability to ‘fly instead than walking’ — for the better of the Realm) and he is connected to the Stranger through his near-death encounter, his initial wish of being dead instead of crippled for the rest of his life and his whole training with Bloodraven which enables him also to walk in the past in a certain way, which is something I think the Stranger could do, also he holds the power over the life and death of several hundreds of thousands of people due his magic and his choices. He is connected to the Crone because of his natural wisdom as well as the wisdom he is gathering as he trains.

So, yes, I was unsurprised when the show gave us the Bran king of the Six kingdoms, because he is the one that together with the other Starks has been shown to sacrifice pieces of himself for the better of those under his care and indeed Bran conveys in my opinion all the Seven Faces of the God of the Faith.

A couple of honorable mentions:

Shireen Baratheon —› connected to the Maid as well as the Father (Stannis associating her to the Iron throne when he commands his men to fight to put Shireen on the IT as his heir if he were to die before taking the Iron throne), connected to the Smith (because she's the second woman actually officially associated to the Iron throne by its rightful king — and yes, despite not sitting on it, Stannis is the rightful king of the 7K as Robert's heir, even if I hate him; and by what little we've seen of her, I believe she would've been a great queen), she's connected to the Stranger (for her near-death experience when she was just a babe and the fact that people shun her for her scarred face which has made her much more sensible, and her face is half the face of death and madness — for madness is one of the final steps of the malady before it claims one's life one way or the other— and yet Shireen has defied both) and to the Crone as her peculiar situation, only heir to a king, the eternal disappointment of the mother who would've rather a male heir for her husband, a child much wiser beyond what her years should have her.

Rhaegar Targaryen —› connected to the Warrior and the Smith though not in the way he hoped to. He was a great warrior, though he lost the war. He was convinced he was the one spoken about in a prophecy to bring back to the world the Prince that Was Promised and he did indeed forge a new era for the Realm and yet not in the way he had hoped to, he hoped to bring back the three heads of the dragon and create a new order as king, instead his actions caused the rebellion which changed irrevocably the set of the Realm and put into the motion a series of events which have brought us where we are in the books. So though he failed in the way he supposed he was to win, he actually has connection with his stupid actions and death with both the Warrior and the Smith; but not the Father because he failed those in his care as such, and I will never forgive him that. He's connected to the Stranger for the simple reason that in the beginning of the books Tyrion comments on how there are voices of Rhaegar's ghost rising from the dead to take back his Realm.

Lyanna Stark —› connected to the Father (“that's my father's man you're kicking!” cried the she-wolf) through her actions to defend Howland Reed and taking part in the tourney to single-handedly defeat the men who dared disrespect the banner men of her Father; connected to the Mother (Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes) and we know that she's begging Ned to keep her son safe, knowing what kind of death expected him for the only reason that he breathed and was alive; she's connected to the Warrior as all Stark women are for their bravery and she's connected to the Maiden for her romantic character (The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle) and she's connected to the Stranger because as Cersei put it in the show ‘what harm could Lyanna Stark's ghost do to either of us?’, which is to say, a great deal, but I digress; because her life and death have forever changed the fate of the 7K.

Young Griff —› my beloved, he is connected to the Father (as we can see in the very moment he shows his capability of judgment when he names the lord commander of his kings guard for his loyalty instead of his youth or skill), to the Warrior (as he fights to take back his realm) and to the Smith as he is trying to forge a new future and take back the Iron throne to rule. He is also connected to the Maiden for his naiveté in some occasions and he is connected to the Stranger because he was assumed dead and he looks like the ghost of his father and he is his mother's heir in all.

What do you think?

As always thank you for your question, and hope you enjoyed the reply, even though I'm not very knowledgeable on the matter of the Faith of the Seven in the books.

As always sending all my love ~G.

PS. I promise the resurrection series will come pretty soon, just wait for me, I am still working on the Lady Stoneheart/Arya Orpheus and Eurydice meta.

#bran stark #anon asks #ask the hag #faith of the seven #who is the one who reflects all aspects of the Seven?#Bran Stark obviously #the jonsa hag's metas

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