#Wylla Gray

[qhorinhalfhand]

shoutout to asoiaf character design. the little visual quirks grrm adds to characters are so interesting and fit with the characters and make even minor characters stand out……daario’s dyed hair and mustache, qhorin’s long gray braid, the sand snakes having oberyn’s eyes, joncon’s blue hair and grown out roots, the starks’ long faces, aeron’s everything, asha’s hooked nose, tyrion’s mismatched eyes, bloodraven’s anime villain look, euron’s smiling eye and blood eye, wylla’s hair, biter’s fucked teeth, ramsay’s worm lips, roose’s clear eyes……his character design is so vibrant i just love it

#THE LITTLE QUIRKS!!!!! #i love you asoiaf #the world is just so bright and alive and vibrant #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Fourteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen

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Author's Notes: Back from hiatus on April 26th! (Chapter 16 is just about polished and I finally made progress for chapter 17). I'm sending huge, huge thank you to my beloved beta and co-pilot, @vampire-exgirlfriend for all her love and support and kindness. There's been a lot of times that I've thought about stopping, about not continuing this story, about maybe just keeping it to myself. It's been her love and very aggressive 'that is DUMB' affection that has brought us close to the end of Arc I.

And a huge thank you to the people who have liked this story. I genuinely would love LOVE LOVE to hear your thoughts. In inbox is open, reblog and tag me, however you want to let me know that you're here <3

we are now entering the 'oh my god these too are so fucking into each other they want to fuck so bad it makes them look stupid' era

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Love the World Like I Should

Grandfather Rodrik shows up with love and gifts, and there's some smooching on the dance floor at Aegon's nameday feast. Also some political anxiety.

King’s Landing was filled to bursting in the days approaching Aegon’s nameday celebrations. Never had Abby seen so many people crush themselves into the Red Keep. ‘More will be at Harrenhal for the wedding’, Helaena had said, their small group seeking solace away from the gaggle of the court for a while. Baela had come with them, overwhelmed with the crush of noise herself, even if she did not admit it. The Princesses Targaryen, Abby, Wylla, little Floris, and Baela’s two ladies had all sought the quietest part of the gardens to hide from the increasingly aggressive attentions.

Now, though, Abby could not hide from the crush of people.

The Reyne retinue arrived in the early afternoon, and while an ancient and powerful house as theirs deserved their pomp, the familial presentation was for Rodrik Reyne, uncle to the Queen Alicent Hightower, and grandfather to the future Princess Abrogail Strong.

Grandfather to the potential future queen, as the whispers and rumors flew around the Red Keep with the coming celebrations. Rumors that Abby wasn’t sure would come to pass, but could not deny that the king’s wishes still might change. That was a future she wasn’t sure what to think about.

His hair was more gray than auburn, thick and wavy as if he were a man of twenty instead of near seventy. Lord Rodrik was tall and broad, an imposing figure on his gray and white courser, its fine white mane braided into little knots along the elegant arch of its neck. To see him and the king that was only feet away from her had a curl of unease snaking through her belly. To look at the king was to see a man wasting away, a man at death’s door. To see Rodrik Reyne dismount with fluid ease was to see a man who, while past the prime of life, clearly had so much left in him.

“Your Grace.” Lord Rodrik mounted the steps, arm clapped to his shoulder in the Westerland sign of fealty as he bowed. “It is good to see you in fine spirits, my king.”

“No finer time than to celebrate such a joyous occasion, Lord Rodrik,” the king said with a smile. Rodrik clasped Uncle Otto’s arm in a firm grip, pleasantries exchanged and his smile broadened as he bowed lower before Queen Alicent.

“You are the light of the seven, aren’t you, my dearest,” he complimented her, genuine to the core. The queen’s cheeks pinkened at the praise and she readily embraced her uncle, fingers grasping his arms.

“We are so glad you are here to celebrate, uncle,” she said. “I am pleased to see you in such fine health and I’m so sorry Aunt Dalla could not come.”

“It is a long journey and she is not as quick as she used to be. She was quite happy to stay back with Daerion and enjoy the children. I am their favorite, after all. It’s only fair that I give everyone else the opportunity to receive some attention.” Alicent blinked as she registered the joke, a chuckle spilling from her as her uncle pressed a kiss to her hand.

Aegon stood between his mother and Abby, and she felt more than saw him straighten up as Lord Rodrik turned his cool blue eyes on him. Age had not shrunk the man, and Lord Rodrik stood as tall as Uncle Otto, and though there was a far less threatening air to him, it made him no less intimidating. Aegon’s chin tilted up to meet the man’s eye and he inclined his head.

“It is good to see you, Lord Rodrik,” Aegon greeted, his voice polite and steady, when not two hours before, he’d been with her in the alcove behind the tapestry of Jonquil Drake frantic with nerves at meeting her grandfather. It seemed like the kisses she’d given him, as well as the growing bruise that was barely visible above the collar of his deep green damask doublet had not eased his worries. “I hope your travels were easy and without issue.”

The last time they’d seen any of the Reynes had been near a decade ago, at her mother’s funeral. They had spent time with her and her father at Harrenhal before coming down to King’s Landing to spend time with the queen and her children, and that event was entirely different than now.

“Good tidings on your nameday, nephew,” he returned with all the formality as if he were addressing him by princely title. “Our travels were well, and it’ll be good to be off the road for some time.” An expression of mischief danced in the pale gray-blue eyes of Rodrik as he assessed the prince before him, eyes catching on the bruise on Aegon’s neck and then glancing at Abby and the arm she had laced through his own. He raised a brow. “It would appear that your betrothal has made a man of you yet, my prince. I might even say you’ve grown an inch or two since I last saw you.”

Heat flushed through Abby’s face and Aegon’s own, his sputter brief and confused as the Lord gave him an amused look, as if he might ruffle his hair had Aegon been a decade younger. Instead, he gave another incline of his head before coming before Abby.

“You are most certainly taller than I last saw you,” he said, cupping her face in his gloved hands, the scent of horse and spice clinging to him as he kissed her forehead. Her hand slipped from Aegon’s arm to clutch at her grandfather’s crimson sleeves beneath his brown leather jerkin, warmth spreading through her chest at the gentle affection.

“Not much taller than this, I’m afraid,” she said, a light, awkward laugh. Her grandfather reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, where the rest of her hair hung in a long, simple braid down to the small of her back. He cupped her cheek, and she caught a shine in his eyes, a slow exhale as the familiar look of grief she knew well crossed his features, aging him in the moment. “I’m very glad to see you, grandfather.”

Rodrik Reyne nodded, pushing past the emotion before moving on to greet the rest of his nephews and niece, and she felt Aegon’s hand slide around her waist, fingers bunching slightly against the crimson and silver damask against her hip. She hid her hands in the belled sleeves, knotting them together and taking comfort from Aegon’s touch. Her chest ached painfully but she gave him a smile when he murmured her name.

“I am well,” she assured him, leaning into him momentarily before their party went inside, her grandfather speaking of the gifts he had brought for all of them.

Over the past days, it had been a bustle and flurry of becoming reacquainted with her grandfather, of suffering through her sister’s company. The apartments that she technically shared with her brother had served as the hub for the activity of their family. Houses Strong, Reyne, and Lannister moved in and out of the modestly decorated space. It had been overwhelming, but with the arrival of her grandfather, Cory’s acerbic tongue and judgmental looks had been averted, and Abby wondered if there was jealousy hidden beneath all that venom. She had fallen into her own acquaintance with the Queen, whom she had known when she’d served as one of Rhaenyra’s ladies when they were young.

Abby also had to organize the gifts brought from the Westerlands that would be sent back with Uncle Simon. Bolts of fine cloth of gold and silver from the expansive Reyne mines, a peregrine falcon, lovely cream and gray with black specks and bright black eyes she’d named Caelus. There’d been books too. A small chest carved with mountains and flowers contained five books, mostly from Myr, and some from Braavos, including what looked to be an interesting treatise from a Volantine woman who advocated for the importance of women’s contributions, and another on teaching woman to cultivate what she had determined as useful qualities, to achieve worthy acts in their lives.

‘A woman’s success,’ it read, ‘depends on the ability to manage and mediate by speaking and writing eloquently and effectively, for men so easily dismiss the thoughts of women, especially when their power is threatened by them.’

Perhaps she should look to promoting more copies of the sumptuously illustrated work. Perhaps she might even try her hand at replicating some of the images therein. There’s been a box of paints and new charcoal among the gifts, as well as a newly bound book for her to sketch in. Abby smiled at the idea, and had tucked it away for later.

“Mind the dress,” Wylla’s voice came from behind, already dressed for the feast and bossing about the red-clad maids of the holdfast who had been helping Abby as she worked to put together her household. Theraxis lay reclined along the end of the bed, his great yellow eyes watching the flurry of maids with such focus as if he too were supporting Wylla’s orders.

“Only a single lady?” Grandfather had balked, perceiving insult before she’d hurriedly cut in, explaining Wylla was more than enough, she did not want to be demanding, and hadn’t needed anyone else.

Wylla had snorted, eyes flashing in the familiar argument. “She’s meant to be looking for more ladies over the course of the festivities,” with all the same annoyance aimed at her as she had aimed at Aegon in the courtyard so long ago. “She needs six at least, but will she listen to me? Nay, she’s a wee stubborn thing and Lord Larys doesn’t seem to push it either.”

The gifts had not stopped there, and she was currently staring, wide eyed, at the most recent one.

The ornate wooden box before her was made of varnished rosewood, with inlays of silver decoration along the edges, and an equally delicate lock that her grandfather had carefully opened with a tiny silver key. The tiara that lay inside was fit for a queen. Ten citrine sunbursts wove together like flowers, the colors of them running from red to gold to orange and in the center of each, diamonds glittered. It sat in the center of the box, resting on a cloth of silver pillow and her mouth went dry.

“Th-this is too much. Grandfather…” Abby’s voice faltered and she lifted her gaze to meet his. Never had she felt so spoiled, so doted on. She felt guilt for it, the way it warred in confusing uncertainty. So long she had never asked for more, and it wasn’t as if Larys was a doting brother who snuck her sweets and trinkets the way Harwin had.

Her grandfather’s gaze was a mixture of annoyance, affection, and more that she did not understand. “It is most certainly not too much, dear child,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. Wylla slightly raised her eyebrows when he wasn’t looking and gently lifted the tiara from the box. “You are the blood of Castamere. You are my blood, my granddaughter,” he had said, cupping her cheek in a warm, rough hand and pressing a loving kiss to her brow. “The realm would do well to remember that you are a Reyne just as the queen is. It is not simply Hightower blood no matter how much my good brother likes to pretend.”

At least her grandfather was honest and she could not blame him for that. This was how the game was played. This was how power was brokered, even Abby understood the simple truth of it. Unlike most, Rodrik Reyne did not hide his motives, and the care that he expressed towards her since his arrival a few days ago had proven genuine. He did not ask her for favors, had inquired about her wellbeing and made sure she had what she was owed to her station.

Wylla’s nimble fingers had ensured the tiara was settled in her hair, twists of braids securing the citrine that matched her hair. The Riverlands style was one that she was glad not to give up and she would not have anyone thinking she was anything but the daughter of the rivers, and now a child of Castamere.

Her grandfather had escorted her down to the queen’s party. The king and her brother and uncle were already in the throne room and she could hear and feel the buzzing of growing anticipation as they approached the antechamber. Her hand rested in the crook of her grandfather’s elbow and her fingers spasmed with nerves. His hand found hers and she looked up at him, mouth parted as if to speak. He smiled at her instead.

“You look so much like your mother,” he said softly, his blue eyes misty and his smile warm. It took Abby aback. She had not seen the Lord Hand smile so openly and honestly. Larys barely smiled and when he did it made her wish to avoid it more often than not. The last man who smiled at her in such openness was her father. “She is here with us and she would be so proud of you.”

“Would she approve of this?” Abby asked softly. It was a silly question, the kind of question a motherless child who could barely remember her own mother asked. She could see the queen through the doorway at the end of the hall, hear Helaena’s laughter echoing along with Daeron’s.

Her grandfather paused and seemed to steel himself. The emotion was plain on his face. The grief was palpable and he did not meet her eyes as he composed himself. “Your mother was in the very fortunate position where I could let her choose who she wanted to marry. She could wait, and find a match that she got along well with. Lord Jason was a possibility, but even if your mother wanted to marry him, I couldn’t let her resign her future to a foppish imbecile like him, Lannister seat or not. She fell in love with your father and he did not demand heirs of her or money or prestige. He simply wanted someone to spend his days with and they found that in one another. That is what your mother wanted for you. A world where you were safe and loved.”

He cupped her cheek and Abby lifted her hand to hold his, feeling her own tears threaten. “The future has one certainty and there will be hard choices to make. Know that your family stands behind you, and that you may be a Riverlands girl, but there is a lion inside of you. They say in the north wolf packs survive together. You are part of a pride and are just as fierce. Dragons could not take the Westerlands and fire cannot burn the rivers.”

“He won’t burn me,” Abby said softly. “I trust him. I… care for him. I want him, not for a title, not for whatever the future may bring. I simply want him and he wants me and we just want to be happy. I think we can make each other happy, Grandfather.”

“Good,” he said and dropped his hand. “Then should the Stranger take me this night, it will be knowing you will be happy.” He gave her a watery laugh, amusement on his face. “And should he mistreat you, then I will haunt him to madness.”

When they entered the antechamber, Lord Rodrik pressed a kiss to her hand and went to join the rest of the gathering in the throne room. Helaena was in conversation with Daeron, and Aegon…

Aegon turned to look at her upon her entrance and his face went slack. She blushed, smoothing her hands over her gown, watching as the candlelight shimmered over the green and blue layers of the skirt, the fabric diaphanous, like currents of water around her legs. Her fingers found the golden dragons embroidered over her waist, intermingling with the glittering red weirwood leaves, worrying at the material. Her slippers were as gold as the dragons on her bodice, peaking out beneath her hem as she closed the distance between them. Aegon reached for her and she slid her hand into his and watched the smile spread slowly across his face.

‘I think we can make each other happy.’

Abby was not meant to be on Aegon’s arm as they entered the feast. He should have been escorting his mother as protocol dictated since King Viserys had entered the feast already. It was a heady feeling to know Aegon would not let her go, even as he was forced to drop her hand so she could tuck hers into the crook of his arm. A thrill that continued down her spine and coiled in her belly with the rest of the bursting butterflies dancing inside that gave her the strength to tilt her chin up as all her lessons instructed her to do. The perfect posture, the perfect gait all came rushing to her in a way that she finally understood why it mattered.

The pride that she felt wasn’t about being Queen Alicent’s pet project, or even that she had somehow snagged a prince for a betrothed. She was Lady Abrogail, heir to Harrenhal, the legacy of her mother’s fierceness and her father’s wisdom. As they walked behind the queen and Lord Otto, Abby squeezed her hand along Aegon’s bicep. She was the daughter of the Riverlands, and Aegon was lucky to have her, for there were many others that she could be with.

He looked at her with clear and bright eyes, the lilac full of mirth in a way she hadn’t seen from him in so long, and there were broad smile lines around his mouth, the flash of white teeth as he grinned at her. His hair was freshly washed, the silver curls gleaming gold in the sea of candleglow. His doublet was new as well - a fine, black silk brocade with a pattern woven in that evoked a shimmer of dragon scales. Golden clasps in the shape of dragon heads gleamed down the center. The seams were piped with red silk, and red silk trim embroidered with golden dragons wrapped around from the center and over his back. The same embroidered trim encircled his sleeves, which were slashed open along the back of his arms from bicep to the buttoned cuffs, the Targaryen red brocade of his shirt beneath poking through.

For the first time, he wore a crown upon his brow. It was a hammered circlet of gold that rested gently around his head, interspersed with seven circles stamped with dragons. Before the realm, he truly looked like the prince that he was.

A son who was celebrated by his parents.

She was lucky to have him. Let them see it. Let Queen Alicent see how brightly they made one another smile when they got to choose one another. Let them see she was not beholden to The High Tower, or to the Targaryens, or to anyone. Let them see that for all they may want to whisper about machinations and intrigue, she wanted him, and he wanted her.

Abby curtsied deeply before the king before they took their seats. Aegon was on his father’s left hand - the place of honor for the evening, and she was beside him. ‘How lucky we are’, came the thought again. She had not realized she had spoken the words aloud until Aegon’s grin widened into a beaming smile, his eyes crinkling with his own joy.

This was how the past weeks should have been. This is what the welcoming feast to Lord Tully and his party should have showcased: the two of them united, happy now, even as they set out to figure out what their marriage would be, what it would look like. There was enough time for that.

“You know, people like us don’t marry for love often,” Wylla had said, words that had stuck to her ribs.

The queen, her brother, and her uncle did not care for her and Aegon’s happiness, that much was startlingly clear to Abby. They had not come together in this betrothal by choice, but beneath the heart tree, they had made a promise. They had made their choice.

As her elder sister, Corynna, and her husband, Erwin Lannister sat beside her, Abby wished for the comfort of Wylla and Heleana at her side. The latter was at the other end of the table, and Abby’s gaze sought the friendly face of the young woman at the table below.

Wylla sat with Uncle Simon and Aunt Mya, looking striking in her black velvet gown. It was cut in the southern style, the neckline edged in white and silver cut across the line of her shoulders, her raven hair twisted into three rope braids woven with white ribbon and strung with pearls. She looked like a dream, Abby thought. A maiden of winter with all her pale skin and dark hair; striking in a way that many other women were not and Wylla wore it well. Harrion was beside her, his head inclined toward a lovely, red haired woman beside him. Wylla had said that his betrothed, Lady Alys Bracken, had only just arrived. She was so slight next to the northman’s bulk, her smile soft, eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughed at something he said.

Wylla caught her eye and sent her a warm, reassuring smile that Abby returned with a little wave, uncaring of decorum at the moment with how shaky her nerves were starting to get now that everyone was staring up at her. Her dear friend had not shied about her own discomfort in crowds, declaring her own relief that she was not the one who would be center of attention in her teasing, sharp yet fond way.

A harsh pinch against her left arm made Abby jump and she turned sharply to look at her sister, who was smiling serenely as if nothing was amiss. “Stop it, you’re behaving like a child,” she hissed behind a gritted smile. “I’ll not have you shame me.”

“If returning a kind gesture and a greeting to someone across the room is childish, then I cannot imagine you have many friends, Corynna, that do not cling to your skirts.” She smiled at her sister, whose saccharine falseness turned quickly to annoyance. “Do mind yourself, Cory. You are not my mother, nor my guardian.”

She caught the sidelong glance Aegon gave her and she felt his warm hand on hers, drawing it to his mouth to press a kiss against her knuckles. Abby felt the spray of heat along her throat, pressing her lips tightly together to keep from biting at her lip and being too obvious. He kept hold of her hand, thumb running lightly along her knuckles in familiar reassurance, and leaned in to speak softly against her ear.

“Lady Abrogail, if that’s the kind of behavior you plan on keeping up, as your husband, it shall be my duty to discipline you for such talk.”

Abby’s mouth went dry, her flush deepening and she glanced up at him, demure beneath her lashes. “Prince Aegon, you get ahead of yourself. I am the image of propriety.” He smirked and they both drew back. Abby reached for her goblet to calm the different sort of butterflies fluttering through her stomach now.

The echo of a staff cracking against the stone floor of the hall reverberated through the hall and all fell silent as the king rose, the queen beside him in what was meant to be a show of unity. But Abby knew that she was there to steady him so he did not have to rely on his cane. The black, red, and gold robe he wore nearly swallowed him whole, and she wondered how heavy it was for him.

Beside him, Alicent Hightower wore the colors of her house instead of a glow of green. She was as regal as Abby had ever seen, in a storm gray damask gown with white flame embroidery along her neck and shoulders. A cape of gray silk felt about her and the gray sleeves of her gown hugged her arms until they flared out at her forearms to bell around her wrists. Her auburn hair was twisted back on the sides of her head before coming to a single twisted braid down her back. Upon her head rested her crown of state. It was a gold circlet with seven points of golden flame rising from it and in the center flame was a blood red ruby that matched the gold and ruby earrings dangling beneath her hair.

“Be welcome,” the king said. His voice had rarely been a strong one, but he had found the strength behind it to let the words carry now. “It is good to see so many happy faces here, as we come together to celebrate my son, Prince Aegon’s nameday.” He turned his head to look down at Aegon with a nod and a gap toothed smile that, while fleeting, was genuine. The people clapped, thumps on tables shaking the cutlery, and Abby grinned at him. Aegon looked taken aback by the well tidings, the shouts of wishes for good health and good fortune. The hand that he had rested on her knee tightened and Aegon straightened in his seat, smiling back and giving a wave of thanks as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him.

The King continued, “The Queen and I also honor House Strong this night. Since my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, landed upon these shores, the Strongs have been a leal and loyal house. Ser Osmund Strong himself was the longest serving Hand, and through the decades, this family has proved themselves time and again, their fealty to the throne and their dedication to the realm. It is why upon the passing of the beloved Princess Rhaena, that my grandfather, King Jaehaerys, bestowed the great Harrenhal to House Strong. It is this dedication that before he passed, our late Lord Lyonel Strong, the Seven keep him, agreed to a proposal. We welcome you all to celebrate with House Targaryen and House Strong as I announce the betrothal of our son, Prince Aegon, to the Lady Abrogail Strong, and their investiture as the future Lord and Lady of Harrenhal, under the wise and clement eye of Grover Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.”

The whispers of the betrothal had already snaked their way through the keep over the past weeks. First the servants gossip, then the unofficial talks among the lords who had, by now, sent ravens back home to their holdings in the Riverlands. It was news that had passed naturally among the realm, and while Abby did not see any surprised faces, the cheers that roared up took her by surprise. The slamming fists on the tables, the clapping, the shouts of well wishes and even some crass remarks was not at all what she had expected. She felt her cheeks burn and the flush of it snake across all the exposed skin of her gown. She yearned for the coverings of her linen gowns so none could see how red she had turned at the attention.

Yet, Abby did nothing to hide how large her smile was, so wide it nearly hurt. She met Aegon’s eyes, his own grin crinkling the corners of his eyes, and she never, ever wanted to see him frown again if this was how bright his smile could be. He then looked at the crowd and she followed suit, waving at the smiling faces, blowing a kiss of thanks to all. She did not startle when Aegon lifted his hand from her knee to tuck beneath the fall of her curls and rest along the back of her neck in a possessive gesture that made her belly roil with heat. She looked at him from the corner of her eye and saw that his bright smile had set into something darker, more firm.

The feast began, servants coming out of the shadows. Trenchers of roast pork in red wine and plum sauce were placed before them, steaming with scents of ginger and cinnamon. Shrimp cooked in fennel and white wine steamed from large platters, boiled eggs cut and stuffed with fragrant cheese and herbs nestled among salads of other fresh herbs and greens. Abby gasped, admiring the hollowed out Stormland lemons with glistening pieces of Dornish blood oranges and lemon sticky with sugar dotted the table in pops of bright, delectable color.

Aegon was eagerly filling his plate with the roast pork he so adored, and she reached for one of the sour orange treats, popping a sticky piece of fruit into her mouth and hoping it calmed the knot of nerves that were growing insistently.

“They certainly spared no expense,” Corynna’s voice was soft at her side. Abby glanced over at her sister who was commenting on the wine being poured to her husband. Her sister was as beautiful as she was sharp, resplendent in the colors of House Lannister, a ruby red gown that set off her golden skin, and an overdress of golden silk. Her brunette curls were tamed and pulled back into a low bun at the base of her neck, encased in a jeweled net of gold and rubies, a heavy lion pendant hanging from her throat. She decided not to engage with her sister’s low commentary, for it was exactly what she wanted, and instead busied herself on the treat in front of her.

“Here.” Abby glanced at Aegon, who held his fork up with a piece of pork. She opened her mouth to decline, and he popped the piece in with that dangerous smirk flashing across his mouth before going back to his food. It was good, the spark of ginger cutting through the sweetness of the plum. It had also served to get her mind off the fact that they were eating at the head table, and she let her gaze drift, ignoring her sister’s tut of disapproval.

Abby caught Baela looking at them curiously. She was beautiful that evening in the colors of her mother’s house. The aquamarine gown was cut in the Pentoshi style like the previous one she wore to their family dinner, with a deep v cut into the bodice and the layers of fabric pinned like a chiton at her shoulders. On her head she wore a silver tiara shaped into the heads of seahorses with matching gemstones for their eyes. Abby gave the princess a small smile. “You look lovely tonight, Princess. I am truly glad to have you here and I look forward to us getting to know one another.”

Baela’s violet eyes narrowed somewhat at being addressed, and Abby felt Aegon shift beside her as he honed in on the conversation. “May your futures be bright and happy, Lady Abrogail. Cousin.”

“Thank you, cousin,” Aegon replied with his tight smile. “Perhaps it will be your nuptials we’ll be celebrating next.” The words were friendly, at least somewhat so. Abby suppressed a sigh, but knew it was at least a small win. Baela did not seem to mind sitting next to Daeron, for the pair of them had fallen into a discussion about their dragons and how Tessarion had fared in Oldtown. “I heard Mother wondering if her and Jace will wed next.”

Jacaerys.

Abby chanced another look at the incredibly awkward end of the table. There was the queen, then Lord Otto, then Larys, and then… Aemond, Helaena, and Jace. The three of them were utterly silent, like mimes in a play, and it was hard to tell what made it worse: the fact that Aemond and Jace had ended up wearing near matching doublets that evening, or the sapphire sun that was Helaena between them.

Aemond and Jace and Baela should have been separated, but Jace could not sit next to her, for the rumors that would cause and so poor Helaena was stuck as the wall to separate them.

She looked every inch the beautiful princess from a song. Her silver hair hung loose and free down her back with four braids keeping her hair from her face. The twists wound themselves into the silver tiara she wore, the sapphires winking out like stars from the woven metal strands that took the place of her usual braid. Her gown was diaphanous silk, her shoulders bared. The sleeves were a light blue and the sheer fabric hugged her arms. The gown went from a lovely sky blue to a deeper shade of twilight along the hem, and the silver embroidery evoked silver flames dancing across the gown. She wore the colors of Dreamfyre, dragonrider that she was, the princess of House Targaryen that did not need to evoke her house colors to state her place in the world.

The look on her face was blank and somewhat wide-eyed, focused on the shrimp in front of her. Abby’s heart ached, wanting to go to her and get her out of the situation she was in, but there was nothing for it. Helaena already grew anxious with crowds and she didn’t need the extra stress of being caught between two petulant looking boys.

Jace tilted his head towards her, saying something that drew a small smile from Helaena, and the knot of worry eased slightly.

The course was cleared away, the minstrels along the side gallery merrily playing songs from each of the realms present there today. Currently it was a Westerlands tune, fewer drums than the melodies of the Crownlands, and Abby caught Lord Tyland’s head bobbing to the music from his place at his twin brother’s side.

The next course was brought out and it was the largest pie Abby had ever seen, along with pottage of wild hare and cabbage, roasted lamb smelling of caraway and fennel and thyme. There was roasted chicken in orange glaze. Her gaze returned to the pie. It was as big as a wagon wheel, the pastry crust browned and caramelized and surrounded by many smaller pies like a crown. The crusts were slivered all around and gilt in gold along the top, and she could smell the saffron and cloves. They were stuffed to the bursting with more eggs and mixed meats and smelled delicious, but Abby’s stomach was knotted with nerves combined with the heady twist of arousal that pulsed every time Aegon’s knee bumped hers, or the way he’d tap his fingers upon her wrist to make sure she was alright.

Aegon inclined his head towards her, waving the servant away and pushing his plate between them. “You’re not eating. We’ll share.” He even pressed his goblet into her hand, taking hers and sipping from it in such an intimate gesture that Abby’s nerves were utterly forgotten about in that moment. She took a sip from his goblet, unsure of what to say. Aegon raised an eyebrow at her. “Eat,” he ordered and she knocked her slippered foot against his boot.

“You’re eating enough for the both of us, Prince. I couldn’t possibly keep up with you.” His appetite was a voracious one, and the plate he’d pushed between them had already started inching back towards him. She stabbed a piece of meat and gave him a look as she ate. He looked only somewhat abashed and popped a piece of crust in his mouth, licking juice from his fingers. She was reminded of the lakeside picnic, and the way his lips felt against her fingers while she fed him, the blushing heat as he fed her cakes in return and the kisses shared.

It must have shown on her face because a wicked gleam flashed across his eyes, gaze drifting to the low neckline of her gown and the gentle swell of her breasts. A voracious appetite indeed. He laughed when she busied herself with her goblet.

“Everyone is staring,” she whispered, unsure if she was chastising him or reminding him. Aegon’s gaze raked along the bare expanse of her shoulders, his hand twitching along his stolen goblet as if he was keeping himself from reaching for her again.

“Of course they are, hunītsos. Let them. Let them see how happy you look.” His gaze grew uncertain for a moment and she understood what words he held back.

“How happy you make me,” she offered softly. It was finally Aegon’s turn to blush, the expression uncharacteristically shy, and Abby could not help but lean over to brush a soft kiss against his cheek. Satisfaction was bright in her chest when his blush deepened before his own satisfaction crossed his features.

Let them witness. Let Edmund Vance and whatever moody River Lord conspired against them see that Aegon was hers, claimed by the rivers.

“Prince Aegon,” Erwin called halfway through the following course - mutton and stag and boar drenched in plum and wine sauces, brown sauces, and surrounded with dates and figs. The youngest Lannister brother was a gleaming gold lion, square faced with bright green eyes. He was not lanky as Lord Tyland nor as haughty as Lord Jason. He was a third son, bred for battle, and while he did not appear to cross swords with her sister, Abby wondered if that was a battle he had no desire to engage in. “I hear you’ll be participating in the melee on the morrow. Do you wield a morning star like Ser Criston, then? Or perhaps a battle ax?”

Corynna tutted, leaning back with exaggeration so her husband might speak. “It was only a matter of time before we talked swords.”

“The Prince is admirable with his sword skills, Erwin,” Abby piped up proudly before Aegon could speak, her turn to boast of him as he had done for her.

Aegon’s hand rested along the back of her chair as he leaned over with a grin on his face. “Some could say. It’ll either come down to skill or my lady’s favor, should she grant me. Mayhaps I’ll have the good fortune of meeting you in the ring?”

“Everyone knows the joust is where one proves themselves,” Baela cut in.

“Prince Daemon was quite impressive with his blade in the last tourney I saw him in, just as he was with a lance,” Erwin said with ease and a smile. “All the bouts require their own skills and strength.”

The conversation of the small tourney for tomorrow kept on, with Daeron joining in. Abby ignored her sister’s displeased muttering and her husband did as well. Perhaps that’s how the peace was kept in their household.

As the dessert course came out, those in attendance began to move about the room. No doubt they were eager to speak of the confirmation of what had been announced, judging by all the gazes that flitted in their direction. There were her favorite strawberry and cream cakes just out of reach, but she found that she had no appetite for the rich confection with the nervous energy building. Instead, she snagged a piece of marchpane dragon off Aegon’s piled plate of treats. He playfully snapped at her as if he was going to bite at her hand before handing her a marchpane crown without comment.

She leaned towards Aegon, brushing his ear and delighting in how he shivered at the contact. Her fingers tapped against his arm. “I’m going to speak to Wylla.”

He reached up to snatch at her wrist. “Stay,” he murmured, eyes searching her face. Don’t leave me alone next to him, she knew he was asking. Abby shook her head.

“We have to mingle, Aeg, We can’t sit up here all night.” He rolled his eyes and Abby tutted. “Go rescue Helaena.”

Aegon glanced down at the miserable end of the table and they spied Gwayne having come up, a hand braced on Aemond’s shoulder as he spoke to Larys and his father. “I’m surprised Aemond hasn’t stabbed him yet,” Aegon muttered and gave a nod. “Is this to be our duty now, my lady?”

Abby scrunched her face up in amusement and took his offered hand to rise from her chair. “Aye, it shall be, my lord. Save me a dance.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and they parted, Aegon going to join his uncle and siblings at the end of the table. She tilted her head, admiring him as he walked from her before heading towards Baela.

When Abby looked at Baela, she was reminded by the statue of Visenya that Aemond favored so in the gardens, or the tapestries that hung in the upper levels of the gallery: women who rode the skies with braids twisted into their long hair, the fierce and determined looks on their faces showing their command of the world. Targaryens were the closest one came to gods in Westeros. This fact Abby had grown with all her life. Everyone in Westeros did. She saw how the smallfolk clamored for the affections and attentions of the dragonriders during parades, the furrowed brows of the septons who disliked the competition to the Seven.

“Princess,” Abby gave the other a bright, welcoming smile. “Come with me, I have someone to properly introduce you to.” There was deference in her tone that Baela was owed, but Abby also clung to the reminder that she was to be a princess too. They would be equals in a few months, and the Queen wanted her to grow accustomed to this fact.

Baela, her lovely, violet eyes narrowed in her direction, seemed to have other ideas. Abby had asked Helaena the other evening what it was that Baela had said in Valyrian, and the princess had only said that she should not worry, for she did not believe Baela would speak so carelessly in the future. The other woman held her gaze, assessing in the way Abby was sure her dragon, Moondancer, would assess and Abby swallowed past the lump of nerves beneath the gaze. She realized after a moment that it was one of uncertainty. It had initially felt hostile - which considering whatever Valyrian she’d spoken upon arrival had been clearly hostile, it made sense - but it had also become clear that the princess was uncomfortable and therefore more judgemental, Abby thought, than she might normally be. At least, Abby hoped that was the case.

“You have people to introduce me to, Lady Abrogail?” The disdain was not obvious, and Abby wondered if this was what it meant to be unaccepted by the Valyrians. The family had kept to themselves since the landing. She had studied the Targaryen family tree in her studies and knew how rarely they married out of the houses. ‘The blood of the dragon must remain pure’, was stated when they’d learned about the Doctrine of Exceptionalism that allowed the practice of incest, and outlawed the multiple wives that The Conqueror and King Maegor had taken.

Would Aegon have wanted multiple wives? Would he have wanted someone more Valyrian to make him feel closer to his heritage? The curious thought flitted through her mind, and Abby felt a stab of jealousy at the idea of such a scenario, along with an uncertainty she couldn’t quite identify, but similar to the feeling of otherness that she found herself experiencing among the company of the other Riverlanders.

“I do. I hope, very much so, that your time here in the capital will be as comfortable as possible. I understand that it must be quite the change from Dragonstone, and the company of the rest of your siblings.” Baela said nothing at first, lips pressed in a thin line before looking down the table. Abby followed her gaze.

Jace and Helaena had a series of tarts and other confections in front of them, and Helaena was laughing brightly at the marchpane tentacles rising from a plum tart. Jace plucked one of them, slathered in cream to take a bite, offering the piece to Helaena who shook her head in amusement and reached for one of the candied lemons.

Aegon had pulled his brother away with a firm grip on his shoulder and the pair of them had headed towards the floor, goblets in hand with heads bowed towards each other. They were accompanied by some of the other young men at court; the Fossoway boys, Ser Leo Costayne, brother to Lord Owen, and their cousin, Lyonel Hightower, heir to the Oldtown seat.

Ser Leo was the eldest at over twenty, his almond eyes from his mother’s Lyseni heritage striking with the silver hair of Valyria that spread across the empire. He had already earned the title of The Sea Lion, the West taking pride in their own fierce seafarer as House Velaryon did with The Sea Snake, Lord Corlys. Little Floris had found him handsome, blushing when her avid gaze had been pointed out by Helaena. Abby had found herself readily agreeing.

At four and ten, Lyonel was as tall as Aemond with the promise to be taller, with the same cut cheekbones Abby could see was a Hightower feature, while Alicent, Aegon, and Helaena shared the soft roundness of their Reyne mother. His skin was swarthy from his Dondarrion mother, a contrast with his lighter brown hair. Her eyes drifted to the group of ladies, colors of the Reach and Westerlands in their clothes, and how they clearly were eyeing Prince Aemond, who was doing his best to pretend to be above it.

Far better for their attention than that of Cassandra Baratheon, who was stoically sitting by her heavy set father, face flushed with wine and quietly hissing at his eldest daughter. An unbidden pang of sympathy pulsed through Abby’s heart at how unhappy the other woman looked, momentarily overriding her displeasure.

Abby turned her gaze back to Baela, whose own eyes were sweeping the mass of people before them. She wondered if the rumor was true of a possible betrothal between Jacaerys and Baela, the future king and queen of the realm. Dragonriders both, in the Targaryen ways of old like Aegon and his wives, like King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. She wondered if it had happened already and was simply unannounced, Rhaenyra waiting for the most opportune moment. Or perhaps the pair were simply siblings, mayhaps promises made out of stubborn pride. Would that explain Baela’s disdain for them? Did she see them as interlopers in a place that she considered her birthright by conquest and the Valyrian blood flowing through her?

Baela finally rose, fluid and graceful and confident in all the ways that Abby still found it difficult to be. The other woman stood a few inches taller - not a difficult feat by any means, but Abby was envious of the graceful turn of her neck. She was reminded of the descriptions of Visenya: comfortable in silks as she was in armor. What a sight the other would make upon dragonback with a war cry tearing from her. How confident Baela Targaryen was;in her sense of self, her place in the world, in all that made her Valyrian.

It struck Abby then how she did not feel like a child of the Riverlands no matter what she claimed. It felt as if she were spinning falsehoods into a cloak to shroud herself in, to distract from her own sense of confusion. As they approached the closer table where her Uncle Simon sat with the Brackens, listening to the conversation blend before her in the lilt and familiar cadence of the Riverlands, Abby found herself feeling like an outsider. It had not quite been like this at the welcoming feast those weeks ago, where they spoke the language of the capital. Her mother tongue had been one lost to her over the years since her father died, relegated to the dinner table and bedtime stories, of ephemeral memories of lullabies long sung. To hear Wylla’s own northern brogue share in the words of Old Tongue falling in a similar harmony, panic settled in Abby’s chest to find that she couldn’t quite keep up with the words exchanged.

The panic was frozen when Wylla turned her head, and all at the table gave move to rise and give their courtesies to Princess Baela. Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Baela shift a little, felt the whisper of silks brush against her. “This is Lady Wylla Karstark, from Karhold,” Abby introduced, her voice coming out higher than she intended as she forced past the lump in her throat. Wylla rose, nodding to her brother who was also getting up to speak with some of the other lords.

“Princess Baela, I hope you’re enjoying the festivities.”

Baela inclined her head but said nothing.

“She is my dearest friend and also far from home. Also quite the archer.” Abby reached for things that Baela might find intriguing and welcoming, hoping her instincts weren’t wrong.

Wylla shook her head slightly. “You are too kind, Lady,” she lightly teased with the use of the title.

Baela’s head cocked, the tinkling of the silver charms in her hair soft among the din of the room. “My, all that snow and ice. It’s a wonder you do not melt beneath the dragon’s heat,” Baela said and the challenge was clear in her voice.

Wylla smiled in her sharp way, ever the winter fox. “As a daughter of fire and sea, I would assume you to be well acquainted with contradictions. One must burn hot to survive the cold.”

Baela actually smiled at that and Abby took the chance. “Wylla is a far better archer than I, Princess. I hear you yourself are well acquainted with the bow.” Wylla’s storm gray eyes flitted to her and Abby did everything she could not to shift awkwardly beneath her friend’s gaze. Not in this dress, and not with the sunburst tiara that graced her head. Instead, she grinned back at her. The princess merely glanced back at her before shifting closer to Wylla.

“Do you hunt, Lady Wylla? I hear there’s to be a hunt later this week and I do so miss hawking…”

Abby released a soft breath, pressing a grateful squeeze to Wylla’s shoulder before moving on to her aunt and uncle. Her cousin, Gareth, had stayed behind at Harrenhal, and she had fuzzy memories of her Aunt Mya. The older woman was plump and warm, brushing a soft kiss with a greeting. The din of the throne room grew louder as the meal came to an end, servants dashing between the party goers, removing plates and replacing carafes of wine and small foods for guests to continue to indulge in. The music shifted to a more lively fair and the dance floor quickly filled with eager revelers.

Lythene Ryger of Willow Wood had drawn her into the shy gaggle of maidens who were standing expectantly along the edge of the dance floor, trading glances across the room at the lords and Abby had noticed the looks they’d thrown in Aemond’s direction. Lady Lythene was five and ten, soft featured with honey brown eyes, her strawberry blonde hair woven with strands of river pearls in the common half knot coil that was common in the Riverlands.

“If Lord Yorick were here, none of these men would have a chance to win tomorrow,” Melony Piper said, all dark hair and more freckles than one could count. “My sister says he was the most fearsome knight not so long ago.”

“Psh,” Lythene rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows Ser Gwayne is a force to be reckoned with. Besides, Lord Yorick never leaves Runestone and if he did, Lord Borros would throw a fit.” She looked smug with the knowledge imparted and whatever look on Abby’s face seemed to spur her on. She leaned in. “Lord Yorick is married to Lord Borros’ younger sister with a son of their own. Should Lady Elenda not have a son, it’s said his sister may push one of her son’s claims to Storm’s End.”

As one, their eyes swiveled in the direction of Cassandra Baratheon, perfectly coiffed, and everything the daughter of a Lord Paramount would be. Raven hair wild as storm clouds around her bare shoulders, her golden dress sparkling in the dancing torchlight with an opal the size of Abby’s fist nestled in the hollow of her throat. Abby’s hands twitched, smoothing over the cloud of blue and green silk organza, the golden dragons and weirwood leaves embroidered over her bodice.

A warm hand touched her wrist and Abby met the gentle, honey eyes of Lythene, who smiled up at her. “Tá cuma álainn ort, a bhean,” she said softly while the others tittered. It took Abby a moment to register the words, “you look beautiful, my lady”, and Abby smiled shyly.

“Go raibh maith agat,” she thanked her and Lythene bit her lip as if holding back a chuckle.

“Agat,” she pronounced softly, the inflection different. “A little closer to got, and less like goat.”

Her cheeks burned and she repeated it softly and Lythene took her hand, squeezing it. “I can’t imagine you get to practice with many people here in the South,” she laughed, a tinkling like bells that drew the attention of other men.

“I haven’t. I’m looking forward to getting to speak it more, but I can’t get that sort of practice teaching Aeg- Prince Aegon.”

“You mean he’s actually going to try learning our tongue?” came the aggressive disbelief of Lady Melony. “Targaryens aren’t ones to debase themselves so.”

Lythene opened her mouth but Abby cut in, a frown slashed across her face. “Aegon is a Targaryen and a Hightower, a family that traces their lineage and impact to before the First Men, some say.” She tilted her head, exhaling softly and shook her head. “The Targaryens may be above us due to the gifts of the dragon, but you can be assured that Prince Aegon will take his duties seriously.”

She was reminded of the words Edmund had sneered at her, of how none would trust a dragon coming into the Riverlands and it was foolish to think so. Lythene said nothing, watching her curiously while Melony Piper’s bright green eyes narrowed somewhat, thin mouth pursed. Abby’s grandmother had been a Piper, which made the two of them kin.

Seven and the Old Gods help her if Aegon did not live up to her promise, but Abby trusted that he would. That he would, at the very least, try.

Melony opened her mouth to speak again but murmurs danced through the crowd, attention towards the dance floor. Abby looked over her shoulder in surprise.

Jace led Helaena by the hand to the crowd of dancers as the next song started, fingers touching as they circled around one another. She was a glittering, blue dragon amidst the crowd, hair like mercury as it flowed around her. Helaena loved to dance and the joy was obvious on her soft features, Jace’s own smile a shy one, his broad frame more obvious as he circled around her. Not as tall as Aemond, but Jace would grow taller yet.

“Well,” Melony’s attention had changed. “That’s an interesting development.”

Abby’s eyes instinctively cut to the queen where she sat at the King’s right, a slight furrow to her brow, and the Lord Hand beside her, his attention also on the pair dancing. A fond smile cut across Otto Hightower’s face as Helaena laughed when Jace spun her, and Abby wasn’t at all sure what to make of it.

Helaena looked happy, though, and that was all that mattered.

Abby startled at the feeling of a warm hand stroking against her elbow and Aegon’s laughter was soft as he stroked his fingers down her arm in a way that had goosebumps flaring across her skin. His fingers twined with hers and the ladies around her bobbed curtsies, murmuring My Prince and Your Grace.

“You all look like you’re having so much fun here, but I must steal my betrothed away,” Aegon said, his voice light and amused, in his element as the center of attention and even more dangerous without drink to cloud his senses. Abby felt the heated flush creep along her throat when Aegon tugged her into him. “I promised you a dance, didn’t I, Lady Abrogail?”

Lythene looked amused, Melony uncertain and Abby turned under Aegon’s arm so that she was facing him. “You did, my Prince. Thank you for the conversation, Lady Lythene, Lady Melony,” she thanked as Aegon began tugging her away. “It was good to meet you.”

Everything else drifted away when Aegon pulled her into his arms. The contrast to the last time they’d danced together was palpable. There was no anger between them, no confusion, no fear. He twirled her as he drew her into the space as if he were showing her off, her skirt flaring around her, rippling greens and blues like the rivers of her home, the candlelight glimmering along the golden threaded dragons on her gown, and the citrine bursts along her tiara. When Aegon pulled her into him, she could feel the heat of his body barely pressed against her, the flush of it coursing through her with every hammering beat of her heart.

“I wish we were somewhere more quiet,” Abby murmured to him as they turned around one another, clapping their hands before reaching for each other again. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Aemond tugging Wylla on the floor, her friend caught between surprise and a pleased flush along her cheeks. Abby would have to tease her later, in return for how merciless Wylla had teased her.

“Do you?” Aegon asked, grinning at her, eyes full of heat. “We could, you know. It is my nameday.”

“We’ll be caught, and I’d rather your mother not find us,” she chuckled, spinning away from him to turn around Lord Tyland, who smiled down at her indulgently while Aegon politely moved around Lady Johanna Westerling, Tyland’s goodsister and dance partner. Her gaze kept pulling back to Aegon whenever they were separated in the dances, and when they came back together, there was an ache in her chest that she could not identify. Relief? Want? Longing?

Everything?

“Remind me to get you a map of the tunnels,” he murmured, leaning down to brush a kiss against her temple and she couldn’t help the bubbling of giggles that escaped her. Aegon looked incredibly pleased with himself, and as the next song started, he pulled her closer to him, hands possessive on her hips as he lifted her in the air and spun her around.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked. Then it clicked. “What, so I can sneak to your room?”

Aegon winked at her. “Clever girl.”

“I try.”

As Abby turned, her eyes caught on the furious, dark gaze of Edmund Vance across the hall, accompanied by Lord Piper and some of the other River Lords. Abby blanched, the joy she had felt abating like water on a fire at the ugly look in his eyes. So distracted, she was, that she stumbled her steps of the complicated dance, nearly falling had Aegon not pulled her to him in time. She saw his gaze follow hers, his own smile morphing into a hard look.

“I’ve taken care of it.” Abby didn’t understand, trying to find the steps again without ruining the entire dance, cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Aegon’s hand brushed soothing along her arm, his other hand warm on her waist and giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Focus on me, eyes on me, hunītsos.” His voice was gentle and firm all at once, quiet and earnest and Abby focused on the sound of it, her gaze finding his, softened now. “Aemond saved me from making a scene, but I’ve handled it.” He tilted his head. “I don’t need to take his hands.”

Abby struggled to find words, a strange and unfamiliar thrill coursing through her that she could not examine too closely in the moment. “And what have you decided to take instead?”

As the dance came to a close, Aegon reached up to cup the softness of her cheek, tilting her head back with his thumb on her lower lip. He leaned in, mouth brushing against hers, and the vow he made was full of promise.

“His pride,” he murmured, and kissed her in front of the realm to seal it.

What was your favorite moment of the chapter? What's something you're looking forward to? Any fun theories!? I'd love to hear your thoughts on what you're enjoying about Maiden and any curiosities you might have! And if you're not sure what to say, just a kind reblog with a heart or something would be lovely <3

[Chapter Fifteen]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby #my fics

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

wyllaemond smut prompt: the fox of karhold and the rogue prince (ot3 verse)

well, this absolutely ran away with me. so much for being 1k words.

fall on me like night

pairing: aemond targaryen x oc wylla karstark

rating: e

words: 4.5k

this is a future outtake from the ot3verse, no more than i was or than i am, which you can find here

Lovely did not do justice to his sister's newest lady in waiting.

No, the Fox of Karhold was not lovely. 

Haunting, perhaps. Or maybe devastating was a better word. 

Her face was an amalgamation of features that may have been plain on anyone else: soft cheeks, rounded jaw, rosebud mouth. But her skin was pale as the moon, her eyes as gray as a storm that built off the coast. Narrowed in distrust as they were now, that storm built until he could swear he heard lightning in the distance. 

“You want to dance?” she asked. “With me?”

The pointed question poked at the tender bruise of Aemond's ego. “That's what I said, isn't it?” he snapped, all snarling teeth but little heat. 

He did want to dance with her. He'd watched her flit around all evening, draped in black velvet, diamond starbursts in her hair - hair that fell loose and curling to mid thigh. ‘Was it heavy,’ he wondered, ‘all that pretty midnight hair?’ 

“Fine,” she answered, her voice matching his bite even through her thick northern accent, and slid her small hand into his. 

His uncle had goaded him into asking her, watching him as he watched her. “Go on then,” Daemon had said. “It's depressing to witness.” He had softened, pushing lightly at Aemond's shoulder when his face tightened at the implication. “She won't deny you. The pretty little creature has been casting furtive glances all evening.” He turned away then, back to Rhaenyra and Alicent beside her, both smiling at whatever inane thing they spoke of, his mother in a tiara of silver and emeralds, his sister in their father's crown. Rhaenyra turned toward him, as if she felt his stare, and gave him an encouraging smile, giving away that they had been talking about him. 

Wylla Karstark’s hand was cool in his, as if the northern winds coursed through her veins instead of blood. It eased the heat that licked at his skin, ever present, perhaps more so since he had claimed his dragon.

“You're a better dancer than your brother,” the fox said primly, her eye on some faraway point over his shoulder as he guided her in the steps of the dance. His hands found her waist, pressing tighter than was altogether appropriate. But the way she inhaled sharply at his touch was worth the impropriety.

Aemond looked to where Aegon danced with his wife, Abrogail Strong. The red head was dainty, graceful even, and Aegon could not tear his eyes from her.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“I think this is the nicest you've been to me since I've arrived.” There was distrust in her voice.

Aemond bristled. “You say that as if I've been cruel.”

She laughed and the sound pulled at something low in his gut. It was a large laugh, boisterous, too big for her small frame. He wondered where she hid it. “Not cruel. Only disdainful. Distant.”

“You are my sister's lady,” was all he said in answer. 

Helaena had taken to Wylla immediately upon her arrival from the frozen wastes she called home, wrapping her in dragon’s claws and claiming she would like to keep her. It made him happy to see she had finally found another friend. And Wylla did make her smile, letting his sister set her beetles to crawl over her skirts or placing moths in her hair like jewels. 

He glanced down and found her staring up at him, head cocked, and suddenly he felt like prey, stalked through the Kingswood. But Aemond was not prey. 

He was a dragon.

Leaning forward, he placed his cheek to her temple, feeling the little shiver that ran through her. “You have lovely eyes,” he murmured, and prayed the line would not leave him embarrassed.

Wylla cleared her throat. “Thank you, my prince.” He spun her then, the long bell sleeves of her gown fluttering around them. “Yours is lovely as well.”

He believed she meant it and smiled down at her, noticing for the first time a small scar that cut through her top lip. 

The song ended and his fox was pulled away, though she kept her gaze on him until the crowd swallowed her up. 

—

A week had passed since the queen's birthday feast and Rhaenyra had been in a happy mood. Her second-born, Prince Lucerys, had arrived back in King's Landing after a time spent warding with their aunt, Princess Rhaenys, and the Sea Snake. He was tan skinned from all the time spent aboard a ship, the tawny making his hair shine more gold than silver, all smiles and tales of life at sea.

Devoid of her attention, and subsequently his mother and uncle's, Aemond wandered until he found himself in his favorite spot in the gardens. A statue of Visenya the Conqueror rose up from a stone dais, her hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, her eyes cast to the distance. A fountain bubbled around her feet, and blooms he knew to be poisonous crawled up her legs like armor, blood red and a purple so dark and deep as to be nearly black.

There was a rustle of fabric from behind the statue and he leaned over to find Wylla Karstark looking over him, gray eyes wide.

Her raven hair gleamed in the torchlight, lit by servants as the sun set. Though they were alone now. 

The thought curled deliciously in his gut. 

“You could ask for her hand,” Daemon had said after the feast. “You know you want her. And her brute of a father would never turn you down.”

“Apologies, my prince,” she said, rising to her feet, blue skirts the color of the night sky tumbling around her legs. It was the same shade of blue as the sapphire he wore in place of his eye, lost six years ago in a sparring accident when he and Lucerys had been foolish enough to attempt live steel, both boys feeling as if they had something to prove. 

“Aemond,” he choked out after a long moment.

“Excuse me?”

“My name.”

She raised a thin brow, finely arched. “Yes, I know your name.”

“You may call me Aemond.” He felt the blood creep into his cheeks.

“Och, is that right?” She was teasing him and he wasn't sure if he loved or hated it. “Well then, Aemond,” she purred, “I must be on my way.”

She passed, and as if his hand had a mind of its own, he reached for her, his fingers closing around her wrist. “Must you?” he asked. 

The fox did not pull away. Instead she looked up at him from beneath sooty lashes, so long they graced the round of her cheek when she blinked away her surprise. 

“Stay,” he commanded, though his voice nearly trembled with the word.

“I -.”

Aemond kissed her then to silence her. It was clumsy, foolish, but she didn't not push him away. Her fingers curled in the fabric of his doublet as if to hold him closer and his own hands found her waist to draw her against him. He had the feeling neither of them knew what they were doing, not truly. At least he did not, having only shared a few kisses with Helaena when they had snuck too much wine two years ago. But Helaena was to wed their nephew now, and Jacaerys made her happy. 

He could not let her take Wylla to Dragonstone, not when he had only just found her.

They broke apart for a gasping breath and a flush crept over Wylla's snowfall skin. 

“Do you often kiss women in secret gardens?” she asked, taking the measure of him. 

He shook his head, though he could not help throwing back his own barb. “Do you often allow strange men to kiss you in secret gardens?”

“Not until tonight.”

He hummed and kissed her again, one hand finding its way to tangle in the hair at the back of her neck. A weak moan fought its way from between her lips, now swollen and pouting, and the sound of it nearly tore him apart. 

Aemond backed her up in shuffling steps until they came to rest against the stone wall, the ivy framing her body and for a moment he wished it would entangle them, keep them hidden in this moment forever. 

“Do you still find me disdainful?” His voice was a low rasp, stuck somewhere in his throat. He kissed across her jaw, down the column of her neck, his lips seeking purchase against any inch of bare flesh as his hand rose to brush a thumb over the little scar that marred her top lip. Visions of sinking his teeth into her danced across his mind and he wondered if she would enjoy the sting of pain as he did, a pleasure he had discovered when handling himself too roughly one evening, visions of her in that black dress painted behind his eyelids.

The girl blinked up at him, as if his words had only barely registered, and he felt a warm bloom of pride beneath his ribs. “Not terribly so,” she admitted, though her face was a strange mix of irritation and arousal, her eyes falling back to his mouth. He kissed her again, licking at her mouth, hoping for a taste. But her hands found his chest and she pushed gently. “I meant it when I said I must leave. The princess will require her bath soon and I must -.”

“And what of your prince?” He was pouting now, a familiar stinging petulance rising up in him. Aemond gathered her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over her jaw, tightening a fraction too much. But she did not wince; she simply glared and pushed harder, ducking to slip beneath his arm. 

“I’m sure the prince can find a multitude of ways to entertain himself in my absence.” The words were snappish, a cold wind, and he saw how she had earned her nickname, with her narrowed eyes and the feral cut of her mouth.

She gave him no time to reply, stomping through the arch and back toward the keep.

—

“You are pouting.” The soft voice curled around the shelf that he currently hid behind. 

“I am not pouting.”

An indelicate snort of laughter, followed by the rustling of fabric, and suddenly his eldest sister sat beside him. 

Rhaenyra did not wear her crown today. Instead her starlight hair was twisted into a series of braids that gathered at the back of her head before falling down her back in gentle waves. Her violet eyes, nearly the same shade of his, hid a glimmer of mischief, as if being queen held not a candle to the mental torture of her younger brother. 

“Fearsome little Aemond, pouting over a girl.”

He glared. “And to think, the queen of the Seven Kingdoms sits on the floor in a library to tease her brother. Not particularly regal of you.”

“It’s a fair use of my personal time.” She nudged her shoulder against his, but he did not look at her, his eye still focused on the tome in his hands - the tome he had reread the same section of over and over. “The northern girl?” She asked.

Was he so hopelessly transparent? Had he become so pathetic?

“Not entirely pathetic, no.”

Aemond groaned when he realized he’d spoken the words aloud, dropping his head back against the shelf, the dull thud of it making his sister laugh.

“Aemond -.”

“Please don’t.”

She laid a hand on his knee. “I may have overstated your patheticness for my own amusement. But truly, you’re doing nothing wrong. Not nearly as ridiculous as your brother for the Strong girl or even Jace for Helaena. Of all my siblings, of all my children, you are the most stoic. But you aren’t doing anything wrong or shameful or embarrassing.”

“I hate this feeling. I hate the way it eats at me, the way it feels lodged in my chest.” He resented it, wanted to punish the girl for the sin of making him want her. At the same time though, he longed to see her smile directed at him, even if it was accompanied by her nearly constant ire. 

Her answering smile was soft and for the first time in a long time, Aemond remembered how young she truly was, less than two decades his senior. Rhaenyra shifted, the black silk of her gown shimmering in the light that came in through the high windows. “If you’re lucky, that feeling never fades.” She waved her hand. “Take the girl flying.”

He made a face. “I heard her tell Helaena she does not care for the dragons.”

“To be fair, the largest animal she’s seen, other than a horse, is those wolves of the north. Dragons are fearsome, they are magic made flesh. You, my favorite brother, are a dragon.”

Aemond rolled his eye. “Aegon is your favorite.”

“No, he is simply the most like me. Which probably makes him your mother’s favorite.”

“Hateful,” he teased, the knot of worry in his chest loosening slightly. “Daemon says I should simply ask her father for her hand.”

“Please only listen to your uncle in small increments,” she sighed, dropping her own head back beside his. “Just…just go to her. Learn her. Know her. See what you find.”

The idea of knowing Wylla, of learning her, made some dark thing, hot and a little wild, curl up in his belly - a feeling that was altogether uncomfortable as he sat beside his sister, his queen, on the library floor. Aemond shifted and then stood, reaching down for Rhaenyra, who took his hand and rose to her feet. She did not reach for him, did not comfort him in the way she might Aegon, who basked under physical contact like a satisfied cat. Instead she looked at him, truly looked, and the corners of her mouth curled into a smile. “You are a dragon,” was all she said before turning and walking out of the room, leaving him alone with his desires. 

—

The low torchlight was Aemond’s only companion as he traversed the tunnels, counting his steps and praying that he wasn’t about to open the wrong door. From Helaena’s rooms, Wylla’s should only be a handful of paces away, close enough that Helaena could call on her at any time should she need her. 

He stood before the seam that should open into her room, directed beside the fireplace, if his rememberings were correct, and wondered if he was altogether insane for even considering this. Rhaenyra had told him to dismiss her husband’s advice, but he could think of nothing else since Daemon’s sly reminder that the little fox was prime for the taking in her own rooms, with no one around to distract them. “How could she deny you?” he’d asked. “You are far too like me to say no to.”

Aemond was not sure that was the compliment his uncle believed it to be, yet here he stood, torch in hand, his fingertips pressed to the rough stone as he imagined the girl lounging across her bed. ‘Did she sleep beneath northern furs?’ he wondered. ‘Would she taste like wine she had snuck before bed?’

Forgetting his misgivings and focusing on that dangerous tendril that snaked through him, Aemond pushed open the door, setting the torch in the iron holder beside it. He blinked when he entered the room. 

Candles burned low on nearly every surface and the air smelled of cinnamon, thick and spicy, but not cloying. The bed was empty, as was the chaise at the end of it. 

Water splashed to his left and his head snapped in that direction, eye widening at the sight of her in the tub.

Wylla’s gray eyes were wide, a small paring knife in her hand, clutched between her slender fingers. He saw the tray of fruit on the small table beside the metal tub.

“What in the hells are you doing?” she hissed. 

He noticed that she did not shout, did not raise her voice to alert the guards, and a new sort of confidence built in him. 

Aemond stalked closer to the tub, his eye darting between her face and the knife she clutched. Lower still, he found the soft round of her breasts only just covered by the still steaming water. Her hair was plaited and piled loosely at the back of her head to keep from getting wet, tendrils curling around her jaw and he wanted to lick the water droplets that raced down her neck.

“Put down the knife,” he murmured, his eye darkening at the idea of just what she might do to him with it. It was not an altogether unpleasant imagining. 

But Wylla did not put down the knife. Instead, she stood, baring herself to him, teeth showing in a snarl that went straight to his cock. Her breasts were small, no more than a handful each, and her waist tapered before blooming into hips that were wider than he had expected. He could imagine exactly how her plump rear would feel in his hands. “Why exactly would I do that?” she asked. “You sneak into my room from some hole in the wall and expect what? A warm welcome?”

His gaze traveled over her body, cataloging each freckle and blemish that marked her pale skin. Surrounded by steam and wet as she was, he wondered if this is what those old gods of hers looked like: silent, though wild, beautiful and yet terrifying. 

He wanted to taste her, to sink his teeth into her soft flesh, and found that he was at a loss for words. Stepping closer, never taking his eyes from her, he approached the tub. The heat was delicious as it rolled off of her, and he desired nothing more than to strip from his doublet and press close against her, close enough to imprint himself upon her. Gently, more gently than he realized he could, he reached forward, his fingers twining around her wrist. When she did not release the blade, he squeezed, reveling in the way her delicate bones felt against his palm.

The knife clattered to the ground and Wylla opened her mouth, likely to attack him with her teeth, but Aemond pulled her forward with a sharp jerk and pressed his lips to hers. Before she could shove at him, fight him off, he pulled her from the tub, pressing her wet body to his, molding her to him. 

She surprised him then, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply, and with a little jump, her legs wrapped around his waist. Aemond moaned and she licked into his mouth, her tongue curling behind his teeth, her fingers gripping hard at his unbound hair.

In a clumsy rush, he walked them to the bed, doing his best to avoid tripping over unfamiliar furniture. He did not dump her against the furs, instead curling his body around hers, his hands finding her waist, her ribs, her breasts. She made eager little noises beneath him, finding the ties at the front of his doublet and ripping at them impatiently. He shed the damned thing and could not help but moan when she found his bare skin.

“My father will demand your head for this,” she murmured as he licked a trail over the column of her throat.

“He can’t.” His reply was breathless as he shifted, kissing the top of her breast before wrapping his lips around her peaked nipple. Wylla whined at that, arching her back.

“No?” It was a silly pointless question.

Aemond clutched at her other breast, molding it against his palm, delighted at the way his hand engulfed her flesh. “Not if you are my wife.” He abandoned his groping to undo the ties at his waist, lowering his breeches and small clothes until finally his cock was free, so hard it bobbed, throbbing against her thigh.

Wylla stilled beneath him. “Are you…asking me to marry you?”

The insanity of the moment, of the words he’d actually uttered, slammed into him. But such had been his uncle's advice and he owned the ludicrousness of it. “I don’t believe I asked.”

“You are telling me to marry you?”

‘Please, please, please,’ his heart thrummed, though his pride would not allow the begging question to cross his lips.

He kissed her soundly and pulled her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down sharply, as if asserting his desired ownership. “Yes,” he mumbled against her wet flesh. 

A fearful look chased away the ire and desire he had seen just a second ago. “I cannot. I…I am promised to Lord Bolton’s son.” She gently gathered his hair in her hand, tugging sweetly at the ends of it in a gesture that had him wanting to rub against her like a cat. 

Aemond expected rage. He expected that violent creature that lived in him to raise up, to swallow him and her both. He realized that she had allowed things to go as far as they had in a bid at claiming a bit of independence, a fantasy to cling to when she was back in the cold north, wife to a savage that burnished a flayed man on his banners. But it did not. Instead, something more solid, more demanding took its place. “No,” he said simply.

“No?”

“You are mine.”

He slid a hand between them then and found the place she wanted him most, and thanked the gods that his brother had beaten him over the head with bawdy retellings of his own escapades with his wife. 

Wylla’s head fell back as he teased at her entrance, a finger dipping in only to retreat a second later. He found that little shock of nerves, working at it gently until she moaned for him, the sound surprisingly husky. She bucked against his hand and he surmised that she wanted more. So he finally took mercy and pierced her with a single finger. 

There was something shocking about the tightness of her, and it kept him locked in his body, unable to tear his eyes from her as she writhed. Another finger added, and this time he curled them forward, tearing a groan from her chest. Fumbling hands found his cock and she stroked at him, no real finesse to her touch, but he was so desperate for her that it mattered not at all. All he longed for was to help her find his end, for he knew he would not last once he was inside of her. 

His mouth found her breast again and she was so responsive to his touch, wanton even, when he sank his teeth into her, that it spurred him on. Aemond ground the heel of his hand against that spot that made her cry out, two fingers pumping in and out of her at a speed he slowly increased. The flutters around his hand were surprising, grasping at him as if to keep him there, and Wylla lifted her hips, riding him as best she could until she fell apart, panting his name, pulling him up and demanding a kiss as she whimpered.

She glowed beneath him and he could swear that her skin shined with the light of the moon. Had she hidden it beneath her skin, like some myth of old?

The question died in his mind as he pressed inside of her, and the world narrowed to only the places where she touched him. She was hot, scaldingly so, and so tight that he could not stop his eye from rolling back. A pained whimper caught his attention and when he looked down at her, her face was pinched in discomfort. He kissed the line between her brows, stilling until she relaxed. He wanted desperately to be gentle for her, but now that he was inside of her, his ability to cling to that softness was rapidly disappearing.

“I’ll be yours,” she whispered, her fingertips finding the scar that split his face, and he wondered if she felt beautiful in the reflection she saw shining back at her in his sapphire eye. 

Those three words rended away his self control and he could not help but pull back, thrusting forward, and he moaned at the delicious friction. Wylla clung to him, her nails raking over his back, and he was surprised at how she matched each roll of his hips, as if even an inch between their bodies was too much. 

It was only moments, but time stretched out strange and foreign before him as he fucked her, his face buried in her neck, his teeth catching purchase against her throat. 

“Please, please, please.”

It was Wylla murmuring the words and they echoed in his mind, bouncing between the walls of his skull. He knew his end was near, that hot sensation gathering at the base of his spine. Aemond moved to pull back, to spill across her belly, not wanting to assume or risk getting a child on her before he had a chance to plead his case for her hand. But something instinctual in Wylla rose up, and she hooked her leg over his hip, holding him inside of her until he could hold back no longer and came with a groan of her name. 

For a long moment, they simply lay there, him sprawled over her, his face against her chest. Wylla’s fingers found his hair, and she combed at the snarls she had tangled therein, the gesture shockingly comfortable for all of its intimacy. 

“I warn you, my father is not the most agreeable man.” There was something hard in her voice, something full of resentment. 

He looked up at her, resting his chin against his hand where it lay on her belly. “Good then, that I boast the largest and most ancient dragon in the realm.”

Wylla rolled her eyes. “Good then, that you also boast the largest ego in the realm.”

He crawled up her body and kissed her, just a soft press of his lips to hers. “Have I not earned it?”

The girl flushed crimson, a delicious sight. “I suppose,” was all she said, but he took it as confirmation and gathered her into his arms, dropping back against the pillows. A minute twisted in a few and he felt his eyes grow heavy, the fox a warm weight against his chest. Her fingers traced idle patterns over the skin of his stomach as she settled.

There was a sigh, a small shift that pressed her closer.

“Fine,” she huffed, pressing her face against him. “I’ll marry you.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fic #aemond x wylla #aemond targaryen x original character #fyeahhotdocs #fyeahgotocs

[thehungergames-cofradiathg]

Tributos caídos durante el día 7

Irish Patterson: el tributo femenino del Distrito 1 murió en un encarnizado combate contra Raven Wilson. La profesional fue víctima de su propio puñal, clavado en el muslo de su rival, y que ésta utilizó para matarla.

Boris Collins: el tributo masculino del Distrito 1 murió tras un corte perfecto del hacha de Marlon en su cuello. Boris volvió a luchar con su asesino estando gravemente herido tras su encontronazo con el muto.

Phoenix Carter: el tributo femenina del Distrito 7 murió atravesada por uno de los múltiples brazos afilados del muto instantes después de que ella misma le clavara su hacha pensando que lo había matado.

Wylla Gray: el tributo femenino del Distrito 8 murió despedazada por el muto que los vigilantes habían creado para acabar con los juegos. Al no ser capaz de herirle ni ella ni sus aliadas, se sacrificó para que Phoenix y Raven pudieran salvarse.

Marlon Moore: el tributo masculino del Distrito 12 murió atravesado por la lanza de Boris instantes antes de darle muerte al profesional. Marlon se quedó agonizante hasta ver a Raven, que estuvo a su lado cuando falleció.

Agradecimientos

Gracias por haber formado parte de estos juegos que hemos organizado para vuestro disfrute y también el nuestro al leeros.

Irish: Directa, implacable, inmisericorde son las tres palabras que definirían a Irish. Desde la Cosecha del distrito 1, en que se presentó voluntaria para aspirar a la gloria de los vencedores, hasta su muerte en la arena, Irish no ha vacilado en eliminar a quien se pusiera de por miedo. Ha sido una de los personajes que más claro tenían lo que querían obtener de los Juegos, completamente pro-sistema y orgullosa de serlo. Tal vez su paso por los Juegos habría sido perfecto por completo si no hubiera subestimado a los tributos que, aparentemente, no representaban una amenaza.

Boris: A pesar de ser profesional, Boris ha demostrado ser un poco más humano que su compañera. Un chico sensible, que se atormentaba con cada muerte que sumaba a sus espaldas. Aunque también voluble y manejable, porque Irish podía hacer con él lo que quisiera. Es un claro ejemplo del profesional que no está a gusto con lo que hace pero lo sigue haciendo porque debe aparentar una fortaleza que no tiene. Su amor no correspondido siempre será recordado.

Phoenix: Introvertida y juiciosa, Phoenix pasará a la historia de esta edición por la decisión feroz de honrar sus alianzas, hasta dar la propia vida, y por su trágica historia familiar, desvelada en boca del espectro de su madre en una de las vainas de los Juegos. Sus aliadas recordarán su lealtad, su simpatía y su bondad, que la han hecho inolvidable para los que la conocieron.

Wylla: La polémica, rebelde, indómita tributo del Distrito 8 ha muerto como una heroína. Era una de las favoritas de los distritos más desfavorecidos y despertó auténticas pasiones a la vez que se fabricó, en ese breve espacio de tiempo, los más temibles y poderosos enemigos. No dudó en manifestar su opinión sobre los Juegos, el Capitolio y el sistema en vivo y en directo durante el desfile y la entrevista y aún así demostró más humanidad y compañerismo con sus aliadas que la mayoría de los demás tributos.

Marlon: Nadie daba un duro por Marlon, pero acabó encontrándose entre los últimos tributos. Un auténtico luchador de causas justas, que sin embargo no le tembló el pulso a la hora de ir abriéndose camino en los Juegos del Hambre. Fue el último tributo en morir, por eso pudo despedirse de Raven, la que siempre fue su compañera aunque no pudieran estar juntos.

Muchas gracias por haber cogido a estos personajes y, guiándoos por la ficha que hicimos, haber creado sus historias.

#104THG #Irish Patterson #Boris Collins #Phoenix Carter #Wylla Gray #Marlon Moore #Carly Gibert #Manu Ríos #Alice Pagini #Yara Shahidi #Aj Abualrub #tributos104 #104 #los juegos del hambre #Cofradía THG

[cofradia-thg]

Wylla Gray

NOMBRE: Wylla Gray.

EDAD: 6 de abril (17 años) .

DOMICILIO:  Casa adosada de dos plantas, Distrito 8.

OCUPACIÓN: Estudia y también trabaja a tiempo parcial en una fábrica textil.

FAMILIA: Wylla tiene 5 hermanos, tres de ellas son chicas y dos son chicos. Todos son menores que ella. Su madre, Alika, y su padre, John, están muy unidos.

BIOGRAFÍA: Al formar parte de una familia tan numerosa como es la de Wylla, lo joven cuando era apenas una cría no tuvo tiempo precisamente de aburrirse. Ser la hermana mayor de todos aquellos monstruitos le confería potestad sobre ellos y poder “siempre” jugar a lo que más le apeteciera o hacer lo que ella quisiera. Con los años, esa potestad pasó a ser una responsabilidad bastante grande que Wylla acogió de buena gana, convirtiéndose en la protectora de todos y cada uno de sus hermanos. 

Siempre se ha sentido muy ligada a las luchas sociales: Movimientos contra los juegos y el gobierno de Panem, feminismo, animalismo, ecologismo, etc. Actualmente, se mueve en círculos del ocho bastante revolucionarios. Aunque sus padres no están del todo cómodos con esta faceta de su hija, poco o nada pueden hacer para disuadirla sobre dejarlo, así que simplemente miran hacia otro lado y rezan para que nunca le pase nada malo.

Estudia y al mismo tiempo trabaja en una fábrica textil como peón de cadena de montaje. Prepara las telas que posteriormente serán utilizadas por los costureros y diseñadores para hacer las exquisitas prendas que salen del distrito 8. No le apasiona su trabajo, aunque sí el mundo de la moda. 

Su familia, aunque humilde, se podría decir que en general no tiene problemas económicos en exceso. Con la ayuda de los hijos, llegan holgadamente a fin de mes pero, eso sí, sin que nadie disfrute de grandes lujos o comodidades; viven austeramente. 

Wylla tiene intenciones de radicalizarse aún más. Le parece que la situación actual de Panem es asquerosa, injusta y totalmente cruel, y piensa hacer todo lo que esté en su mano para que esto cambie.

TWITTER:  @WyllaGray. 

#Wylla Gray #Yara Shahidi #ocupado distrito8 #distrito ocupado #tributo ocupado #Distrito 8 #Cofradía THG

[ladystarks]

come home to me

written for the jonsansaweek day three prompt: Location

She feels weak in her knees the first time she sees Winterfell again. The shape of it is almost exactly how she remembers, her eyes tracing the old lines of her home, watery with unshed tears. From what she has been made to understand, much of it is burned and in disrepair, but she can see the outline of Lord Manderly’s builders against the snowy air, preparing the castle for winter.

Besides her in the carriage, Wylla Manderly apologizes once more for the sorry state Winterfell will be in, but Sansa cannot answer around the lump in her throat. She doesn’t care about the burned towers that are beyond repair, can’t they see? Sansa never thought she’d see Winterfell again.

The knights of the Vale have taken residence in the east towers, preparing for her arrival. She can see the Arryn sigil flying high, a familiar sight after so long in the Vale--but for the first time, flying above it is her sigil, a gray Stark direwolf flapping in the winter winds. And she is a Stark, once more. The feeling brings her a measure of relief. No matter what the future brings, she will face it as herself--not Alayne Stone, not a hostage, or a meek little girl. As Sansa Stark.

If Sansa were alone, she would be brimming over with tears. As it is, she shares her carriage with Lord Manderly and his daughter, and must reign herself in.

“Lord Littlefinger awaits us in Winterfell,” Lord Manderly informs her around a swallow. He has been drinking wine to fortify himself on their cold ascent, and his ruddy face betrays him, though his eyes are still sharp. Sansa senses that he may have seen her unshed tears. “He has been preparing for your stay, my lady.”

Sansa nods, before turning back to watch Winterfell grow closer out the window. “And Rickon? He will be situated safely in Winterfell by the time we arrive?”

“We sent him ahead of us by a moon, so he surely is.”

If Petyr has not poisoned him by now, Sansa does not say. It is unkind of her to suspect such a thing, and she has never given voice to her suspicions that Petyr poisoned Harry only a few short weeks after their wedding--as he poisoned Joffrey, and pushed her aunt Lysa from the moon door. She knows not the length of his web, nor what tangles it has, but Sansa knows he wants to make her happy, when he can. When it does not ruin his own schemes. Killing Rickon to instate her as Lady of Winterfell would make her decidedly unhappy, but all Sansa can do until she arrives is pray for her brother’s safety. There has been a knot twisting in her chest, slightly relieved at seeing her home, but will not untangle complete until she holds her brother in her arms again.

“Worry not, my lady,” Wylla Manderly says, rebraiding her hair. Sansa has never seen a girl with green hair before. She likes the look of it more than she’d expect.  “Ser Davos Seaworth has been charged with your brother’s protection, and he has Northmen guarding him at all times. We even charged Ser Davos with finding a food taster, before sending him off. The little King must be kept safe, after all.”

Sansa nods, face unchanging, though she is very glad to hear the measures taken to protect her brother. Then she turns back to the window, and watches her home grow bigger in the snow.

...........

She goes to find Rickon the moment she steps off the carriage, insisting upon it before anything else, to the dismay of the servants Littlefinger sent to attend her, as though she’d want a bath and food before seeing the only family she has left.

The walls of the castle are warm, and Sansa makes for her brother’s old rooms, ignoring the calls of the servants scurrying after her. She still remembers where to go, she realizes. She thought she might have forgotten.

But when she pushes open the doors, spinning breathlessly into the room--propriety forgotten--it is empty.

“I’ve been trying to tell you, m’lady,” the maid says, once she catches up to a cold, frightened Sansa, frozen in the empty doorway. “They’re not here. They’re in the godswood.”

Sansa feels silly for her paralyzing fear, but only for the few moments it takes to compose herself. “I see,” she says. “Let us go, then.”

She pulls her cloak tighter around her when they enter the Godswood. The snow is swirling down around her, and the wind howling above them, but hemmed in by the old trees, Sansa can’t feel it, only a warm anticipation in her chest.

And then, just before the weirwood is in sight, she sees the wolves.

Sansa feels weak in the knees again, and this time she lets herself fall, heart beating hard in her chest. Two direwolves, one black as coal and one so white she can barely see it against the falling snow.

“Shaggydog,” she breathes, “Ghost.”

The wolves are upon her between one breath and the next, and Sansa is grabbing burying her face in their fur, inhaling the scent she’d forgotten, after all these years. They’re big, bigger than Lady ever was, and yet Sansa feels no fear. They’re home, after all, just like she is.

“Sansa?” a boy’s voice calls, uncertain. When she looks up, it is as though a younger Robb stands before her, but no, it’s Rickon, and he’s grown too.

“Rickon,” Sansa breathes, and suddenly he’s in her lap, his skinny arms locked around her.

She knows that her guards followed her into the entrance of the Godswood, and thinks that is perhaps the presence she senses to her side, but when she looks up her heart nearly stops. It’s not the guards, nor a servant, or even Littlefinger.

Father?

It’s not Ned Stark, she realizes, even as the thought crosses her mind. Jon Snow is the very image of their father, somber and dressed in black, with snow in his brown hair.

“Jon,” Sansa mouths, but she seems unable to actually expel the air necessary to make the sounds. Her mind races in a million directions, flitting impossibly fast from thought to thought. She’d heard he was Lord Commander of the Watch. She’d heard he’d disappeared beyond the wall. She’d heard he was dead.

Jon walks three steps unsteadily, before falling to his knees before them. “Sansa,” he says, before she pulls him by the cloak into their embrace.

........

She hasn’t been so happy in years. Even with the threat of winter, the Others, the whispered tales of a dragon queen making her way through the south, and Lord Baelish’s attempts to get her alone cannot take her happiness from her. She, Jon and Rickon spend all their time together, and Jon even insists on letting Sansa into the war meetings. She will be lady regent, the northmen agree, until Rickon is old enough to take his throne and while the men make north to fight the Others.

She marvels at Rickon. He’s only eight years old now, but stoic and sharp as a knife. And Jon...they’d never been close before, but Jon is suddenly the pillar that Sansa can lean against for support. It’s been years since she trusted anyone so much, but with Jon it’s almost easy. Perhaps it is because he looks so much like father these days. Perhaps it’s because he reminds her of the way things used to be, when they were all together. Whatever the reason, Sansa is grateful he is by her side.

And she wants him to stay by her side.

“You know I can’t,” Jon whispers one night, hand warm on her elbow as they tuck Rickon in to bed. Their rooms are all right next to each other, as close as the three of them can possibly get at all moments. “The Others are making to come past the wall, and even though I am no longer a man of the Watch, it is my duty--”

“To fight for the North.”

“Yes,” Jon says, looking away. “And if we don’t go, you and Rickon and everyone else in the North won’t be safe.”

Sansa shivers, leaning into his arm. “I feel safer with you here,” she confesses. She’s too close to him, she knows that, but she can’t make herself step away.

When she saw him first, she thought he was her father come again. But that can’t be true, can it? Jon is taller than their father, leaner. His hair is darker, eyes more intense when they catch on hers. This close, she can see the muscle twitching in his jaw, the stubble he has yet to shave. He’d been brought back to life in fire, and his hands are always warm now, when she seeks them out.

He swallows under her scrutiny, and finally looks her in the eyes. Something tight squeezes in her chest, and Sansa wishes she could poke at it, what makes her feel this way when she’s with him--but she knows that if she puts words to this feeling, nothing will ever be the same.

“You must be safe,” she tells him. “Come home safe to Winterfell.”

Jon bites back a smile. She can see it, in his eyes. “After having been away so long, this is the only place in the world I’d ever want to be.”

She makes the decision to tilt her head up, place her lips on that hidden smile, tucked between his cheek and the corner of his mouth. For a moment--only a second, in truth--Sansa feels Jon tense against her. This is too close to that which she will not name. She lets her lips linger there, and Jon relaxes. She can feel his hand come to her neck, the other one tracing a soft circle on the inside of her elbow.

When she moves her face away, she stays in his loose embrace. She wants more. She can’t have it, but she wants to press her lips to the pulse at his neck, breathe him in deep before he has to go.

He’ll come back to Winterfell. He’ll save them all, and come back. When he does, they’ll talk about this, and be happy. Together.

#jonsa #jonsansaweek #actuallyjonsa #jonxsansaff #gotfic #jon snow #sansa stark #fic it #the starks basically all want to be in winterfell #rickon lives au #book canon ish #set in the book canon future basically

[filhadoboto]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen Characters: Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen Additional Tags: Jonerys, Friends to Lovers, Best Friends, Jon Snow is not a Targaryen, AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Jon and Daenerys Are Not Related, Jon and Daenerys are best friends, Jon is Ned's son with Wylla, sex scene, Sex, Nudity, Consensual Sex, Vaginal Sex, Marriage Proposal Summary:

Daenerys has just lost her father in a car accident. Jon is her best friend and takes her to the place he grow up and try to make her feel better. But life has other plans.

Now, instead of pain, she saw determination in his gray eyes. "Don’t worry, Dany. I don’t intend to stop you. You are the most stubborn person I know and I could never stop you from doing what you want.” He said as he put the key in his pants pocket and walked resolutely toward her. The look on his face sent shivers all over her. "Great. Now be a good boy and unlock the damn door.” “I will. But I need a few moments alone with you before I let you walk out that door and leave me behind. I don’t want you to leave with this misunderstanding between us.” He stopped a couple of paces from her, watching her as a predator looks at its prey. Instinctively she folded her arms and waited for him to say what he had to say so she could leave that place and forget him. “Ok, Jon. I'm listening.” He smiled and her heart fluttered. "I didn’t say I wanted to talk." He took another step closer to her. “Whether you agree or not, I'm leaving in the morning.” She said warningly. “I know.” He said with that crooked smile she adored. "And I also know that we will have all night."

#jonerys fanfic #jonerys fanfiction #asoiaf fanfiction #got fanfiction #jonerys #jonerys au #alternate universe #modern setting #friends to lovers #jon snow #daenerys targaryen #jon x daenerys #jon x dany #game of thrones #got #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #retreat #filhadoboto

[ladywolfmd]

Ships that Pass in the Night

Part I & II | Part III & IV | Part V & VI | Part VII & VIII | Part IX & X

V. The Party

Jon checked his watch and knew he was very late to the Manderlys’ annual ball. There was nothing he could do about it. His crew dragged him into a late lunch at the Lazy Eel and it took some time to get back to the Wolf’s Den and then he had to go up the hill to Merman’s Court.

Once he got there, everyone was already gathered over the open theatre in the middle of the vast courtyard.

He could recognize the music playing from one of the musicals his mother loved. It was Queen Naerys’ solo from the play, Knight of Tears.

Jon briefly remembered that this was the part where Ser Aemon disguised as the Knight of Tears, had just crowned his sister, Naerys, queen of love and beauty for he couldn’t bear her to be humiliated since their brother, King Aegon planned to crown one of his mistresses, and where, Queen Naerys dances her joy after being miserable in her loveless marriage to the king.

He found himself a spot to watch and immediately his breath got caught at the graceful dancer.

He didn’t recognize her, not with her silver hair bound and crowned with different blooms. Not with her face half concealed with a black silk mask. Yet for some reason, he felt he knew her.

And as she glided across the stage almost effortlessly, his mind started sending him images of red hair, a green dress with wolves, and the sound of teasing.

“You really don’t know how to dance, don’t you, Jon Snow? Very well, I’ll teach you.”

Continue reading on AO3 or here.

The sound of applause brought him back from his thoughts, his hands joined instinctively as he blinked through the haze and saw the dancer take her bow.

Before he could make sense of anything, blue eyes met his own grays, and he found himself stuck in between the dreaming and the present once more.

Blue eyes.

Alive. And warm. Filled with love.

In a blink, the same bright eyes dimmed.

Cold.

Empty.

Dead.

A hand on his shoulder brought him back once more and he was staring at his friend, Daryn Hornwood, his half-brother Larence, and his wife Alys trailing behind. All their mouths were moving but Jon had yet to understand.

Another squeeze on his shoulders made him finally focus. “You alright?”

Jon mustered a half-smile and a nod. “I’m fine,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m good. Sorry I’m late.”

“Well, what’s important is you’re here,” Daryn grinned then followed his line of sight. “What’s wrong? Are you looking for someone?”

“Or are you avoiding anyone,” Alys raised a brow.

Jon didn’t even realize he was seeking out the dancer.

“I think he’s looking for Wylla’s guest,” Larence smirked at him, earning chuckles from the other two.

“I wasn’t,” Jon said defensively. It was partly true. He wasn’t actively looking for her but a nagging feeling in the back of his head wants him to.

“Were you able to watch the dance?” Daryn waggled his brows earning a smack from Alys.

“Not from the beginning,” he admitted.

“Anyway, do you have a guest with you?” Daryn cocked his head to the side.

Jon shook his head.

“Ah. Perfect. You should meet the dancer then. I think she came with your plane.”

Jon almost choked. “Excuse me?”

Alys rolled her eyes after she glared at Daryn. “Stop being crude. This mystery guest of Wylla supposedly took the flight you flew.”

His heart started racing inexplicably. “Oh? Lots of people took that flight.”

“The man has a point, bro,” Larence shrugged. “Anyway, no one knows who she is yet and that’s just Daryn’s way of fishing for information.”

Jon shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t really know if there was a person of interest on the plane with me.”

“Ah, you’re no fun,” Daryn sighed. “Well, I guess we’ll find out later on.”

“Why all the mystery though?” Alys asked.

Daryn shrugged. “Beats me. Ask Wylla.”

“Ask Wylla what?”

They all turned to see Wylla behind them, flipping her long green-dyed hair and smirking.

Daryn slung an arm around Jon’s shoulder that he immediately pushed away. “Jon here was just curious about this friend of yours.”

Wylla’s eyes glinted while her smirk deepened. “Are you now? Because my friend is very single.”

Jon slid a hand down his face and groaned.  First his crew and now his old hiking team.

“Just who is your lovely friend, Wylla?” Larence asked.

Wylla grinned. “You guys  might recognize her for sure but hold on, I’ll go get her. She’s just changing out of her costume.”

They watched as Wylla headed off backstage but just as they saw her come out, Jon was suddenly dragged away by Tormund and Val who magically appeared.

He could hear Wylla asking where he was. “Guys, I can’t find her—where’s Jon?”

VI. The Empty Ballroom

Sansa stumbled into the lesser ballroom that she knew the Manderlys hasn’t used in ages. She felt guilty for wanting to hide out a bit but as timing showed, right after her performance, the reviews from her last show had just gone up and everyone was starting to recognize her as more than just Warden Ned Stark’s daughter.

They people didn’t know she chose to dance professionally. All they knew was that she was still in King’s Landing on a pre-law program, which she was, a few years ago. But she just didn’t have the heart for politics anymore.

It’s not even that she wasn’t good. She was actually skilled with it but it wasn’t something she wanted to do.

What Sansa had always wanted to do was to dance.

Since she was three, her mother would bring her to her ballet lessons but always maintained that it was a hobby. It took a lot of tears, fights, and convincing, but finally she put her foot down and pursued her dream.

And now she was finally getting somewhere.

Sansa drew one of the large curtains open to let in some of the moonlight. Very faintly, she glanced over one of the mirrors and saw that she was still wearing the silver wig she had to use as Queen Naerys. Slowly she took the pins off and removed it, the hairnet came next, and the relief of her now freed hair tumbling down her back made her sigh. Next she removed the black ballet slippers she wore that matched the black and red leotards she wore.

She dressed right then and there into the simple grey velvet dress and was about to slip on her heels when she heard the music change from the other side of the room.

It was The Winter Maid, her favorite.

And feeling rather wicked, she dropped her shoes, shook her hair, and padded over to the middle of the ballroom and started dancing.

Sansa closed her eyes and let the music take her, not caring for anything but her and the song. She hummed along as she glided across the floor, her mind slowly bringing her back to that place.

Behind her lids she could see people dressed in strange thick winter garb, with flagons, skins, and cups, raised to her as she danced.

Faces familiar but not quite surrounded her and she knew she was back in her dream world. A place that would always show her what looked liked memories that seemed impossible.

A place that always showed her him.

A dark-haired man with grey eyes that looked at her like she was the world.

Yet as soon as both of them would reach out and touch, she’d be assaulted with images of death and longing.

Every night she’d see him.

And every night they’d try to be together only to be ripped apart in the morning.

Sansa was mid-twirl when the sound of something crashing on the floor startled her that she fell ungracefully.

“Shit! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you--don’t move, I’ll come get you. Fuck! Where’s the bloody switch?” Sansa’s heart was still racing as she tried to collect herself while she heard the intruder fumble his way to her.

Sansa managed to sit up, checked her ankle at once and sighed in relief to see it wasn’t injured. Only her bum hurt where she landed but she was sure she’d just get by with a bruise in the morning. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. Go back.” She tried to make out the stranger’s profile but it was too dark, especially with the moon now partially hidden by clouds and he was likely wearing a black suit and had dark hair.

She slowly stood up then and walked back to where she left her shoes and sat down on the floor while she put them on. All the while she could feel the man stand behind her before he dropped to sit on the floor too.

“I’m so sorry miss. I didn’t realize at once that I wasn’t alone and then I saw…movement..”

“It’s fine,” she felt her cheeks redden from embarrassment of being caught. “I shouldn’t have been dancing randomly.”

“No, no. You were amazing—I mean.”

Sansa suddenly chuckled but still wasn’t brave enough to turn around and face him. “That’s very kind of you to say even if I know you couldn’t really see me.”

“I could a little. Your silhouette at least, and some glimpses. But what little I was able to see was enough to make me pause,” he said softly.

Her cheeks flamed more. “Thank you, but that was just me. No fancy choreography or anything.”

“I thought you-it-was beautiful,” he rambled, making Sansa giggle before she bit her lip. “Thank you.” What else could she say?

Silence enveloped them in the dark corner they chose to stay in. “I know why I’m here…but how…how about you?” he chose to break the silence.

Sansa played with the hem of her skirt. “I just wanted some peace and quiet,” she glanced over her shoulder and saw the outline of his back facing her. “I assume you do too?”

She saw his shoulders shaking as he chuckled. “Guilty.”

“You must be a big shot then,” she teased, “to hide all this way.”

“Try pesky friends,” he grumbled.

Sansa laughed then. “We have that in common then.”

Once their laughter died both of them tried to start a conversation at the same time.

“No, you go first.”

“No, ladies first.”

“Okay. Who or what brought you to the Manderly Ball?”

“Just old friends,” he answered.

Sansa smiled. “Me too. Friends who have made it their life mission to set me up with someone.”

He laughed loudly then. “Well, we have that in common. They’ve been trying to set me up with someone all night.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “I know they mean well but I’d rather it happen when it happens, you know?”

He sighed. “Exactly.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we found each other instead,” Sansa laughed but faltered when she noticed he wasn’t laughing with her. She was supposed to follow it up by joking that hiding is easier if you’re hiding with someone with the same goal but all her words died in her mouth when she turned to look and saw dark eyes looking back at her instead.

Slowly, both of them inched closer together, just to look.

Sansa could feel his fingers near hers, his warm breath tickling her skin as they leaned closer.

And as she could finally see the grey in his eyes, she was back in that place.

Only this time, it wasn’t a dark and dusty ballroom, but a warm room with fire burning by the hearth, grey eyes now belonging to the man in her dreams, his scarred hand reaching to touch her face as he leaned closer, her eyes fluttered close in wait.

But what she expected never came as both of them pulled away fast at the erupting sound of fireworks, illuminating the partially covered glass skylight they didn’t realize was there before.

Before anyone could say anything, pieces of the fireworks started falling over the roof, the room illuminating and showing that the skylight had some cracks and there were broken holes, that they had to run and take cover.

Sansa was too filled with adrenaline and confusion to see if he was following her as she made her way out of the ballroom and back to the court.

But when she looked back, there was no one following her.

Was it even real?

#gotsecretsanta #weasleyrose #jonsa fic #jonsa #ladywolfmdfic

[clevrest]

plotted *!   for @coldhonovr

            a simmering rage threatened to overwhelm the young man, gray eyes roiling like a tempest atop high cheekbones and a jaw set so harshly it could crush stone. he does not pace, but the frantic energy in the shaking of his hands and the hyper focused glare of his eyes as he stares in the direction of the castle he knows he has lost says enough.  ‘ i could kill him. robb was always so fond of him -- he could never see his flaws properly. of course im not one for prejudice, i gave him a chance. but his ego was always dangerous, i told my brother as much. ’  cedric is speaking to wyllas, yes, but it is nothing new to either of them. of course they are both frustrated with the recent developments, from the greyjoy betrayal to their distance from the king in the north’s camp -- but who could have foreseen this? cedric, of course, though rather than pride it is grief and self hatred that the stark boy notes this fact. he should have put a stop to this; that is his role.  

#* LONE WOLF DIES / verse i. #coldhonovr #AH this is bad im srry I did my best omg

[emilykaldwen]

CALLING ALL AEMOND GIRLIES NEW CHAPTER DROP!

The idea that her husband was weak was laughable, for other than Harrion, she knew no one as strong, as determined as he was. But there was a pain in him that she had never seen before, and she had no idea what to do to soothe it other than to take his hands in hers and pull him from the chair. With gentle hands, Wylla stripped him of his riding leathers, ignoring what she knew in her gut to be charred bits of his brother’s flesh. She undid the strap that held the patch over his eye, pressing up on her toes to place a kiss against his scar, and led him to the tub. Any other time, she would have admired his form, would have joined him beneath the water and the steam that curled around it. But all she could do now was fill a pitcher with hot water and pour it over his hair, washing away the blood and the smoke and the memories that clung to him. Aemond sat, silent through it all, and she felt her heart further shatter at the way he endured his pain. “It did not have to happen,” he whispered, as if the words alone were a betrayal of his brother. But he was right, and Wylla knew that Aegon had not proven whatever it was that he was trying to bring light out over the Blackwater. She also knew what it felt like to be stupid with the need to prove oneself. She herself had clung to the side of the Gray Cliffs in an attempt to show that she was just as strong, just as cunning and capable as her brothers. And all she had to show for it were scars on her palms and the flesh memory of Beron’s hand as it slapped across her face, punishment for her idiocy. And much as Torrhen had cared for her that day, she now cared for Aemond, doing her best to wash away the misplaced failure that he had lain over his own shoulders. “Tha gaol agam ort,” she whispered against the shell of his ear after she had washed the soap from his hair, the scent of orange lingering on his skin. His eye cut to hers. “I do not know what that means.” Her answering smile was small, a ghost of the real thing. “I love you.”

Thank you for the fucking beautiful chapter and all the Aemond x Wylla perfection @acrossthesestars

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fic #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #ocappreciation #fyeahhotdocs

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

guess who's back from their fic hiatus

it's meeee (in case it wasn't obvious). I took the month of november off to shove away the impending burn out that i felt looming in the distance. but i came back 12/1 with a new haunt me chapter. so here is a sneak peak of what we've got coming up this friday in chapter 19 (hint: it's all trauma from here on out):

Aemond’s eye met hers, but he did not move. “I could not stop it.” His words hung heavy in the air between them and she reached up, cradling the sharp plane of his jaw in her palm. He looked so young in the face of his grief, like the boy she had never known him as, and it broke her heart. “No, you could not.” He cleared his throat. “I was not fast enough. I was…I was weak.” The idea that her husband was weak was laughable, for other than Harrion, she knew no one as strong, as determined as he was. But there was a pain in him that she had never seen before, and she had no idea what to do to soothe it other than to take his hands in hers and pull him from the chair. With gentle hands, Wylla stripped him of his riding leathers, ignoring what she knew in her gut to be charred bits of his brother’s flesh. She undid the strap that held the patch over his eye, pressing up on her toes to place a kiss against his scar, and led him to the tub. Any other time, she would have admired his form, would have joined him beneath the water and the steam that curled around it. But all she could do now was fill a pitcher with hot water and pour it over his hair, washing away the blood and the smoke and the memories that clung to him. Aemond sat, silent through it all, and she felt her heart further shatter at the silent way he endured his pain.  “It did not have to happen,” he whispered, as if the words alone were a betrayal of his brother. But he was right, and Wylla knew that Aegon had not proven whatever it was that he was trying to bring to light out over the Blackwater. She also knew what it felt like to be stupid with the need to prove oneself. She herself had clung to the side of the Gray Cliffs in an attempt to show that she was just as strong, just as cunning and capable as her brothers. And all she had to show for it were scars on her palms and the flesh memory of Beron’s hand as it slapped across her face, punishment for her idiocy.  And much as Torrhen had cared for her that day, she now cared for Aemond, doing her best to wash away the misplaced failure that he had lain over his own shoulders. 

#wylla x aemond #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fic #aegon targaryen #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x original character

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

Wylla and Abby + comfort

hi i love you i needed this

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows over the stone walls and the rug they lay atop. Abby’s slender fingers picked the tangles from Wylla’s curls, the gentle motion lulling her into that place between dreaming and waking. From above her, her friend's soft, lilting voice took life.

“Beidh mé i do uisce

snámha tú glan

le síocháin leachtach.

Chonaic mé tú ag fulaingt

chonaic mé tú ag caoineadh

an oíche ar fad tríd.

Mar sin beidh mé i do uisce

snámha tú glan,

leacht gorm.”

The River Tongue was not so different from Old Tongue, and Wylla could not keep the smile from her face as she picked out the familiar words. “I’ll be your water, bathing you clean…,” she murmured in common. 

“Do you know this one?” Abby asked, brushing the hair from her forehead. 

Wylla shook her head. “Our languages were one once. They aren’t so different now.” She turned onto her side, facing the fire fully, watching as the embers hissed and popped, seeking air. “I can’t imagine how lonely it must have been sometimes, to be so young, surrounded by dragons when the rivers call to you.”

“In truth, I spent so long trying not to think of home, of what I had lost to Harrenhal. I was just glad to have a place here, where I was not alone. But I feel the call. Each time we venture to the cabin I feel the pull to the God’s Eye, to the creeks and the marshes.”

“To the waters that will bathe you clean.” Wylla’s smile faltered a bit as she tucked her hands beneath her chin. Abby pulled the blanket more securely around her shoulders. “Our blood is older even than theirs.”

“And I am less lonely with you.” She could hear the truth of it in the other girl's words. “Tell me what you miss of home.”

Wylla’s eyes burned at the memories of snow drifts taller even than her father, of the hunting and the hawking, and the magnificence of the waves breaking against the Gray Cliffs. “I miss the bite of frost at my cheeks. I miss seeing the foxes in their dens and the howl of the wolves when night lasted longer than day. The midnight sky would melt into purple and green and blue, a spill of paint. I miss the way that the land seemed to stretch on forever. It made me feel so small, but I was not afraid.”

Abby sat back, leaning against the chair behind her. “You are descended from the Winter Kings, you were never small, Wylla.”

“Did you not feel small standing before the God’s Eye as a girl?”

“No. I felt powerful, like it was mine. I felt connected to the land in a way I haven’t since.”

Wylla laughed. “Spoken like the true however many times great granddaughter of Osmund Strong.” In a softer voice, she added, “This city makes me feel small…insignificant.”

“None of that, now,” Abby chided gently. “You are the daughter of an ancient house, with the blood of Bran the Builder in your veins. And well, we all know I’m secretly a nymph,” she chuckled.

“The Fox and the Nymph," Wylla whispered, turning to glance up at her friend.

Abby laid a kiss to her fingers, pressing them to Wylla’s forehead. “I would read that story.”

#aemond x wylla #abrogail strong #other's ocs #PINKY SWEAR #they say i killed you (haunt me then) #if you see me translating placebo lyrics into irish no you didn't

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

⭐ Same thing you asked me! I must know where the ideas for "Haunt Me" came from, I'm too curious

So fun fact, I have always been shamelessly obsessed with the North in the ASOIAF universe. I love the idea that it's a blend of the wilds of Scotland mixed with the barren tundra of Norway and Demark. I found myself so captivated by the small glimpses that we got of the other northern families outside of the Starks. It is absolutely it's own universe and it is so different from the other regions within Westeros.

Back in January/February, I found myself thinking "okay, but what if Aemond didn't go home right after Storm's End? What if his shame got the better of him?" and that morphed into "what if his choice about whether or not he went back was taken from him." And that's how I ended up with the idea that Vhagar, who he had very obviously lost any semblance of perceived authority over, took matters into her own claws and just bailed. She is not a pet, and she is having a moment. So now, he's exhausted, he's been flying for as long as she can carry him, he's terrified that she will leave without him, that he'll truly be alone in whatever gods forsaken place she's taken them to, in the middle of a war with no clear winner. This dragon, his most beloved connection, is no longer listening to his commands. And so he's very much at her mercy. Which leads him to not securing his belt chains, exhausted and dramatic as he is, and getting dropped when she swoops too low over the Gray Cliffs.

And then I really started thinking about how isolated the Green kids are and who would be the kind of character that was nothing like the people who Aemond had encountered before in his very sheltered life. And thus Wylla was born! She makes him nervous from the get. She is not polished, there is something a little off-putting about her. She's feral and weird and smiles like she's about to bite him, but is still very much a lady, albeit not the kind in King's Landing. There's a cutting sort of sternness to her that he sees in himself and I think that's where that budding attraction started. There is a vanity to Aemond that I don't think is explored very often, and so I knew I wanted to dig into that, along with his obsessive and paranoid tendencies, in this story, set in a place where he was so out of place. Basically, I wanted to take Aemond and stick him in a box with a feral cat he wants to see naked and then shake the box really hard and see what fell out.

#aemond x wylla

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

they say I killed you (haunt me then)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x ofc Wylla Karstark

Summary: Wylla Karstark is content with her life in the far reaches of the North, happy even. She has everything she ever thought she needed. Until Aemond Targaryen tumbles from the sky, abandoned by his dragon and left at her mercy.

Rating: E

Story warnings: canon typical violence, kidnapping, dub con, explicit sexual content, implied targcest, pregnancy, major character death

Chapter warnings: none

Weak sunlight fought its way through the cover of trees, their leaves having melted from the green of summer to the reds and golds and browns of autumn. The birds chirped and sang as the ever-present chill that crept through the air this far north deepened, the breeze possessing more of a bite than it had even a few mere weeks ago, the frost clinging to the grass in the early morning. There was a clash of pine and salt in the air as the sea wind rolled over the Gray Cliffs from the east, swirling with the scent of the deep, lush woods.

From the cover of the trees, Wylla watched as her younger brother rode ahead, the hounds following him as he broke through the line at the edge of the wood. She heard him whoop with laughter and smiled to herself. Rickon so rarely acted with joy, she thought; he was too like their father, too like their eldest brother, Harrion.

"It would appear the boy has pulled the stick from his ass," Torrhen said as he maneuvered his horse beside hers, the rabbits he'd shot secured firmly to his saddle beside his bow. Like her, Torrhen took after their mother, something a little wild in them, much more feral than the Karstark blood of their father. The wind blowing in off the cliffs whipped the raven hair around his face, pale cheeks flush from the chill.

"You should be kinder to him," she responded. "It's no wonder he looks to Harrion with the way you treat him."

Torrhen snorted. "You're kind enough to him for the both of us, Foxface."

She grimaced at the nickname, slapping at his shoulder. "That 'endearment' never should have stuck."

"Well, if you stopped looking like you were scheming for even the briefest of moments, it likely wouldn't have. You have only yourself to blame, Wylla."

"Ha ha," she deadpanned, rolling her eyes at the emphasis on her name. "Very funny, coming from you." Torrhen was most certainly the plotter between the two of them, happy to find himself wrapped up in whatever small courtly machinations found their way this far north. Wylla knew her future would entail being sent off to some other house, likely livelier and somewhere south, to keep her family in good standing with the rest of Westeros. And she would do it, as it was her duty. But she had little care for politics or gossip, preferring hunting, her books, and her songs. Torrhen just smirked at her, as if he knew what she was thinking and found it amusing.

Without another word, she dug her heels into the muscle of the mare and braced as the horse trotted away, picking up speed until she galloped out beyond the trees and toward her little brother. She felt her cheeks redden and sting in the cold air as she pulled to a stop, the rolling fields that would lead to the Gray Cliffs stretching out before them. Gloved hands pushed the black curls from her face, a few strands having escaped the braids she'd plaited and bound in a scarf before they left Karhold.

"I'll race you to the cliffs," she teased Rickon. His long face fell as he regarded her.

"The cliffs are more than a day's ride from here."

"Find your sense of adventure, little brother," Torrhen drawled from behind them. "Or next time we'll leave you behind."

Contemplating the words of their older brother, the boy's face pulled into a comically deep frown. She watched his cheeks flush crimson with anger, mottling his fair, freckled skin. He opened his mouth to snap back, but instead of sharp words, a gasp fell from his lips as his gaze was pulled toward the sky. The birds went suddenly silent, an eerie calm blanketing the forest, Wylla's pulse thumping heavy in her ears in the abrupt hush. She followed Rickon's eyes up, up, up, toward the shadow that seemed to engulf the entirety of the glen they stood in. Great leathery wings beat overhead, casting a cold wind over them as they stood, dumbstruck, faces pointed toward the sky.

The dragon turned in a slow bank, torn and tattered wings straightening as it began to fly toward the cliffs and the sea beyond, surprisingly graceful despite its great bulk. The clouds seemed to part for the beast as it rose higher and higher. Awe and fear rose up in equal parts, and Wylla felt her heart hammer sickeningly against her ribs, racing as the reality of what they had witnessed sank in. A riderless dragon, a beast of legend, a beast of kings and queens, deep in the North.

Which meant…

Where was its rider?

Torrhen must have had the same thought. After an eternal moment, he turned his horse and took off back toward the trees, heading in the direction the dragon had come from, the black of his fur cloak trailing behind him. "Come on," he shouted over his shoulder before breaking into a run.

Wylla and Rickon took off after him, making easy work of the twisting woods as they rode hard, their mounts bolting nimbly over the gnarled roots of the trees, navigating the small breaks in the copse with the ease of a lifetime spent on this land. The pack of hounds ran at their heels, gaining speed as they caught a scent, the sharp wind tangling in their shaggy fur. Rickon pulled ahead, but again Wylla urged her horse faster, cutting him off at the pass as she made further ground on Torrhen. A clearing lay before them, visible as the trees began to thin. Within seconds of one another, the siblings broke through, the watery afternoon sun shining on their faces once again. Wylla brought a hand up to shield her eyes, peering into the distance. There was movement in the center of clearing, low to the ground. The hounds took off at the sight, and she kicked off after them, realizing it was no wounded animal that lay in the grass - it was a person.

She pulled her mare to stop a few feet short of the body, her boots landing in the frosted grass with a soft crunch as she dropped from the saddle.

"Wylla!" Torrhen hissed as his horse stopped beside hers. She slapped at his hand when he reached for her, her own hand falling to the blade on her belt as she crept closer, the sound of boots on the ground not far behind her.

While it was still too early for snow, the frost was abundant, coating the man's milk-white hair like jewels. “Man” was a stretch, she realized as she stood over him. He was barely more than a boy, although his age was belied by the sharp cut of his features. A brown leather eye patch lay over the left side of his face, an angry, twisting scar bisecting his almost hollow cheek. A bruise bloomed across the right side of his temple and his lips were split.

A shadow covered her suddenly and Wylla looked up into her brother's pinched face.

"That's the one-eyed prince," he said, his lip curling as if he would snarl, his palm coming to rest against the hilt of his dagger. "Aemond Targaryen."

Rickon scoffed, as if the idea was simply too outlandish. "What's a prince doing all the way up here? Shouldn't he be at Winterfell?"

"And where's his dragon gone to?" Wylla's voice softened as her eyes scanned the sky before dropping back to the strangers face. "What do we do with him?"

"We'll get him back home, let father decide. But we can't leave him here."

She looked down at the barely-not-a-boy and brushed the hair from his face with a gloved hand. Even this far north, this far removed from the plights that plagued the rest of Westeros, she knew of the war brewing between the would-be Dragon queen and her brother in the south. "What would happen if we did?"

“He would likely die.” Torrhen nudged her with the toe of his boot. "Imagine if father somehow found out we left him to freeze.” Wylla shuddered at the thought of heavy fists, angry words. Beron Karstark would not react kindly to any violation of what he considered guests rights, especially not if they came from his own children. "Help me get him on Rickon's horse."

Rickon pulled back on his reins, his chestnut gelding knickering as it stepped back. "He's not riding with me."

"You are absolutely useless, you know that?" Torrhen spat, his eyes tightening in anger before leaning down and scooping the prince up awkwardly in his arms. "Wylla?"

"Och, fine," she huffed, stepping into the stirrup and heaving herself up. Reaching down, she helped her brother situate the stranger's body against hers, his back to her chest, the sword tied to his belt slapping clumsily against her thigh. His heart beat strong and she felt it even through the heavy layers they both wore. The angle was uncomfortable, and she had to scoot him down to be able to see over his shoulder. With one arm around his slender waist, she took hold of the reins and turned them back in the direction of Karhold.

The ride through the glen and the woods beyond passed quietly, Torrhen uncharacteristically solemn and Rickon quite characteristically sullen. Eventually the holdfast came into view, the towers of the East Keep rising up before them as they climbed the hill, the West Keep towering high above that, the Karstark sunburst banners snapping in the sharp wind. As the sound of hooves met the cobblestone path that led to the gate, the stranger's hand laid cold over hers - his first movement since they’d found him.

“Vhagar,” he muttered.

Wylla’s spine snapped straight at the sound of his voice, thick and lost in his throat as if he hadn’t used it for days. “Who?” She asked softly, holding him firm as his body started to tilt to the left.

“Luke.”

And with that, the prince toppled off the horse.

Finish the chapter here on ao3

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x original female character #aemond targaryen x oc #house of the dragon fic #hotd fic #my fic #haunt me

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

⭐ a chapter that didn't get the reactions you expected/was there a lot of misunderstandings in the comments

hahahahahaha

okay for real though, now that that's out of the way. There are actually a handful of moments that the reactions from readers made me question whether or not I was properly conveying what it was that I was trying to say and you know that I absolutely poured back over everything I had written to make sure that it wasn't a me thing. I'll put the most unexpected reactions below the cut to avoid spoilers.

The first moment that people gave a reaction to that I was 100% not expecting was when Wylla moved out of the rooms she shared with Aemond after he had put his hands on her in anger. There were a lot of comments and messages about "why would she do that to him! she's being mean!" and I was sitting here dumbfounded because this man had just grabbed his wife by her hair and intimated that he was going to choke her. Like, it was a lot.

Then there was the picnic, which felt like a double whammy. It was more of "why is Wylla being mean to Aemond, he's trying to be nice" and then there was "oh so there's no way that Aegon is the father of Helaena's twins/there's no way that Aegon actually forced Aemond and Helaena to sleep together/let me find the gray area here to make what he did less awful." That left me genuinely shocked.

There was the early comments about Aemond being an idiot about expecting the Karstarks to accept his terms for fealty when Cregan Stark hadn't yet made his decision (which is why Aemond didn't tell Beron he wanted to marry Wylla, because Beron made it very clear there would be no forward movement toward an alliance without Cregan's say so). Personally, I thought it was clear that he was trying to sway Cregan's ruling while still covering his own ass because he was dragonless and defenseless in the north. Or the "why didn't Wylla scream for the guards" comment from way back when.

Otherwise, it's only been the occasional thing that's made me raise an eyebrow or wonder if that's actually how I was coming across in my writing.

#aemond x wylla #natasha tag

[thehungergames-cofradiathg]

Wylla Gray, tributo femenino del Distrito 8.

#Wylla Gray #Yara Shahidi #Distrito 8 #tributos104 #los juegos del hambre #104 #Cofradía THG