arielseaworth

[arielseaworth]

Oh wow thank you so much for recommending my fic ❤😊❤

Fic Rec Friday

To give more visibility to the many lovely works that we’ll be adding to our fic recs page, we have decided to have a day of the week for fic recs, in which each of the mods in turn will recommend you something they love and you guys can send us asks or submissions with your favorites too!

Our first fic is The Vanishing by ariel2me

Rated: G

Words: 1079

Archive warnings: None

Category: Gen

Characters/Pairings: Asha Greyjoy, Alannys Greyjoy

Summary: On that last visit, though, [Asha] had found Lady Alannys in a window seat huddled beneath a pile of furs, staring out across the sea. Is this my mother, or her ghost? she remembered thinking as she’d kissed her cheek. (A Feast for Crows)

POV Swap: This scene from Alannys Harlaw’s POV.

As evidenced by the summary, this fic is an incredibly touching view of Alannys’s grief and her relationship with her daughter, husband and brother. Her awareness and guilt about her own mental state, her feeling of having failed her daughter, are simply heartbreaking and a lovely bitter note in the general angst, as well as the delightfully creepy touches of Ironborn spirituality. A quick lovely read if you’re willing and prepared to cry!

#I haven't had time to write anything for a while #so happy to see this thank youuuu I really appreciate it #Alannys Harlaw #Asha Greyjoy #arielfic

[arielseaworth]

Ahhhhhhh they're so cute thank youuuu 😍

~ mignonettetakespictures on ig

#penguin #baby penguin #that first one especially ... baby penguin with attitude 😂 #reminds me of my 3-year-old daughter saying NO!

[arielseaworth]

FIC: Riverlings

Nonetheless, during all those years of Catelyn’s girlhood, it had been Brynden the Blackfish to whom Lord Hoster’s children had run with their tears and their tales, when Father was too busy and Mother too ill. Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure … and yes, even Petyr Baelish, their father’s ward … he had listened to them all patiently, as he listened now, laughing at their triumphs and sympathizing with their childish misfortunes. (A Game of Thrones)

The first time Catelyn ran to her uncle with her tears and her tales.

(Written for Catelyn Tully Week, Day 1: Daughter of Rivers)

Read @ AO3

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

Catelyn & Arya, first steps.

“Little Brandon was late to start walking as well,” Old Nan said to Catelyn, as they watched Arya crawl, making her way from her mother to the door, then back again, before beginning the cycle anew. “But once he did, he was almost as swift as the fastest horse in the stable,” Old Nan chuckled. “It was all I could do to keep up with him.”

It was all Catelyn could do to keep up with Arya now. She wanted to explore every dark corners and every darkened rooms in the castle, it seemed, and was determined to do it on her own two feet. Or on both hands and both feet, to be more precise. Walking, and running, she could be almost as swift as the fastest horse in the stable.

The thought filled Catelyn with pride, mingled with terror.

No matter how tightly I hold her, I cannot keep her still, I cannot keep her in my embrace forever.

Read More @ AO3

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair. (A Storm of Swords)

"I often sent away [Sansa’s] maid so I could brush her hair myself." (A Clash of Kings)

She did not know how long her husband had been standing by the door. Ned had not made any sound to indicate his presence. He was watching Catelyn, or rather, watching her maid brushing her hair. His grey eyes did not have that faraway look they too often did, as if he was seeing events that took place years and years in the past and could not find his way back to the present.

Their eyes met. Ned was the first to look away. He glanced at the maid, pointedly. He wanted her to send the maid away, Catelyn surmised. She grew alarmed. Had a raven arrived from Riverrun, carrying words of some calamity that had befallen the Tullys? Had Ned been silently watching her because he was preparing himself to break the news to her?

Catelyn sent her maid away. “Tell me, Ned. Tell me now, whatever it is,” she urged him. “Is it my father, or Edmure?” Or perhaps the raven was from King’s Landing. Lysa. Her poor sister. Had something happened to Lysa?

Her apprehension surprised him. “Everything is well, my lady. Forgive me if I have alarmed you unduly, Catelyn.”

“Then why did you want me to send my maid away, Ned?”

He could not quite meet her gaze. He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for some great ordeal. To her surprise, his next move was picking up the hair brush that her maid had set down.

His voice sounded formal and somewhat distant, though his words were anything but. “I saw you brushing Sansa’s hair last night,” he said, “and I have been wondering what it would be like, to brush your hair.”

Catelyn could not believe her ears, or her eyes for that matter. Ned would often stroke her hair in bed after their lovemaking, true enough, but she could not remember any previous occasion when he had touched her hair outside of bed.

His strokes with the hair brush were awkward and uneven, though he tried to be as gentle as he could. “I remember the first time I set eyes on you. You had your hair done in a thick braid. I could not stop thinking about how it would look without the braid. The red in your hair would shine more brightly, I imagined.”

She had no clue he had been thinking that. She had no clue he had been thinking of her at all. Jon Arryn had done most of the talking, while Ned remained quite silent. For all she knew, he had been as disappointed of his first sight of her as she was of her first sight of him. He had looked too solemn to her, too quiet, too reserved and too uninviting. He did not seem like a man who would be willing to open his heart – and perhaps more importantly, his mind – to the woman who would be sharing his life. He would keep her at a distance always, she had feared.

“Shall I count to a hundred?” Ned asked, shyly, as he continued brushing her hair.

Catelyn smiled. “A hundred it is.”

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

Catelyn lifted her face, and Ned kissed her. Her maimed fingers clutched against his back with a desperate strength, as if to hold him safe forever in the shelter of her arms. (A Game of Thrones)

He yearned for the comfort of Catelyn’s arms[.] (A Game of Thrones)

Catelyn remembered the first time Ned came to her for comfort, the first time he came to her to shelter in the safety of her arms. Came to her deliberately, sought her out especially, as opposed to burying his face in her arm because she was the closest one at hand when he woke up shivering from another dream of blood and grief about his dead sister.  

Read More @ AO3

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

ned + cat and 8 a lie

For the prompt: Ned/Catelyn, a lie.

And when you have [the truth], what then? Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust. (A Game of Thrones)

He trained himself to think of it as a secret, rather than a lie. It was a secret which required a lie for its maintenance, but the lie was not told for its own sake. The lie was the means to an end, not an end in and of itself. The lie was a treacherous tool he was forced to employ to protect a life.

The lie came easily to his lips, when he brought his sister’s babe home to Winterfell. At times, he had not even needed to proclaim Jon as his bastard with his own tongue. In certain eyes, the very fact that Jon shared a name with Ned’s beloved foster father was enough to confirm his identity. It also helped that Jon had the Stark look, of course. Ned shuddered to think what additional lies he would have had to invent, to explain the presence of a babe with purple eyes and silver hair.

The lie did not come as easily to his lips, when the lady wife he had wed and left behind at Riverrun finally arrived in Winterfell. And yet he lied nonetheless, lied to her within moments of her arrival with the voice and the face of a stranger she had not yet learned to decipher.

Would Catelyn see it the same way, as a secret rather than a lie, should she ever learn the truth? She would be deeply hurt; Ned had no doubt of that. Deeply hurt at what she would perceive as his lack of trust in her, at his lack of faith in her ability to keep the secret alongside him. But lack of trust and faith was never the issue. Even before love had grown between them, he knew enough of her worth to invest his trust and his faith in her.

A secret was a lonely thing. Ned had always known that. He had prepared himself for that. The greatest temptation to tell Catelyn the truth did not come from his lonely nights. He was only ever truly tempted when he saw how deeply his lie had wounded her. He resisted the temptation each time, silently asking her forgiveness for a lie he could never confess.

He would always remain unreconciled, torn between the lie he had to tell and the effect it was having on the one and only woman he had ever loved. Perhaps that was his saving grace in the end. Though, he wondered, what good would that do Catelyn? His internal doubts, his unvoiced, undeclared remorse, would that provide any consolation to her at all? Could it make up for the lie that had poisoned the foundation of their marriage, and perhaps even tainted their love?

He could not say. He yearned to ask her, but he knew he never could.

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

♥ ♡ ♥ Happy Belated Birthday @dknc3  ♥ ♡ ♥

“This was my father’s solar,” said Tully. “He ruled the riverlands from here, wisely and well. He liked to sit beside that window. The light was good there, and whenever he looked up from his work he could see the river. When his eyes were tired he would have Cat read to him.” (A Feast for Crow)

Catelyn read aloud, “Lord Elmo did not long enjoy his station as Lord of Riverrun. He died forty nine days after the -”

Her father snorted. “Enjoy his station. What curious turns of phrases these maesters and archmaesters choose to employ. Enjoy, I ask you. As if it is all about fun and frolic, being Lord of Riverrun.”

Catelyn paused, raising her eyes from the book to meet her father’s gaze. They both had matching grins on their faces. Her father’s remarks and commentaries when she was reading to him had always been her favorite part of the ritual. He argued with the authors as if they were there in his solar, mused aloud about the what-ifs and could-have-beens, and even inserted his own invented passages to fill the blanks left by the story or the historical account.

Read More @ AO3

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

Can you write catelyn and edmure 23 or 40?

||A SONG OF SIBLINGS||

For the prompt: Catelyn Tully & Edmure Tully, mourning

“Did he speak of me at the end? Tell me true, Cat. Did he ask for me?” (A Storm of Swords)

“He whispered your name,” his sister had replied, and Edmure had been grateful for the lie, a lie kindly told for his sake. In the immediate aftermath of his father’s death, he wanted – no, needed – to believe that Lord Hoster had called out for him at the end. Cat had given him that lie – no, that gift, that precious gift – knowing that he needed it, needed it more than the truth at the time.

Cat would have been screaming her son’s name at the end. Robb’s name. She had watched him die, the young man who had been the babe she proudly cradled in her arms at Riverrun as she asked her skeptical brother, “Would you like to hold your nephew?” Her face had opened up like a flower in bloom when Edmure’s “He’s so ugly!” pronouncement about the babe was followed by two sets of grins, on the uncle’s face and the nephew’s face both.

Did you look for me at the end? Tell me true, Cat. Did you blame me for not saving your boy?

Did he really wish for the truth? Could he live with the truth? There was no Cat to tell him a kindly lie when he needed it, no Cat to tell him the hard truth even when he resented it, no Cat … no Cat … no Cat … not anymore, not ever.

He could not mourn his sister, he despaired. He did not deserve to mourn her, he thought.

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

“Stubborn as river rocks, that’s what Father used to grumble about Edmure when he was a boy. Edmure took it as a jape. He’d pick up one rock after another, asking our father, ‘Which rock, Father? This one? Or this one?’ Father always laughed, in the end, no matter how wroth he was with Edmure to begin with.”

Ned smiled. “And you, Catelyn? Were you as stubborn as river rocks, when you were a girl?”

“I did not have the luxury to be stubborn.” She had duties and responsibilities. She had expectations to be met, failures to be avoided. She had the combined weight of a lord without his lady, a castle without its mistress and two younger siblings without their mother resting on her shoulders.

I could not have done without you, Cat, her father had often said. That was his way of saying, I love you, Cat.

“Could you do without me?” she asked Ned.

“No,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. “Not even for a day.”

She kissed him. The old doubt came rearing its head again, whispering, ever so softly – What about her? What about that boy’s mother? - so she kissed him one more time, a harder, more lingering kiss this time.

“I’m with child again,” she told him, resting her head on his chest.

Overjoyed, he kissed her forehead before saying, “A sister for Sansa, perhaps. They will be as close as twins.”

“Or as different as the sun and the moon,” Catelyn said, recalling her own girlhood and her own sister. “But no matter how similar or different they turn out to be, each could not do without the other.”

“Not even for a day,” Ned added.

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

Catelyn/Stannis, Regency Era AU (um this is dumb but it's the only thing that I could think of, lol)

No it’s not dumb at all I love it

Catelyn/Stannis

The ball was for Lysa, to find a husband for Lysa Tully and not her older sister Catelyn who had buried one husband and one fiancé already in her young life, and who had to endure the whispers of – “She’s cursed, that’s what she is, those poor Stark boys never had a chance!” – never mind that Brandon Stark had died as a result of a reckless duel, and Eddard Stark had died honorably serving his country in the army, and neither of those things could be said to be Catelyn’s fault at all. So when Stannis Baratheon asked Catelyn Stark for the honor of dancing with her (not that he had put it quite like that, for it was well-known in London society that the second Baratheon brother was very deficient in manners and courtesies, unlike his two highly-eligible brothers Robert and Renly; Robert’s eligibility guaranteed by the land and title he had inherited as the eldest son, and Renly’s eligibility fortified by his exquisite charm and flattery), faces were turned and tongues started wagging, wondering if this meant that another poor soul would soon depart to meet his Maker. “Well, I suppose Lord Tully’s eldest daughter is still a catch, even with her careless habit of losing husbands and fiancés, and it is not as if Stannis Baratheon could expect a brilliant match any time soon, the poor dear, so grim and unsociable isn’’t he, so unlike his brothers and his dear departed Papa,” a society matron was heard speculating with the ladies around her. 

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

(This is a companion piece to this Ned-Sansa drabble. )

Hoster Tully & Catelyn Tully

You are your mother’s daughter. Lysa has my stubbornness and my insistence on having my way in most things. Edmure has my pride and my temper. But you, Cat, you have your mother’s calmness, her serene way of taking in the chaos of the world and building a nest of tranquility in it, despite that chaos, despite all the uncertainties.

Perhaps that is why you have always been my favorite. You would disapprove, of course, had you known, just like your mother would have disapproved, had she lived. A father (or a mother, for that matter) is not supposed to have favorites. But I do. Oh how I do!

Brandon Stark was a great match from a great House. I wanted that for you. I wanted great things for you, Cat. It was not all for the greater glory of House Tully and Hoster Tully, despite what your uncle may wish to believe.

Brandon made you laugh. My serious, solemn daughter, weighed down by duty and responsibility beyond her years, laughing, smiling, and blushing just like any other shy maiden.

I never asked you what you wanted. You never wanted that horrid, ungrateful Baelish boy, did you? You were better than that, I always knew you were. My daughters should know their own worth. I tried to teach Lysa that, but it was too late by then.

Tell me that he has made you happy, Cat. Brandon’s solemn younger brother, as weighed down by duty and responsibility as you are. Tell me that Ned Stark has made you happy, child.

AO3 Mirror

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

stannis/catelyn + vampire the masquerade AU

It’s more a generic vampire AU, sorry about that!

||Send me a ship + AU setting and I will write you a 5-sentence drabble||

Stannis/Catelyn, vampire AU

He was the one who taught her that decapitation was the best method; that a stake through the heart only worked to immobilize the undead, not destroy them.  

“My daughter … keep her safe, even from her own father, if need be … promise me, Cat,” he had asked of her then.

Do your duty, his eyes were begging her now.

She remembered the man he once was, wept for the boy she once loved, and did her duty.

Like Stannis, Catelyn has always done her duty.

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

stannis/catelyn, modern/legal AU, he's a lawyer and she's his client (I SUCK I'M SORRY)

Stannis/Catelyn, three-sentence fic

He told her that a civil suit might be a waste of time and money, that not every case is OJ Simpson where you can be found not guilty in criminal court but then judged to be guilty in civil proceeding, that Tywin Lannister would not hesitate to use his money and influence for the second time to ensure that his son would never be held responsible for Ned Stark’s murder, not even in civil court.

“You’ve changed, Stannis,” Catelyn said, her tone wavering between disappointment and anger, “the old you would never have been concerned about Tywin Lannister and what he could do, you would only care that justice is done.”

I am not as certain as you are how justice would be served in this case, and your husband was not the saint that you think he is, nor am I as convinced of Tyrion Lannister’s guilt as you are, he thought of telling her, but he was her lawyer and she his client, and the days when they could speak openly and honestly with each other was long gone, since the day she chose Ned Stark over him. 

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

[Catelyn] remembered the godswood, drooping branches heavy with moisture, and the sound of her brother’s laughter as he chased her through piles of damp leaves. (A Game of Thrones)

They were playing monsters and maidens at first, with Catelyn as the maiden and Edmure as the monster chasing her through Riverrun’s godswood. Edmure got bored of that game after a while and said they should be playing rats and cats instead. He made a roaring sound as he chased her round and round the elm tree. Catelyn laughed and said he did not sound like a cat at all, more like a lion, and lions did not eat rats.

Her brother giggled and replied, “I’m not a lion. I’m a cat, a very special cat.”

Catelyn plopped down on the ground and said, in a pleading voice, “Please do not eat me, Ser Cat. I have many ratlings children at home, waiting for me to bring them food.”

“I’ll eat your little ratlings too, I will!” Edmure declared.

“I’ll gnaw on your bones first,” pronounced Catelyn, tickling her brother’s chest and stomach. Edmure laughed and laughed breathlessly before plopping down on the ground as well. They lay down side by side, on a pile of damp leaves. The rain was only a light drizzle, warm and soft on the skin. Catelyn stuck out her tongue to catch drops of rainwater, and Edmure copied her immediately.

“I will miss days like this when I am in the North,“ Catelyn said.

Edmure threw his sister a sidelong glance, before muttering under his breath, “I bet the Starks never play in their godswood. I bet they never have as much fun as we do in our godswood.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They pray there. Their gods must be angry if they play in the godswood instead, like our gods are angry when we play in the sept.”

“We? You and Petyr, you mean?”

“Petyr says it rains ice in the North. Ice, Cat! As big as the ice spheres Father likes to put in his wine on very hot days.”

“That’s an exaggeration, surely. It snows in the North, that much is true, but snowflakes are not like ice spheres.”

“And it’s never hot in the North, never! It’s always cold. Cold, cold, cold, all the time, even in summer.”

“Did Petyr tell you that too?”

Keep reading

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

Cat and Lysa, 19 or 37

||A SONG OF SIBLINGS||

For the prompt: Catelyn Tully & Lysa Tully, comfort

“Last night I dreamed of that time Lysa and I got lost while riding back from Seagard. Do you remember? That strange fog came up and we fell behind the rest of the party.” (A Clash of Kings)

The fog appeared so suddenly, out of nowhere, it seemed like. One moment, Catelyn and Lysa were chatting and giggling about Lord Jason Mallister, and the next, they had lost sight of the rest of the riding party.

“Where are they, Cat? Father, Petyr, Edmure … all our knights and men-at-arms, where have they gone?”

Catelyn could not see further than a foot forward. She saw no sign of the others. Only trees, and more trees, their branches swaying to and fro, looking eerily like grasping hands.

Lysa’s imagination took full flight, mingling with her dread. “Did the fog get them? Is this some sort of evil trickery by a woods witch? Have they been abducted and taken to the witch’s realm?”

The feast welcoming them to Seagard had featured a performance by a troupe of mummers, a performance heavy on spells and incantations recited by make-believe woods witches and sorceresses of various incarnations. A mummer’s farce it literally was, and yet, so haunting and unforgettable had the performance been that afterwards, Lysa (and Catelyn too, truth to tell) had a hard time falling asleep in the guest chamber that had been especially prepared to honor Lord Tully’s daughters.    

“Hush, Lysa, there is no witchery or sorcery here,” said Catelyn, trying to sound bolder and more certain than she was actually feeling. “Father and everyone else got through before the fog began to rise, I am certain. We … we are a bit behind, that is all.”

This only seemed to increase her sister’s apprehension. Lysa’s voice rose, anxiously, “Then they do not know where we are? We are lost, you mean? Tell me true, are we lost, Cat?”

“We are not lost. We are only delayed. We will catch up with them, after the fog has cleared.”

“What if it never clears? What if we are trapped here, forever?”

“That will not happen!” Catelyn insisted. “I will call for help.”

But her voice, even when she shouted as loudly as she could, sounded so weak and tiny, as if the fog had greedily swallowed it whole.  

Catelyn shook her head vigorously. No, she must not let wild imaginings get the better of her. The fog was not a living creature. It was merely a natural phenomenon, like the rain, or a rainbow.

A rainbow had never made Lysa cry, though. “No one will help us,” she sobbed. “No one will come for us. They are gone, all gone.”

“They will come back for us. We only have to be brave, for a little while, just a little while,” Catelyn said, in an attempt to console her sister.

Lysa stared at Catelyn, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “You … you are afraid too, Cat,” she said, half-dazed, as if the realization had shaken her to the core. Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, Lysa added, “You are just as scared as I am.”

Catelyn dared not say a word, in case the wrong word would induce fresh burst of tears from her sister. That was when Lysa began to sing. It was a song their mother had sung to serenade them to sleep, when they were little girls, a song about the many daughters of the river. Lysa remembered all the names, it turned out, even the ones Catelyn had forgotten. And her singing voice had more of the tone and timber of their lady mother’s voice. Their father often said that Catelyn resembled their mother in looks, in the cheekbones and in the set of her jaw, but it was Lysa whose voice was closest to Lady Minisa’s. Catelyn found herself comforted by this, and by the song Lysa was singing, with her eyes closed and her brows furrowed in concentration.

Mother, help us find our way home, Catelyn silently prayed.

#catelynqueue

[arielseaworth]

#tfw penguin is not interested in you 😂 #penguin