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queerfics · 30 days

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(Smut) Captain's Quarters - Yara Greyjoy x CisF!Reader

Summary: Princess Y/N, sibling of Queen Daenerys, has returned with her sister for a visit to the Iron Islands. These visits used to be more commonplace, but the two have not visited the islands since before the Battle of Winterfell. Y/N has a strong attachment to the islands, but finds her attachment has extended to its reigning monarch in a new, unfamiliar way.

Word Count: 4.2K

Warnings: loss of virginity, oral sex, fingering, praise kink (kinda), the works

A/N: Long time no see! I got so sick and tired of there being no reader insert for Yara that I arose from the dead with 4.2K words of yara-posting. Yara-yearning, if you will.

NO MINORS BEYOND THIS POINT

The night was surprisingly warm for the Iron Islands, and the salty mist of the beaches hung heavy in the air and clung to the sway of your hips and undone hair. Your hands clutched your silken robe shut as you leisured through the sand, a soothing waft of lavender from your recent bubble bath hitting your nose with a gentle breeze.

You paused at the base of the shore, where the brine nipped at your toes and you tilted your head back, deeply inhaling into your chest. Your eyes slipped shut.

It wasn't often you and your sister were able to visit the islands, but gods above, you had missed it. Queen Yara had earned a special place in Daeneyrs's heart after her proven loyalty to the Dragon Queen, and thus routine visits were necessary to uphold the alliance between the Greyjoys and the remaining Targaryens. Sometimes it felt like you had grown up here, and sometimes the coldness of Pyke felt more familiar to you than anything back home, despite how long it had been since you had returned.

You would never admit it, but something about the sea and the people on this particular side of the world had consumed you during all these years of visits. Something about the people's wildness and the way it mimicked the ocean that mothered the island spoke to you and whispered to you at night and danced on your eyelids in spirals and swirls.

Some other nights, when the whispers never came, you would hold a large shell up to your ear and pray. The beloved gift had always answered you with the melodic pounding of waves against rocks, against ships, and lured you to sleep. In your dreams, you would sink into your deepest desires.

In this realm, much below the surface level of what was true and probable, you would find yourself standing beside an iron throne. This was not unusual for you -- you had been born to stand behind your brother, and then readjusted to beside your sister. Your duty had always been protecting the honor of this seat and whomever presides in it, and yet this integral piece of your mind, heart, body and soul vanished in these moments, and instead, you found yourself for once atop of the throne.

Well, atop of its monarch.

Clawing at the throne, which was not particularly jagged and sharp like the one your sister sat upon, and clawing at the crowned, whose calloused hands curled inside you and rough lips whispered filthy promises to you in a voice that sounded an awful lot like

"Yara!"

You stumbled away from the shore, whose once soothing pulls had now gone ice cold and stabbed at your feet and at hem of your robe. Your hand readjusted the collar of your robe out of instinct, as your sense slowly settled, though your burning cheeks lingered a bit too long.

Turning towards the disturbance, your eyes caught on the closest (and largest) docked ship, whose windows and deck harbored light and celebration. A group of sailors and soldiers drank merrily and called for a straggling participant, who marched towards the boat and waved them off, enjoying the attention in her own way. In this moment, you were grateful that the shadows of the cliffs behind you hid your so very clearly out of place figure.

Your attention followed Yara as she boarded the ship, and despite the distance, you could make out the way they all greeted her with a clasp on the shoulder, pat on the back, or smack on the bottom. The corners of your mouth turned up at the raw, unabashed display of admiration.

Shudders ran down your back and you ignored the way your stomach turned. For a moment, you thought about heading back to the castle. Nauseatingly, you thought about knocking on your sister's door and spilling these secrets to her and beg for direction, a command, anything.

Daenerys was the closest thing you had to a mother, and the urge to crawl into her arms and wait for guidance on this troubling issue consumed you as it always had, but you were a woman now, a delicate one, but blossomed and bled nonetheless, and you had witnessed your own sister's call to these womanly urges, and it was incredibly reminiscent of this pull you felt to the Ironborn Queen.

Your mind wandered back to your arrival this morning.

"It has been so long since I've returned," you said to Daenerys as you marveled over the aged walls of Pyke. Your hand danced across the slotted stone, digging your finger into chipped areas and rubbing your thumb against the in-between space.

Daenerys smiled knowingly, hands clasped softly in front of her. Missendei, Tyrion, and Greyworm trailed closely behind.

"How long has it been?" You murmured, mostly to yourself.

"Not since before the war, my lady," Tyrion added, and you turned to him, nodding with a solemn smile.

"It has been nearly that long since I have seen the rest of the Greyjoys, as well. Not since Theon."

Tyrion and Daenerys nod respectfully, reminiscing on Theon's death and the bravery that presumed it. A small silence ensued.

"I never understood how you have adapted so well to this cold, my lady," Missendei said, sweetly cutting the silence.

"She is a dragon," Daenerys replied, reaching out to brush a bit of her sister's hair back into place. "She provides her own warmth."

The throne room was modest in size but exuberant in its carvings, luxurious enough to suggest status but rugged enough to represent the people it ruled. You couldn't help but admire it all, it being so vastly different from the outright lushness of Mereen or even Dragonstone.

Of course, the architecture was not the only thing you were interested in. You turned your attention to the throne, and immediately stopped. Your sister continued for only a few steps more, taking her place in front of you.

"Yara," Daeneyrs greeted with a warm smile.

Yara strutted forward with an unmatched level of confidence, and you couldn't help but stare at the way her leather tunic hugged her strong shoulders. You were used to Yara not dressing like any other lady you had known, but couldn't help but always think the natural defiance in her pants and boots exuded power and self-assurance. Yara looked somehow more bold and stronger than you had ever seen her, and it was admirable in an unfamiliar, indescribable way.

"My queen," Yara bowed in her own way, a half-smirk ever-present, "It is an honor."

The two clasped arms, and Daenerys smiled before turning to you.

"I'm sure you remember my little sister, Princess Y/N."

Yara's attention followed, and you couldn't help the way you held your breath and stared up at her with widened eyes. It was like you were seeing her for the first time.

"Princess Y/N."

Yara said your name like she was trying it on, but in truth she had always used formalities in this way, especially towards you. In your aw-stricken mind, you'd like to think that her gaze softened a bit. She had never looked at you like this before.

"Your return has been long-awaited."

She outstretched her hand, and you took it with both of your hands, feeling yourself relax into it. Your eyes watered a bit, and you squeezed, unable to avoid the way you beamed up at her.

"I have missed the islands dearly."

Your sister had given in to her own desires, and she had lived to tell the tale. Perhaps you would too.

The ground seemed to push you towards the ship, and by the time your eyes unglossed and you regained clarity, you found yourself standing at the base of the footway. You of course had been on many vessels that belonged to the Iron Fleet, and you knew the people on board rather well, but you couldn't help but feel nervous now. These men were rather drunk, and you knew you probably should have an escort this late. Not even status could always safeguard a lady from the hands of depravity and sin. Stupidly, you grabbed on to the ropes of the ramp and pulled yourself aboard.

Immediately the overwhelming stench of ale and piss cause you to wrinkle your nose.

"Gods above," you whispered to yourself. Though you had been quiet, the sailors very quickly took notice of your presence.

"Princess!" one called, waving at you with his mug of ale. It sloshed over the sides and splashed, narrowly missing you. The men around him jokingly scolded him.

"Come on Ravos, you don't want to ruin her dress," a dark haired, stout man called Yohn slurred.

"Don't look like she's wearing much of a dress to me."

The men turned to you once more, and your ears burned, now with a much more uncomfortable feeling as they eyed you. One coughed and shifted on his feet.

You wrapped your robe tighter, straightening yourself up like you had been taught. You narrowed your eyes slightly, and responded directly to Ravos.

"Where can I find Yara?" You asked, hoping you exuded more authority than the piece of meat you felt like.

Reacting much more appropriately, he turned and pointing towards the North end of the ship.

"Captain's quarters," he grunted, avoiding eye contact.

You nodded, and the fifteen or so men stumbled backwards to allow for a path.

Carefully you stepped over puddles of questionable substances and shards of glass, maintaining as much grace and fierceness as you could muster. Behind you, the men resumed their activities, seemingly already over the drunken encounter. You knocked once on the Captain's door, before hurriedly slipping inside, eager to escape the sailors.

As you shut the door and turned to face her, you had to carefully force out a normal respiration rate. Yara was propped up in her chair with her boots resting on the desk, holding her own stein, though her sobriety seemed much more intact.

"Hello, princess."

Yara didn't bother hiding her surprise. She set her stein down and dropped her arms to the ends of her arm rest. A smirk creeped across her face, and she leaned her head back as she very obviously eyed you up and down, legs spreading a bit for a better view. Despite her brute persona, she did seem to try to hide the way she stuttered over the V of your robe.

You noticed anyways.

"A little far from the dressing room, are we?" She nodded at your outfit. You blushed and nodded with a smile. She smiled back and sat up. "You should know better than to walk around alone at night like that, especially here."

"I'm not alone now," you replied softly. Here in the candlelight, she was able to see you fully.

Yara took notice of the way you wrung your hands together, the way your eyes were glued to the loose laces of her tunic, the rose hue of your cheeks and ears, and your long, snow-white hair falling in loose curls around you.

Yara had known you for half a decade at this point. When she first met you, you were a scrawny, timid little girl who watched from Daeneyrs's shadow. To be fair, you were still quite shy, but you were a woman now, not nearly the little bird of a lady that you used to be. Now, in the warm lighting, she could see that these days you were more of a snow leopard than a cub, and you looked almost regal.

For a moment, Yara wondered what you would look like on the throne instead of your sister. Her hands squeezed at her chair at the idea, and she concluded that that was an image that would inspire millions.

Yara's eyes returned to your face, recomposing her commanding demeanor. She shrugged and stood, traipsing leisurely towards you.

Your eyes' followed each other, studying the other until they met. Yara had never looked at you this way, not that you could recall, and the curiosity in her face sent a thrill down your spine and fueled your ego.

"Oh, but I am as much as of a predator as any man out there, princess," Yara countered.

Peculiarly, you stepped forward, taking Yara by surprise at this newfound confidence. She watched you, and noticed something lurking behind your irises, something Yara was very familiar with and could feel exuding off of your body, but ten fold. She knew why you had come.

"And I am a dragon," You murmured, meeting her eyes without hesitation. Up close, you looked even more feral than before, with the sea spray making a wild mess of your hair, and each rock of the boat interrupting your breaths.

Yara backed up to sit on the edge of her desk, and you followed, keeping the distance small but not yet close enough. Yara waited for you to make a move with unusual patience. You raised your hand to caress the open area of her shirt with your palm, then push it aside just a few inches to trace her collarbone with your index and middle finger.

"Are you scared of dragons, Yara?"

"Anyone in their bloody right mind is scared of dragons," she replied, watching your hand as her breathing grew heavy. You giggled, reaching your hand around to cup the space between her ear and neck, letting your thumb rub her jaw.

"Are you scared of me?" You spoke quietly, like it was a secret meant to be kept safe between the two of you.

"I'm hungry for you," she growled, eyes heavy with desire. You felt your core throb in an entirely new way, letting out a small whimper at the feeling.

Finally, Yara reached out, hand splaying across your lower back, where she could finally feel that the robe was the only thing preserving your modesty, and she could've fainted at the realization.

"I've never been with a dragon before," Yara confessed, halfway a joke, yet halfway entirely all too true. You brought up her other hand to truly cup her face, bring her attention to you.

"I've never been with anyone before," You whispered, and for a second Yara could see that familiar timidness she knew of you flicker between the lust clouding your vision. "You are the only person I've ever wanted."

Yara let out a small noise at this. "Then you must be starved."

You nodded, eyes falling to her lips.

"Can I?"

"Please."

The first thing Yara noticed was how warm you are. Your lips against hers were like fire, and your soft whimpers made her want to crawl inside the flames and be burnt alive. You practically fell against her, knees going week, but she grasped you with both hands and held you up.

This alone was like nothing you had ever experienced. Your ears rung from the intensity and your nails dug into Yara's skin ever so slightly, illiciting a gasp from her that you greedily swallowed.

Yara reached back with one hand, pushing herself off to stand, keeping you slotted between her legs. She turned you both, pushing you against the desk until you were sitting atop it now. You raked your hands over her shirt, grasping at it and pulling her as close as you could. Yara put her hands between you and undid the tie to your robe, hurriedly pulling it off your shoulders. She reached under your thighs, lifting you up by them and letting the robe fall on to the floor.

As Yara angled you on to the desk, you propped your arms behind yourself, baring your legs to her. She paused, staring at your bare form and licked her lips.

"Gods below," she growled, running her hands up your body. You shivered as they danced over your thighs and ghosted over your breasts. "You're fucking stunning."

Yara pushed back between your legs. The warmth of her skin against yours and the cold leather of her pants pressing against your bare sex made you moan. Yara shoved her hand back behind your back and laid you down flat.

"Such a pretty cunt," she whispered, tracing her thumb over you. You gasped at the touch, and watched as she brought it up.

"Do you know what this is, sweet girl?" Yara watched the way the wetness glistened on her finger, and you nodded your head.

She grinned, then brought her thumb to her mouth and sucked it clean. You whimpered at the sight, nearly panting now in desperation.

She leaned down to kiss to you and forced her tongue into your mouth. You moaned at the feeling and at the taste, grabbing on to the back of her head and pushing back with your own tongue. Yara groaned into your mouth and grabbed you by the neck, deepening the kiss, if that was even possible.

Yara's scent and touch and taste consumed you, feeding into every one of your senses and bleaching them until all that was left was her.

Finally, Yara put her hand against your chest and pushed you back against the desk.

"Be a good girl and open your legs a bit more for me," she commanded, and without a single underlying thought, you obeyed, gasping at the way your stomach turned at the petname. You watched with slightly parted lips, panting, as Yara sunk to her knees, staring into your eyes so intensely that you couldn't even think about looking away.

She settled between your legs and brought her hands to rest up on your thighs, just in case. You pushed up on your elbows, trying to see what she was going to do, when she pressed a firm kiss to your sex. You groaned, cheeks going pink, and Yara reacted similarly.

She kissed again, this time open mouthed, and gently sucked on your growing bud. You could feel your cunt pulsing, and your thighs quivered around Yara's head, but she held firm.

She licked stripes around your clit, teasing you before giving it a direct swipe that had you balling your fists and curling your toes.

"Yara!" You gasped, perhaps a little too loudly, because the voices outside of the room suddenly quieted. You froze, looking down at her in panic, but she didn't share the same concern.

Instead, Yara chuckled, murmured your own name against your cunt almost tauntingly, and without any warning, eased her tongue inside of you. Your whole body stuttered, and you slammed your hand against the desk. Yara gripped your legs even tighter and repeated the motion, and you couldn't find it in you to keep quiet, not with the way Yara was working you like she was eating her last meal.

"Fuck," you groaned, back arching. You head fell back, curls falling with it, and Yara swore she had never seen anything more stunning or satisfying. Yara's own cunt throbbed impossibly hard, but she continued her merciless assault, drawing curse after curse from you, until Yara was certain the men outside knew exactly what was going on and with whom.

Yara stood and pulled your hips closer to the edge of the desk. Holding you by your hips, she rocked her hips against your core, and you gasped at the new sensation. You grabbed her shoulder, holding yourself up.

Yara cradled your face with one hand, and you buried yourself in her arm, ear pressed against her chest, whining and whimpering. She pressed kisses into your neck, nipping at it and bruising it. Slowly, Yara stopped her hips, and just as you started to get question it, she spoke.

"You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?" She teased, and you cried out, nodding desperately into her arm. Yara laughed, and then when you felt her middle and ring finger prodded at your entrance, you clenched down, gasping.

"Relax, sweetheart," she whispered, kissing right behind your ear. "I'm going to take good care of you."

You shuddered against her, but tried your best to settle down. Yara started pushing in again, and you clenched again out of instinct, this time clamping down on her fingers. She groaned into your ear.

"You're so tight," she whispered, and you pulsed around her fingers, whining. Once she was entirely inside, Yara curled her fingers, and your whole body reacted.

Your legs wrapped around her, holding her in place, and your fingers dug into her lower back while you saw stars. You bit down on her arm, at least still attempting to keep quiet, and Yara moaned loudly. When you finally loosened you grip on her arm, she pulled your face back by your hair.

"Does that feel good?" She whispered against your lips, and you panted, pressing kisses between each breath.

"Yes, y-yes," You cried out, and she pressed a knowing kiss to your temple.

"I'm going to move them," she warned, and you nodded, eyes glassed over and lips parted. She kissed your fiercely, then held eye contact as she started pumping her fingers. You groaned loudly, then started moving your hips to meet her hand. As your body adjusted to the foreign feeling, you grew confident.

The sound coming from it was obscene, and you pulled Yara down to sloppily kiss her. Yara pushed harder, and so did you. Soon, you developed a rythym, and you could feel a pressure building up in your stomach. Yara glanced down at her hand, then back up at you, eyes unbelievably filled with even more lust. You followed her gaze and practically melted at the sight.

Thick, hot cream spilled out of you and on to Yara's hand, and gods above, her hand was huge. Her palm practically framed your whole cunt, and the sight made you dizzy.

Yara flicked her thumb over your clit, and you choked, grabbing her neck to hold you up from falling backwards. Your whole spine tingled, and your vision started to blur.

"Y-Yara, I'm," you gasped, but you weren't entirely sure what was going on. "I'm, I think I'm gonna -"

"Cum, sweetheart," Yara groaned. "You're going to cum for me." She pumped her fingers harder, and you sobbed into her arms, feeling your stomach ball up tighter, tighter, tighter, and then burst.

You screamed into her shoulder as your cunt gushed over her hand, and Yara moaned your name into your ear at the feeling. Your hips stuttered, but Yara kept pumping until you were shaking uncontrollably and babbling nonsense. Then, she eased out of you.

She tilted your head up with one hand, then brought the other soiled one between the two of you. You looked up with watery eyes and red cheeks, and watched as Yara licked your cum off of a few of her fingers. Then, she prodded your lips with the remaining two, and you opened your mouth, accepting it gratefully.

You pushed her fingers farther and farther down your throat, chasing that high and letting the bittersweet flavor swirl and cloud your taste and mind. You looked up at Yara through wet lashes, and she swore she could've creamed herself.

"Fucking hell," she groaned, and pulled her fingers out of your mouth, worried you'd probably suffocate yourself on them if she let you work at them any more.

You coughed and gasped, and regained your breath just before she pressed a firm kiss against your mouth. When she pulled away, you stared at her with wide eyes and she panted down at you. You couldn't pull a single word to say off your tongue.

She kissed your temple, then the side of your head, and rested her forehead against yours. "Gods below, are you sure that was your first time?"

You nodded breathlessly, swallowing thickly.

"You fuck like a-"

"- I want to do it again."

Yara pulled back, studying your face. Her face was expressionless, and for a moment during the silence, you were worried you had angered her, or somehow shamed her skill. Then, the corners of her mouth curved into a smirk.

"You want to do it again?" She asked, tilting her head until her lips were almost slotted against yours. You nodded your head.

"Is that okay?" You asked, no shyness left to spare.

Yara laughed loudly and kissed you. She stepped away, running her hands through her hair.

"Yes, fucking absolutely," she assured. She reached down and grabbed your robe. "But not in here, I have other things to show you."

You quickly got dressed. Your body shook, so Yara helped you with it extensively, and kept you steady. You looked up at her quizzically. "Other things like what?"

She grinned wickedly before pulling you up into her arms, one arm under yours and the other under your knees.

"You'll see, princess," she assured.

In her brutish style, Yara kicked open the door to her quarter's. The soldiers remaining on deck went absolutely silent, staring at the two of you with both terrified and amused expressions.

Yara coughed loudly and you buried your face into her shoulder to hide your embarrassment.

"If you gentleman will excuse me, me and the lady are going to retire for the night."

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addamvelaryon · 1 year

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DEAD THINGS IN THE WOODS. DEAD THINGS IN THE WATER.

I was once again thinking about how Patchface has a tendency to say some rather odd things, and if you view the phrase "under the sea" as an indication of death/afterlife, the things he says take on a more sinister connotation:

Patchface rang his bells. “It is always summer under the sea,” he intoned. “The merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver seaweed. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

— A Clash of Kings, Prologue

Patchface was capering about as the maester made his slow way around the table to Davos Seaworth. “Here we eat fish,” the fool declared happily, waving a cod about like a scepter. “Under the sea, the fish eat us. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

— A Clash of Kings, Prologue

“Under the sea the old fish eat the young fish,” the fool muttered at Davos. He bobbed his head, and his bells clanged and chimed and sang. “I know, I know, oh oh oh.”

— A Storm of Swords, Davos V

They found Her Grace sewing by the fire, whilst her fool danced about to music only he could hear, the cowbells on his antlers clanging. “The crow, the crow,” Patchface cried when he saw Jon. “Under the sea the crows are white as snow, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

— A Dance With Dragons, Jon XI

Patchface jumped up. “I will lead it!” His bells rang merrily. “We will march into the sea and out again. Under the waves we will ride seahorses, and mermaids will blow seashells to announce our coming, oh, oh, oh.”

— A Dance With Dragons, Jon XIII

“Under the sea, men marry fishes.” Patchface did a little dance step, jingling his bells. “They do, they do, they do.”

— A Dance With Dragons, Jon XIII

Patchface drowned but survived under mysterious circumstances:

The boy washed up on the third day. Maester Cressen had come down with the rest, to help put names to the dead. When they found the fool he was naked, his skin white and wrinkled and powdered with wet sand. Cressen had thought him another corpse, but when Jommy grabbed his ankles to drag him off to the burial wagon, the boy coughed water and sat up. To his dying day, Jommy had sworn that Patchface’s flesh was clammy cold.

No one ever explained those two days the fool had been lost in the sea. The fisherfolk liked to say a mermaid had taught him to breathe water in return for his seed.

— A Clash of Kings, Prologue

The previous passage almost seems to echo the following:

He had been the thirteenth man to lead the Night’s Watch, she said; a warrior who knew no fear. “And that was the fault in him,” she would add, “for all men must know fear.” A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well.

— A Storm of Swords, Bran IV

That's not the only connection that exists between the merlings and the white walkers:

Mormont was deaf to the edge in his voice. “The fisherfolk near Eastwatch have glimpsed white walkers on the shore.”

This time Tyrion could not hold his tongue. “The fisherfolk of Lannisport often glimpse merlings.”

— A Game of Thrones, Tyrion III

Which of course reminds me of Cotter Pyke's ominous letter to Jon Snow:

At Hardhome, with six ships. Wild seas. Blackbird lost with all hands, two Lyseni ships driven aground on Skane, Talon taking water. Very bad here. Wildlings eating their own dead. Dead things in the woods. Braavosi captains will only take women, children on their ships. Witch women call us slavers. Attempt to take Storm Crow defeated, six crew dead, many wildlings. Eight ravens left. Dead things in the water. Send help by land, seas wracked by storms. From Talon, by hand of Maester Harmune.

Cotter Pyke had made his angry mark below.

“Is it grievous, my lord?” asked Clydas.

“Grievous enough.” Dead things in the wood. Dead things in the water. Six ships left, of the eleven that set sail. Jon Snow rolled up the parchment, frowning. Night falls, he thought, and now my war begins.

— A Dance With Dragons, Jon XI

Dead things in the woods. Dead things in the water. Here's the description of the white walkers and the merlings:

Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat.

[...]

— A Game of Thrones, Prologue

They tell of pale blue mists that move across the waters, mists so cold that any ship they pass over is frozen instantly; of drowned spirits who rise at night to drag the living down into the grey-green depths; of mermaids pale of flesh with black-scaled tails, far more malign than their sisters of the south.

— The World of Ice and Fire, The Shivering Sea

Pale and black and grey-green. All frozen.

There is also this similarity of both being said to lay with human women to sire terrible offsprings:

He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

— A Game of Thrones, Bran I

An even more fanciful possibility was put forth a century ago by Maester Theron. Born a bastard on the Iron Islands, Theron noted a certain likeness between the black stone of the ancient fortress and that of the Seastone Chair, the high seat of House Greyjoy of Pyke, whose origins are similarly ancient and mysterious. Theron’s rather inchoate manuscript Strange Stone postulates that both fortress and seat might be the work of a queer, misshapen race of half men sired by creatures of the salt seas upon human women. These Deep Ones, as he names them, are the seed from which our legends of merlings have grown, he argues, whilst their terrible fathers are the truth behind the Drowned God of the ironborn.

— The World of Ice and Fire, The Reach

We know the dragons are contrasted against the white walkers, but perhaps the merlings are too:

The big man looked out toward the terrace. “I knew it would rain,” he said in a gloomy tone. “My bones were aching last night. They always ache before it rains. The dragons won’t like this. Fire and water don’t mix, and that’s a fact.”

— A Dance With Dragons, The Dragontamer

Although no one can say for certain exactly what kind of creatures Euron (who, while not exactly THE NIGHT KING, is still very Night King coded) plans on summoning from the sea, but perhaps the merlings are part of his plan.

#valyrianscrolls #asoiaf #dragons #merlings #white walkers #the others #patchface #euron greyjoy #meta #asoiaf meta #text #I would say I'm back on my bullshit but I never did leave it #though this time I'm writing out my thoughts on this a bit more comprehensively #honestly if the merlings are the white walkers of the sea it would confirm quite a few theories of mine #also grrm is a genius but we all knew that #can't believe this idea came to me because I was originally thinking about 2 very unrelated (but actually still very related 🤭) characters

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laurellerual · 11 months

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Harrenhal vs Winterfell (again)

Today I was thinking about that theory on Harrenhal. Part of that idea involves Winterfell falling and people being forced to abandon it because of the advance of the Others.

A friend pointed out to me a possible hole in this prediction. They argueed that there is (at least for now) no reason why the Others should attack the castle as they done in GoT season 8. So they could advance in their conquest without attacking the fortresses and limiting themselves to bring the winter, and waiting for the people who managed to take shelter beyond walls to die of starvation. This is a fair observation. The White Walkers are in no hurry (as far as we know) and supplies aren't infinite, so a similar strategy would make far more sense then a battle. BUT I found a reason why Winterfell may need to be evacuated with this issue in mind as well.

What about the emphasis placed on the crypts of Winterfell? on the lychyard? on how the Free folk burn the dead while the Starks don't?

Beneath the shadow of the First Keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.

"They were the Kings in the North for thousands of years" Maester Luwin said, lifting the torch high so the light shone on the stone faces. Some were hairy and bearded, shaggy men fierce as the wolves that crouched by their feet. Others were shaved clean, their features gaunt and sharp-edged as the iron longswords across their laps. "Hard men for a hard time. Come." He strode briskly down the vault, past the procession of stone pillars and the endless carved figures. A tongue of flame trailed back from the upraised torch as he went. The vault was cavernous, longer than Winterfell itself, and Jon had told him once that there were other levels underneath, vaults even deeper and darker where the older kings were buried. It would not do to lose the light. Summer refused to move from the steps, even when Osha followed the torch, Bran in her arms.

What I'm trying to say is that Winterfell may not be the ideal place to take refuge from an army of undead that resurrects when the White Walkers bring the winter. The Others have no need to enter to take the castle as it is already full of dead people. Winterfell will be lost during the Long Night.

Perhaps that scene where the dead come out of the graves in the last season could have some truth in it.

#asoiaf #harrenhal #winterfell #the winds of winter #twow speculations #the long night #white walkers #a song of ice and fire

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stormcloudrising · 10 months

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Why are the Others Back?

What is everyone’s thoughts on the Others? Why are they back? How are they connected to the Starks?

The Others are the ice to the dragon’s fire, and the two are the great existential threats looming over Planetos. Yet, we know more about the dragons and dragon lords than we do the Others. They and their connection to the Starks, the core family of the story, is at the heart of the great mystery of the books.

They are presented as a great threat that needs to be contained, but there are also a lot of obvious contradictions in what we’ve been told about them…starting with the Night’s King and Corpse Queen. What do I mean by contradictions?

Well, if the NK and CQ were the leaders of the Others and they are a destructive force, why is the Hades/Pluto and Persephone/Kore myth so baked into their legends? At its heart, the legend of two Greek/Roman gods is a fertility myth.

Hades, the chthonic ruler of the underworld was a fertility god. The planted seeds were his bounty which he stored and nourished in the earth until they bloomed in the spring and were harvested in the fall to feed the populace before the process started over again with the planting season. His abduction of Persephone ties into this myth with her descent for three months representing winter and her yearly return to be with her mother Demeter a signal of the start of the spring and harvest seasons.

Hades/Pluto was the Lord of the Underworld, but he was also the god of the hidden wealth of the earth, from the fertile soil, which nourished the seed-grain, to the mined wealth of precious metals. Also, he is the god who welcomes all, whose realm is full of guests. He does not cause the death that brings men to his realm, because death comes to everyone, and all are welcome in his realm.

So, my question is why George has so closely associated a renewal myth with the legend of the leaders and likely progenitors of the Others. Another contradiction has to do with what is implied in the Qarthian myth about two moons in the sky.

"He told me the moon was an egg, Khaleesi," the Lysene girl said. "Once there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand thousand dragons poured forth and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return." —AGOT Daenerys III

The name of the series is A Song of Ice and Fire. By the way, I think it’s interesting that George reversed the order of things in his series name. Instead of Fire and Ice as in the Frost poem, he went with Ice and Fire, which I think was a deliberate choice with meaning behind it on his part, but that a discussion for another day.

My point is that the two moons in the sky represent the two factions in the story…ice and fire. The fire moon cracked and symbolic fire dragons likely black meteors were born into the world. The destruction of the fire moon likely was the main reason for the Long Night and the great floods legend tells us about. That left one moon in the sky…the icy one. We know this because George drops one of his plays on words with “one day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and dragons will return.”

These dragons that will return aren’t the fire breathing ones, but the icy Others as they represent the ice moon. They are not the animalistic type of dragons like the fire breathing ones, but they are George’s version of ice dragons.

However, here is where the contradiction comes in. What saved Planetos from destruction previously is that only one moon was destroyed. The ice moon remained in the sky. If the ice moon were to be destroyed as well, it would spell the end of Planetos.

That ice moon in the sky is a type of balance. It can possibly survive a slight cracking, but it can’t and shouldn’t be destroyed or else, that’s the end of all life on the planet. Thus, maybe part of the reason the Others have returned is to prevent the destruction of the ice moon, maybe by the actions of the fire faction whether knowing or unknowingly…especially Euron whose goal is to reshape all life in his image.

So that’s a second contradiction in the legend of the Others. A potential third one is not about them specifically, but it could tie into their myth. This third possibility has to do with the confusing myth of old northern warriors going out into the frozen cold to hunt, but basically it was to commit suicide.

Legend tells us that this was done because of the scarcity of food. Leaving their families and going out into the cold meant there was one less mouth to feed, their families could survive on rations a bit longer.

Now this story seems a bit off for a couple of reasons. First, legend also tells us that the White Walkers were roaming the land, hunting maids and everything with hot blood. They were also known necromancers who brought back the dead to be their armies. So why would warriors leave their families to go out and basically become a weapon of the White Walkers to be used against their loved ones. They had to know that’s what it meant when they went out into the cold.

However, there is possibly another explanation that may make more sense and the legend of old warriors going out into the cold may just have been put out to cover up the actual truth.

With a winter lasting several years…if I had to guess, I would say about 13, there would have been an extreme shortage of food. Cannibalism is hinted at throughout the text, and it’s likely something that will be practice throughout Westeros when the Long Night falls again. The old warriors may have simply volunteered to be food for their family or forcibly used in this manner. The legend of them going out to hunt could have arisen to hide this truth.

If this was not the case, and the old warriors did indeed go out “hunting” as the legend states with the implication being they knew they wouldn’t return, one can argue that they knowingly went out to join with the Others. The question then becomes why.

EDITED SECTION BEGINS.

It is popularly believed that Dawn, the famous sword wielded by Arthur Dayne and other past Daynes as “Sword of the Morning,” is in fact the ancient house sword of House Stark that Catelyn mentions in her first chapter of A Game of Thrones.

"I am always proud of Bran," Catelyn replied, watching the sword as he stroked it. She could see the rippling deep within the steel, where the metal had been folded back on itself a hundred times in the forging. Catelyn had no love for swords, but she could not deny that Ice had its own beauty. It had been forged in Valyria, before the Doom had come to the old Freehold, when the ironsmiths had worked their metal with spells as well as hammers. Four hundred years old it was, and as sharp as the day it was forged. The name it bore was older still, a legacy from the age of heroes, when the Starks were Kings in the North. —AGOT, Catelyn I

The current familial sword of House Stark is just about 400 years old and is not the original. It is instead named after a sword from the Age of Heroes. Now what sword in the story could that be? Possibly one forged from the heart of a fallen star that landed at Starfall.

House Dayne, or more specifically their house sword will be central to the final events of the story. However, they are as mysterious as the Others. Not much is known about them as George says it would spoilery to reveal more. Nonetheless, we do know some things, like they are a First Men house.

At the mouth of the Torrentine, House Dayne raised its castle on an island where that roaring, tumultuous river broadens to meet the sea. Legend says the first Dayne was led to the site when he followed the track of a falling star and there found a stone of magical powers. His descendants ruled over the western mountains for centuries thereafter as Kings of the Torrentine and Lords of Starfall. —The World of Ice and Fire-Dawn: Kingdom of the First Men

We also know a little about their famous sword. It’s very similar to Valyrian steel except for one aspect.

The Daynes of Starfall are one of the most ancient houses in the Seven Kingdoms, though their fame largely rests on their ancestral sword, called Dawn, and the men who wielded it. Its origins are lost to legend, but it seems likely that the Daynes have carried it for thousands of years. Those who have had the honor of examining it say it looks like no Valyrian steel they know, being pale as milk glass but in all other respects it seems to share the properties of Valyrian blades, being incredibly strong and sharp. —The World of Ice and Fire – Dorne: The Andals Arrive

We have a sword made from the heart of a fallen star and that is described as pale as milk glass unlike Valyrian steel, which is described as almost black, but is also made from a mysterious metal.

Tyrion wondered where the metal for this one had come from. A few master armorers could rework old Valyrian steel, but the secrets of its making had been lost when the Doom came to old Valyria. "The colors are strange," he commented as he turned the blade in the sunlight. Most Valyrian steel was a grey so dark it looked almost black, as was true here as well. But blended into the folds was a red as deep as the grey. The two colors lapped over one another without ever touching, each ripple distinct, like waves of night and blood upon some steely shore. "How did you get this patterning? I've never seen anything like it." A Storm of Swords, Tyrion IV

When you consider the two opposing factions of the story symbolized by the two moons in the sky, one ice, and the other fire, it makes sense to assume that the fallen star Dawn is said to be forged from was likely a piece of the icy moon that fell to earth in Dorne. On the other hand, Valyrian steel blades, including the first ever blade, which was likely the one used to kill Nissa Nissa, and which I believe to have been Blackfyre, are made from shards of the fire moon.

The Qarthian myth tells us that many pieces of meteors from the fire moon fell to Planetos, which makes sense if that moon was destroyed or thrown out of orbit. Thus, it also makes sense that there are many more Valyrian steel blades around and likely hundreds more lost during the Doom of Valyria. However, the only meteor from the ice moon we’ve told fell to Planetos is the piece at Starfall.

As the quote up thread shows, Dawn is described as pale as milk glass several times in the text, one famous instance being the mysterious battle at the Tower of Joy that Ned remembers in his dreams.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milk glass, alive with light. A Game of Thrones, Eddard X

Do you know what else in the text is described as pale as milk glass and or alive with light? You guess it…the Others and the swords they carry. Here is the description of the one killed by Sam.

Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milk glass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too. Finally, only the dragonglass dagger remained, wreathed in steam as if it were alive and sweating. Grenn bent to scoop it up and flung it down again at once. "Mother, that's cold." A Storm of Swords, Sam I

And here is the description of the sword wielded by the one who attacks Waymar.

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. "Come no farther," the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy's. He threw the long sable cloak back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had stopped. It was very cold. The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor. A Game of Thrones – Prologue.

Like Dawn, the Others are described as pale as milk glass and their swords are alive with light. What does all this information have to do with Dawn and the contradiction I mentioned about the Others?

Well, if Dawn was made from a piece of the ice moon, and is indeed the ancient familial sword of House Stark, who wielded it in the ancient past?

The Starks have a mysterious connection to the Others in their ancient past. Now we see the sword that potentially is the ancient blade of their house, might have been made from a piece of the ice moon, and has icy connotations in that it is described exactly as the Others are in the text.

So again, who wielded the sword in the ancient past? Might it have been the Night’s King, and leader of the Others, who I’ve argued is the male progenitor of House Stark? I think the answer is quite likely yes…especially as it’s foreshadowed in the text that Jon will bear the sword in the future.

Now here is where the contradiction comes into play. The Others are said to come during the night. Some have even argued that they bring the night, but I don’t think that’s the case. But what happens to milk glass in the dark? If it was not clear to you in the alive with light references, George spells it out for you with Jorah’s words to Dany while they are in the Dothraki Sea.

"Here and now," Ser Jorah agreed. "You ought to see it when it blooms, all dark red flowers from horizon to horizon, like a sea of blood. Come the dry season, and the world turns the color of old bronze. And this is only hranna, child. There are a hundred kinds of grass out there, grasses as yellow as lemon and as dark as indigo, blue grasses and orange grasses and grasses like rainbows. Down in the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, they say there are oceans of ghost grass, taller than a man on horseback with stalks as pale as milk glass. It murders all other grass and glows in the dark with the spirits of the damned. The Dothraki claim that someday ghost grass will cover the entire world, and then all life will end." That thought gave Dany the shivers. A Game of Thrones, Daenerys III

Now there is a lot of symbolism at play in that passage such as who are the spirits of the damned, that I will be exploring in a future essay. For now, I just want you to see how with Dany’s shiver, and description of the ghost grass, George wants pale as milk glass to be associated with the Others. And what does milk glass do in the dark, it glows.

This raises the question of why, if the Others are this destructive force to be overcome, George is positioning them, and their Night King leader, and the sword he quite likely bore as what one could call, beacons in the dark.

Because that’s what Dawn is. It’s a herald in the dark. So why was a sword that heralds the end of the Long Night and the start of a new day wielded by the Night’s King, and leader of the icy Others? And why is it called Dawn and not say, Night, or maybe even Blackfyre? See what I mean about contradictions in the legend of the Others.

Why was Dawn, the sword foreshadowed to be wielded by the leader of the battle for the dawn previously wielded by the Night’s King, because that’s what’s implied in George’s description of the sword and him comparing it to the Others.

So, what are your thoughts about the Others? Why do you think they are back and what is their role in the story…especially if they end up being led by Jon as I’ve proposed.

#asoiaf #thoughts on this and that #the others #white walkers #the long night #northern legends #the starks #house stark #scr meta

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rise-my-angel · 5 months

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Sometimes I think about the look on that one dudes face when he clashed swords with Jon just utterly befuddled

"Oh I'm about to be a fucking laughing stock..."

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #jon snow #the others #white walkers

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tabsalad · 6 months

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Inktober 2023: Wild Edition #6

It's time for some fantasy. Some Song of Ice and Fire.

"Demons made of snow and ice and cold. The ancient enemy. The only enemy that matters." -Stannis Baratheon.

#inktober #a song of ice and fire #song of ice and fire #game of thrones #white walkers #the others #fantasy

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telekinesis-mind-control-comics · 16 days

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#game of thrones #dragons #viserion #night king #army of the dead #white walkers

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thewatcher0nthewall · 4 days

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just sketching some westerosi folk

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racefortheironthrone · 1 year

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Maester Attewell,

In Storm of Swords, Craster constantly tells the Night's Watch that he only lets them rest under his roof because he is a "godly man". But, as we later find out, he worships the Others. So do the Others actually care about sacred hospitality? Do they hold roughly the same values as those held by the worshippers of the Old Gods, like opposition to kinslaying and the like? Or do you think that Craster only made that part up, or that he is misinterpreting the nature of the Others, or he is helping the Night's Watch because of mutual self interest and because he knows that they could just take what they want by force?

Thank you for your answer

Craster has no idea what the Others care or don't care about. If you go back and read my chapter essays that cover Jon and/or Sam's time at Craster's keep, I discuss how Craster's whole religion is a wild guess on his part - because the Others don't actually speak to Craster, they just show up looking for sacrifices, he doesn't know what they want, what the rules are, or anything.

He comes up with a bunch of guesses, but they're clearly not right, because they're starting from a fundamental misconception that there exists an actual pact between himself and the Others - in reality, no such pact exists.

The key detail is the suddenly empty sheepfold. As Gily explains to Jon Snow:

But Nella says it’s to be a boy…he gives the boys to the gods. Come the white cold, he does, and of late it comes more often. That’s why he starting giving them sheep, even though he has a taste for mutton. Only now the sheep’s gone too. Next it will be dogs, till…”

This is not a stable social contract or an honored pact between gods and worshippers - this is a completely alien force that shows up randomly and demands tribute, and it shows up more and more, and will always show up demanding more and more. And while Craster thought the "godly" path was to sacrifice his sons, they started showing up so often he ran out of sons to give them, so he had to give them sheep. And now they show up so often that hes run out of sheep.

And they will keep coming until he starts serving up his wives, and then they will come for him, because you cannot make a pact with the White Walkers; they are not interested in compromise or territory agreements or marriage alliances, they want to destroy all warm-blooded life.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #white walkers #the others #craster

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catofadifferentcolor · 11 months

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Terrible Fic Idea #52: Targaryen Restoration, but make it magical

I have approximately a thousand and one thoughts about Brynden Rivers. This is less to do with his position as The Three-Eyed Raven and more to do with all he accomplished before becoming part of a tree - becoming Hand of the King, playing a key role in defeating three Blackfyre Rebellions; becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. In addition to being a master of realpolitik, he is an example of everything Jon Snow could have become in a world where Rhaegar won.

So, naturally, my mind took all the things I love about Bloodraven, mixed in a little TH White, and came up with: What if Brynden Rivers got to be House Targaryen's Merlin - and its King Arthur?

Aka: The Shiera Snowbird Fic

Just imagine it:

Everything in Robert's Rebellion happens as per canon - save Rhaegar gets his Visenya. Or, more accurately, his Shiera, as Lyanna's daughter is born with all of her mother's beauty and a pair of mismatched eyes: one lilac, one dove grey.

Shiera Snow, as she is called, is raised as Ned Stark's bastard in Winterfell. Like her namesake, she becomes a great reader, found more often in the company of the Maester than any of her half-siblings, and by the time of Jon Arryn's death there are rumors she has become a sorceress of the blackest arts.

These rumors are fueled in part by Lady Catelyn, who sees Shiera's great beauty and fears she will use it to seduce her way into Robb's inheritance, and in part because of Shiera herself, who seeks out the Witches of the Wolfswood and keeps no gods.

The truth is rather different - Shiera is a budding greenseer, haunted by dreams she can't explain - dreams of the Long Night and an albino man with a red birthmark crying out to her for help. In her search for explanations, she's dived further into the esoteric than any in the North have in years but found none of the answers she seeks.

When Ned goes south, Shiera heads north, eventually crossing the Wall and reaching the cave of the three-eyed raven. She rescues a surprisingly youthful Brynden Rivers from the roots of weirwood trees and destroys the Children of the Forest who were keeping him hostage, using the magic of his Blackwood and Targaryen blood to hasten the return of the Others and the destruction of mankind.

While canon proceeds elsewhere - Ned is executed, the War of Five Kings rages, Daenerys becomes the Mother of Dragons - Brynden teaches Shiera the secrets of sorcery and reveals her Targaryen ancestry. Together they work to ensure the success of Dany and Young Griff's actions in Essos - and the downfall of their enemies in Westeros.

Dany and Young Griff - who truly is Aegon VI - join forces, wed, and reconquer most of Westeros, which is too divided to stand against them.

Eventually Dany and Aegon make their way North to determine why no word has been heard from the Kingdom since a single bloodied missive was sent to King's Landing by the Boltons some years before - and why no messengers who pass The Neck return alive. They and their armies learn that the Wall has fallen and the Others have overrun most The North.

They're almost equally surprised to find Bloodraven and Shiera - by this point called Snowbird for the snow buntings she wargs into - leading a group of survivors in the ruins of Winterfell.

An extended War for the Dawn sequence follows, with Aegon VI proving to be Azor Ahai reborn, Dany agreeing to die so that Lightbringer can be reforged, and Aegon dying in battle with the Night's King.

Brynden and Shiera, whose magic was instrumental in defeating the Others, are now the last of Targaryen blood left alive. Only they can control the dragons Dany brought into the world. They are crowned King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms somewhat against their own desires, but well aware that the civil war that would follow if they refused would decimate an already destroyed realm.

What follows shouldn't quite be a golden age, but should be an age of great renewal and rebirth - a Renaissance, if the Renaissance included the return of magic.

Bonuses include: 1) Everything about Shiera Snowbird echoing Shiera Seastar, intentionally or unintentionally, with at least half the accusations of sorcery against her in her youth coming more from male fear of an educated woman and female jealousy of her beauty; 2) Unlike everyone else, Bloodraven should find only surface similarities between his half-sister and great-niece, and be repeatedly heard to say they are very different people; 3) Brynden and Shiera's relationship starting very much on mentor-mentee footing, which slowly evolves into friendship and true respect. The romance between them should be very late to the game and only come after Brynden realizes that the relationship he had with Shiera Seastar was deeply unhealthy; 4) As much magic as can be shoehorned into the world, with more magic being capable the more people believe - and the stronger Dany's dragons become; and 5) The triumph of practical, pragmatic politics over all else.

And that's all I have for this plot bunny. As always, feel free to adopt this bun, just link back if you ever do anything with it.

More Terrible Fic Ideas

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