#i miss house baratheon and the one true king of westeros

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

why are you crying about blood and cheese if every targaryen deserves to die according to you? own your words lmaooo

I’m assuming you’re on my ass due to this post

And you seemingly missed my inclusion of “Daemons descendants”. Note how I said due to Daemons actions and Rhaenyra’s inaction, everything bad that happened to house Targaryen after they ‘won’, is cosmic karma for putting a hit on a baby (Maelor) and sending two murdering rapist to threaten a baby girl with rape if her mother didn’t choose which of her sons she should watch die.

Plus, aren’t you on the side of people who say the targtowers aren’t real Targaryen? Because *checks notes* they are half andal??? So in that line of thought, I’m actually not a hypocrite for wishing death on house Targaryen because they aren’t Targaryen. At least according to team black anyways.

My hatred for house Targaryen is of the line of Rhaenyra and Daemon. As team black said, they won with their son sitting on the throne, but also all the suffering the people of Westeros went through can be traced back to their second son Viserys. With his son Aegon the unworthy single-handedly plunging Westeros into civil war SEVEN times. By giving blackfye to Daemon Waters, he most blatantly, told the nobility of Westeros that he favored his bastard over his true born son. Echoing his grandmother Rhaenyra in more ways than one lol.

How many people died due to Rhaenyra grandson legitimizing all his bastards on his deathbed? How many people died due to Aerys Targaryen’s fondness for wildfyre? How many people died because Rhaegar was so enamored with the idea of a prophecy, going so far as to steal and rape a 15 year old? Notice how in the subsequent years after the dance of dragons, there were only two monarchs that were ‘good’. Viserys II and Daeron II. Others were either lunatics that would’ve been better off smothered in the cradle due to how many deaths they caused, or lackluster kings who’s poor management of their offsprings caused the realm to bleed; Aegon the Unlikely with his lack of spine when it comes to putting his foot down in regards to his children spurning their betrothed causing the Baratheons to rise up in rebellion when Duncan the Small decided to think with his dick than do his duties to the realm (sounds familiar doesn’t it? Rhaenyra’s tendencies to flaunt her disregard of her duties truly is inherited by her decedents!), and Jaehaerys II choosing to believe a woodwitch Jenny bought to court and forcibly making his children marry when both of them hated or at least strongly disliked each other.

These Targaryens didn’t come from Alicent’s line. They came from Rhaenyras. Which is why I said the downfall of house Targaryen in the current ASOIAF timeline is cosmic karma for the depravity of Rhaenyra and Daemon. I can only hope Winds of Winter would further explore Jon leaning into his Stark heritage and completely disregarding his Targ heritage, and that if Aegon Targaryen is real, he’d connect with his Martell family more so than his targ one.

#anti team black #anti house targaryen #anti targaryen #anti rhaenyra targaryen #anti daemon targaryen #Aegon the unworthy #daemon waters #Aegon the unlikely #anti Duncan Targaryen #team green #team black saying they won cuz rhaenyra’s bloodline lived on as if her line didn’t cause the most suffering to Westeros’s smallfolks

[raya-rhaenyra-ahsoka]

House of the Dragon Ep. 4: King of the Narrow Sea, a Summary (Incorrect Quotes Edition)

SPOILERS AHEAD!

Rhaenyra: *becomes the 1st bachelorette in The Bachelorette Westeros*

Lord Dondarrion: *talks about his castle*

Rhaenyra: *bored* Hmmkay, you're old. Next!

Lord Baratheon: Princess Rhae-Rhae, that was mean.

Rhaenyra: The dude's older than my dad. How tf was that not weird enough?

Smol Lord Blackwood: *a literal child*

Rhaenyra: Wtf that's a child.

Smol Lord Blackwood: *talks about his house*

Lord Bracken: Ha! He's so smol.

Smol Lord Blackwood: ...you'll be safe under my protection.

Lord Bracken: Protection? Bitch, please. She has a dragon, she doesn't need you.

Smol Lord Blackwood: *about to lose his cool*

Rhaenyra: Aww, you're so cute. Next!

Lord Bracken: Craven!

Smol Lord Blackwood: *losses his cool* Wtf bitch, fight me!

Rhaenyra: Oh shit, I don't need to be here for this.

Rhaenyra, to Criston: Crispy, let's skeddadle.

Smol Lord Blackwood: *stabs Lord Bracken*

Rhaenyra: Omfg that kid actually stabbed him. Wtf is wrong with these people?

. . . . .

Rhaenyra: *looking over king’s landing* you think my dad will be mad at me?

Criston: Well…

Daemon: *aboard Caraxes* What’s up bitches! *hits the ship to say hello*

Criston: Wtf was that?

Rhaenyra: *smiles* Uncle’s home.

. . . . .

Daemon: Bet you’ve seen the last of me, eh, bitches?

Viserys: Wtf is he you doing back here?

Rhaenyra: *thoughts* Omfg uncle had a haircut. It suits him. He’s looks hot af.

Daemon: Hey, big bro! Miss me?

Viserys: *still surprised*

Daemon: *pulls out a weapon* Btw, you can add this to the chair.

Viserys: Why tf are you wearing a crown?

Daemon: Once I beat those bitches in the Step Stones, they made me king. But you don’t have to worry, you’re the real king.

Daemon: *bows* The Stepstones are yours.

Viserys: *approaches Daemon with a sword*

Rhaenyra: *can and will do a Pocahontas if you kill him, you’ll have to kill me too if she has to*

Viserys: *smiles* Oh, I can’t stay mad at you. Get over here.

Daemon: *hugs Viserys*

Crowd: *awws and applauds*

Viserys: Welcome home, lil’ bro.

. . . . .

Viserys and Daemon: *catching up*

Rhaenyra: Wtf is going on?

Alicent: Your dad’s drunk af

Rhaenyra: Hi uncle, congrats again!

Daemon: Thank you, Rhae-Rhae.

*awkward silence*

Alicent: So, how about you see the new tapestries?

Viserys: *sarcastically* Sure, my lil’ bro wants to see that.

Rhaenyra: *walks out*

Alicent: *Follows after her* So, how is it being the bachelorette?

Rhaenyra: It’s so boring.

Alicent: Boring? Bitch, you’re so lucky guys are lining up for you.

Rhaenyra: Bitch please, they’re not after me. They’re after the fucking iron throne.

Alicent: I think it’s romantic.

Rhaenyra: Romantic? Girl, it’s so bougie. All they want is to lock me in a castle and carry their babies.

Alicent: *frowny face*

Rhaenyra: Omfg bestie, I’m so sorry.

Rhaenyra: Btw, is my dad mad?

Alicent: Is he mad? I think you should be asking how mad he is.

Alicent: Your dad worked so hard for you to be Westeros’ 1st ever Bachelorette and he’s afraid you’re throwing away your chance.

Alicent: But I’m glad you’re back. The people here are so fake and you’re my one true bestie.

Rhaenyra: Aww, I miss you too.

. . . . .

Rhaenyra: So, uncle, you’re back. Why?

Daemon: I miss home.

Rhaenyra: Bitch please, you hate it here.

Daemon: …

Rhaenyra: Seriously, why are you here? Hmm, maybe you have matured. Good for you.

Daemon: You have matured too, Rhae-Rhae.

Rhaenyra: Btw, dad’s like ready to sell me off to some lord who has the biggest castle.

Daemon: Consider yourself lucky. There are worse shit to be sold for.

Daemon: And besides, it’s all for politics. None of that shit is real.

Rhaenyra: For boys, I guess. But for girls, it’s a death trap.

Daemon: If that’s true, then why hasn’t my wife died yet?

Rhaenyra: My mom’s already dead. And I’m not gonna be like her.

Daemon: Stay single? That’s so sad and boring.

Also, Daemon: *thoughts* Imma bout to change her view.

. . . . .

Tyland: The Step Stones was supposed to be for the 7 kingdoms, but honestly, it’s like we traded a Sea Snake to take down a Crabfeeder.

Lyonel: Clearly that bitch is still salty because the king didn’t marry his 12-year-old daughter.

Viserys: *groans* That was ages ago. Why is he still mad about that?

Mellos: The Sea Snake thinks he’s a boss-ass bitch, my king. We all know that. I think he’s still mad because it damaged his rep.

Otto: Oh, btw, my big bro has sent me tea from Oldtown saying the Sea Snake is planning to marry his baby girl to the Sealord of Braavos’ son.

Viserys: So?

Otto: If that happens, they’d be unstoppable. So, we’d have to move first.

Rhaenyra: *thoughts* Oh shit. I feel like it’s gonna fall on me.

. . . . .

Rhaenyra: Good night, Crispy.

Criston: Good night, Princess Rhae-Rhae.

Rhaenyra: *finds clothes and a paper on her table* Wtf is this?

Rhaenyra: *figures out the paper’s a map to a secret tunnel* Ooh, interesting.

Rhaenyra: *puts on the disguise and follows the tunnel*

Daemon: Very good, Rhae-Rhae. Now, let’s have some fun. *pulls her hand*

Rhaenyra: So, where are we going?

Daemon: To have some fun. *takes Rhae-Rhae to the streets of King’s Landing*

Rhaenyra: *gets fascinated*

. . . . .

Viserys: *takes a bath with servants attending to him*

Alicent: *takes loofah from a servant* Let me have that.

Alicent: The rest of you gtfo.

Viserys: Wtf are you doing?

Alicent: I’m your wife, I should be taking care of you.

Viserys: Aww, that’s sweet.

. . . . .

Daemon: *takes Rhae-Rhae to a play*

Rhaenyra: *gets offended by how people view of her*

Rhaenyra: They’re peasants and their opinions don’t matter. Let’s go.

Rhaenyra: I thought you’re taking me out for some fun?

Rhaenyra: *grabs food from nearby tray*

Daemon: Out here, you pay for shit.

Rhaenyra: But I don’t have money. *Runs*

Seller: Hey, stop!

Daemon: Don’t worry, I’ll stop him.

Rhaenyra: *runs into a Kingsguard*

Harwin: Who you running from, huh?

Rhaenyra: Omfg, ser Harwin?

Harwin: Princess Rhae-Rhae? Wtf are you doing out here?

Harwin: *sees Daemon behind her* Oh, I see.

Rhaenyra: Please don’t tell anyone.

Harwin: Oh, uh…run along now, boy.

Rhaenyra: Thankies, I owe you.

Harwin, to Daemon: S’up?

Daemon: S’up.

Daemon: Having too much fun?

Rhaenyra: Oh, you have no idea.

. . . . .

Alicent: *about to sleep, but someone knocks on the door*

Alicent: What now?

Servant: The king wants to see you.

Alicent: Wtf it’s late and I’m not in the mood.

Servant: Nothing I can do about that.

. . . . .

Viserys: *drills into Alicent*

Alicent: *pokerface* *not in the mood*

. . . . .

Daemon: *takes Rhae-Rhae into a brothel*

Daemon: *takes off Rhae-Rhae’s disguise*

Rhaenyra: Hey, wtf are you doing?

Rhaenyra: *sees people naked and doing it*

Rhaenyra: Uncle, wtf is this place?

Daemon: Isn’t it obvious?

Rhaenyra: *gets turned on*

Daemon: Doing it is fun. And it’s for everyone *wink-wink*

Rhaenyra: Really?

Daemon: Really.

Rhaenyra: *kisses Daemon*

Daemon: *backs Rhae-Rhae onto a wall and ‘touches’ her*

Daemon: Your dad’s gonna kill me for this, but who tf cares.

Daemon: *suddenly panics and stops*

Rhaenyra: Wtf? Are you fucking kidding me?

. . . . .

Rhaenyra: *stomps back to her room*

Criston: Where tf did you come from?

Criston: Wtf just happened?

Criston: Princess, you ok? I’ll get the lord commander, ok?

Rhaenyra: *opens her door* No!

Rhaenyra: *grabs his helmet to lure him inside*

Criston: Wtf are you doing?

Rhaenyra: *closes the door* Here you go.

Criston: Thanks

Rhaenyra: *kisses him*

Criston: Omfg stop it.

Rhaenyra: Come on! Uncle left me hanging, I wanna get some.

Criston: What?

Rhaenyra: What?…nothing!

Criston: *allows Rhae-Rhae to take off her armor*

Criston: I could lose my head for this.

Rhaenyra: No one will know.

Criston: Oh, WTF *sleeps with Rhae-Rhae*

Rhaenyra: *victorious and satisfied smile*

. . . . .

Daemon: Where tf am I?

Mysaria: Good morning.

Daemon: Oh, hey. Long time, no see.

Mysaria: Bitch, you can pay the room on your way out.

Daemon: K bye.

. . . . .

Otto: Omfg the king will be so mad.

Otto: *visits the king* Your Grace.

Viserys: It’s so early. Wtf do you want?

Otto: I have some tea for you, but it’s not exactly very good.

Viserys: Is this about the Sea Snake?

Otto: Uh, no. It’s about princess Rhae-Rhae.

Viserys: Wtf did she do now?

Otto: She was seen last night outside the Red Keep…in a brothel.

Viserys: So?

Otto: With her uncle. And they were…

Viserys: Still not seeing your point. Go on.

Otto: Daemon and Rhae-Rhae were…

Viserys: What?

Otto: I think you know what I mean.

Viserys: No, I don’t. You have to say it.

Otto: They were…👉👌

Viserys: Say it.

Otto: They were…coupling.

Alicent: *gasps* Omfg

Viserys: *in denial* That’s not true.

Otto: I wish.

Viserys: Where did you hear this tea? I’ll have their heads!

Otto: Well, I have spies everywhere and servants have said they saw her in boy’s clothes at night with her uncle.

Viserys: *outraged* So, you’re spying on us? WTF OTTO

Otto: No, that’s not what I’m saying-

Viserys: No, you’re so ambitious that you want Rhae-Rhae out of the picture so your grandkid can be the heir. Bitch, don’t deny it!

Otto: That’s not-

Viserys: GTFO

. . . . .

Rhaenyra: *combing her hair, then there’s a knock on her door*

Rhaenyra: It’s open.

Criston: Hi princess.

Rhaenyra: *smirks* Oh, hey. So, you here for round 2?

Criston: Uh, no, Queen Ali wants to see you.

Rhaenyra: Hmm, k.

. . . . .

Rhaenyra: Hey, bestie.

Alicent: Wtf happened last night? My dad had some juicy hot tea against you.

Rhaenyra: Whoa, calm tf down.

Alicent: Were you with your uncle?

Rhaenyra: I mean, yeah. I haven’t seen him in years. Just went out and had some fun.

Alicent: Bitch, don’t lie to me.

Rhaenyra: Ok, wtf did your dad said I did? That I drank and sneaked out after curfew?

Alicent: That you fucked Daemon in a brothel!

Rhaenyra: *sweats nervously* What? HOW DARE YOU! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! WHY TF WOULD I DO THAT?

Alicent: You Targs have weird-ass kinks. And knowing Daemon, yeah, that’s not suspicious at all.

Rhaenyra: Ali, bestie, you’d really believe a lie over me? Where did your dad even hear this?

Alicent: Idk, honestly. He told your dad about it and I just overheard.

Rhaenyra: Omfg you’re accusing me of this because you were nosy? Wtf Ali!

Alicent: I just wanted to help you, Rhae-Rhae. So you did not…?

Rhaenyra: Daemon never touched me.

Alicent: …

Rhaenyra: I’m your bestie. I’d never lie to you.

Alicent: …

Rhaenyra: I swear to you on my dead mom’s grave.

Alicent: …ok, I believe you.

Queen Aemma: *spills her tea in heaven* WTF RHAENYRA! I DIDN’T DIE AT CHILDBIRTH FOR YOU TO LIE TO YOUR STEPMOM!

. . . . .

Daemon: *comes back to the Red Keep hungover*

Kingsguard: The King wants to see you.

Daemon: Get off of me!

Daemon: Wait, no, don’t do that. I need you to help me walk.

Kingsguards: *drags Daemon to the throne room*

Daemon: *rolls on the ground*

Viserys: Wtf did you do to Rhae-Rhae?

Daemon: Good morning to you too.

Viserys: Aren’t you even gonna deny it?

Daemon: I’m sorry, what exactly did I do?

Viserys: You defiled her! *kicks him*

Daemon: Why tf does it matter? We used to fuck bitches when we were her age.

Viserys: Rhae-Rhae is my baby girl. And your niece!

Daemon: Rhae-Rhae is a woman. She can sleep with whoever she wants.

Viserys: *grabs Daemon’s collar* You son of a bitch! You took her v-card. Who will want to marry her now?

Daemon: I’ll do it.

Viserys: Are you fucking crazy?

Daemon: No, I’m serious. I’ll marry her.

Viserys: Bitch, you’re already married!

Daemon: Fuck it! Aegon the Conqueror had 2 wives, why can’t I?

Viserys: WTF, DAEMON! JUST GTFO!

. . . . .

Daemon: *enters the dragonpit to get Caraxes*

Caraxes: Lemme guess, you got exiled again.

Daemon: Just stfu and let’s gtfo of here.

. . . . .

Alicent: Have you spoken to Rhae-Rhae?

Viserys: Nah

Alicent: Look, I know Rhae-Rhae, ok? She’s not a liar. But I’m not sure about Daemon though.

Viserys: So why would he lie then?

Alicent: Idk. To spite you? Because let’s be honest, you’ve exiled him way too much.

Viserys: …

Alicent: Rhae-Rhae would never lie to me. And I know it.

. . . . .

Rhaenyra: *walking towards her father’s chambers*

Rhaenyra: *thoughts* Omfg I’m in so much trouble.

Rhaenyra: *tries to take the dagger*

Viserys: That’s Aegon’s dagger.

Rhaenyra: *jumps* Wtf dad you scared me.

Rhaenyra: *reads inscription in the dagger*

Viserys: It’s larger than everything, even your…desires.

Rhaenyra: …

Viserys: I could write you off my last will for what you did, Rhae-Rhae.

Rhaenyra: But that shit isn’t even true. You aren’t even gonna ask me what really happened?

Viserys: It doesn’t fucking matter! People have seen you, Rhae-Rhae. Now our reputation is destroyed, thanks to you.

Rhaenyra: *sighs* If I was a boy, I doubt you’d even care about it.

Viserys: But you’re not, so stfu!

Rhaenyra: …

Viserys: Btw, I decided to marry you to Laenor Velaryon. And I don’t want to hear to complaining about it. And besides, we need the Sea Snake back. They have the best ships and they also have dragons, so it’s a win-win for us.

Rhaenyra: Fine, but you need to fire your Hand.

Viserys: What? He’s a good man.

Rhaenyra: You know he wants baby Aegon to be heir. That’s why he had me spied, right? So he could report it to you if I did anything stupid.

Viserys: … *doesn’t deny it because she has a point*

. . . .

Viserys: 5 days.

Otto: What?

Viserys: 5 days after my dad died, you replaced him. And now with me as king, you’re still the hand. But I wonder…

Otto: …

Viserys: Aemma’s death still hurts, and so you planted your own daughter as a distraction. I married her and she gave me a son. Now, you then had Rhae-Rhae spied, make sure she does something stupid so I would disinherit her and name baby Aegon the heir.

Otto: Well, sometimes you need to hear the truth. I mean-

Viserys: Bitch, please. I already figured out your plan, Otto.

Otto: But-

Viserys: You’re fired. We thank you for your services. Now, please if you can show yourself out, that’d be great.

Otto: …

Otto: Wtf just happened.

. . . . .

Mellos: *carrying a Plan B tea* Sorry to disturb you this late, princess.

Rhaenyra: No, it’s fine.

Mellos: I prepped this carefully so you should be fine.

Rhaenyra: I’m sorry wtf is this?

Mellos: It’s a tea, princess Rhae-Rhae. Your dad insisted I make you some. Because let’s be honest, nobody likes accidents *wink-wink* K bye.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Here's Ep. 4. Enjoy! 🤣

#house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #criston cole #borros baratheon #samwell blackwood #jerrel bracken #daemon targaryen #caraxes #viserys targaryen #viserys i targaryen #alicent hightower #otto hightower #tyland lannister #lyonel strong #grand maester mellos #harwin strong #daemon x rhaenyra #rhaenyra x criston #mysaria #aemma arryn #aegon ii targaryen #corlys velaryon #laenor velaryon #hotd incorrect quotes

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Gold and Red

Pairing(s): Jaime Lannister x Reader, Tommen Baratheon x Reader

Warnings: cheating, cuckolding, arranged marriage, affair

Words: 2491

Summary: How could you bring yourself to have sex with your child husband? Jaime, however, was a full grown man.

This was an old Tumblr request from my old account

You doted on your young husband, that much was clear to anyone who saw you with King Tommen. Adored him even, he was the sweetest, kindest, person you had ever met. There was just one thing wrong with your situation: He was but a child. You loved him as you would a younger brother but it was hard for you to consider him a sexual partner. He still had baby fat on his face and sweetness of youth in his eyes. When your father told you you were to marry him you found it hard to even conceive such an idea. Sure he was the King of Westeros now that his older brother Joffrey was dead, but he was still a child. You had doubted his own ability to be king.

When the two of you first met you knew though that given time, Tommen would be a wonderful king. A kind and generous king.

He was ever sweet with you, calling you his queen far before the two of you took your vows, holding your hand whenever possible. Tommen even introduced you to his kittens. He was by far the sweetest of his family.

That was why during your wedding night you saved him the utter embarrassment of him having to bed you. Instead you tucked him in and the two of you slept peacefully in one another’s embrace. There had been no witness to your consummation, much to your gratitude. You wouldn’t want to put Tommen through such a thing as sex when he was clearly not ready yet. You doubted that he had even hit puberty yet.

You saving him from that did nothing to help your image though. Months had gone by after your marriage and you still showed no signs of carrying a child. Many viewed you with contempt and you even heard the harsh whispers of how Tommen should have married Margaery; that perhaps you were infertile. House Tyrell’s words of “Growing Strong” weren’t for nothing. They were as fertile as their lush land.

How could you though? How could you have intercourse with a doe-eyed child who still possessed the looks of a young boy?

At least there was one person on your side. Cersei didn’t look at you as such. In fact, you would dare say that she was rather fond of you. Everyone knew how Cersei didn’t like Margaery. The Queen Mother always felt like her daughter-in-law was up to something. Not you though. You weren’t trying to monopolize her last living son by getting pregnant. If Cersei was happy, you wouldn’t complain. You knew what happened to those who upset her. At best she shunned them. At worst, well, you’d wind up miles under the ground.

Maybe someday you would try to be physical with Tommen. Perhaps once he showed outward signs of becoming a man. Not anytime soon though.

\

“(y/n), are you happy with me?” Tommen asks you one night, tucked into bed with Ser Pounce curled up next to him.

You were preparing to climb into bed next to him when you stop, knee propped up on the mattress. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sweet eyes like green confections gaze up at you bashfully. Full lips curl down into a frown as he pulls the sheets closer to his chin. “Sometimes you don’t look very happy. I’m not a good husband. . .”

Heart faltering at this loving boy, you crawl into bed and run your fingers through his golden hair; soft as a feather. “Don’t say such things, sweet lion. You make me very happy. You’re a very attentive husband.”

“Are you sure?”

Beaming down at him, your body leans in so that you could kiss the bridge of his nose. Tommen still smelled fresh from his bath. “Yes, I’m very sure.”

Finally he smiles and innocently kisses you on the lips.

“Have sweet dreams, my king.”

Immediately after that, Tommen was fast asleep while you sat up in bed wide awake. What you told him was true. You were happy with him. How could you not be? But there was something missing in your life that you hadn’t been aware of before.

Hands linger down your body, stalling at the area between your legs. The presence of your husband was all too heavy. Recoiling your hands back up to the top of your sheets you recline your head back onto the headboard of the bed. Your body ached. It ached for something between your legs, something that would fill you to the brim.

There was a wave of shame that bathed over you. Shaking your head you decide you wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. Quietly and carefully you slip from your marital bed and out the door. You really had no idea where you would go, but maybe walking around a bit would help soothe the tension between your legs and the racing of your heart.

He was such a sweetheart. You should’ve been happy with just that. Not everyone was lucky enough to be in an arranged marriage with such a kind hearted boy.

Your natural instincts were kicking in though, a more carnal instinct that was salivating at the mouth, begging to be fed.

“No, bad (y/n).” Scolding yourself quietly as you paced through the halls, your feet unconsciously walk to the path of the gardens outside. Fresh air would do you good.

“Cold night, isn’t it Your Grace?”

A chill runs up your back and not because of the aforementioned weather. Jaime Lannister. You knew it looked suspicious for you to be wandering the grounds at night.

“I couldn’t sleep.” You say while you turn to face him. “Thought maybe if I walked around for a bit it might make me sleepy.”

The light that cascaded from the swollen moon above illuminated Jaime’s armor and caught the gleam of his golden hair. Lannister gold. The same gold that your husband possessed.

Jaime too looked tired yet unable to bring himself to sleep. “Yes, I fear I suffer from sleeplessness as well. Surely your husband is missing you in bed.”

“He is sound asleep. Tommen won’t wake up until the morning.” Seating yourself on a cold, marble bench, you motion for Jaime to join you.

Clearly he hesitates, contemplating if it was appropriate to sit next to the Queen. Maybe even more so due to the fact that your husband was his nephew.

When you tilt your head there’s something that flashes in his eyes. You can’t quite describe what it was but it seemed to help him make up his mind.

He ducks his head as he takes the spot next to you, his armor clinking as he sits down.

“Why do you still wear your armor? Surely you would want to be rid of it as soon as you could. It looks terribly uncomfortable.”

Jaime chuckles and looks at you. Such pretty eyes like Tommen, but these were older and wiser. “I’ve worn this armor for so many years it doesn’t bother me one bit. My watch has just ended but I had to discuss something with the Queen Mother.” His mood darkens at the mention of his twin sister.

“Was it about something dire? Should I be concerned?” You sit straighter. Did it have something to do with the calamity in the north?

For you his mood becomes softer. “No need to fear, Your Grace. It was a personal matter. Not a good one though. Cersei is very upset with me.”

Relaxing a bit you unclench your fingers. “I don’t see why she would be so cross with you. You are the most upstanding night in all of Westeros. You escaped the Starks and came all the way back with only a missing hand. She should be appraising you.”

“Things have been different between us since the death of Joffrey.”

You grow quiet. Joffrey. You had heard about how terrible he had been yet everyone knew Cersei loved him with every fiber of her being. It was incredible when you thought about it. She loved her child so much that nothing he did could ever displease her. “She’s still grieving.”

A slight scoff breathes out of Jaime. “It’s more than that. But never mind. I don’t want to bore you with things that don’t concern you.”

“It’s not boring but I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.” You didn’t want to push him into saying anything he didn’t want to. Never before had you had such a long conversation with Jaime.

There really hadn’t been any occasion that called for the two of you to speak with one another. Even though you were now part of the Baratheon-Lannister family, you and Jaime were in different stations. You were queen of all Seven Kingdoms while he was in charge of the King’s Guard in protecting you and your husband. Even though he had such an elite status it still didn’t call for much interaction with you. All you really knew of Jaime Lannister was what everyone else knew. Becoming a knight at such a young age, being inducted into the Guard, and slaying Aerys Targaryen. All of those things you didn’t hear from Jaime’s mouth though. They were common knowledge. You wondered what Jaime had to say about all of that.

Ever since he returned from being held captive he looked like a changed man. Not just because of his missing hand, but just the weary expression on his face. Maybe he was still haunted from all he had been through. Something you would never really understand.

You gaze down at your own hand. What was it like? He built himself up all because he was an excellent swordsman and to just have that taken away from him all of a sudden must have been traumatic.

“Ser Jaime, would you join me for a drink?”

“Normally I would pass it up, but I hear that you brought an excellent wine from your land. How could I pass up a vintage wine from the south.”

The two of you walked silently to an antechamber that had a door connecting to the room where your husband still slept. On top of a large oak desk is a beautiful chest that your father had given you as a wedding gift. Inside were hand-crafted glass bottles filled with rich, red liquid that was so utterly sweet that one sip was never enough. The sweetness hid the fact that it could make even the heaviest of drinkers intoxicated within a few moments.

You always thought those were just rumors that the vintners boasted.

Boy were you in for it.

Within minutes both you and Jaime had fallen into chairs, divulging in every woe that you had to deal with. From complaining, the both of you progressed into storytelling, sometimes raunchy many times hilarious. It had been a while since anyone had spoken to you like you were a normal person. Even those you had been close with had started to treat you differently now that you were queen. Why?

Nothing had really changed about you, just your title.

Candles burned brightly as you slumped forward onto the desk, laying your head down while you tried to recuperate from the laughing fit you just had.

“We should keep it down.” Jaime tries to say seriously but chuckles at the end. “We don’t want to wake your sweet husband.”

“He is sound asleep like the babe he is.” Snorting, you force yourself up onto your elbows. The world around you was spinning in a delightful manner. “I love him, I truly do, but I wish he were more of a man. He’s still but a child.”

“The sacrifices of women.” Jaime sighed in faux distress. “You want a man but get a child.”

Slurred speech you relax your back against the chair that was way too big for you. “I want a man.”

At that Jaime leaned forward, his green eyes covered in a haze. “I’m a man.”

“You’re a knight in the King's Guard.”

“A man no less. I have yearnings like any other healthy man just like you have cravings like any other healthy woman. That didn’t change when you became queen.”

It certainly didn’t.

Despite being drunk, everything happened so fast. You found yourself on Jaime’s lap, his hand sliding up your thigh and pushing up the hem of your nightgown. Your lips against his own as you go to unfasten his trousers.

It was a night of gold and red as he penetrated you for the first time, ruining you for all other men. Gold stars shot across your vision as a thin red trail of blood trickled down your thigh.

Unfortunately you wouldn’t quite remember the exact details. The next morning you woke up next to Tommen with a nasty headache, naked in your bed. The maid who had woken you up had quite a surprised expression on her face. It probably mirrored your own.

Words spread rather fast about what she had seen, proof that you had been with your husband in an intimate way. Even though you didn’t remember everything you knew that it was Jaime you had been with and definitely not Tommen. You couldn’t correct them on that though. What you had done was punishable.

You found it hard to look Tommen in the eyes after that night. Even harder was being around Jaime, which was all the time since he was in the King’s Guard. He didn’t speak to you of that night and seemed equally determined to not bring it up. You didn’t take offense to it though. It made things easier for you that he wasn’t trying to start anything serious. Whatever happened was a one time thing that wouldn’t occur again. That night was enough for you. He scratched the itch that had been bothering you, nothing more nothing less.

But it turned into something much more.

Weeks later you found yourself so utterly sick that you couldn’t move an inch without getting nauseous. Tommen hovered over you, worried that you were maybe dying.

His concern made you smile. “I’m alright sweet lion.” You try and reassure him. The maester was right next to Tommen, having inspected you to see what your ailment could have been linked to.

“Your queen is right. There’s is nothing wrong with her. She’s simply pregnant.”

Both you and Tommen stare at the older man.

In a little voice, Tommen whispers “Pregnant?” Dear gods you hoped that he didn’t know yet how babies were made.

You felt even more sick and not because of the baby that was growing inside of you.

The maester was beside himself with join. “Congratulations! Everyone has been waiting for an heir! This must be such reassuring news for the both of you.”

Yes, it would’ve been if the baby had indeed been your husband’s. Instead it belonged to his uncle.

#reader insert #game of thrones #game of thrones reader insert #game of thrones fanfic #fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #fanfic #asoiaf reader insert #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fanfiction #got reader insert #got fandom #got fanfic

[stannisbaratheon]

oh man i haven’t produced asoiaf content in a while but i miss seeing them on my dash (especially fancasts and baratheon-related stuff) so pls tag me in your edits 👉👈 i track #stannisbaratheon and we don’t have to be mutuals for you to use it!

i’m sure half of my followers are inactive already because i haven’t been active here in a while but i just want to reblog more asoiaf edits and if you have space for an extra tag pls consider mine hehe, pls and thank u.

#asoiafedit #gotedit #game of thrones #i recently followed preasoiafsource and i love the stuff i’ve seen #and they make me miss that peak era of asoiaf content on here #i’m not motivated enough to make my own rn but i miss seeing them 🥺 #i miss house baratheon and the one true king of westeros

[marvel-starwarsfangirl]

I finally finished A Dance With Dragons and it was amazing!! It was good to see what Tyrion, Dany, Jon and everyone else were up to bc AFFC was heavily focused on the KL drama.

Tyrion’s adventures in Essos were pretty interesting from meeting Penny, Jorah, Jon Connignton and “Aegon” to accidentally getting caught by slavers. I also found his thoughts regarding Jaime interesting as well. He constantly reminds himself that he hates Jaime and wants his head on the spike. However, he also thinks of Jaime when asked if he misses anything about Westeros. I take this as a hint that the brothers will reunite and hopefully reconcile.

I also really loved Dany. Seeing her ride Drogon for the first time was amazing! The Hizdahr drama is definitely interesting though. I think he’s the Harpy and not a very nice guy. Nobody with a brain should trust him. It was touching when Dany admitted that he missed Jorah. Side note: also liked the Barristan Selmy POVs. He’s a cool dude.

QUENTYN MARTELL IS AN IDIOT. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Well, Cersei had her walk of atonement. Not fun. Also, she’s in denial over the fact that Jaime went off with Brienne somewhere. And I’m like: honey, you spend half a book bullying him, you really think he’s gonna come to you after that?

Speaking of Jaime, I really liked this conversation with Hoster. Learning about Westeros’ history is always interesting. And I love how he goes off with Brienne without a second thought. He’s gonna fulfill that oath he made and Brienne’s there so... I hope nothing bad happens to him. I love Jaime. Low key found it amusing how he runs off with Brienne when she shows up out of no where yet is like nope when Cersei calls. He’s come a long way.

And of course, we get the best, juiciest drama in all of Westeros: the Bolton family drama. Like, this was the best thing I’ve ever read. What’s more fun and crazy then a bunch of dudes who don’t like each other and get snowed in together? Ngl, Theon’s POV was definitely my favorite in this book. Roose Bolton is awesome and so creepy! I love him! Ramsay is a monster and I was legitimately disturbed. But put him in a room with Roose and the drama is the best. House Bolton may be the most brutal house, but they are also the most dramatic and I’m here for it. And I can’t wait to see their confrontation with Stannis “the Mannis” Baratheon, the One True King of Westeros, First of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protecter of the Realm. He’s gonna destroy them! (Unless Roose does it first, then we’re in trouble) (but the Manderleys will def betray the Boltons so we’re good).

Some extra notes: Asha’s awesome, Euron’s scary, and poor Jon needs a vacation with all the stress he has. Someone save him.

Anyways, until next time, whenever that is. (Seriously tho, i hope WoW comes out in the next few years) (unless George is messing with us and already finished it) (but that’s probably not it)

#game of thrones #asoiaf #adwd #a dance with dragons #GRRM #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #stannis baratheon #tyrion lannister #roose bolton #ramsay bolton #theon greyjoy #house bolton #i live for the drama #faegon

[kyloren]

i was never really into the jonsa ship, but that post of yours has got me really interested... do you have any fave fics of them??

welp, we’re going old-school, lads. prepare for some of my favourite fandom throwbacks well, I failed at that, I put some of the newer things on the list, too

CANON-VERSE:

Now You See Me: Kissed by fire, Ygritte thought to herself, just like me. 

Goodbye Means Going Away (And Going Away Means Forgetting): Memory is unreliable. No one understands this better than Rickon Stark.

Take My Crown Away (Don’t Smile So Sweetly, My Love): A world where everything is easier. Except for those who love, and love too much.

Build a Ladder to the Stars: Jon abandons the Night’s Watch to join Robb’s cause. After rescuing Sansa from King’s Landing, he and Sansa find themselves in a relationship they never saw coming.

A Winter’s Tale: The War of Three Dragons comes to the Vale, bringing Jon Snow and Sansa Stark together once more.

The Winter of Our Discontent: In the end it is Jon and his men of the Night’s Watch who come to take her back to Winterfell.

tell me true (who are you): Ned Stark brought a dark-haired, grey-eyed bastard babe home and called him son. Years later, Jon Targaryen does the same.

Lift Me Like an Olive Branch and Be My Homeward Dove: She never dreams of Jon Snow but in the end he is the one that comes for her under a Targaryen banner, the might of Winterfell and the North behind him with their father’s sword on his back.

The Whispering Ghosts (Left You Out In The Cold): Winter came and brought Jon home. [this is the first Jonsa fic I ever read, boy, did it fuck me up]

A Bronze Crown: In the end there are no knights. In the end Sansa must rescue herself. Based on the prompt: he doesn’t ride to her rescue; she comes north with her granduncle and the armies of the Vale to wage war on the Boltons, save his life and teach his assassins and the Boltons a sharp lesson.

how ruthless are the gentle*: “Yes, I do.” The easiest lie he’s ever told, by far. It came so naturally, he hardly thought of it as false. “She’s easy to love.”

Tell the Ones That Need to Know (We Are Headed North)*: After years of confinement in the Red Keep with Ned prisoner in the black cells, the Dragon Queen comes. With the knowledge that Jon Snow is actually a Targaryen, she agrees to let the Starks return to Winterfell only if Jon marries one of the Stark daughters. Sansa volunteers so they can all go home. Soon she figures out being married to Jon isn’t bad, but it is complicated.

Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things*: We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. 

Dragons of Red, Dragons of White*: An AU where the Battle of the Trident took place, but just between Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. Their duel and its outcome have ramifications that none could foresee. In the world built afterwards, dragons once again rule and roam Westeros, among them the son of a northern beauty and the king. Prince Jon and his kin, Stark and Targaryen alike, face new challenges from both without and within. Whatever the future holds, the Seven Kingdoms will learn that, whether in a coat of red or a coat of white, a dragon still has claws.

A Knight’s Watch: Jon Snow is forbidden to take the black by his father. Instead he sent to squire for a famous knight, beginning a long arduous journey that causes him to cross paths with characters he never would have. Along the way he learns truths long hidden and discovers love in the most unlikely of places.

The Conquest*: Three hundred years after Aegon the Conqueror built a new empire on the ashes of the Valyrian Freehold the known world is a place of war. The Targaryen Empire is pressed by enemies, the Seven Kingdoms war amongst themselves and forces contrive to pull them all apart.

Live Without Shame: When Catelyn’s treatment of Winterfell’s Bastard unexpectedly softens, Sansa reconsiders her relationship with Jon. But despite the revelations that ensue, Jon must and will always remain Winterfell’s Bastard and suffer its consequences.

The Tempered Kingdoms*:  After years of wars, death, destruction, politics, and White Walkers, a tentative calm has returned to Westeros partially due to the rulership of King Jon and Queen Daenerys. But politics rues its head again as Stannis Baratheon demands his right to rule, while the former Queen Cersei languishes in a cell, plotting her revenge against all who live above her. Sansa Stark is forced to return to King’s Landing after being found by the rumored lovers Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth.

winterbloom: “You’ve traveled a long way for a rumor.” Sansa lives at the Wall under the protection of her brother Jon Snow, but when Sandor Clegane comes looking for her, she and Jon begin to realize that she is not as safe as they once hoped.

As History Changes: Jon agrees to accompany Stannis south to the Vale and he meets a person he did not expect to meet.

hold onto your heart (you’ll keep it safe): When Sansa turns eleven her wrist burns. She excitedly unwraps the cloth guarding her skin, waiting eagerly for the name to finish forming. The dark letters stop after only three and when Sansa leans in closer she realises that she knows that name and she knows that handwriting already.

carve your heart into mine: Sansa spent many evenings sewing her wedding dress by the fire, dreaming of her husband. The gown spilled out of her hands like a silver river, burning brighter from the light of the flames. She had embroidered it with a noble husband in mind, but she wed her lowborn love in the godswood, with snowflakes falling on her veil. 

ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE:

Into the Darkness of the Grave: The tragic death of Eddard Stark’s cousin Lyanna brings her estranged son back to Winterfell House, the family’s old plantation home, for her funeral.

The Other Shoe: If anyone had told Sansa Stark that she would be married to Jon Snow, expecting a child with him at the age of nineteen she would have laughed at them. Not because Jon was a bad person, for he had slowly come out of his shell in the past seven years; not because she was young, her parents were married right out of Hogwarts; simply because Sansa Stark seemed to be the anthesis of a happy ending.

several sunlit days: Everyone knows you don’t date Robb Stark’s sisters unless you want to spend your days avoiding hexes and angry bludgers shot at your head. Too bad Jon’s traitorous feelings could care less.

the unexpected champion: Jon must swim to The Black Lake and retrieve something *cough* Sansa *cough* stolen from him. This task makes him realize who he should invite to the Yule Ball.

Where Did You Sleep Last Night: Sansa needs a new guitarist, Jon needs a new band, and the two of them definitely don’t need each other.

and labor till the work is done: Stark Industries is a family legacy she was hoping to avoid: Robb is a project manager, grooming to eventually be a partner, Arya is a summer intern with Bran sure to follow next year and Rickon in another three, and even Jon Snow, who is technically not family but who has been around for as long as Sansa can remember, works as an estimator. But Sansa is not who she was at sixteen or eighteen or even twenty and she’s still in the process of learning what’s truly important, like who she is, who she wants to be, and what kind of people she wants in her life.

One Of The Few Things: Jaime and Sansa spend a lot of time pining over Brienne and Jon together. Sometimes, they actually even do their jobs.

flower shaped heart*: Alayne Stone has lived her whole life in her hidden tower, forbidden by Mother to leave. But she yearns for an adventure like the ones in the songs, so when a man named Jon Snow crashes into her tower and into her life, she seizes the chance. They travel to King’s Landing where the floating lanterns shine each year on her nameday. The new world is exciting and frightening, but Jon Snow is there to guide her every step. He is not nearly as terrible as Mother said men are, though the rest of the world might be. Danger, betrayals, and lies form the steps of their journey as Alayne uncovers terrible secrets.

Crawl up to my Room: Jon left her side after a few moments of silence and she watched him leave with a quiet thought playing in her mind. He was her stepbrother for only a few hours, and she already found herself utterly fascinated and irritated with Jon Stark. 

in the summer, as the lilacs bloom: “You did tech in high school,” Sansa points out. (Yeah, I did tech because you were playing the lead and I was in love with you.) Jon doesn’t tell her that, though. Of course not. Instead he agrees to spend his summer stage managing this passion project of hers, and some trace of his seventeen-year-old self has dried out his throat at the thought of three months’ constant contact with Sansa.

Down from the Mountain: Sansa flies home from college after her older brother Robb, one of the country’s hottest young pitchers, is hurt in a car accident. Robb’s best friend Jon is there to help the Stark family in any way he can.

Little Bed in the Big Woods: “I stared at him for a solid five minutes because he looked like what I imagine god would look like if god was a lumberjack.”

A Game of Stars*: When the Mad Emperor hears that the Starks are Force-sensitive, he discovers the hidden rebel base on Hoth. He sends Jon there with one order: Burn them all. But bring the Stark children to Coruscant. It’s time for the two most powerful Force bloodlines in the galaxy to merge.

I’ll Pack My Goods for the Arkansas Woods*: When Sansa’s brother goes missing, it falls to her to defend the house and the woods against the greed of the Boltons and Freys. All of this would be much easier if she could fight fire with fire, and there’s a saying in the valley: that all the Starks are a little wild, and all the Targaryens are a little mad. Her cousin Jon just happens to be both.

In the Face of Death: On a long list of things Jon never expected, Sansa came top.

United States of Irreversible Oblivion: With the government losing its fight at the northern border, Sansa’s only hope is that one of its soldiers, Office Jon Snow, will return for her and save her from the horrors of a collapsing society.

remember me love when i’m reborn: ‘Longest Night’ has biggest night in hollywood history. “Joffrey wanted someone to make him famous, and as soon as Sansa wrote a movie for him that did just that, he left her in the dirt.”

Hear the Wolf*: The Starks are in Hogwarts. Sansa has to learn to stand up to her ex-boyfriend and Jon has to learn to face his past. They’re determined to do it alone. Will they ever admit they’re stronger together?

Somewhere in the Winter Woods*: Lost on her way to her grandmother’s cabin in the winter woods after running away from home, beautiful young Sansa thinks she’s run into trouble when she crosses a white wolf in the forest. Instead of harming her, the animal guides her to his master, a handsome warrior named Jon who lives in solitude and clothes himself in black.

* marks the ongoing stories. 

#jonsa #jonsa fanfiction #jon x sansa #sansa stark #jon snow #game of thrones #* #anonymous #ask box #in this tag resides fanfiction

[blacksunscorpio]

Scorp you're a genius! So relatable and I love how you don't judge others or anyone who comes to you for help. Keep it up! I just had to ask since I see that you make pop culture references to make analogies with astrology. You've mentioned GoT a few times and im a huge fan! Can you do a quick post on Game of Thrones characters and their potential zodiac signs? I'd love to hear your input! Thank you so much!!

Game of Thrones Characters & Their Zodiac Signs

Aries

Khal Drogo- Impulsive. Warlike. Bloodthirsty. Alpha. Conqueror. Hardcore athlete [did you see him on that horse?] Extremely sexual. Forceful. When he first meets Daenerys, he forces himself on her. Afterward, however, he is the first to go to war if he feels the people around him have been disrespected.

Aerys Targaryen- Impulsive, sadistic. Boastful. imperial. He would be the Emperor [reversed] in Tarot, lol. Not as good with being a tactician as he ought to have been. Cruel. Rage problems. The need to be the first and the best. Fire and blood, anyone?

Taurus

Maergery Tyrell - Classy, wealthy, sexy, laid-back, frank but with an air of elegance. Highgardeners have a love for the finer things in life. A love of fine wines and foods. Beautiful clothing and aesthetics. RICH RICH. Get on their bad side and they will take their time finding a way to subvert your authority.

Robert Baratheon- Love of luxury, bullheaded, strong, takes no shit. Fixed in his opinions of others, highkey jealous. In his youth, he enjoyed the gifts of Venus: Charm, wealth coming from the noble house of Baratheon, widely considered handsome by almost all in the 7 kingdoms. 

Gemini

Tyrion Lannister- Silver-tongued. HIGHKEY intelligent. Social. Charming. Great sense of humor. A freak [in the sheets]. Chatty. Always finds his way out of a sticky situation. Finds a way to use his intel to bolster diplomacy between his family and the families who hate them.

Little Finger- Cunning, quick-witted, works behind the scenes, manipulative, a  snake, jack of all trades. Top dog in the social circles of the 7 Kingdoms. There wasn’t a person who didn’t know of him and his... reputation. He singlehandedly, through his Machiavellian tactics, caused the events of Game of Thrones to unfold. 

Cancer  

Cersei Lannister- Protective, moody, caring [to her kids], motherly, cantankerous, jealous. A savage. People don’t give Cancer’s the credit they deserve in terms of what they’re capable of. Cersei is a prime example of the type of person who can show unrivaled levels of devotion to the one’s they love. “No one matters but us.” She can be cruel because she lets her emotions rule her actions. When her safety is threatened, she makes sure no one else feels safe either. She loves with a ferocity only rivaled by...

Catelyn Stark- Another mother who would die [quite literally] for her children. Fierce, Protective. Doting. JEALOUS. Let’s not forget how she treated Jon all because she believed Ned’s lie about him being a bastard. Followed her son into battle. Damn near lost her hands fighting off Bran’s would-be assassin. 

Leo

Jaime Lannister- Proud. Handsome. Princely. Funny. We seem him go from underdeveloped Leo [arrogant, selfish, bully, prideful, snob, loyal to no one but himself] to developed [Kind, helpful, warm, honest]. Fought bears for his friends. Skilled and proud fighter even without the use of both his hands. Unfortunately, his loyalty caused him to stay loyal to his twin towards the end, but such is the nature of a Leo. They’re hard-pressed to abandon those they truly care for.

Brienne of Tarth- LOYAL. Proud. Devoted. A bit of a flare for drama especially brandishing her sword. Brienne is the definition of Leonine traits. Hard to miss. Devoted to those who show her kindness, i.e Renly, Catelyn, Jaime, Sansa, etc. Always at the front lines in war screaming “STAND YOUR GROUND”. Unrivaled levels of bravery and courage. Not to be fucked with. A true Queen.

Virgo

Samwell Tarley- Intelligent. Scholarly. Methodical. Always with his nose in a book. Unproblematic king. Caught the things everyone else missed, especially when he was an apprentice in Old Towne. Figured out how to cure Jorah Mormont’s affliction on his OWN without any formal training. Genius.

Lord Varys- Remember, Virgo is also ruled by Mercury who is the most cunning of the planetary rulers. Varys always had a spy to collect intel on everyone. A tactician. Never lost his temper. Always had the scoop but didn’t partake in gossip for gossip's sake. Not afraid to be critical or tell those “in charge” his opinion. We can see this specifically when he critiques Aerys, Daenerys, and Robert. 

Libra

Davos Seaworth- a skilled diplomat. Davos is always seen seeking balance and fairness in the situations he finds himself in. The minute you see this man in a scene you know he’s going to give a moving speech and get someone out fo a sticky situation. He convinced the Iron Bank to support Stannis. Convinced Daenerys to entertain Jon Snow when they traveled to Dragonstone. Always breaking up a fight. He is in full support of law and order, especially when he called for Melisandre’s head after discovering her part in Shireen’s death [RIP.]

Rhaegar Targaryen- Had a love of music. Harmony. Balance. He brought two families together [Stark and Targaryen]. He was also blessed by Venus in my opinion because he was said to be extremely handsome. A fabulous singer. A fighter yes, but a lover first. Very good with diplomacy but not the best with defending himself against his cousin sign, Taurus [Robert Baratheon].

Scorpio

Daenerys Targaryen- Many see her as an Aries but I have to respectfully disagree. Daenerys is a Scorpio in my opinion. Remember, Scorpio is honorary fire. She was literally “reborn from the ashes”. A Phoenix, Scorpio’s final form. She went from a silent and meek girl to a skilled and commanding Empress. Unlike Arians, she did not jump headfirst into battle. It took many arrows in her dragons, many slights to her ego, copious council from her advisors, dozens of her loved ones lost for her to go nuclear. Like her father, she hungered for power, a very Scorpionic trait. However she, unlike her father, listened to reason [Jorah, Tyrion, and Barristan Selmy]. She had a long fuse until she didn’t, and then that’s when she rained fire and blood on everyone in King’s Landing. She was skilled at retribution and was unapologetic with it *cough* the Tarleys *cough*.. Unlike Arians who pop off at the drop of a hat, she gave her enemies fair warning if/when they crossed her.

Arya Stark- You already know what it is with this one. Arya is pretty much death [Pluto], personified. Stealthy. A tactician. VENGEFUL. I think we all fist-pumped when she served Filch Walder Frey his sons in that pie. Never forgets a slight. Keeps a list of people who’ve wronged her [All Scorpios can probably relate]. You never see her coming. She is “no-one”. She is the assassin that slips through the back. She may seem calm at first but trust that she has been planning your downfall for a while. LOYAL. The definition of a Scorpio.

Melisandre- Dark. Mysterious. Unafraid of the occult. So much of her life is unknown and I’m sure that’s how she preferred it. Even her Lord of light was mysterious. Strong supernatural abilities and highkey psychic. Knew immediately how many “eyes” Arya would “close.” Had ties to the underworld which is demonstrated with her ability to resurrect the dead. Came through at the clutch in the last battle wielding fire [Mars] with her witchcraft. It’s no secret that Scorpios are some of the most skilled in sorcery.

Sagittarius

Missandei- Exotic. From Naath which is an island just above the mysterious continent of Sothoryos. A world traveler. Lucky enough to escape slavery [until the end]. Jupiter's influence is here in my opinion because she is so kind and friendly. Also a polyglot and gifted with the ability to speak 19 languages. Her fire is seen at the end of the series when she tells her best friend “Dracarys”-- meaning “fire” in High Valyrian. She isn’t afraid to call wrath down on others.

Olenna Tyrell- Loud, unapologetically blunt, zero-filter, feisty. Olenna to me is the definition of Sagittarius. Always speaks her mind. Clap back queen. Will call you out. Was also quite promiscuous in her younger years. Very charismatic and extremely likable despite her penchant for saying whatever was on her mind.

Capricorn

Tywin Lannister- I can’t see the patriarch of the most notorious family in Westeros being anything other than a Capricorn. Methodical. Structured. Business-minded. Karmic [A "Lannister always repays his debts"] Cold. Cruel. Unfeeling. Like Saturn, he is the father figure. Basically ran the 7 Kingdoms for Aerys, [which was probably why the latter was so salty towards him.] Always has a plan. The man you want in charge if we’re strictly talking about law and order. Vindictive [had the mountain kill Elia because Rhaegar rejected Cersei.] He’s the ultimate son-of-a-bitch.

Jon Snow- Brooding hero that he is, Bae Jon Snow is without a doubt a Capricorn in my eyes. Duty-bound. Serious. A leader in his own right. Could also be cold and unfeeling in terms of distributing karmic justice. Lest we forget the “fetch-me-a-block” situation with Janos Slynt. In addition, the moment he was resurrected he took vengeance against the black brothers who betrayed him. Saturn, Like Pluto, is all about karmic justice. The beating he put on Ramsey after The Battle of the Bastards was one thousand percent a karmic beating. A proper lover as well, according to Ygritte, Jon also knew how to handle himself in the bedroom, a trait very akin to Capricorns.

Aquarius

Bran Stark- I thought about making Bran a Pisces, but then I changed my mind. Remember Uranus rules sudden insights and hardcore psychic receptivity. It also rules sudden and unexpected catastrophes or surprises/ sudden breaks. Bran suffered a literal “tower” moment at the beginning of the series which resulted in his psychic powers developing. Once he became the three-eyed raven, he became very detached from the world.

Grey Worm- Aquarius is also androgynous. Grey Worm is a eunuch. He is always down to fight for a cause though, specifically his queen’s. Cares about others, specifically Missandei, and was seen towards the latter season speaking up for the Unsullied against the slavers. Fierce combatant but also very detached. His job is his job.

Pisces

Jaqen H’ghar- Much like Neptune, Pisces’ ruler Jaqen has a mysterious and illusive personality. He wears “many faces”. Skilled at illusion and very very intuitive. Has a soft side though which is clearly seen with how he treats Arya. Hardly ever flies off the handle. Calm. Cool. Collected.

Hodor- Sweet and gentle giant, Hodor is a Pisces to me. Affected by psychic trauma, it’s revealed why “Hodor” is the only thing he can say. Calm. A bit of a baby. Caring. Easily adaptable [think of all the terrain he carried Bran through]

Eddard Stark- I don't care what anyone says, Ned stark to me represents the most developed form of a Pisces. Like the Hanged-Man in Tarot that represents sacrifice and which Neptune Rules, he willingly sacrificed his reputation as honorable for his sister, Lyanna. He later sacrifices himself for his children when he died at Joffrey’s [little bitch] command. He is wise. Though appears cold, he is actually a well of feeling and caring. Unfortunately, he also suffered from the naivety of Neptunian influence which is why he wasn’t very skilled at the Game of Thrones, which calls for more tactical ruthlessness. Pisceans however also have the rage of Poseidon flowing through their veins [which people like to forget]. This was displayed when he pinned Petyr Baelish to the Wall in King’s Landing for daring to dishonor Cat by inviting her into a Brothel. RIP, King Stark.

#GoT #astro asks #Zodiac Signs #Aries #Taurus #Gemini #Cancer #Leo #Virgo #Libra #Scorpio #Sagittarius #Capricorn #Aquarius #Pisces #Game of Thrones #House Stark #House Tyrell #House Baratheon #jaqen h'ghar #Ned Stark #Arya Stark #Missandei #Melisandre #Hodor #Grey Worm #Varys #Khal Drogo #Fun ask #Feel free to add in comments

[ardentmuse]

Hath No Fury (Ned Stark x Reader) - Part 1

Game of Thrones / ASOIAF - Ned Stark x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Masterlist // Series Masterlist

A/N: Part 1 is here! This was rattling around in my brain one night and I just had to make it real. This story is going to follow Robert Baratheon’s younger sister, the reader, through the period several years before and through Robert’s Rebellion. But ultimately, this is just an excuse to romance hard on Ned Stark, which is kind of the dream, to be honest. But I also just love the idea of how the story might change if, for instance, Renly had someone to raise him, Ned was married before the war broke out, and the Baratheon’s had another player in the game, one with softer edges than Robert. 

Part 1 – A Visit to the Vale - 278 AC

The road from Gulltown to the Eyrie is much less mountainous than you had envisioned from your brother Robert’s letters. He had described the Vale as an impenetrable land with rocks and cliffs for as far as the eye could see. But now, sitting in your carriage alongside your father, trotting along through the crisp green valley that spread out towards Iron Oaks, you can say this place was downright pleasant. You have a few books and the company of your lord father to keep you entertained as you travel the several days into the mountains to reunite with your older brother. Robert’s position as ward of Jon Arryn has grown him into one of the fiercest fighters Westeros would come to know, that is if Robert’s own musings on the matter could be trusted.

When you begin the mountain ascent, you start to see Robert’s way of thinking. The mountains are treacherous but your father entertains you with tales of his time at court, the fineries and the foods, the fools and the fancies. Your father had his own carriage but he is a man who prides himself in his relationship with his children, and, being the only daughter, he often seeks moments to enjoy your company.

By the time the stark white towers of the Eyrie come into view, shooting up into the sky like paths to the heavens, you are ready to rid yourself of your travel clothes, stop the incessant bouncing the wheels and rocks cause and find some stable footing. And pulling up to the gate where a tall, broad young man with your brother’s face stands beaming makes you the happiest you have been in many moons.

Robert wants to run forward but an older man with a long face and short blond hair whom you assumed was Lord Arryn places a hand on his shoulder. Your brother collects himself, cupping his hands like the proper lord he would be someday. And beside them both still stands a quiet, rugged boy whose piercing grey eyes find yours through the windows of your carriage.

Your lord father exits and offers you his hand. You take a gulp, not sure where the nerves are coming from. You aren’t the kind of lady to concern herself with appearances but suddenly your simple grey silk travel dress seems all wrong on you. Your palms grow sweaty as you feel the handsome young man with the kind eyes staring at you.

You take careful steps forward until you are bowing before the lord who would be hosting you for the next two moons. Your father still holds your fingers in his own as you stand.

“Lord Arryn, good to see you once again. It’s been too long.”

“Too long indeed, my dear friend,” the older man’s toothy grin is pleasant if not for the handful of missing teeth.

“And let me introduce you to my daughter, Y/N Baratheon.”

Your father passes your hand over to the older man who clasps it in both of his.

“My lady, I am charmed.” He has a sweet voice and kind eyes. You understand why Robert sees him as a father to him.

“Your lands are beautiful, my Lord. Breathtaking.”

The old man simply beams, squeezing your fingers a little tighter.

“You have no idea how much it warms me to hear you say that. And let me introduce you to my household, which at the moment consists of only your brother and the young Eddard Stark.”

He turns you to the Stark boy, one who Robert has told you about time and time again, his best friend and brother even more than Stannis and the baby Renly. But what your brother had failed to prepare you for was just how cute the man’s pouty lips were or how silky his dark hair or how his smile could set embers ablaze once more.

“My lady,” says the young lad, his voice a little gruffer than you expect for a boy of six and ten but it carves its way into your soul like the sword he wears strapped to his hip, one you have no doubt given his broad shoulders and muscled forearms, he knows just how to swing.

He bows deeply, his eyes on the ground before he looks up to meet your gaze, as if waiting for invitation to stop worshipping at your feet. And then he does the one thing that could make your heart do flips. With his head still down low, looking at you through his lashes, he smirks — a single twitch of his lip, like a bit of mischief just for the two of you — and all of a sudden you know that nervousness you were feeling when exiting your coach will not be leaving you any time soon.

And so, you offer him your hand. One he takes and kisses without even a hesitation.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you, Lady Y/N. Robert has sung often of your grace and your wit but he seems to have failed to mention your beauty as well,” he says, quiet enough that Robert, who is currently in a bear hug with your father like only the two of them can give, can not hear. For a boy that Robert has often called shy and thick in the matters of women, he seems to be doing quite well at winning you over. And honestly, it fills you with pride that maybe this sweet and somber man might find a soft spot in you.

Your brother’s arms around your shoulder pull you away from Eddard. Robert engulfs you against him, squeezing you into his chest.

“Gods, these formal greetings are bloody dull,” he roars. “I’ve missed you.”

And soon you are up in his arms, a foot off the ground.

“Let me get a good look at you!” Robert calls as he inspected you high above him. It is hard not to fall into a fit of giggles, “My darling sister. My, you’ve grown.”

“I can say the same for you. These muscles couldn’t quite get me off the ground last time,” you laugh.

“Not my fault you flowered so young.”

You feel your face completely flush as he places you back on the ground. The last thing you want is your brother’s best friend to know all about your first blood and the curves, the inches, and the weight that came with it.

But the talk of you flowering would be much of the discussion of this trip. Little did Robert know, your father’s hesitation in matching you off with a respectable noble family has much to do with his oldest son. This trip is to secure that Robert is fit to lead as Lord Baratheon someday, to decide if marrying you off to secure ties within your own lands is necessary or if your father could think about strengthening bonds with the other noble families. And that thought has you excited. The Martells have a son — handsome and strong if the rumors are true — in need of a bride, not to mention your cousin Rhaegar has already inquired about your hand, which might even make you queen someday. And within your own lands, you have danced with many a lovely suitor. You are hoping if things go that way that your father might choose Jon Connington, who has just been knighted and always says the sweetest things, but you’ll settle a Penrose or Rogers if necessary.  

But that talk would be for later. Instead, Lord Arryn leads you off to the Maiden’s Tower with gorgeous views out to the east, over the valley towards the waters that led to home. A few handmaidens from local houses help you bath and as you wash the rosewater through your hair, you think more about whom your father might see you fit to marry, and if that man would set your body on edge the way the second son of Rickard Stark seems to have done in just a matter of minutes.

You pick from among your best dresses — ones your lady mother handpicked for the trip. You consider your light blue silks, given the heat of summer, but decide against it, hoping not to disrespect House Arryn by wearing their colors. Instead you opt for the burgundy gown with the golden leaves embroidered into the bodice that complemented your figure so nicely. Your hair is done in the southern style, showing off your neck and shoulders and though you feel a little exposed, you also feel insanely beautiful.

When the knock on your door comes to escort you to dinner, you expect to see your brother, but instead you find  Lord Arryn waiting.

“My lady,” he says, offering you his arm. The host escorting you to dinner is a high compliment, but one that saddened you a little given how much you have missed your older sibling.

You place your hand in the crock of his arm and the old man, pleasant as he is, walks you clumsily down the many spiral stairs towards his dining hall.

To your surprise, he leads you to the seat right to his left, across from the young Lord Eddard and far from your father and Robert, with a smattering of minor lords and ladies filling out the space for a proper fest. Lord Eddard smiles pleasantly at you, lifting his glass as he eyed the collar of your dress.

“Dear Y/N,” Lord Arryn says as the feast began, grabbing your hand in its place on the table, “Your father tells me you are quite well-studied in the accounting of a keep. You’ve been working alongside your mother at Storm’s End, have you not?”

And as the old man smiles at you, holding your fingers in his own, you finally understand a few things about this trip you hadn’t really processed until this very moment. If Robert proves himself in a good place as heir, you will not be going home to the Stormlands at all. There’ll be no big ceremony in King’s Landing where Rhaegar makes you his or a lovely boat trip to the Sunspear to partake in riches of Dorne and of a new husband. No, the noble lord to whom you will be tied is currently without an heir, looking for wife number three to claim her seat at the Eyrie beside him. You are not here as guest but as a thank you gift for Jon Arryn’s work in raising Robert into a proper lord. And suddenly, you don’t want to eat anymore.

You answer Lord Arryn’s questions as nicely and shortly as you could, suppressing the fury growing inside of you. He may be your husband someday soon and you aren’t about to burn down the bridge just for fear of crossing it. Besides, your anger is not with the man who has need of a bride, but rather at your father for offering you up on a platter to a man who could be your grandfather without any consult or forewarning, ignoring perfectly good candidates for the sake of an old friendship.

Across the table though, each time you offer Lord Arryn a pleasant but forced smile, Eddard tried to give you a genuine one, though the sadness in his eyes for you seemed too strong for a man just offering you a little comfort for a sticky situation.

Everyone seemed to know what was happening here but me, you think as you take measured bites of your leaks and game, sipping your wine as an excuse to nod along to another tale about life here in the Vale, one you know is meant to make you see the beauty of the place, but only serves to remind you just how much older than you your future betrothed is.

“Now the late Lady Arryn — the first, not the second — really loved to visit the port cities, simply adored the chaos of the markets. So many riches from the Free Cities find their way to our shores, as I am sure is much the same for your lands, sweetling—”

Your eyes travel to the far end of the table where your Robert sits. You smile at him but he doesn’t smile back, instead his eyes are fierce, rage-filled, as he looks at Lord Arryn.

“Lady Y/N,” Eddard says abruptly, pulling your attention to him. He stretches out his neck and offers you a smile. “Your brother said you’re quite the strong rider. Do you keep your own horses at Storm’s End?”

The smile that grows on your face feels so foreign after all the forced politeness. It is so refreshing to be asked about something that doesn’t have direct barring on your ability to wife, mother, and run a keep. Finally, it feels, someone cares about you as a person.

“Yes, actually. Our lands have quite a vast terrain between forest, valleys and mountain ranges — much like here — so riding is essential. Sometimes it feels like I was born on a horse,” you say, your cheeks flushing a bit at your rambling, and at Eddard’s consistent eye contact as you speak. “I have two palfreys and a destrier in my care, though I’m embarrassed to say more often than not I opt for a pony.”

Eddard laughs, and so does your host whom you honestly forgot was there. Eddard’s entire countenance brightens and you realize just how much more you want to know about the boy who seems completely undisturbed by your less than womanly interests.

“No shame in that. A pony seems the right size for you. Wouldn’t want you falling from too great a height.”

“Might that someone were there to catch me.”

The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, a clear flirtation. But honestly, that seems right for you. You aren’t some shy maiden hidden in a tower listening quietly to tales. You are brazen and fiery and a Baratheon true in spirit. You don’t shy away from the things that interest you. And right now, the Stark boy certainly interests you.

You smile up at him from your lashes, your eyes shining in challenge more than display. He blushes furiously and you feel like you’ve won.

But before he can answer that he’d be happy to have you fall into his arms, your host pats your hand.

“My, I had no idea you were so interested in equestrianism!”

You didn’t ask, you think to yourself. You didn’t ask a single thing about me.

But what you say instead is, “I have a wide array of interests. As long as I complete my studies, the rest of my time is mine to use as I see it.”

Your eyes travel once again over to Robert, who is in hushed debate with your father, both with their brows so knitted you are surprised they aren’t already in a proper row.

Your plates are taken away and the musicians take their place to begin their songs. Lord Arryn stands, his mouth opening to speak to you, but before he can get the words out a voice booms behind you.

“A dance, dear sister?”

You look up at your brother who is more red than white at the moment. His words are for you but his rage is for his adopted father.

“I believe it is the host’s right to first dance, is it not? Surely I’ve taught you a thing or two about decorum over the years.”

“And I believe—“ Robert booms, but you grab his forearm, so large now you can hardly wrap your hands around it.

“Lord Arryn here has raised you like a son, Robert. It seems you are host tonight just as much as he is,” you smile sweetly at Lord Arryn, who takes a seat, his blue eyes piercing you.

“You are right, my lady. Who am I to deny a family reunion? But spare a dance for me, will you?”

You nod, but it doesn’t get much traction as Robert practically yanks you out of your chair and onto the dance floor.

Once on the dance floor, Robert’s hand grips tight at your hip as he leads you in your movements.

“Did you have to wear the goddamn lowest cut dress you own?” he hisses.

“Did mom have to pack it for me or dad forget to inform me that I was on the menu? Don’t you dare pass the blame to me here, brother!”

His hand bunches in the linen of your skirts, still fuming.

“I know, I know, but you didn’t exactly help yourself here.”

His words hurt you because you know exactly what he means. Robert is a god among women — tall, chiseled, bold, and virile — and you know exactly how he sees women with a little bit of cleavage, a little too much leg. Your exposed shoulders make you meat, not maiden to him. And it sickens you a little.

But just as he is a maiden’s fantasy, so are you the fulfillment of a lord’s desire in your own right. You dress the way you do because you know you wear it well. Men beg for your dance, stare longingly at your features. You are the gem that adorns the crown of your sigil, the Jewel of the Stormlands as your people call you often, as your parents call you occasionally, and as Robert calls you now.

“Listen to me. I will not have you as my step-mother. I love Lord Arryn. He raised me well and he would be a good husband to you in time, but a beggar does not deserve a jewel and you do not deserve to be locked in a tower for all of your days.”

He stands tall, his eyes scanning the room like he doesn’t want to look at you.

“Speaking from experience?”

“More than you know. I’m bloody ready to run free of here.”

You look back to the high table where your father sits clasping hands with Lord Arryn, both in the most jovial of spirits.

“I don’t think either of us have much say in the matter, I’m afraid.”

The song ends and you feel a tap on your shoulder. If your brother wasn’t pouting before, he was certainly pouting now.

“May I steal a dance with your sister, Rob?” Eddard asks, his voice only a little sheepish at Robert’s examination.

He just huffs.

“Fine, do what you will with her. I need a drink.”

And Robert storms off in true Baratheon spirit, right to the nearest flagon of mead and chugs without mercy.

“He’s in good spirits, it seems,” Eddard says, holding out a hand in invitation, not in demand. Choice is rare for you, and the fact that he sees to your desires at all has your heart racing. You place your fingers in his, feeling the warm tingle that good touch could give you, and slowly he pulls you in towards his chest.

“Thank you, Lord Eddard, for this dance.”

His smoky grey eyes soften to you.

“Please call me Ned.”

Ned. It sounds nice in your head —warm and simple, no stress — just like the man before you.

“Okay, Ned. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Lady Y/N. Though it seems I should be thanking you for honoring my horrible dancing with your graceful steps.”

You giggle a bit. He’s leading fine but he’s definitely stiff.

“None of this lady business if I’m calling you Ned.”

His gaze casts downward.

“Then what would you like me to call you?”

This voice grows husky, raw, and the timbre of it hits you right in your core. Suddenly, this cute boy who makes you nervous and giddy also makes you eager and hot, two sides of a beautifully enticing coin.

“Wh-Whatever you want to call me, really.”

Ned’s hand on your hip slips a little up your back, pulling you closer to him. He smells of honeysuckle and saddle oil, two scents you know well and two scents you’ve grown to love over the years, just never together in such a way. Your bodies are only centimeters apart, just on the line of what is appropriate for such a public display, but no part of you is complaining. In fact, you are on fire.

“I like the sound of your name on my lips, but I like the idea of having something just for us much more.”

His whisper is a purr. You cling to his neck, gripping at his long hair in anticipation. He seems to like it if his smile is any indication.

“Is calling you doe too expected?” he asks, his fingers now drawing the tiniest circles into the leaves of your bodice.

“Do you think of me as a doe?”

“No, you seem fiercer than a doe, but much more nuanced and mannered than the rest of your family. A bubbling fury controlled, just underneath your chest.”

His eyes cast downward to your neckline as he speaks. Immediately he blushes.

“Perhaps I’m more wolf than stag then,” you laugh. “And you seem more a deer than I do.”

“I’m less a stag or a wolf and much more of a bird at this point. The Eyrie consumes you if you let it.”

He spins you once more through the song change, with no concern for the fact that you are now sharing a second song for everyone to see.

“But birds fly free,” you muse.

“How free are any of us to choose our path? Freedom is about how you choose to respond, not the circumstances themselves.”

He smiles at you then and you aren’t sure if he means the words for you or for himself, but they are comforting nonetheless.

You run your hand across his neck as you think, goosebumps rising on his skin at you go. You realize in that instant that you had forgotten about the watchful eyes of your family, of the court. You are safe in this moment in the comforting arms of a boy not unlike yourself, living the life his parents set forth for him, making the best of it as much as he can.

The song ends as you look up at Eddard  — Ned — and find his smile soft and his skin pink as he looks at you. Your breath catches in your throat at his dimples just showing on his cheeks.

“I believe I’m owed a dance,” Lord Arryn huffs between you. You startle, pulling apart from the boy who holds you a little too close for the circumstances. His fingers tense in your skirts, but he relents.

“Of course,” Ned says, pulling away from you and opting for you hand. He pulls it up to his lips, your sleeve falling downward to graze his fingers. He kisses your knuckles with the kind of slow reverence you often dreamed from princes and heroes of old.

“Goodnight, my dove,” he whispers so only you can hear. And with that, he slips into the crowd and away, leaving only your thumping heart and earning soul in his wake.

Hath No Fury Taglist: @fallatyourfeet​, @none-of-ur-frackin-business​, @crazy-little-vee​, @sebmackiee​​, @xcon27x

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#game of thrones #asoiaf #ned stark #ned stark x reader #ned stark imagine #eddard stark #eddard stark x reader #eddard stark imagine #young!ned stark #baratheon #baratheon reader #game of thrones imagine #asoiaf imagine #reader insert #x reader #hath no fury

[princeaemontargaryen]

~Roses of the Dawn~

«In this alternative story, Margaery Tyrell is a noblewoman who, from the age of seven, was sent to serve Princess Daenerys Targaryen as her lady-in-waiting and become her playmate. But they became more than that, going as far as becoming the sisters they never had within their own families. 

That way, Margaery grows close to Daenerys and remains in her retinue of ladies, especially after she married Prince Rhaegar. However, with Robert Baratheon's rebellion and the uncertaintity of Rhaegar's death, Daenerys is forced to flee to the Free Cities, specifically to Essos, and Margaery with no second thoughts decides to accompany her mistress and friend to the forced exile in spite of herself. 

There also comes with them Rhaegar's closest friend who also happened to become a King's Guard. Ser Arthur Dayne thus makes sure that the depart of the apparently last Targaryen princess is successful, for his friend and lord who was supposed to be the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms told him that he should first and foremost protect the princess, his wife.» 

--

Essos, the Green House.

It's been a long year for the loyalists, Margaery knew it well. She remembers bitterly of the long days spent at a glorious court where she was the center of every poet's ballad and every courtier's eyes. She remembers how richly she used to dress, how fancied she used to be. The endless flirtatious, the dances until late of night, the strolls in beautiful gardens…All of which seems to be part of a world that is now ruined by the war-axe of Robert Baratheon. Her grandmother tried to persuade her to go back and marry him, becoming queen herself, but alas! Would it be worthy to so easily swift loyalties? 

One should always do whatever it takes to survive, even if it must to play these games of thrones, would say the Queen of Thorns. But Margaery would not become Queen at the cust of Daenerys Targaryen, who needed her the most at such a perilous time. Thus she declined to make it true the dreams of building a family of her own. A regret that she would not carry to her conscience, however, seeing whom Robert Baratheon managed to become as the new usurping king of Westeros: a whoring and drunkeous lad with a crown over his head. Rumour has it that he loved Lyanna Stark, the reason why he waged a war against the Targaryens. Margaery wondered if Dany was aware of it, but she decided this was a matter where she should not speak of it.

She sighs in thought. That day, she was spending her leisure moment in the gardens of the house of one of the Braavosi men who was living for his own reasons in Essos. He had been an ally to the Targaryens and was formerly contacted by Rhaegar when he sensed the Rebellion was more deadly than it appeared to be.

The man, named Asouri, was kind enough but Margaery could tell he was uncomfortable for receiving such persons in his household. Robert Baratheon likely knew it too, and it was only a matter of time before he sent someone out there to kill them all… A risk that Asouri reasonably feared. But it was thanks to the gold of Margaery's family that was paying his silence and granting his loyalty. Discreetly, and in concord to the Martells of Dorne, that was how she was surviving… She and the Princess who was more than a mistress to whom she owes obedience, but a reliable friend.

In such thoughts was Margaery, who decided to let her auburn curls fall loose for an instance. Essos was very warm, so that day she was dressing a green gown with no sleeves and very loose from her belly down to her legs. She decided to have some time for herself whilst Daenerys had her own business to attend. In contemplative mood, she did not see Arthur Dayne coming.

The bearer of the Sword of the Morning and the most skilled Knight of the whole Seven Kingdoms, Ser Arthur of the House Dayne was accepted into the King's Guard when in earlier days Elia Martell was betrothed to Prince Rhaegar. There were festivities and when the Dornish were received in the capital, one of the greatest honours was bestowed to such a man who, ever since from Starfall, had been keeping up with his chivalrous reputation. However, from the days of exile, Ser Arthur had been more discreet and certainly doing what he can to help the princess.

On that particular morning, however, he was making the usual round of the household to make sure there would be no enemies found sneaking at the backyard as it sadly happened in the first months of their arrival… or when Daenerys was close to be poisoned at the local market. It was when then Arthur noticed Margaery. He was well acquainted with the Princess's favourite lady-in-waiting, whose friend remained loyal to the Targaryens and kept sending gold, cloth and food whenever it was possible. He also knew her merry, talkative moods. Admittedly, though, he's been observing her more than he would care to admit.

These moods had been swifting, however, and that brought a concern to himself. But because he does not know how to approach her when she is not speaking to him, he usually prefers to be in his own place. Aye, they were both highborns, but an oath prevented Arthur for taking further steps.

Yet, on that particular morning, there was Margaery, beautiful in her green gown and contemplative. Starting at the sea, certainly missing her home. Arthur was observing the auburn curls that dropped loose against her porcelain skin, wondering how soft must it be to touch her… And whilst such unprogrammed thought crosses his mind, a blush runs out of nowhere over his features, which by misfortune is perceived by the aforementioned damsel, who, noticing his presence, exclaimed somewhat amused:

"Ser Arthur! What is it that could be making you blush?" She waves gleefully, a warm smile lightening her features. Such scene gives Arthur's unexplainable chills.

He approached and bows his head as costume dictates.

"My lady, I fear you might have confused it with a tun. How could it be otherwise when I've been daily exposed to this sun?" He laughs at himself. "Has it not occurred you how hotter this is than our homeland?"

Margaery is not convinced, but she is not in the mood to persuade him otherwise. 

"Is it hotter than Dorne, though?" She inquires, her head tilting to the right side, her chocolate eyes filled with curiosity.

Arthur steps forward again, but not daring to take a seat next to her side.

"It is, I think. A different kind of heat. Although Starfall is not any like Sunspear", he laughs.

Margaery smiles. She likes the sound of his laughter, and appreciates his undying chivalric loyalty to the Targaryens. She also happens to notice how introspective is the sound of the words of Arthur. How shy his gaze can be when running out of her decisive eyes. To perceive this makes her blush, but she turns her look away briefly, so he does not notice it.

"Do you miss it?" She inquires gently, her thoughts going back to High Garden.

Arthur looks deep into her eyes, for a moment they share a long gaze, a very significant one because they share the same sentiments. Sentiments that were stolen by the Baratheon who unjustly rules Seven Kingdoms who are not his by right.

"Aye. Every now and then. But duty comes first above all", says he, resignated. Margaery, to her own surprise, finds herself saddned by these words.

"I agree", and before she holds her tongue, word roll out. "Some might even say that duty is the death of love."

Arthur is stunned at her words, and wishes he could counter-say that, but before he could say anything, comes Ser Jorah Mormont inquiring after them both.

*                                   *                            *

Margaery knows her mistress has been melancholic as of late, although good news--as both ignored--are on the way (which will be most propriatedly exposed in another story), she decides to cheer her up. In order to sweep away the thoughts that more than lately have been carrying herself to Arthur Dayne, she occupies herself with a small festivity.

"Marg, I don't think it's a good Idea" said Dany. "We rely too much on your family to cover the custs of this stay, but…"

"That's not the point", Margaery gently cut her off. "You have been too sad these days, reasonably so, but people cannot forget that a Targaryens remains alive."

Dany, despite the good heart of her dearest Margaery, is hesitant to agree.

"That is how we become a target, Marg."

"Did you not attract one in the market? We cannot hid forever, Dany. There is good cause to celebrate, is there not?"

Dany is six months pregnant of Rhaegar, but she barely had time to share the news joyfully due the circumnstances that forced her to go to Essos. Despite the lack of news on the part of Conningham about Rhaegar’s state, she knows life cannot hold for long. Looking right into her friend’s eyes, Dany finds in Margaery the hope that she had thought long abandoned her own. In them, she is reminded of life and hopes. So there is going to be a feast, after all. 

It does not escape Arthur’s own eyes the swift in Margaery’s mood and it makes him smile to himself. For it’s long been gone ever since the royal household held some festivity of the sort and it’s good to see the ladies warming their hopes, in spite of all. He, for once, finds himself very captivated by the lady’s spirits and every now and then he is encouraged by Margaery’s own gaze never to run off from her own.

The day of the feast finally arrives, though, and the once captain of the King’s Guard and close friend to Prince Rhaegar is found looking for the princess’s confidante and lady-in-waiting. But there is not too much for the waiting, however, and soon a sweet voice reaches his ear:

“Looking for someone, my lord?”

It’s a new sensation to feel it within, and Arthur is not quite sure how to react. He turns his head slowly, his heart pounding against his chest, only to find Margaery Tyrell and her auburn locks before him in a beautiful dark-blue silk gown. On her part, she cannot help herself admiring the tall, elegant and tanned-skin Dornish male, whose chivalric ideals reminds her of the stories she spent her childhood reading. Although advised by Dany of her involvement with a man as Arthur, who was linked with his vows through the fact he’s now the Captain of the Princess’s Guard, Margaery’s heart has long decided which road to follow. 

“Not entirely, my lady”, he lies, rather unsure how to behave before her forwardness. Even so, a smile gives in amidst the shade of pride that conceals his true feelings. “I was merely around.”

“Oh.” Margaery could not hold back the disappointment. Once used to be very admired by all men, she feels her heart pounding... and not in a very happy tune. But she is quick in hidding it, though not enough to go unnoticed by the Dornish male. “I see. Is the feast of your liking?”

Trying to amend things, although quite awkwardly, he says:

“I am not one of feasts, I’m afraid, but it’s very enjoyable to see a smile set on the princess’s face. Hope is returning and all of this scenario reassures it.”

“I could not agree more. She has to have her moods lift up, so the baby can come properly”, says Margaery, sensing there’s no particularly way to flirt, but nonetheless wishing to remain in his company. “If a boy comes, do you think he’ll take the grandfather’s name?”

Before he could hold back his tongue, so says Arthur:

“By the Seven, I hope not. I mean...”

Margaery chuckles and leans almost unconsciously against his arm, her soft hand patting his shoulder gently. Arthur, in turn, breathes the smell of roses that, should not surprise him, is so typical of a Tyrell as herself. It also gives another warm sentiment that a man like him is not used to feel. He shifts uncomfortably.

“I understand what you mean, there is no need to concern yourself, Arthur. We are friends, are we not? Loyalists, as some would call.” She says confidently, but only to mask the hurt she noticed when he took a slight away from her. 

“Aye.” He smiles, but very timidly. And the moment ends when the door opens only to announce the arrival... of the prince himself. Rhaegar Targaryen /is/ alive, after all.

*                                                                 *                                                         *

There is preparation to move out of Essos, maybe going to Braavos. The destination is uncertain, but Daenerys, as Margaery observes, regains confidence with the return of Prince Rhaegar, who now styles himself King Rhaegar. Daenerys is now Queen.

But in the midst of such gleeful moment, a tragedy occurs. Mercenaries sent on the orders of King Robert attempted to assassinate the princess... ignoring the fate of Rhaegar. In the midst of the chaos that comes from it, there is the prince and his men (or some of them anyway) prompted to defend themselves and the princess. However, as a result, a violent fire rises. 

Margaery is in the princess’s chambers, who is refusing to leave because of the eggs of the dragons, trying to convince her to leave when the next moments happen too fast. Arthur comes to her rescue and so comes Rhaegar after Daenerys. For some reason, though, Daenerys remains behind. Margaery does not remember quite well, for she had lost her conscience due by inhaling smoke. 

*                                                               *                                                     *

There is a new scenario that is rising hopes. Margaery, to her joy, is glad to be there to see in first hand. However, as promised to Dany, no word of the dragons that came out of the fire would reach even the allies that await in Westeros. Despite the miscarriage, the legend of the Targaryen ancestors seems to relive. Daenerys, even Rhaegar could tell, is no longer the young princess whom he married three years ago. She is now a woman, a queen, his equal, his partner. His lover. 

In the meantime, Margaery is saddened by the new distance between herself and Arthur. She wonders whether she should question him about it, but decides otherwise and shield her heart. Yet, by the time she is Braavos with the small court, when Dany and Rhaegar are sleeping, she escapes to the outdoors for a brief time only to play the lute. Thinking to be alone, she sings:

“No merriment in the world

Can warm the cold

Brought upon the damsel’s heart with a sword

By a knight who left with no word.

Could every smile conceal the pain,

Then shall my eyes tell no longer the same

Of the soul this knight took joy as he came

Yet to the mundane 

Is where he might remain.

For duty, it is known, 

When set the love upon

Causes immediate death

Of what may have been sown...”

“I wonder who might be the terrible knight who broke the damsel’s heart”, says Arthur, who, ever since the fire day, despite the distance he took from her for the sake of himself, remained attentive to her ways. But when the lullaby reached him, something... changed.

Unused to be caught off guard, Margaery’s cheeks bright in red as a result. She, however, does not look away and says:

“Oh well, must we speak of it?” She laughs, trying to dismiss the subject and recollecting the lute. “It is late and I should be off to my chambers, but...”

“...she is occupied with her wifely duties”, he smiles weakly. “I came here to talk to you about how unfair I have been to you. I should have not been so rude, but there is a reason for it.”

In other days, Margaery would have aquiesced and listened eagerly for the words to be spoken of his part, but she, by now, is not prompted to it. Not anymore. 

“You are forgiven for whatever you have done, my lord. I should go to bed”, she insists, now looking down as she tries to make her way.

But he does not let her. Not anymore. So Arthur very gently turns her at him and says:

“I love you.”

Margaery, far from expecting to hear what she heard, could not keep the mask at her face anymore. She places the instrument somewhere aside and stares at Arthur in complete astonishment.

“Arthur, what are you saying?”

“I... I’ve never loved a woman as much as I love you”, he professes such words with a passion that to him would one day sound absurd, but he cannot wait for more time to pass and colect any more regrets. “I’ve taken the vow seriously for all my life, and yet, your smile, your manners, your eyes... Make me down on my knees and pledge to make another vow to you.”

Margaery’s eyes begin to tear, her eyes barely blinking when encountering the purple eyes of Arthur. Her heart amends, she can tell, but even so...

“You cannot be serious. I would not wish you to break your oath.”

“I’ve been released from it. Even if I were not, for you I’d do it myself.” He speaks so intensely his chest seems burning inside. “Be mine, lady Margaery. For you I give ardently my love and devotion.”

He would not have to ask any longer. Margaery could not refuse him, her love for him is too high to pay the price for a foolish pride. She leans towards him, then, and presses her full lips against him. As if breathing relieved, Arthur places his arms around her and kisses her in turn passionately so. 

*                                                             *                                                             *

Posface: years later.

Margaery Dayne, lady of the Reach and of Starfall, was greatly rewarded for her services by Queen Daenerys and King Rhaegar after years of loyalty, which she continuously displayed throughout her life by the side of the man she loved. She and Arthur had ten children, of whom only one did not reach adulthood. These were their names: Arthur, Loras, Daella, Ashara, Rhaegal, Leo, Luthor, Maya, Jeyne and John. 

#Game of Thrones #House Tyrell #House Dayne #alternative universe #Margaery Tyrell #Arthur Dayne #Margaery x Arthur #Margaery Tyrell x Arthur Dayne

[onemilliongoldstars]

a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 28

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

28/33

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Three: Chapter 7

Lord Pike luxuriates in his captivity. In the black cells far below the Red Keep, Lord Pike sits back against the damp, dirty wall to which he is chained, his legs outstretched, and looks up through the darkness at Lexa with cold, calculated derision in the singular light of her torch. He had put up little fight after his guards had been carefully slaughtered or paid off, and she and Anya had whisked him away to the black cells. His smug expression had not faltered and he had not spoken a word since being chained by his wrists in the dark, small cell. Despite the heat of summer which is slowly creeping upon the city, the cells this far below the earth are bitterly cold, and Lexa knows that the lord must be fighting to hold back his shivers, dressed as he is in only his night shirt. The stench of faeces and piss are strong from the straw that covers the floor, and it had taken Lexa some time before she had become used to the smell. Lord Pike catches her eye, and when his smile only widens, his eyes glinting, she turns her back on him and pulls the wooden door to the cell shut, leaving him in utter darkness.

Further down the corridor Anya waits, her hand resting upon the hilt of her sword. From the darkness, Honour, Patience and Valour appear to walk closely by her legs, their teeth bared and their fur bristling.

“This place stinks of death.” Anya informs her, voice low, and Lexa has to agree. The smell lingers in the stale air, on the damp walls and in the cracks in the stone. The one flickering torch sends strange shadows leering through the darkness. “I wish you would let me kill him.” Anya’s hands twitch over her sword. “We could make it seem like an accident.”

Lexa offers her a dry smile, but shakes her head. “Clarke needs him alive for now.”

Anya grimaces, but nods. “A shame,” Is all she says.

As if summoned, footsteps come from down the corridor, along with the pinprick of light of a torch, and as they come closer, Lexa sees Clarke’s light hair and Octavia’s familiar face at her side. She is less surprised than she should be to see Faith’s stark white figure pacing beside her, a ghoul in the darkness. The sight of Clarke causes her breath to catch in her throat and she hopes that Anya can’t tell. She is still wearing the dress that she was crowned in, black silk and gold embroidery, and her crown still sits upon her head, golden and sparkling. Lexa knows it must be giving her a headache by now, but Clarke does not flinch. Watching the Septon place the crown upon her head earlier that day had sent a thrill down Lexa’s spine that she cannot seem to forget.

“Lexa,” She says, as she approaches, and there is a note of something deep and severe to her voice, something that was not there the day before. Still, she is painfully sincere when she says. “Thank you, both of you.”

“Of course,” Lexa casts her eyes upwards, “Are the celebrations over?”

“I fear they will not be over until sun rise,” Clarke gives a small smile, “But I will no longer be missed.” Her gaze flickers down the corridor. “Has he spoken?”

Lexa’s lips turn down with displeasure. “Not yet.”

“Hm,” Clarke runs a hand down the skirt of her gown, “Perhaps I can change that.” She holds out her hand and Lexa easily gives over the key to the cell. Her delicate fingers look strange curling around the dirty metal, but Lexa has long since learnt that Clarke is more than she appears. Clarke approaches the door and swings it open to gaze down at the small man chained to the wall.

Pike’s smile only widens at the sight of her, arching an interested eyebrow.

“Lady Clarke, the woman who would not die.” They are the first words he has spoken since Lexa and Anya dragged him away in the dark of the previous night, and his voice scratches. “And wearing a phony crown. What a sight to behold.”

“Lord Pike,” She looks down at him, distaste in her features, but her voice is cold and hard, no hint of emotion in it. “You are charged with the murder of Lord Jacob of House Tyrell. You are charged with high treason by murder of your king Thelonious Baratheon. You are charged with high treason by murder of your king Finn Swann. How do you plead?”

Pike grins up at her and shakes his head. “There is no blood on my hands,” He promises, darkly, and Clarke nods, as if this was what she expected.

“Then here you shall stay.”

Pike laughs at that, the noise strange and disconcerting in the dark cell. “Here I shall stay? Oh little girl, you have no idea the game you are playing, the people who will want your head now.”

“Until we meet again, Lord Pike.” Is all Clarke says, and steps away, pulling the door shut and leaving him in darkness once again. She takes the key and locks the door with a resounding clunk of heavy metal falling into place, then slides the key on a long, thin chain and fastens it around her neck, so that it nestles in the curve of her breasts, hidden beneath her dress.

---

Monty fiddles nervously with the fraying sleeve of his jacket, playing with the poorly dyed cloth as he shifts from foot to foot in front of the tall doors to the council chambers. He has never been in a castle before, much less at the specific request of a queen, and he would turn and run if not for the strong, reassuring presence at his side. Captain Miller catches his gaze and offers him a small, certain smile, reaching out to touch gently at his anxiously picking fingers. He looks as handsome as always, smart and strong in his golden uniform.

“It’ll be alright,” He urges, quietly, and Monty obediently pulls his fingers away, balling them into tight fists as he nods.

It is still utterly bizarre to him that the strange girl who had asked so much of them is now their queen. In retrospect though, he thinks bitterly, he should have known she was nobility. The price of their protection never was cheap, or so he had learnt. The doors swing open and a kindly looking lord steps out to usher them inside.

“The queen will see you now.”

Captain Miller nods and falls into step with the ease of a soldier used to following orders, and Monty follows stiffly behind, hurrying to keep pace. They are led into a room which Monty considers large, but he is sure is not in a castle of this size. At its centre sits a long wooden table at which lords and ladies are sat, watching them. At its head, Queen Clarke Tyrell bestows them with a smile that seems to come from far away. The lord leads them to the table, and Monty stops abruptly, almost running into Captain Miller. The lord circles the table and takes up a seat immediately at the queen’s right hand. There is a gleaming pin in his surcoat, a hand holding a dagger.

“Welcome.” Queen Clarke says, and Monty hurries to follow Captain Miller’s lead when he bows lowly. The queen seems taller than she has before, perhaps because of the crown sitting atop her head, or the way her shoulders push back and hold her high and stately.

“May I introduce my new small council,” Queen Clarke says when they rise, “Lord Marcus Arryn, my hand of the queen; Lady Arianna Martell, my master of ships; Lord Arthur Tyrell, my master of coin, and Lord Robert Mertyn, my master of laws.” The lords and lady around the table nod in greeting and when Clarke gestures behind her Monty startles at the sight of Octavia in fine, gleaming armour and a long white cloak. “Of course you know Octavia Snow, the Commander of my Queensguard.”

Octavia offers him a small smile, and some of the knot in Monty’s chest loosens. It is good to see another commoner around this table.

“I have called you here to thank you,” Clarke informs them succinctly. “For the role you have played in my reign so far. I have asked much of you, I know, more than I should have done perhaps, and you have shown exceptional loyalty.” It takes Monty a moment to realise that Clarke is talking to him, her eyes are fixed to him and not Captain Miller, and he stares, his mouth agape. “And now you have brought Captain Miller to me, for which I must thank you.”

Her attention shifts, and Miller stands straighter, his hands going behind his back. “Captain Miller, I have been informed that you are one of the few refuges of true loyalty and honour in the City Watch, is that true?” Queen Clarke asks, succinctly, and Monty watches Miller’s throat bob as he swallows, but when he responds it is without a shake in his voice.

“I would hope so, your majesty.”

“Monty informs me that you are to be trusted, and I trust his judgement.” Clarke tells him, firmly. “So I would like to offer you something Captain Miller. Tell me all that you know of the corruption in our City Watch, help me weed it out and find good, loyal men to replace them, and in return I will make you Commander of the City Watch.”

Captain Miller stares at her, his eyes wide with surprise, and only just manages to keep his composure enough to answer. “Of course, your majesty, it would be my honour.”

“One more thing,” Clarke is watching him with tight, calculating eyes. “I will need you to give evidence of the corruption at a trial for me. Make sure you know all of the devious, despicable tricks that Lord Pike of House Lannister used to turn so many men in his favour.”

Captain Miller gasps, softly, and he gathers his courage to answer. “Your majesty, I cannot say for sure that Lord Pike-”

“You can,” Clarke interrupts him, abruptly. “And you will, Captain Miller. Do we have an understanding?”

Captain Miller stares at her for a moment, and Monty watches with baited breath, until the Captain nods sharply. “Yes, your majesty.”

“Thank you,” Clarke smiles again and it is almost eerie how much her face changes. Her attention shifts back to Monty. “I would like to reward your loyalty too, Monty. You have an uncanny ability to be places you should not, and listen without people knowing you are there. You would make an excellent Master of Whispers. You would have a lordship and all the money you desire.”

Monty’s eyes widen at her words, his head spinning. He can barely imagine himself at this table, reporting people’s secrets to the Rose Queen, as she is already being dubbed, and he finds himself shaking his head before he realises what he is doing.

“I’m sorry,” He rushes to say, “I don’t… I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling people’s secrets your majesty, even for the good of the realm.”

For a moment, he fears that Clarke will be angry, but the queen only smiles a little sadly. “That is what would make you excellent for this role, Monty, but I accept your refusal. I would still like to reward your loyalty, though,” She spreads her hands out wide, “Ask for anything you wish, and I shall do my best to provide it.”

Despite himself, Monty’s gaze flickers up to Captain Miller, and from the corner of his eye he sees Clarke’s gaze soften with pity and sympathy.

Her voice drops, becoming a little quieter after a moment of silence. “I fear I cannot give you what you most desire. I will see that you are comfortable, Monty, and please know that you have a welcome place here if ever you should choose.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Monty manages to give her a slight smile.

---

“You suit these rooms.” Clarke looks up from where she is sat at the table, dipping a quill in her pot of ink, to see Lexa smiling down at her from her place beside the wide, open windows. The sun is high in the sky, which is a lovely, periwinkle blue, and from her place at the windows Clarke knows Lexa can see the red tiled roofs of Kings Landing stretching away on one side, and the Blackwater bay reaching out on the other. On a warm day like this, Clarke could almost forget the histories that the royal suites hold. A glance behind her at the curtains separating the bed chamber from the solar, however, are all that she needs to remember.

A shiver runs through her and she lists her shoulders in a half shrug. “I do not like them.”

“They are your rooms now,” Lexa reminds her, gently. “You may change them however you wish.”

Clarke nods, setting the quill down as she thinks. “I struggle to sleep,” She admits, as Lexa crosses the room to come closer to her. “I even had the bed replaced with my old one, but it didn’t help. I can still smell the blood.”

Lexa settles into the chair at her side and places a hand tenderly over hers, eyes flickering up to check her face for any sign of discomfort. Clarke only smiles. They are still getting used to these casual, easy intimacies. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Clarke turns her hand beneath Lexa’s and intertwines their fingers. “Being here with me is more than enough.”

A slight blush dusts over Lexa’s cheeks, something Clarke still delights in seeing, and her smile widens when Lexa squeezes their fingers together and releases her grip. “We should write this letter.”

“All business,” Clarke teases, ever so lightly, but picks her quill back up again, running a finger over the feathered end ever so lightly as she considers what to write. “They must think that it comes in friendship, it is only be catching them unawares that we will be able to make ourselves heard.”

“Suggest that the castle coppers are running dry,” Lexa suggests, looking down at the parchment and in her distraction, Clarke is able to admire the smooth cut of her jaw and the delicate touch of dark, long eyelashes against her cheek. She is caught staring when Lexa looks up again, but does not drop her gaze, and Lexa’s cheeks heat a little again, a small, private smile caught at the corners of her lips. “The Iron Bank have always been eager to find new business.”

“I met one of their representatives once, he was a rather charming man.” Clarke admits, reluctantly. “But sharp and intelligent, and always gave the impression that he knew more than he ought.”

“They have their ways.” Lexa takes a slow, considering sip of her wine, her eyes creased with thought. “It would be best to speak as closely to the truth as you are able,” She decides, “A deceit is less noticeable if it treads the line of honesty.”

Something flickers in Clarke’s stomach, and she diverts her haze down to the parchment, wondering whether Lexa too is thinking of her deceit. “I will ask them to come to renegotiate the terms of the crown’s debts.” Her quill scratches against the parchment as she writes, her writing slanted and curling, and once she has finished Lexa is on hand with the blue candle that has been burning beside them for some time, dripping it onto the folded parchment to seal it. She stamps it with her rose sigil ring and then places it to one side.

“The pieces are falling into place,” Lexa observes, after Clarke has called for a runner to take her message and asked for a light lunch to be brought to her chambers.

“Everything still feels as if it’s made of moving parts,” She confesses, sighing softly. She stands and walks to the window where Lexa had earlier stood sentinel, leaning against the ledge and cradling her goblet of cold, watered down wine between her hands. “And I cannot keep track of where they are.”

“You are doing well,” Lexa insists, joining her. “Do not doubt yourself now Clarke.”

“Before I was married,” Clarke begins, looking out across the sprawling city which she now calls her own. “I looked out over this city and I thought that I hated it.” Lexa’s brows raise, surprised, and Clarke continues, her voice shaking just slightly. “Truly, I did. The thought of being trapped here forever as somebody’s wife made me feel as if the very walls had grown feet and were marching towards me.” She runs her fingers over the warm stone. “If it weren’t for Highgarden and my family I think I would have run right then.”

“You would not have.” Lexa answers her softly, and at Clarke’s curious look she embellishes. “You are not someone to run away, Clarke. Your sense of duty, your honour, it’s one of the things that makes me feel as if-” She hesitates, stutters over her words and Clarke can’t help but lay a gentle hand on her arm, drawing Lexa’s eyes to hers.

“Go on.”

“It is as if you truly see me,” Lexa murmurs, her green eyes swimming like pools in a summer glen. “In a way that no one else has. We understand each other, I think.”

“Do you mean,” Clarke’s voice hitches, “Do you forgive me… could you ever forgive me, for everything I’ve done?”

Lexa’s fingers fold around Clarke’s where they rest on her arm, holding her hands closely so that she can look into her eyes. “There is nothing to forgive. I of all people understand the chains of duty and responsibility. It’s why I lo- It’s what make you you.”

Clarke draws in a sharp breath, staring up at Lexa through the sunlight. There is something terribly vulnerable about the northern queen’s gaze, an openness to her expression which is almost terrifying because Clarke is sure that she should not be given the heart of such a precious thing. Still, her fingers tighten around Lexa’s and her soul jumps, elation spreading through her like warm summer sunlight. She draws Lexa a little closer, pulling her by their joined hands, when a knock to the door sends them springing apart. Lexa paces away across the balcony, as if she cannot stand to keep still, and Clarke grabs for her wine goblet, clutching it to stop herself reaching for Lexa again as she calls for the servers to enter.

It is not the kitchen girls that she expected, however, instead between Octavia and Anya stands a page boy who bows so lowly to the two queens that his nose almost touches the floor.

“What is it?” Clarke steps forwards, her dress brushing against her legs with a rustle of fabric.

“There is someone for you in the courtyard, your majesty.” He holds out something in his hands, “He said to give you this.”

Fingers shaking, Clarke takes the familiar signet ring from his waiting hands, and looks back at Lexa, her eyes wide.

“Wells.”

---

Wells is waiting in the courtyard for her, as she had expected, flanked by Ser Roan and the girl Fox. They both seem a little worse for wear, with dirty clothes and bruises, but Roan sees the crown upon her head and bows, a sardonic smile on his lips. He nudges Fox and the girl sinks into a clumsy curtsey. Wells does not bow, but Clarke is sure she wouldn’t be able to stand it if he did. He looks so changed that it is jarring to meet his gaze, his hair now tied at the bale of his neck and a thick, dark beard growing over his chin, where before it had always been clean shaven. He is draped in grubby Measter’s robes, which drown him in fabric, but when she finally meets his gaze his warm brown eyes are the same. 

She cannot stop herself from crossing the space between them with quick, unladylike steps. “Wells.” Her fingers twitch to reach out and touch him, but with so many eyes watching them, whispering, she doesn’t let herself. She clasps her fingers together in front of her body and hopes he can feel the sincerity in her voice when she says. “I am so glad to see you again, and safe.”

“And I you,” His smile is smaller than it used to be, but there just the same and she feels her heart clench. “My companions were instrumental in helping me escape.” He nods towards Fox and Roan and Clarke gives them both a smile.

“I am glad to see you all back safely, thank you for your efforts. Please, come in and rest, you must be exhausted.”

“A little, your majesty.” Ser Roan gives another slightly sarcastic bow of his head and all but pushes Fox ahead of him into the castle. 

It feels strange to lead Wells into his own home and direct servants who have known him from birth to fetch him a bath and a room. He goes without complaint and she is left to wait in her solar, pacing before the fire and picking up waiting correspondence only to stare at the words unseeing as she waits. After so long worrying for Wells, thinking of him and sometimes cursing him, it is so strange to see him now in the flesh. Her thoughts linger on Ivy and Benam and she feels a wave of fresh grief run over her.

A knock comes to her door and she hurries to her feet, calling for entry. Wells appears in the doorway, looking cleaner than he had and dressed in clothes more suited for a prince of the realm. Clarke stands, though she isn’t sure why, and watches as he steps into the solar. His eyes flicker around the room, and she feels a flush of sorrow when his eyes crease. These rooms were always his father’s and she feels like an intruder all of a sudden. He settles into one of the seats by the fire and she takes it upon herself to pour him a goblet of wine, watching from beneath her lashes as he sips shallowly. He was never one for wine or mead, but now he seems almost repulsed by the taste, and she wonders how else he has changed. 

“Please, eat something,” She says at last, gesturing to the selection of breads and cheeses, cured meats and fruits she has had brought in for him.

He gives her a slight smile and obliges, picking up a piece of crumbling white goat’s cheese to chew as she watches.

When she speaks again her voice is trembling with emotion. “I have missed you- so much.”

His warm, familiar eyes meet hers, and he swallows slowly. “I missed you too,” He says at last, and when he reaches out, she takes his hand gladly, their fingers intertwining.

“There were times I thought- feared-” She can barely bring herself to say the words.

Wells’ grip on her tightens minutely. “I’m not,” He says, firmly, “I’m here, I’m fine.” She meets his gaze again and finally nods, and he continues, seriously. “Clarke, is it safe for me to be here?”

“It is,” Her voice is slightly stronger again when she speaks. “Pike is in the dungeons and Benam-”

“Benam?” Wells’ eyes are wide and he leans forward in his seat a little. “Is that- is he-”

“Your son,” She confirms, and watches as a myriad of emotions cross his face, joy and fear and heartache.

“My son,” He echoes, quietly. “And Ivy? Are they both safe?”

Clarke pulls in a pained breath, her eyes flickering shut for a moment, and steels herself to answer him. “Benam is safe and hidden. Ivy… Pike’s men killed her when they were escaping.” Horrified grief rushes across Wells’s face and she feels tears building up in the back of her throat. She squeezes her friend’s hand even tighter. “I’m so sorry, Wells, truly. I only met her once, but she seemed wonderful.”

“She was,” His voice breaks, and they sit in silence for a moment as he gathers himself. “Too good for me,” He lets out a small, hard laugh that is anything but pleasant, and Clarke’s eyes follow the angry, sorrowful lines on his face. “Too good to die for me.”

Clarke runs her thumb softly over his knuckles, thinking on her words for a moment. “She died for Benam, Wells. She would have done anything for him.”

“You’re sure he’s safe?” Wells’s eyes are wet when he looks back at her again.

“Completely.” She assures him, “I’ll have him sent for immediately.”

“No, no don’t,” Wells shakes his head fervently. “Not until we are sure it’s safe, if anything happened to him I-”

“Alright,” Clarke squeezes his hand again, reassuringly. The fire crackles in the grate, a softly reassuring sound and she watches as Wells gathers himself. “Pike is being held in the dungeons, though it isn’t common knowledge yet.” She explains, “Soon it will come out, but I hope that by then I will have enough of a case against him.”

“And for that you need me,” Wells guesses, and she nods. 

“I do,” she steadies herself. “Will you tell me what happened?”

His eyes settle on her and there is something dark and haunted to them that she has never seen in him before. He looks infinitely older, nothing like the youthful, idealistic boy she had known, and as he recalls his story, that boy falls away before her eyes, crumbling into ash.

The story is fragmented and stilted, at least at first. Wells thinks that he was drugged, something in his food he can only guess, though he remembers no strange flavour. He had suspected Pike, been wary of him, but not enough to have a taster, and so when the Lannister’s soldiers had snuck in during the night and dragged him from his bed, he had barely been able to resist them. Stumbling, they had pulled him through the eerily quiet castle and into the dungeons, to the black cells where there was no other soul but Ivy, and the guards holding firm to her struggling, visibly pregnant body. After so long trying to protect her and their baby, Wells had known the moment he saw her that the battle was lost. Drugged and terrified of the knives held to Ivy’s throat and stomach, Wells had signed away his kingship with a trembling hand and allowed Pike’s men to whisk him away to Oldtown. In the Citadel, where the masters of the realm are trained, Wells says he arrived with little fanfare, under the cover of darkness, and was swept away to a novice’s cell, a bare, ugly room with only a cot and a desk, and a small window through which he could see the blue sky. “The Maesters were suspicious,” He says now, his eyes fixed to the fire, “But none were brave enough to challenge Pike when he told them I needed time to meditate on my decision.

“Without Fox I would still be there,” He shakes his head. “She was the only person I saw, and I knew for the right price she would find you for me.”

“Thank the Seven she did,” Clarke lets out a soft breath.

“Thank you for getting Benam out,” Wells touches softly at the back of her hand again. “I couldn’t put him in danger, not for anything. Not even for the realm.”

The words send a flicker of something running through her and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Now you are back,” She meets his gaze and tries to show how sincere she is, though her heart trembles. “You’re the rightful heir, Wells, and when you testify against Pike everyone will know that you didn’t give up your claim willingly. The throne is yours, your majesty.”

Wells looks at her for a moment that seems to stretch on forever, with dark eyes that seem to see straight through her ruse, and then says. “I have no desire for the throne, Clarke, I never really did. You have shown that you can protect this land, you’re stronger than I am, and more ruthless, you always have been.” She tries to interrupt, but he will not let her. “Truly, I have been thinking on it and this is not a rash decision. I do not want to be king Clarke, and I would not dare to overthrow a queen as powerful as you.”

---

Anya cannot deny that she is on edge. Walking through the dark, crowded streets of the city is bad enough, but doing so without her faithful longsword strapped to her side feels as if she has lost an arm. Her fingers twitch to reach for the family heirloom, but there is nothing to find but the daggers strapped at the back of her belt and hidden in her high boots. At her side, one of her companions shoots her an aggravated glance, her brows creasing together. 

“Stop it,” Raven hisses as they walk, “You look guilty.”

Anya wants to snap back, but bites her tongue over her words. Infuriatingly, she knows that Raven is right and that she has to follow her lead in these streets, but it doesn’t stop her from scowling down at the blacksmith. A little ahead of them, the boy Monty turns to give them an anxious glance, but doesn’t dare to comment on their bickering. When Lexa had suggested that she would accompany Raven on this fool’s errand, Anya had almost taken her head from her shoulders with one fell swipe of her sword. Instead, she had refused steadfastly to let her cousin go and eventually agreed to take her place to ensure Raven’s safety. The thought almost makes her snort aloud- as if Raven is in any need of protecting. If there is one thing she’s learnt about the girl in their short acquaintance, it’s that Raven is fearless and completely capable of protecting herself. Perhaps, she admits silently, that is why Raven need protecting- because otherwise she would plummet headfirst into danger without a second’s thought. 

They turn a corner onto the Street of Silk, where brothels of varying expense spill patrons out onto the streets. From the windows and doors of those less expensive venues, Anya can hear the unmistakable shouts and cries of fornification, and she wrinkles her nose. People don’t spare them a second glance here, where everyone from the high nobles to the most common peasant is able to purchase a touch of some sort or another. Ahead of them, The Red Door stands tall, its white stone exterior shining and two burly guards standing before its rust coloured entrance. The guards glare at them as they approach, their hands going to rest on their swords, and Anya shoulders her way past Raven and Monty to face them. 

“Let us through,” She demands, her voice low, and the guard’s eyes travel down her well made clothes with the expert eye of people used to seeing nobles in disguise. She meets their gazes confidently when they look at her, and eventually they nod, pushing the door open for them. 

They are almost through when one of the guards grabs at Monty’s arm, pulling him to a stop. The boy flinches, ripping his arm from their touch, and Anya’s fingers twitch for her dagger again as she turns. 

“Well well,” The first guard lets out a nasty, gnarled laugh. “If it isn’t Monty. Couldn’t get enough, huh?”

Anya is startled to see the boy tremble all over, like a leaf shivering in a breeze. A pale pallor washes over his face, and he looks distinctly ill even as he scowls at them both. “Don’t touch me Tristan.”

“You never used to be so choosy.” Tristan leers down at him. “You know that when the master sees you here he’ll want to know where his property has been.”

“I am no property.” Monty spits, and Raven puts a hand on his shoulder, fixing the two with a glower.

“No one should be property.” Anya says from his other side. “Slavery is illegal.”

“In name perhaps.” The guard shrugs, and Monty shakes his head, furiously.

“I’m not his anymore,” He tells them, a growl to his voice, but the guard only laughs again.

“Aye, not since that gold cloak bought you,” His sneering gaze passes up and down Monty, “I bet you’re still sucking his cock in thanks.”

Raven pulls Monty behind her, stepping forward to get into the guard’s face. Her hand appears at his crotch, holding a dagger that Anya didn’t know she had, and she bites, darkly. “If you don’t leave him alone you won’t have a cock to suck any more, understand?” 

The guard only laughs, and Anya puts her hands on both of their shoulders, guiding them away from the conflict before the guards can throw them into the street. 

“You almost had us thrown out,” She scolds Raven, But the blacksmith isn’t listening, her eyes trained on Monty. 

“You alright Monty? Are you sure you’re okay being here?”

Monty’s face is white, his eyes a little glassy, but he nods his head fiercely. “I’m fine,” Then a little more quietly he adds, “I am nobody’s property, not any more.”

Anya looks at him again, in the dim light of the brothel, and sees behind the young, delicate featured boy she had first encountered, to the shadows lurking in his eyes and at the crease where his lips turn downwards.

Monty’s gaze flickers to her and Anya darts her eyes away, sure that Monty will not like to see the sympathy in her expression. 

“Axel is usually at the dice tables,” Monty says finally, ”This way.”

They follow him diligently through the crowded rooms. The air is hot and filled with the smell of heady incense, sweat, and other things Anya isn’t inclined to name. Lithe women and men, young and beautiful, lounge about the place, tending to customers or enticing new ones, all in various stages of undress, draped in bright,m thin silks and whispers of lace. They try to catch the eyes of their little party as they push through the people, and Anya’s cheeks heat despite herself when one dark haired beauty catches her eye and twists to reveal a heavy breast. 

“There,” Monty pauses at an archway, keeping to the shadows, and they follow his gaze into a great room with a long dice table at its centre. Men are crowded around it, cheering and yelling, but the room seems to gravitate around the man stood at the head of the table. 

Axel is not what Anya had expected him to be. By all accounts, he is a short man, with a dark beard and shock of hair, trimmed neatly and clean. What he lacks in height he makes up for in the girth of is shoulders and muscular arms, and he has an open, friendly face, with light eyes that draw the people around him into conversation. 

“We won’t get close,” Monty shakes his head, disappointed, “He’s surrounded by his men, we’d never get him alone.”

“Maybe we wouldn’t,” Raven muses quietly, thoughtful, “But surely we can offer him something he would want, something to tempt him.”

“Like what?” Anya peers down at her through the darkness. 

“A whore,” Raven says matter of factly, and Anya sees Monty swallow heavily and feels her anger spike. 

“Reyes, you can’t seriously be suggesting-” Her gaze flickers to Monty, and Raven rolls her eyes. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” She puts a hand on Monty’s arm. “I don’t think you’d be his type anyway Monty.”

“Then what are you suggesting?” Anya can feel a trickle of apprehension in her stomach even as she asks, and Raven can’t quite meet her eyes with she answers. 

“We’ll offer him me.”

No matter how much she protests, Anya cannot dissuade Raven once she is set to her path. She threatens and persuades and rages, but either way she ends up hiding in the small, stinking privy closet, watching through the smallest crack in the door as Raven, draped in the silks and laces lent to her by one of Monty’s old friends, places herself a little awkwardly onto the chaise. Every bone in her body is demanding that she put a stop to this before it can begin. Raven is so utterly vulnerable, with nothing to defend herself but her bare hands, and even she has only daggers should things get ugly. 

The door swings open, and Anya sees Raven jolt just slightly, a beguiling smile passing across her face which just about disguises her nerves, as Axel is shown into the room. He hesitates in the centre of the room, looking down at Raven, and Anya’s teeth grit when she sees his eyes rove over her. 

“They said the most beautiful girl in the place was waiting for me.” His voice is low and gravelly, “They weren’t wrong.”

Anya lets out a soft breath and watches as Raven rises, as gracefully as she is able, and beckons him closer. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Her voice is like warm honey, sticky and sweet. 

Axel’s hands wrap around her waist, his palms settling on her barely covered ass, and Raven’s fingers dance across his jaw and neck with a whisper soft touch. He claims her lips with his, none too gently, and Anya feels tension run through her. Though she knows that he is not hurting Raven, she can barely stand to watch his hands all over her. Clenching her hands into fists, she forces herself to stay still. 

“Go to the bed,” He orders, between kisses, and Raven finally peels herself away, turning to make her way to the bed. Anya flinches as she catches her bad foot against the corner of the rug, stumbling and crying out when the motion wrenches at her bad leg. Her hands fly to the door of the privy, ready to burst out and help her, when Axel appears at her side, supporting her and helping her to the chaise. 

“I- I’m sorry,” Raven stutters, a humiliated flush covering her cheeks. “I don’t know what-”

“Hush,” He tells her firmly, settling onto the chaise at her side. “May I?” Though he asks, he doesn’t wait for her answer to lift her leg into his lap and examine it more closely. “Does it pain you?”

“Some,” Raven answers eventually, her voice low, and Axel only nods.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” He instructs, his eyes finding hers again. “My son had a similar condition, he was strong until the end.” 

“He did?” Raven’s eyes widen, and she hesitates, her fingers brushing against her twisted knee. “He was born with it?”

“Aye.”

“And did he-” She hesitates, swallowing. “Did it kill him?”

His eyes soften. “No, don’t worry yourself. He was killed by some beggar for the coins in his purse,” Axel looks at her leg with a critical eye, perhaps to disguise the grief in his expression. “He went to the smith on Seel Street, the man made him a brace that helped a lot. I’ll get one for you, the smith owes me a few favours.”

“Thank you,” Raven sounds almost breathless, and her eyes flickering over to the door of the privy is the only warning that Anya gets before she slides her legs from his lap and stands slowly. “I have to tell you something.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and Anya is suddenly aware that his axe is leaning against the chaise, and he has daggers strapped to his belt and arms, while Raven is utterly unable to defend herself. She pushes on the door of the privy and this time it swings outwards, freeing her from the darkness and the stench and into the dimly lit room. 

“What-” Axel moves for his weapon, and Raven turns on her, glaring. 

“What did you do that for?”

“You’re in danger,” Anya snaps, grabbing her by the arm to shove behind her as she pulls out one of her daggers. Axel is glowering at them both, his shirt hanging open and his axe in his hands.

“I am not,” Raven shoves her so hard to one side that Anya stumbles, almost losing her grip on her daggers. “Axel, please listen to me.”

“Traitorous whore- what is this?” Axel’s voice rises with his agitation, and Anya barely contains herself from throwing her dagger at him at his words. 

“I didn’t want to trick you,” Raven holds her hands out, as if she is pacifying a spooked mare. “We don’t want to hurt you, we just want to ask you a few questions and this was the only way we could get close to you!”

“What questions?” Axel still holds his axe high, and Anya knows that one bloody blow could kill either one of them where they stand, cracking through their skulls like firewood. 

“Questions from the queen of the south,” Raven steps forwards, clearly with little regard for the danger she’s in, and Anya worries the hilt of her dagger will snap from the strength of her grip. “Here, a letter with her seal.” Raven looks back at her expectantly, and without taking her eyes off the man, Anya fishes out the queen’s letter and hands it over. 

Axel eyes the outstretched parchment, but does not reach to take it. “Words are like wind,” He spits, “Even if they are written on paper.”

“We can pay you for your help,” Raven promises, and Anya shifts to show the pouch of gold tied to her belt. “Please Axel, you seem like a good man at heart.”

He stares at her, his brows creasing. “What do you know of my heart?”

“I know that you would sit a whore down and tell her kind words,” Raven counters, and Axel bristles at her words, a flush working its way up his cheek. 

His eyes dart to Anya, and he admits, after a moment of pause. “I’m not heartless.”

“We only need an answer to one question,” Raven promises, and takes another hesitant step closer, breaching the gap between them. “I promise, and then you’ll have your money and you can be on your way.”

“One question?” Axel asks, sharply, and Anya can see his arms weakening a little, giving way beneath the weight of his weapon. “Ask it then, whore.”

Anya bristles again, but Raven barely seems to hear the word, jutting her chin out and asking bravely. “Who paid you to start the riots that killed the king?”

“What?” Axel’s eyes widen in genuine surprise and he looks down at her, his mouth open. “How did you-”

“Your new queen knows more than many would think.” Anya intones, darkly, and Axel’s eyes narrow when they dart to her. 

“She just wants to keep the city safe, Axel, surely you can understand that? She wants to help people like your son.” Raven entreats him, gently.

Axel swallows heavily, and he lowers his axe just slightly. “How do I know this won’t come back to me?”

“Because if you give me the name I think you will, I know you will be safe.” Raven assures, “And if you don’t, that name will not leave this room, you have my word.”

“The word of a lying whore.” He bites back, and she half shrugs.

“Who in this city isn’t a liar, and a whore, when they have to be?”

The words pluck something close to a smile from him, and finally he nods. “I was paid by a boy by the name of Glenn, on behalf of Lord Pike and Cage Wallace.”

---

#clexa #clexa fic #clexa gotau #clarke griffin #commander lexa

[astranne]

Crossover idea MCU/GoT

I was watching a Game of Thrones edit and this idea came in my mind. 

2012, when Loki attacked New York, he had Clint Barton (Hawkeye) under control. But not only that. Clint had a strong mind, so Loki took all his memories of his personal life, only leaving the ones full with violence and darkness. He doesn’t remember his family, his loyality to S.H.I.E.L.D., his friendship with Natasha. He thinks, that he’s a mercenary and just working for this Loki guy. And when his job is finished, his handler sends him away, through a portal. 

Now, Loki made some mistakes, especially with this archer. He talked to much about his plans, he can’t risk his victory and reign over earth. So, he stole many memories, happy memories of this mortal and send him to another world, another dimension. But he isn’t too cruel, he enchants the quiver, so the mortal has an infinite amout of arrows. He makes him faster and stronger than any human, like a super soldier and sends him away to a world full of knights, kings and other dumb mortals. His mortal will be the best of all. 

Clinton lands in the middle of snow and trees. He just sighes and makes his way through the forest, until he comes to a town. There he sees, that his clothes are not really usuall and he steals a cloak. Since he’s trained as a spy, a mercenary, he does his ‘magic’ and makes some money. He now knows, he’s in Westeros, in the North and wants to go to Dorne. He buys a horse and makes his way. Some years pass and he makes himself a name. The common folk calls him the Hawk, since he never misses and also has a tamed hawk as a pet. He even goes to the King, who is the biggest joke he ever saw, and asked for a house. House Barton, we never miss. Naturally a hawk and an arrow are his house sign. He goes to his castle, the Nest, which is in the north. That makes the Starks his ‘bosses’. Not that he really cares, they are honorable and good fighters. Soon Barton men are known to be the best archers in the whole world, but also woman become ‘Hawks’, as everybody calls them. Clinton takes his job as lord seriously, he is loved by his common folk and feared by many lords. He’s ruthless, but kind to innocents. He’s a hunter and always finds his prey. He makes money with training hawks, eagles and other birds, but also his bows and arrows. His weapons are the best in whole Westeros, even Essos. They are made with metal and cost a fortune for anyone who is not a part of the Barton household. He personally trains his archers, in many ways. Since he’s known to be a good, fair but also strict lord, many come to pledge loyality to him. Bc of this, his army grows, his ‘Hawks’ become more. He lives is peace, trains a elite group to be like him (mercenarys (only loyal to him)). Then he hears, that Lord Stark goes to Kingslanding and offers a place over night for the King and the Lords, to stop, before they leave the north. Naturally, they accept, since Ned wants to talk with him and Robert enjoyed his presence. The King’s and Lord Starks households are in awe with the nest, the caste, which grew in the past years. There are hawks, eagles and other birds of prey. Lord Clinton Barton welcomes them, as well some of his best fighters. Since he knows, that Robert is the biggest whore alive, he sent most of the woman away. While his guests eat, he observes them and finds out, that Lord Stark is worried. Before they march to Kingsman, he asks, if he could make Arya as his ward, since he sees great talent in her. Ned hestiates, but Robert just laughes and says he approves. So, Clinton takes Arya under his wing, teaches her everything he knows. She becomes his shadow, which many find amusing, they can see the stars in the girls eyes, whenever Clinton talks with her. 

Then the whole shit in Kingslanding happens, well, almost. Clinton has his birds (of prey (he definitly doesn’t call them his little birds, like Varys)). They save Ned Starks life, but there is war. Ned recovers in the Nest, while Clinton makes preparations to go to Winterfell. He sends many forces away, telling them, they need to hide in the common folk. He takes 1′000 archers with him, and leaves the elite group in charge of the nest. 

Ned Stark remains in Winterfell, while his son goes at war to rescue his sister. Clinton becomes one of his best advisors, many Lords don’t know him personally but are impressed. He keeps his eyes close to Roose Bolton and when he’s sure, that this man will betray the Starks, he kills him. Well, his eagle kills him, and blames Roose for this. His animals are loyal and would never hurt a friend, they remain peaceful, as long they are not bothered. And instead that Roose asks for help, he tried to hurt/hit/kill the animal. When Clinton is sure, that they don’t have spies anymore, he calls every archer, he sent away from the nest. Robb is baffled, when he suddenly has 5′000 soldiers more. They are all great swordfighters, but even better archers. With new strenght, they walz the Lannisters to the ground and defeat Tywin. Well, Clinton defeats him (his army) and takes him as hostage. 

Robb almost dies, but Clinton could save his life. He sents the young Lord home and leads the big army himself. At first, the lords start to protest, but then Robb himself says, that this is the best idea. Clinton is now always seen at the front, with his two eagle (Artemis and Apollo) and his three hawks (Ares, Mars and Tyr) He marches in only three months to Kingslanding, defeating every army and winning every battle. When he’s finally at the capital, he kills Joffrey, says that Tommen would be the better king than his mad brother and safes Sansa. He keeps some of his Hawks in Kingslanding, so he still has informations. He’s grinning the whole day (many are terrified, when they see his grin), when one of his Hawks told him, that she’s now the secret lover of Tommen Baratheon. 

He goes back to the north and starts his normal life again, bc of his glorious victory in the war, more people come and want to be trained by him. Slowly, his army becomes bigger than anyone’s, but he hides the number before everyone. His official number now is 10′000, but he has around 15′000. Since he saved a Stark’s life, twice, he’s now a true friend to the house. Everything is good, until he hears of Daenerys Targaryen, who is now the queen of Mereen. He takes some of his men/women (something like 100?) and makes his way to Essos. He sends some spies, gathers informations and is intrigued by this young woman. Clinton offers his alliance, at first Daenerys is very skeptical, but then she hears what people say about him. Clinton remains some weeks at Essos, starts to teach the young Queen and promises her, that he will fight for her. He isn’t a big fan of Baratheons and Lannisters, there is a reason why Targaryens are Kings and Queens. He leaves 10 Hawks with her, to protect but also train her. 

Then fast forward, Cersei kills Tommen, becomes Queen, bla bla. The Starks don’t care about the shit in Kingslanding. Ned makes Robb the Lord of Winterfell, since he fears his health. (someone tried to poison him (totally the Lannisters)) Then all the shit in the series happens, until Daenerys finally comes to Westeros. She immediatly has the support of the Starks, since Clinton spoke with them. (more manipulated, but eh- does he care? Daenerys is the best choice for the Iron Throne) Bc of this, the whole North follows now Daenerys. Clinton leaves Nest and goes to Dragonstone, with some hunderts archers. The two spend some time together, become rather close, until they are lovers. They don’t let anybody know for a long time. When the time came, and Daenerys wants to attack Cersei, Jon Snow visits with Robb Stark. They talk about the Army of Death and Clinton wants to bang his head against a wall. Of course something bad needed to happen. 

The whole fight with the Night King hapoens, Clinton is a proud dad™, when Arya kills him. Then they go at war with Cersei, totally win, bc one of Clinton birds who kills Cersei, while she fucks Jamie. Naturally everybody knows and is disgusted as fuck. Daenerys becomes the Queen, Clinton her Queen’s Consort. 

Happy ending? You wish. After 20 years he came to Westeros, he slowly starts to remember. He’s torn, he has a family on earth, but here too, he loves Laura and Daenerys, he’s an agent but also a Lord. How should he even go back? Well, either, he slowly becomes depressed, but hides it or the Avengers come to his rescue. I don’t know and I’m really torn, since Clinton loves Daenerys dearly as well his children in this world, but still Laura and his other family.

So, if anyone wants to write a story or a HC, please tag me, so I can read and reblog it :)

Masterlist

#clint barton #hawkeye #marvel #avengers #iron man #thor #loki #black widow #hulk #captain america #agents of shield #new york #movie #game of thrones #got #westeros #essos #iron throne #daenerys targaryen #robert baratheon #jon snow #ned stark #robb stark #catelyn stark #arya stark #bran stark #crossover #new story idea #justhugefangirl writes {🥀} #justhugefangirl creates {🌹}

[alinaastarkov]

You are a great resource. I always enjoy seeing the questions that pop up on your blog. I have a marriage question, if you would be so kind. If a women is married and widowed in the books, is her fate/future betrothals in the hands of her family or her husband’s family? TIA

Hi! Thank you so much! The question you have is an interesting one. The short answer is we don’t really know.

Here’s the long answer.

Knowledge of widows in the current story of ASOIAF is limited, and most of them exist in exceptional circumstances. In pre-ASOIAF lore, there is something called a Widow’s Law, introduced by Queen Alysanne, that says widows cannot be removed from their husband’s home by the husband’s children when he dies, and must be allowed to keep the same income, living conditions and servants as she had before. This essentially protects the widow’s rights and would allow her to remain unmarried for the rest of her life if she wanted. Without thinking of ASOIAF, historically speaking widows tend to have more freedom than women who have never been married and plenty of widows would never marry again and live comfortably. It is unclear if this is the case in ASOIAF because, as I said, the circumstances are exceptional (if there is something I am missing from the wider world of ice and fire, apologies).

As far as I can see, we have a few well-documented widows in the series. This includes Catelyn Stark, Cersei Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen, Margaery Tyrell, Jeyne Westerling, Donella Hornwood, Lysa Arryn and Olenna Tyrell. All are in exceptional circumstances because of the war.

Catelyn is obviously in an unusual situation, her husband being declared a traitor and then travelling with her son’s army during the war. There was little opportunity for her family to ‘decide her fate’, and the Stark family is limited to this one branch. Catelyn having children means she still fulfils her role as a mother and none of her Stark family would ever attempt to marry her off again. Though, it is clear Robb is in charge of her general ‘fate’, as it were, as he is the head of House Stark, and that would be the case for any family. For widows with children, they tend not to marry again, with Olenna remaining with the Tyrell family too.

Cersei is again an interesting case as she is not just a lady, but a queen. The Widow’s Law does not make it clear who now takes precedence when deciding the widow’s future, but given the Lannisters being so powerful and the Baratheons being the ruling house, they would probably be equal. Given that the last living Baratheons are against her in the war, they have no say in her future, but we do see Tywin taking back control of Cersei’s life and attempting to arrange her second marriage. There is not enough evidence to see if this about her widowhood, or simply Tywin acting as any father of the time would to a (currently) unmarried daughter. Her role as Queen mother/ regent also offers her certain security and freedom, too.

Daenerys is an extra special case because of the difference in customs between Westeros and the Dothraki. Dany should have joined the Dosh Khaleen upon Khal Drogo’s death, but the disorder created by the circumstances of his death means she is abandoned.

Margaery has been widowed twice. In the case of Renly, his family (Stannis) was against him in the war, so would not decide any of her fate for obvious reasons, and it’s clear her family arranged for her next marriage, as they would if she had not already been widowed. After her second marriage, both families want to keep each other as allies, so each side pushes for her to marry Tommen. The trend seems to be that in ASOIAF so far, widows are pretty much treated the same as women who have never been married, though perhaps with more security, as their families push them towards the next political match.

Lysa Arryn stays with the Arryn side of the family, ruling the Vale, seemingly in accordance with Widow’s Law, rather than return to the Tullys. Though, again, she has a child so this makes sense. She is one of the only widows I can think of with a child that remarries. As I said, historically widows have more security, perhaps keeping their husbands land if he had no kids (and gave it to her in his will), and the same is true here. This leads to Lysa’s next match being much debated. Even though Robin will inherit the Vale, many lords want to be Lysa’s next husband so they can control the Vale, so it’s clear in this case the widow decides her own fate once her husband dies. This is seen again with Donella Hornwood too. She retains her husband’s lands, leading to many men wanting to marry her to gain it for himself. Ramsay eventually does before killing her.

Jeyne Westerling is the ultimate special case. Not only is her husband killed as a traitor, her husband was a king, making her a queen, and she is held prisoner too. Her husband’s family is all (assumed to be) dead, so really only her own family can decide anything, and they decide to try and push the next advantageous match as if she was never married. No doubt they will make sure to insist that they betrayed Robb, else they might not find Jeyne any husbands. The only allowance made in terms of her widowhood is waiting long enough to ensure she is not pregnant.

So, in summation, we don’t know who decides a widow’s future/ future husbands. From the evidence we have, it seems their family, not their husband’s family, decides, though they are allowed to retain their position with their husband’s family until that happens. But, these are all unusual circumstances, so if all of these characters existed without a war, the situation may be very different. If we go simply based on history, the widow should really decide her own fate, both if she does or does not have kids.

Sorry if that wasn’t the answer you were looking for nonny! But thank you anyway!

#neve has mail #asoiaf #widowhood #history #a song of ice and fire #cersei lannister #catelyn stark #jeyne westerling #daenerys targaryen #margaery tyrell #olenna tyrell #lysa arryn #donella hornwood #shut up neve #meta? i guess?

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                     i’ll spend this summer by your side

{Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark meet in Winterfell when they are just kids. Eventually, they grow up and the time for grown-up decisions comes. // a.k.a. gendrya arranged marriage childhood-friends-to-lovers au}

*ao3

*dedicated to the wonderful @yanak324​ - darling, without you I would’ve never written this fic, let along post it. thank you so much for everything <3

When the bones are good, the rest don't matter

Yeah, the paint could peel, the glass could shatter

Let it rain 'cause you and I remain the same

When there ain't a crack in the foundation

Baby, I know any storm we're facing

Will blow right over while we stay put

The house don't fall when the bones are good

- The Bones, Marren Morris & Hozier

A day’s ride away from Storm’s End, Arya falls asleep in a deep, damp forest that smells so much different than the ones in the North. With a crumpled-up letter underneath her pillow, she dreams of the summer afternoon many years ago – of when Gendry first arrived at Winterfell.

She was a child then, of course, but she remembers it surprisingly well; clutching on her mother’s skirts and watching, wide-eyed, a procession of horses and wheelhouses streaming in through the castle’s main gate. Robert Baratheon looked like a giant from Old Nan’s tales with his black beard and booming voice, and she had to tell herself to be brave many, many times before she managed to clumsily curtsy in front of him; anxiousness making her tremble, lose her balance and stain the hem of her dress with mud.

She recalls that Sansa giggled quietly under her breath while she gracefully dipped down, all auburn-haired and perfect. And Arya could just hear it perfectly clear in this laughter, her sisters’ and Jeyne’s dirty little horseface-s, murmured behind her back all day long, so she lowered her eyes as her cheeks reddened.

But then someone kneeled in front of her, taking her gloved hands in his. And when she raised her chin slightly, there was the bluest stare that she has ever seen, bright and clear and looking at her softly.

‘’Greetings, my lady. My name’s Gendry. Can I ask for yours?’’

Gendry. He looked far older than her, of Jon’s age. And he had the same kindness in his voice, the same warmth hidden somewhere in those winter eyes and that gave her all the courage she needed.

With back straight and head held high, she answered:

‘’Arya. I’m not a lady, tho. Don’t call me that.’’

Her mother hissed her name sharply and Sansa gasped, but none of that even mattered, as Gendry smiled. Still on one knee, he raised her right hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles delicately, just like stupid knights in Sansa’s stupid songs.

‘’As you wish, my lady.’’

***

He is to be fostered in Stark’s household, yet another one her mother had sighed, but with no malice in her voice. It is an honor, no matter how one looked at it and even Arya understands that. First Theon Greyjoy, brought by Father like a souvenir from Rebellion. Prince Jon next, on the insistence of his mother, the Queen, who wanted her son to grow up in the North as she did.  And then the heir to Lord Paramount of Stormlands, son of Father’s dear childhood friend.

Other boys give him some space to adjust to Winterfell and Sansa quickly deems him awfully gloomy and refuses to interact with him at all, her apparent delusions about finally meeting ‘’a true Southern nobleman ‘’ whatever that even means, shattered by Gendry’s stormy glare.

‘’I mean, he cannot even hold a proper conversation.’’ Arya overhears Sansa talking to Jeyne as they are sitting in the sewing room, embroidery hoops in their hands. That’s easily the most interesting thing Sansa has ever said around her.

But Arya herself is pretty curious about him. It is true, he looks gloomy and moody, he scowls all the time and doesn’t speak much at all, but so was Jon when he had first got here.  Maybe he’s just shy?  - she's wondering, although the notion does not work well with how he greeted her.

So, when she catches Gendry  alone one time during breakfast, just as he’s stuffing his face with oatmeal in a decidedly-unlordlike manner, she laces her fingers behind her back and asks him boldly:

‘’Do you miss your home much?’’

His chewing stops abruptly and he’s staring at her all surprised, his cheeks puffed out with food. He looks so comedic like that, that she feels a bubble of laughter buzzing in her throat, but she is determined to keep it there. Laughing at him now would be unkind and Arya wants to be kind to Gendry, the way he was kind to her in the courtyard. So she just hops on the bench next to him, uninvited, and waits patiently for him to swallow his oats.

‘’I- I don’t know, really.’’ He answers sheepishly at last, a little red on the face and still looking at her as if he was not sure what she’s even doing, sitting so close to him.

‘’You don’t know if you miss your home?’’ she repeats, bewildered. ‘’I would die if they made me leave Winterfell!’’

No doubt about it. Lyarra left some time ago, Sansa’s constantly moaning and whining about going South, to Reach or King’s Landing, and even  Robb has asked Father once or twice if he could go stay with their grandfather in the Riverlands -  but Arya’s of North. She was born here and here she intends to stay.

The corners of Gendry’s mouth twitch a little, as if he was fighting a smile.

‘’I miss my sisters a lot, but it’s enough of you that it almost feels like they were with me.’’ He explains. ‘’And it’s as beautiful here as in Stormlands, if not more. Even, if it’s so darn cold.’’

Arya's heart swells. No one has ever told her that they think North is more beautiful than South, not even Jon who just keeps on repeating that it’s decidedly less stinky than the capital.

‘’I think it’s beautiful too.’’ She admits quietly. ‘’Sansa says one day Father will have to marry me off to one of his bannermen, cause no Southern lord will want me, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. I never want to live in a place where there is no godswood. And I don’t want to marry anyway.’’

This time, he actually smiles at her and even chuckles for good measure.

It feels like an achievement, somehow.

‘’What do you want to do, then? If you don’t wish to marry?’’

Countless adults have asked her that before, but always in half-teasing, half-mocking tone, not believing any word she says. Gendry…  Gendry seemed to be actually interested in her answer. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and back bent so they are on the same eye level.

And once again, she is hit by how blue his eyes are. Her mother has blue eyes, same as Robb and Sansa and Bran and even baby Rickon. Arya’s living surrounded by the sea of Tully blue eyes. And yet, Gendry’s are more intense somehow, less washed-down.

‘’I’m going to go behind a Wall and be a spear wife. Or be an explorer, like Sea Snake or Elisa Farman.’’ She dreams about all that and more, about adventure and thrill. ‘’I’m gonna go to Shivering Sea and bring back an ice dragon with me, so everyone would know they really exist. I want to see the Wall and the Lands of Always Winter. ’’

She’s fully prepared for him to laugh at her. Everyone does. Even Father, even Jon, although their laugh is good-natured.

But Gendry doesn’t.

He just nods at her declarations and states:

‘’I don’t want to marry either, or to be a lord. If I could, I’d just be a blacksmith.’’

And just like that, suddenly, they are friends.

***

Sansa and Arya have their lessons separately of boys, probably to avoid subjects that may possibly wound their delicate young minds, but Arya keeps on begging Gendry long and hard enough that he gives in eventually and tells her more about Rheagar’s Rebellion, about Tourney at Harrenhall and The Great Conspiracy.

It is a little embarrassing, talking to him about all this, but less so if she touched the topic with Jon, who is always very tight-lipped about his parents. However, with years passing by, Arya begins thinking about her aunt more and more, with this kind of insatiable curiosity that surpasses any notions of being proper. Everyone knows that Rheagar Targaryen offered her grandfather a crown for his daughter in exchange for Rickard Stark’s men and loyalty. Everyone knows that Lyanna was promised to Gendry’s father at that time, but Lord Rickard, being an ambitious and reasonable man, agreed to Prince’s proposal, having easily calculated how far above Lady of Storm’s End is Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. Everyone knows of the Rebellion and King Aerys’ death and how Baratheons were the last ones to kneel in front of the new king.

The one thing that Arya wonders about is what exactly was Lyanna’s Stark position in all that.

Jeyne and Sansa and even Lyarra always make it into a song; of love forbidden, of blue winter roses, of Wolf Lady and Dragon Prince.

To Arya, it seems more mundane; more like a girl sold to the highest bidder.

‘’I met her, once.’’ Gendry tells her in Godswood, skipping rocks on the still surface of one of the hot pools. ‘’During the royal tour through Westeros.’’

‘’What she’s like?’’ she asks, hungry for details. Father never wants to talk much about aunt Lyanna. Jon rarely even mentions her name and every time he does, it is laced with such a desperate longing that Arya quickly learned to avoid the subject to spare him the hurt.

‘’Beautiful.’’ Gendry crunches on the bank of the lake, staring at the circles on the water. The cold breeze is playing with his dark hair, making it even messier than possible. He’s one and ten now, already taller than Theon and Robb and it doesn’t seem he’s about to stop growing any time soon. Standing next to him, Arya feels even smaller than usual. ‘’Dark-haired, long-faced. She looks like your father and you.’’

Her cheeks redden against her will. Many Northerners have told her that, which makes her head spin a bit, unsure how to imagine a woman who was somehow both beautiful and similar to her.

‘’Yeah, but I’m not asking about her appearance. I’m asking what she’s like.’’

Gendry ponders about her question for a bit, which she is well used to by now. He always takes his time thinking, making people call him stupid and slow behind his back. Which is both unfair and untrue – he doesn’t have a head for numbers like Arya or for houses and histories like Bran, but he is not dim-witted in any way. Especially when the issues of household management and smallfolk are concerned.  

I know he doesn’t want that, but he’ll make a wonderful lord one day, crosses her mind from time to time, watching as Gendry calls every single servant by their name and how he always remembers to pay a visit to the orphanage when they are in Winter Town.

‘’Sad.’’ He settles on, still avoiding her gaze. ‘’Kind and sad. For me, she looked quite lonely.’’

‘’How else can she look like? A wolf can never be happy in the cage. And I heard Father saying she has true wolf's blood, the way uncle Brandon had.’’ Arya doesn’t remember him well; he died when she was barely more than a child, slain while storming Great Wyk. His wife and daughter used to live with them a few years after he passed away, but then Lady Barbrey decided to go back to Rills to her father, so now even Lyarra is not around to remind everyone of Brandon’s hot-blooded nature and  Arya lost a partner in horse riding or secret archery lessons.

‘’Well, good luck to anyone ever trying to cage you.’’ Gendry says, playfully tugging on the end of her braid and making her shriek. ‘’You’re way too wild for that, Arya. Also, you’re all dirty from that leaves and we are already late for dinner, so enough of histories for now.’’

***

‘’One more time.’’ She orders, smirking, when the only answer she hears is a pained groan. ‘’Come on, you were the one who asked me to help you.’’

‘’It’s utterly embarrassing that you’re so good at this and I’m so hopeless.’’ Gendry fixes his stare on the parchment on the desk as if it personally offended him. ‘’These are just swimming in front of my eyes.’’

‘’Books are important.’’ Arya rests her cheek on the stone wall, letting it warm her skin pleasantly. ‘’If you don’t understand books-‘’

‘’-my liege lords will cheat me out of taxes, yeah, I know. But still. Can’t I just ask someone to check them for me?’’

‘’I suppose you can. If you trust this person enough.’’

Gendry sends her a side smile and leans back on his chair.

‘’Well, shame I don’t trust you then. As I don’t know anyone better at sums than you.’’

‘’Why don’t you trust me? How dare you even say so.’’ She presses her hands to her chest in fake-offense, deciding to ignore his praise. ‘’The audacity you have.’’

‘’Don’t play with me, Arry. You’re a terrible cheat. Especially at cards.’’

‘’It’s called strategy!’’

‘’Sure it is.’’

‘’It’s not my fault you are a sore loser.’’

‘’Only with you, my lady. Only with you. I wouldn’t be a sore loser if you were winning fair and square.’’

''Besides, I don't think it's really possible to cheat at monsters-and-maidens. Or come-into-my-castle.''

''And somehow you manage to do just so.''

***

Father lets Gendry work in the forge with Mikken sometimes when all his other duties are done, and Gendry simply loves it, loves it beyond all else – it doesn’t take a lot to notice that. Arya thinks him content enough most of the time, maybe even happy when he spars with Robb on the courtyard, warhammer against sword, or when he playfully wrestles with Bran and Rickon, always letting them win, or when he goes riding with Jon and they sneak her out so she can join them. But smithing, smithing is something else entirely.

‘’That’s just so common.’’ Jeyne Poole wheezes once, outraged, as Gendry passes them on a way to his chambers, soot coving his forearms.

Arya could just strangle her. Instead, she stops abruptly and stomps her foot.

‘’I don’t see how it’s something wrong. Other lords hunt with hawks or gamble – at least Gendry will do something useful at Storm’s End!’’

Jeyne opens her mouth and then closes it, clearly shocked. For a moment she seems to be looking for a good enough reply, but apparently comes short, because she eventually settles on gasping loudly and hurrying away, leaving Arya on the corridor alone.

Escaping from her embroidery lessons, Arya often goes to watch Gendry, as Septa Mordane would never even think of looking for her in the forge. So she has perfected sneaking in and perching on the workbench after discarding outer layers to bask in the heat.  They don’t talk -  to be honest, she is not sure he notices her much at all, too engrossed in his work. Surrounded by the sound of metal hitting metal and billows of smoke, Gendry looks so much different than he usually does, almost like he is some stranger.

Like he is a baseborn blacksmith, not a highborn heir to one of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Arya is wondering many times, as Gendry’s hammering hilts of swords with such force that the sound must be echoing through very bones of Winterfell; would they even meet if he was not nobility? If they both weren’t noble? For sure they wouldn’t, coming from where they come from, a whole continent between them. Even if they both were bastards (she scoffs internally at the idea; as if her father could ever have any children outside wedlock) she would be a Snow and he would be a Storm and bastard boys don’t get fostered, so they would never cross paths.

So, as much as she hates the notion of being a noble lady sitting idly and sewing all day long, she is grateful for being a Stark and she is grateful that he is a Baratheon. If only because she gets to sit between Gendry and Jon during meals and toss her greens onto their plates.  If only because she got to meet Gendry and to bicker with him and to see his smile.

On her tenth name day, he and Jon wake her up early and the first thing she sees is a short, narrow sword in Gendry’s hands.

‘’It’s – uhm, it’s for you.’’ He mumbles, his head low as he’s setting it on her lap.

Arya, breathless, runs her fingers along the hilt, tracing the elegant twist of silver metal. It’s perfect, it’s beautiful, it’s everything she has ever wanted. Sharp and slight, just like her.

Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I’ve got a Needle of my own.

‘’It was Jon’s idea.’’ Gendry adds hastily, before she manages to open her mouth.

‘’Aye, but Gendry made it.’’ Jon smiles with this shy, gentle smile of his. ‘’Don’t sell yourself short.’’

‘’You… made it for me?’’ Arya lets out, bewildered. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she registers Jon’s ruffling her hair and wishing her happy birthday, but all she has eyes for are Gendry’s blushed face, his blue stare and grime underneath his fingernails that flashes when he fiddles with the pelt on her bed.

His hands. He made a sword for her with these hands.

Gendry just nods in reply, smiling.

‘’It’s mostly Mikken work, to be honest, I just helped out, so it should be- uff!’’

Arya has her arms around his neck before he can even finish the sentence, burying her face in his shoulder. When he tentatively hugs her back, she feels so, so happy she could burst.

***

Old Nan is saying to anyone who cares to listen that it’s the longest summer in the living memory and it feels like that sometimes, it really does.

After snows have melted and it got warmer, warm enough that even Northerners shed their furs and expose their pale skin to the sun, one sunny morning, all of them, Winterfell little lords and ladies, go to the hot pools.

It is Arya’s favorite day ever and remains so for many years to come.

Even Sansa comes, sweeter than usually and giggling lightly in her pretty periwinkle dress as she sits on the blanket and plays with Lady, who is desperately trying to catch the loose ribbons around her mistress’ wrists.  

Jon also doesn’t swim; he's just standing awkwardly in the shallow part for the whole time, refusing to go any deeper no matter how they all push and pull, Robb and Theon laughing at him as they cut through the water with ease. The direwolves are still just puppies, all adorably confused by the lake before bravely hopping in and paddling one by one around the edge of the pool - all but Ghost, who, mirroring his master, is deeply distrustful of going in. Instead of following, he opts for sniffling the cattails and stumbling on his little paws in haste to get away when his siblings climb out and shrug water from their fur.

Rickon jumps in with a wild roar, splashing everyone head-to-toe and diving to nip at their ankles until Robb loops his little arms around his neck and hauls him across the lake and back.

And Gendry grabs Arya by the waist and seats her on his shoulders, so that she can reach up and pick fluffy white catkins from the willow trees above them, gathering them in her palms before letting them scatter on his dark hair like snowflakes.  He holds her pale calves tightly, grinning up at her and avoiding incoming swimmers so she won’t fall into the water.

The air smells like grass and berries and lemon cakes; it’s vibrant with laughter.  Gendry’s wet hair sticks to his head after he ducks underwater with her still perched on his shoulders and she uses this moment to jump off, right underneath the surface. They meet face-to-face, bubbles of air escaping from the corners of their mouths, but he doesn’t see her; he’s keeping his eyes closed as he’s floating.

He’s smiling so widely that she’s afraid his cheeks will split.

When she reaches for his hands and his fingers immediately curl around hers, instinctively knowing it’s her without having to open his eyes, something beautiful and painful blooms in her chest for the very first time.

***

‘’Tell me, Arya, whom do you prefer, Jon or Gendry?’’ Bran asks her once when she is ten and two and she scrunches her nose at how weirdly this question is phrased.

‘’What do you even mean by that?’’

‘’Well.’’ Bran slides from the windowsill to take a seat in front of her, the abandoned board of cyvasse spread in between them. ‘’You know they will probably marry you off to one of them, right?’’

What.

‘’How do you know that?’’ she manages to stutter.  Marry... Jon?  Her? Jon has been like an older brother to her for so long that at some point she forgot he is actually her cousin.

And Gendry?

Gendry, a maiden’s daydream. Even Sansa can’t ignore him anymore and suddenly stopped complaining about his rough manners. Even Jeyne keeps her mouth shut now and turns red when he says hello to her.  He is too tall for that, too broad and too skilled with his warhammer. Whores in Winter Town fawn at the sight of him, making him walk with his head low when he is passing brothels.

Marrying Gendry would be-

No, just no.

‘’That’s obvious. They both seem to like you a lot, gods know why-‘’ Bran smoothly avoids her smack, leaning back on his chair and continuing his rant, ‘’- and with Sansa going to King’s Landing – well, I think Mother and Father would make a very smart deal, arranging your marriage with either of them. These are also the only betrothals you could possibly agree too.’’

‘’I would never agree to marry Jon.’’ Arya states, suddenly feeling hot. She keeps her eyes glued to the dices laying on the table, just not to see Bran’s mischievous eyes. She knows what he is going to say and he doesn’t prove her wrong.

‘’And Gendry?’’

Gendry; billows of steam around him.

Gendry; his chest glistening with sweat as he brings the hammer down.

Gendry; calling her ‘’my lady’’ and laughing as she gets mad.

You would like Stormlands, he told her once, when they were deep in the forest, looking for wild berries. It’s harsh in the same way North is.

But it’s too hot, she moaned in response. - Northerners were not made to live that far South.

You could also say Southerners were not made to live that far North, he countered, reaching for her hand and helping her jump over a toppled tree trunk.-  But I and your mother live here and we manage just fine.

Instead of answering, she silently stands up and leaves the solar, fuming,  with Bran’s triumphant laughter chasing her.

***

Arya hates passionately nearly all the female skills Septa Mordane tries to instill in her, be it riding sidesaddle, embroidery or the art of polite yet meaningless conversations - but there is one exception that makes all the difference.

Dancing.

She loves, loves dancing, and even tho those least proper are her favorite, she does not find it too painful to go through the most formal ones.  There is something about spinning and clapping to the rhythm of the music that reminds her very much of sparring with Bran, her Needle in her hand.

After all, sword duels do look like dancing at times, in cases when it’s more about swiftness and agility than brute strength. When she was ten, her father secretly hired her a Braavosi water dancing teacher and well, let’s just say that spinning has long become a natural way of moving for her.

Still, everyone is shocked when she takes to her dancing lessons with no complaining; more so, when in mere weeks she twirls around her teacher gracefully, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She’s good at that, effortlessly; for the first time in her life she truly good at being a girl, shutting everyone’s mouths and making Mother smile proudly in the same way she smiles when Sansa presents her with needlework – and it makes  Arya feel both weirdly unsteady and giddy.  To her delight, she manages to learn slower styles quickly enough, that soon she’s going through faster and more complex steps, never missing a beat, smiling widely at Jon who often offers to partner her.

There is nothing challenging for her about dancing, really.

Not until she gets to dance with Gendry.

‘’You’re such an oaf.’’ – she whines, trying to adjust his stiff grip on her waist. ‘’It’s not so hard, seven hells, let loose a bit!’’

And he just stares at her, wide-eyed and unsure like a newborn fawn. One could think that she has him on knifepoint, not in the empty chambers where she asked him to help her practice.

In the hindsight, she should’ve just waited for Jon.

‘’Didn’t they teach you to dance in Storm’s End? Didn’t they teach you here, with the rest of boys?’’ she asks as he steps on her toes for the fourth time, completely out of rhythm even though she counts it out loud for his benefit.

‘’They did.’’ He spits roughly in response, suddenly dropping her hands and turning his back on her.

Arya’s left standing frozen, her arms loose by her sides and mouth opened.

‘’What has gotten into-‘’

‘’What’s that dress?’’

She looks down at her gown. It’s an old one of Sansa’s, altered in order fit Arya’s shorter frame. She needs a dress to practice dancing well, unfortunately, so she’s taken to wearing them more often, and this one is not terrible. It’s fairly practical, without those stupid dragging sleeves or a train. Just yellow linen trimmed with white lace around the collar.

She thinks it’s quite pretty.

‘’What about it?’’ she asked, bewildered.

‘’How come you’re walking around now, wearing dresses and dancing? Though you did not want any of this?’’ He is still not facing her, so she cannot read his expression. But his voice sounds heavy and rough and so, so unlike his. ‘’Though it was not you. Have you forgotten? You’re not Jeyne or Sansa, Arya. ’’

There is silence stretching between them and for a moment, all Arya hears is the hum of blood in her ears, boiling with anger.

She crosses the room in two long strides and slams her fists onto Gendry’s back, furiously hitting him until he turns around and seizes her wrists.

‘’Ough, Arya, seven hells-‘’

‘’How dare you!’’ There are tears spilling down her cheeks, hot tears of anger, but she just doesn’t care because how dare he. ‘’You think – just because- you think it’s only for Sansa? That I cannot be good at anything like that just because I’m – I’m-‘’

Against her best intentions get drowned in sobs and suddenly she falls forwards into Gendry’s arms, her forehead pressed against his chest. He’s anxiously patting her back, mumbling to her to calm down, but all she can do is cry.

‘’Just because I’m ugly, do you think I cannot be any good in dancing?’’ she sobs, her voice drowned against the leather of his doublet and she gasps in surprise as he grabs her shoulders and tears her away from him, leaning down to look her in the eyes.

‘’Arya, what are you even talking about?’’ he whispers, clumsily wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘’You’re pretty. So pretty. How can you even – don’t listen to Sansa, gods.’’

Gendry is a honest lad. He does not really try to kiss anyone’s arse or  play pleasantries. He has also never been in  any way dishonest to her. But now… now he’s both serious and honest, as he, once again, takes her hands into hers and repeats, loud and clear:

‘’You are not ugly. Don’t ever think like that.’’

She bits on her lip, searching for any note of falsehood in his voice, on his face. But she comes empty-handed.

‘’So why did you get angry?’’ she asks quietly, lowering her eyes to their linked hands.

He also looks down, suddenly sheepish, with faint blush coloring his cheekbones.

‘’It was stupid. I was stupid, I’m sorry. I just thought that you’re not interested in – all of that. And that maybe now you decided to mimic other girls. Which you don’t have to do. Sorry.’’ He shrugs and Arya knows that if he had free hands, he would be scratching the back of his neck.

‘’I am not.’’ She admits. ‘’I’m not – I’m not trying to be Jeyne. Or Sansa. I still think most of those things that Septa Mordane teaches me are stupid. But I like dancing.’’ She pauses for a moment, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. ‘’And I like this dress. And I think – maybe I don’t have to be one thing only. Maybe I could be a good dancer and a good horse rider. And I don’t need breeches to be a good archer. Maybe... I could be just me. ’’

Mother would gasp at her logic, Father would shake his head with this kind, sad smile of his.

Gendry just nods slowly, straightens his back and pulls them into a starting position again, this time leading her on the floor with a grace she would never suspect he possesses. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reply to her words. He just smiles at her softly, his grip gentle, as they move through steps and figures. And she knows that he understands exactly what she means.

***

The night before Gendry leaves Winterfell, she jumps from under the covers the exact moment when Sansa starts to snore and quickly wraps herself up in furs to keep the chill away. The castle is quiet and basked in the light of the full moon; not that it matters in slightest.  She could probably make her way blindfolded, for how well she knows it.

She finds him exactly where she expected; he adds some extra logs to the fireplace in the forge, stripped to his shirt and breeches. When she loudly coughs to announce her presence, he swiftly spins on the balls of his feet and greets her with a smile devoid of even an ounce of surprise.

‘’Came to say goodbye, didn’t you?’’ she asks, trying to keep her tone light, but she obviously fails, cause his brow immediately furrows and the corners of his lips drop down.

‘’Yeah.’’ His voice is soft like kitten’s fur, softer than ever before. He sits on the workbench and motions for her to move closer. Settling on the worn-out wood, she feels something heavy dropping in her stomach. She has been in this forge a thousand times and more already, but without Gendry here, she will have no reason to come again.

It’s almost as if he’s to take a part of her home away with him.

She lays her head on his shoulder and he takes her hands in his (when did his hands grow so big, how did that happen?) and for a moment, they just sit in silence uninterrupted by anything except the crackling of the fire and the sound of their breathing.

‘’I’m gonna miss it so much.’’ He admits at last, keeping his head low as always when he’s being very serious.

‘’The forge?’’

‘’The forge, Winterfell. The North. Your family. Jon.’’ he counts down. ‘’Hmm, and I suppose I will maybe miss you. Just a little though. Finally, some rest from your blabber.’’

Arya gasps at that, showing him off the bench to the floor, where he lays, laughing.

‘’I do not blabber!’’

‘’You do, sometimes.’’

‘’I do not!’’

They shoot back and forth, until Arya quiets down and bites on her lip. No more bickering.

Her eyes sting a bit, so she closes them and flops down on the bench.

‘’Will we ever see each other again?’’ she asks, refusing to look at him and swallowing the bile in the throat. She instantly wishes she did not utter this question, because how will she make it through if he says they won’t?

But Gendry is Gendry, so he doesn’t.

He raises up on his feet and sits down on her right side, this time wrapping his arm around her and pressing her closer to him, so that her head is resting on his chest.

‘’We will.’’ He answers, full of will and conviction. ‘’I don’t think there is anyone who could stop you from doing what you  really want, Arya. So if you will ever want to see me, you will find a way. And I-‘’ he hesitates for a moment as if he was trying to phrase his thoughts in a right way. ‘’- and I will find a way to see you again too.’’

‘’Okay.’’ She says softly, gripping the material of his linen undershirt and pressing her nose to it, trying to memorize how he smells, how he sounds, how he feels, trying to burn it in her mind. ‘’Okay, Gendry. No goodbyes, then.’’

He rests his chin on her head and when he breaths out deeply, her stomach does a somersault. Suddenly, a thought crosses her mind like a flash;  how we must look like, sitting like this. What would someone say, if they saw us now?

But it quickly evaporates, when his lips brush her hair and she hears his whisper.

‘’Aye, Arry. No goodbyes.’’

***

To her despair, Jon soon follows Gendry; riding back to King’s Landing, he leaves behind a string of maidens with broken hearts and Arya’s parents pretending they were not trying to find an excuse to make him stay as long as possible.  And with his departure, things start to change for good right in front of her eyes.

For starters, for the very first time in her life,  Arya learns how terribly and crushing lonely one can feel in their own home, surrounded by their own family.  She has already flowered, meaning that even Father won’t allow her to roll in the mud with a training sword anymore – not that she would have any partners in that anyway, with Syrio Forell also leaving, claiming loudly that he’s ‘’too old for living in such a stern climate and freezing his bones off every night’’.

Margaery Tyrell comes to Winterfell, all pretty and smiling, her rose-embroidered dresses too light for the cold and her cheeks always rosy. And Robb falls, even Arya can see that - he falls so hard and quick that it seems almost unbelievable. Soon, he’s all for strolling around the castle, chest puffed like a peacock and his betrothed by his side, too busy with getting out of his skin to impress Margaery to even notice anyone else, let alone his little underfoot sister.

And Arya likes Margaery well enough, even if she’s instantly Sansa’s new best friend the moment she steps through the threshold (she’s kinder than Jeyne, at least) – but the whole flurry of wedding-related activity makes her sick, especially since she cannot sit in the back of the room with Gendry and make fun of all this pomp and extravagance.

Right before Robb’s wedding, Mother starts to get terrible headaches (the aftermath of raising too many children, she grumbles) and is often bed-ridden, which forces her to finally allow Father to send Rickon to Riverrun. He is to stay with uncle Blackfish for a while, with the hope that maybe it will temper his wild energy a little – fool’s hope, in Arya’s humble opinion, but it’s not like anyone asks her for it.

Bran squires for one of Stark’s bannermen and every free time he has, he devotes to visiting Greywater Watch and the Reeds.

Arya is deprived even of Sansa’s meager company as both her sister and goodsister are busy preparing a dowry for Sansa’s upcoming nuptials. Then Sansa goes South, as eagerly as possible, and the castle becomes ever quieter, unnerving Arya so that she feels she’s surely going to go mad.  Robb’s all Lord-like now, Margaery’s wobbling around pregnant and glowing and it’s all terribly, excruciatingly dull.

So Arya fills her days with silently sitting by Father’s and Robb’s sides as they ‘re taking petitions and lonely horse rides with Nymeria. The winter is truly and well coming now, so there is a lot of work with properly securing livestock and supplies coming from the Reach and every pair of hands is needed, even if hers are small and soft.  She goes to visit Lyarra and aunt Barbrey once or twice and tags along with Bran to meet his betrothed, Meera. She practices archery with Theon, bothers Winterfell’s staff for hours with no end and talks with smallfolk more than it is proper. Twice a week, there are kids in the Winter Town orphanage waiting for her to come and teach them letters and it’s honestly far more fun than she thought it would be.

However, there are letters of another kind that become her main source of entertainment; every day she nags Maester Luwin endlessly, inquiring about ravens and looking for them in the sky or locking herself up with ink and quills in her chambers, pouring all the unsaid words on the parchment.  

Jon writes often;  mostly narrations of his days at court and some amusing anecdotes about annoying nobles. His letters abruptly stop coming for four moons around a year after his departure and when they resume,  he is different. Head over heels in love and married.

To his aunt in fact, which would be a little weird in any other case, but Arya supposes they are Targaryens after all. Even if King Rheagar decided to try to stop the traditional inbreeding by sending for Northern bride for his eldest son and marrying Princess Rhaenys into House Tyrell, no one is really that shocked by Princess Daenerys giving her hand to Prince Jon, especially given that her brother, Prince Viserys, has been one of the victims of the Rebellion.

I heard she’s gorgeous. Congratulations on your marriage, Jon. – she replies politely to the announcement and buries her face in her hands, sitting still for hours afterward.

Dear Arya, I am so very happy, becomes an opening line of every Jon’s letter since then and it makes her oh so confused and even more conflicted.

She has taken to watching her parents closer than ever; observing how they speak with each other, how they seem to understand one another even without any words exchanged. How they stroll through glass gardens during sunny afternoons, laughing quietly.

Accidental marriage, that’s what we are, her mother said to Sansa once, forgetting that Arya was also present, which seems to be a theme for women in her family. I was to marry your late uncle Brandon and gods forgive me, I was not very pleased when I ended up with his brother, nor was my lord father. But it all turned out for the best. By the time I became Lady of Winterfell, I didn’t care much for the title at all. I just wanted to be by Ned’s side.

Arya knows she is well past betrothal age. She knows everyone is wondering why her parents turned every single one of her suitors down. She would very much like to believe that’s because they decided to let her never marry and stay in Winterfell forever like she has begged them for many years, but it’s been a long time since that afternoon game of cyvasse with Bran and she is nowhere as naïve now as then.

She is spoken for, promised to, even if silently, even with no one mentioning that at all. And she is still trying to figure out if it makes her angry or not at all.

She feels Father’s gaze heavy on her every time she makes her way into the Godswood, a letter pressed to her chest.

Gendry writes rarely and even when he does, his letters are shorter than Jon’s, which also makes them infinitely more significant. He is not a man of many words and he is very busy now – it is not spoken loudly, but it is practically a common knowledge that Robert Baratheon is well on his way to drink and whore himself to death, so any duties that Gendry’s mother was fulfilling during his stay in Winterfell  fell on his shoulders as soon as he returned.  Arya understands all of that. At the same time, she still selfishly wishes for more; she just misses talking to him, the banter and silliness and honesty – all of it. There’s no one else who gets her better. No one who takes her as seriously as he did.

So she dutifully sends her own letters every week, raven after raven, even when there’s not much to write about, and cherishes whatever reply appears.

One time, sitting in Godswood with Nymeria’s heavy head resting on her lap, she realizes that, at some point, all of it has stopped feeling like living; it feels like endless waiting, holding her breath.  She is still in Winterfell, but what good is that if everyone else is gone or different. Everyone seems to be moving on to some grand things, with only her stubbornly stuck.  

And then.

Do you think still that marriage is always a cage? Gendry writes to her exactly three years after he went away and Arya’s not stupid. She knows where this conversation would lead.

She just isn’t sure if she wants to actually have it.

I think there are cages in which one feels content. - she replies carefully, after trying out tens of different ways of conveying her thoughts and tearing them all into pieces.-  But I still think caging a wolf may not be the wisest idea at all.

That time, the letter from Storm’s End comes quickly, probably as quickly as the raven managed, poor thing.

She goes riding for half a day until she gathers enough courage to read it, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of parchment all spotted with fat blotches of ink, as if Gendry pressed his quill way too hard in several places.

Even wolves have their hunting grounds, right? Vast, with a lot of space to breath. Their pack around them, running together. Not a cage, but a home.

With her heart beating fast, she closes her eyes for a second. All of it feels so heavy, so final. Couldn’t they just go back to being children in Winterfell? Why must they all grow up?

It makes her so angry. Where are those summer afternoons, what happened with them – with Gendry’s hands innocent on her ankles, keeping her safe and secure?

But then she comes back to reading and gasps at the next paragraph.

Arya, I am no bard, really. You know that. Must we do it this way? I need a lady and miss you so much and gods damn me, if you weren’t always the only lady for me.  Come to Stormlands. Marry me. I promise, I will never cage you. You can call yourself a lord. You can call yourself a blacksmith’s wife. I don’t care. Please, just be with me.

‘’Stupid.’’ Arya murmurs under her breath, feeling fondness filling her head to toe. Gendry always had a way of making things simple, of making her feel at ease.

She looks out of the window; at the silent courtyard, empty, save for a few servants hurrying to the kitchens for their supper. She supposes she could stay here, or tell her parents she will marry close to home and come back as often as possible. She doesn’t have to leave or cross the entire continent.

But her days would be long and empty; her nights -  cold. She would feel like a tree with its roots unmovable, forever in Winterfell’s soil. Bored out of her mind and static. She would be content enough, probably, only it’s never what she wanted. What she wanted was an adventure –

And what is a bigger adventure than going South? Managing a castle the way she wants? Spending the rest of her life with her very best friend?

There’s also the issue of duty, of course. Her duty towards her parents, towards the North. As much as Arya hates politics, she’s aware of how powerful betrothals are. Marriages mean security and supplies and wellbeing of the Houses involves and those, who serve those Houses. It was a coincidence that Robb’s bride came from Reach just as the winter was about to come for good. And her marriage to Gendry would potentially bring many, many benefits for the North, for the still-too-empty coffers and stocks.

Besides. Much better her best friend than some random Northern lord, who would take her Needle away and delegate her to women’s quarters to bear one child after another and gossip with other ladies until her ears fall off. Gendry would never do that to her, of that she can be sure.

Maybe it will be summer again, by his side.

***

Arya likes long letters, rambling and elaborate.

But her last one is the shortest by far, sent just before she straightens her back and knocks on the door to Father’s study.

Dear Gendry,

Just to make it clear; don’t ever expect me to bow down to you.

But aye. I will marry you.  

Yours, Arya

***

Ned Stark listens to her words with a solemn expression on his face, but when she’s finished, the corners of his lips raise up slightly.

‘’I knew this day would come someday.’’ He sighs heavily, reaching for one of the parchments laying on his table and placing it in front of her, so she could read it. “This is what Robert left me, along with Gendry.’’

The contents of the letter make her eyebrows shoot up.

It’s a godsdamned, straight-up business proposal of Robert Baratheon to her father, asking him to consider marrying her or Sansa to Gendry. There’s a lot of bullshit about joining families and old history, because Robert is still beyond obsessed with aunt Lyanna, even after all those years.

But at the root of it, it looks like any trade agreement she has seen in her life. And that just makes Arya so, so mad.

‘’I’m showing it to you now, because I feel you have a right to know.’’ her father says, before she has a chance to respond. ‘’But I don’t think it should influence your decision. As far as I know, Robert did not mention his wish to his boy either, which means you two chose each other on your own free will. That’s a good groundwork for marriage, Arya.’’

Does free will really exist?  - she wants to ask him, anger dying down into something akin to cool resignation in her gut. – Will I marry Gendry out of any feelings I might have for him, or out of loneliness or lack of a better alternative? Or maybe because it will make you and Mother happy? Does it even matter?

Ultimately, in a world she lives in, it doesn’t. So she closes her mouth and nods slowly when Father asks her if he should write to Lord Robert officially.

She just wishes it wouldn’t feel so bitter.

‘’Do you think we will work well? Together?’’ she asks quietly just before leaving the study and this time her father chuckles, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

‘’Aye, in fact. I do, Arya. I like this lad.  And he always smiles around you and you only.’’

***

So now she’s where she is,  Storm’s End on the horizon and anxiousness bubbling in her stomach.

Mother forced her into a proper gown in the morning, deaf to Arya’s arguments that Gendry has already seen her in breeches and linen shirts and still asked her to marry him, so she does not need to be all dolled up. At least the dress is nice – forest green, embellished with golden embroidery and with a corset that somehow allows her to breathe.  It, unfortunately, shows off more cleavage than she’s comfortable with, but she supposes it couldn’t be allowed with those stupid Southern fashions. She braided her hair herself – it’s so long now that it reaches the small of her back, so she opted for a simple Northern style, nothing too fancy, even accounting for the yellow ribbon woven through it. Her hands are clean, nails trimmed. She supposes she looks pretty, as much as she can.

She’s no Sansa. But, as far as she knows, Gendry never wanted Sansa anyway.

Why am I so nervous?

It’s just Gendry.

Three and a half years. How much did he change during that time?

How much did she?

They open the gates for them and suddenly she is the one riding into a courtyard of a foreign castle that she’s now supposed to call her home. I should’ve asked him how it felt like for him.

Storm’s End is just one drum tower, unlike any other holdfast she has ever seen. But it’s a very tall tower, she’ll give it that. It shoots up into the sky like a giant’s fist, the tip of it seemingly tearing through grey clouds above them.

Only Hightower in Oldtown is taller, as far as the towers go. Quality over quantity. -  Bran said to her cheekily sometime before she left Winterfell. –  I heard Lord’s chambers are up on the very top; you will have a nice view of the sea. It must feel like sleeping in a nest.

This castle fits Gendry somehow, with its strong, simple build. There are no frivolities in the grey walls, only endurance. Not a single unnecessary element, just brick and mortar and magic that helped it survive centuries and centuries. Solace and safety.

Arya thinks that even if she cannot love it like she loves Winterfell, she can at least respect Storm’s End for this one reason.

The whole staff stands in the half-circle around them, lowering their heads and curtsying when they dismount. Mother has insisted on coming, despite her aches – maybe because she still doesn’t seem to be very convinced Arya has actually agreed to marry someone – so she slowly and stiffly emerges from the wheelhouse. And Arya stands still, reigns in her hand and her eyes glued to the ground, because if she dares to look up – if she even steals a glance –

But before she can make that decision by herself, someone kneels on the gravel in front of her, making her stupid heart beat faster in her chest.  Of course, of course, he does that, because he is one big, stupid oaf.

‘’Hello, my lady.’’

Despite her best efforts, her lips curve into a smile and she lets him take her hand.

Gendry Baratheon’s voice is still warm and deep, and his eyes are still bluest she has ever seen.

But when he kisses her knuckles… oh, they are truly grown now. And betrothed to each other.  And it all comes crashing down on her suddenly, this realization.

He’s going to marry me. I’m going to marry him. Oh, gods.

Her panicked train of thoughts is interrupted by the collective gasp of gathered people when something big and grey moves from her side and pounces on Gendry, making him lose his balance and land on his ass on the ground.

Arya’s honestly a little bit annoyed with Nymeria, because the way she behaves is just ridiculous. She’s supposed to be this proud, scary direwolf, reminding those damned Southerners that Arya remains a Stark no matter what, that she has North in her blood and her very bones. She is supposed to be wild and untamed.

Instead, her horse-sized wolf hops in circles around Gendry, wagging her tail like an overly-excited puppy, not letting him stand up, before and resting her front paws on his chest, tongue lolling out and begging for scratches behind her ears.

And Gendry complies, laughing when Nymeria licks his face and patting her head.

‘’Hello, girl! Missed me much? You’ve gotten so big.’’ He coos at her as if she was a babe and, in the corner of her eye, Arya sees shocked expression of a petite blonde woman who surely must be Gendry’s mother, given the finery of her gown and how she immediately schools her features, and  curtsies gracefully in front of Father, along with three dark-haired girls surrounding her.

Aelin. Lara. Elinor. My soon-to-be-goodsisters.

‘’Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. Lady Arya. Welcome to Storm’s End.’’ Lady Isabelle Baratheon greets them politely, pointedly ignoring the fact that her son has just been tackled to the ground by a direwolf.  Lacing her gloved hands in front of her, she fixes her bluebell eyes on Arya, surveying her head to toe, until Arya starts to sweat under her stare. ‘’I am afraid my Lord husband is unwell right now and he is not able to attend to you properly. However, I hope that he’ll be able to join us at supper. Please, take your bread and salt.’’

Gendry, back on his feet after finally managing to untangle himself from an overenthusiastic Nymeria, stands by his mother’s side and bows deeply in front of her parents, giving her opportunity to see him better.

Those few years only did him good.

He’s so tall now; he has always been taller than all of Starks, even when they were kids, but now he positively towers above her and Mother, standing even higher than Father. When in Winterfell, other boys called him The Bull and the reasons for that also did not change. His chest, his shoulders, his thighs – all broad and muscled; Gendry could’ve been as well chiseled from solid stone. He’s still got those disheveled black hair, only now paired with a neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes are still as lovely and blue as in her memory, shining, when he steals a glance at her.

He looks more or less the same, truly. Only, either he got even more handsome or she just views him all differently now, because seeing him kissing her mother’s hand and hugging her father makes her feel all funny inside.

‘’Well then, shall we go inside? There is a lot of things to discuss.’’ Lady Isabelle says and something heavy like a stone lands in Arya’s stomach.

***

It seems like her wedding will be the event of the year, which should not surprise her but still somehow does.

Due to the fairly convenient location of Storm’s End and early announcements, nearly all Lord Paramounts of Seven Kingdoms confirmed their presence and Martells are sending Prince Trystane and Prince Oberyn which honestly is probably even bigger honor. Nearly all Tyrells apparently decided to show up, just for the kick of it. The King takes both of his queens with him and of course, Prince Aegon and Sansa will travel from Dragonstone to be earlier than the rest of the guest so that her sister could help with preparations.

Even Gendry’s gruff uncle Stannis will be there and he hates parties.

The pomp and extravagance are simply beyond everything Arya has experienced so far and she’s suddenly hit hard with realization how truly alien the South really is, compared with the stern, simple North. Nobody even thought of suggesting serving a baked swan at Robb and Margaery’s wedding. Arya’s need half a dozen apparently, paired with trays full of bloody oranges, lemons, and pomegranates, with stags made from sugar, towers of cookies and a truly monstrous meat pie.  There is to be a troupe of entertaining fire-eaters for gods' sake, and gods only know who will pay for it all.

All this talk about guests, their seating and stomachs does nothing, but makes Arya feel vaguely sick. She’s stuck at Lady Isabelle’s solar with her mother and soon-to-be goodmother for hours, completely mute after requesting for Jon and his wife to be seated not far from her. All she has left to do is half-seriously contemplate if vomiting on Lady Isabelle’s yellow silk slippers could potentially win her at least a day of solitude.

She would be happy to see Jon and to meet Daenerys and aunt Lyanna. And to finally reunite with Rickon, who’s coming with the Riverrun delegation. But that’s about it.

Oh, and she would also be very happy to see her fucking betrothed since she’s not seeing him now at all. So far, they barely had time to exchange a few words during meals, not even coming closer to the topics they actually should talk about.

Which is the fact that they’re getting married.

It’s not any more real now. Her mother asks her to choose between identical shades of white Myrish lace and Lady Isabelle regularly has a breakdown about the potential of rain on the wedding day, and the whole ordeal still seems like something out of the dream.

So she feels she should really just sit down and talk with Gendry as long as it takes until she feels grounded again.

Besides… she misses him still. And now she doesn’t even have letters to fill that void.

So, when one morning Gendry gently grips her wrist under the table when they break their fast and slips a note in-between her fingers (my lady, if you can sneak away from our mothers, I’ll be waiting in the stables), Arya almost shrieks with relief.

She quickly makes up some lousy excuse about her moon blood coming soon and feeling rather weak today, which works smoothly without any questioning from Lady Isabelle and makes Mother narrow her eyes in suspicion, but ultimately grants her freedom to hide her face under the hood and make her way through the Storm’s End crowded courtyard relatively undisturbed. Every step makes her stomach twist in anticipation; half-nervous, half-excited, she finds Gendry alone, standing next to a saddled black horse and speaking to it softly while feeding it a carrot.

He used to give treats to horses in Winterfell too,  she recalls fondly, pleasantly surprised with how relaxed she suddenly feels.

‘’Hey, Gendry.’’ she calls him softly, grinning as he stumbles on his feet while turning to her.

‘’Hi, Arry.’’ he responds with the old moniker he once gave her, and it makes both of them smile wider. ‘’You escaped my mother alright?’’

‘’Yours was not a problem. Mine might suspect something tho. By dinner I should be in my chambers, abed.’’ Arya steps a bit closer, her eyes wondering in awe as she takes the sight of the horse standing next to Gendry. ‘’Gods, who’s that beauty? Hello, sweetling.’’

She presents her open palm for the horse to sniff, while Gendry snickers:

‘’Knew you’d like him. That’s Thunder and he’s mine. So you might want to make acquaintance. ’’

‘’Lame name, if you’re asking me.’’ She gently runs her hand along the horse’s neck, enamored by his silky black mane and fine posture. ‘’But I guess it fits your whole Baratheon image.’’

‘’Wait till you see him run. This stupid name is not completely baseless. ’’ he shots back, with no bite in his words whatsoever. If anything, he just sounds fond.

‘’I assume you’re taking me for a ride then?’’ she asks, tearing her eyes away from the animal to look at Gendry.

In the half-shadow of the stables, she cannot see his eyes clearly, but, when he slowly laces his fingers with her, it tells her everything she needs to know.

‘’Would you like to get away from this madness for a while and see a little bit of Stormlands?’’

And to that, she cannot do anything but squeeze his hand and say aye.

***

Gendry was right, all those years ago; leaving all the fancies and properties aside, Stormlands are alike to North in a way indeed.

They ride through thick forests, soft-green and quiet except for the sound of the hooves of their horses. Instead of talking, they sink into a familiar silence, not feeling the need to fill it with words when they can just -

Be next to each other.

And then Gendry leads Thunders through the clearing, moving in-between trees until they find themselves on the open field at the edge of the cliff overlooking Shipbreaker’s Bay; the waves angrily hissing, as they break over rocks down below and clouds gathering on the strangely yellowish sky above.

It’s raw and wild and so beautiful it almost takes her breath away.

‘’Hey, Arry! Better catch up!’’ Gendry shouts suddenly and then Thunder shoots forward, passing Arya on her brown mare and soon leaving them far behind as he gallops along the ridge.

For a heartbeat or two, she sits completely still, breathing in the salty air and watching Gendry’s broad back getting smaller and smaller; she can feel the corners of her mouth rising up until she has a full-blown smile on her face. She lets the moment last.

And then she presses her heels to mare’s sides and follows.

The wind is whizzing in her ears as she rises up from the saddle, leaning along the horse’s neck and forcing her into a gallop, gallop as fast as she can. This is her favorite part, the one she can never get enough of; the sky, the grass, the sea – everything disappears. There is only cold biting her face and mare’s muscles dancing underneath her skin and Gendry’s breathless, booming laughter as she appears by his side. He pulls on the reigns of Thunder to regain the advantage, but even though his horse is swift and strong, Arya is way lighter and, between two of them, she has always been a better rider.

So they gallop together, so close to one another that it’s reckless as seven hells, the hooves hitting the ground in unison and their eyes locked. Arya thinks they could’ve run like that for a thousand years or more, but then, out of the blue, lightning splits the sky and rain starts pouring down mercilessly, immediately plastering clothes to their skins and making horses neigh and stumble at the loud boom of the thunder.

‘’We’ve got to wait it out, follow me!’’ Gendry’s voice is almost drowned by the noise of the storm, but fortunately, she remains close enough to hear them. Her mare dances in place nervously until Arya manages to calm her down and steer her behind Gendry, deeper into the land and back to the forest.

They find shelter in a cave; with its entrance half-covered by the vines and damp stone walls spotted with moss, it’s surprisingly comfortable. At least it’s dry, for what Arya’s more than grateful. She can already feel the cold rainwater freezing her to the bone and her teeth are clattering as she jumps from the panicked horse and pats her neck with stiff fingers.

‘’Hush girl, it is all fine. We are fine.’’

Thunder is pacing back and forth along the wall, only calming down when Gendry roughly grabs the reigns and whispers something into the horse’s ear. Soon, Arya’s mare neighs quietly and joins him to munch on some of the grasses growing in-between rocks.

Arya lets her go, herself still remaining near the opening of the cave, shifting on her feet to get warmer and rubbing her arms.

The rain falls so hard now that it sounds like a waterfall and, as she raises her eyes to Gendry and meets his stare, she realizes that she got her wish.

They are alone now. Completely, absolutely alone.

Both of them take the step forward at the same time.

‘’Fuck, you’re soaked. Now, take my coat.’’ Gendry’s tugging on the laces of his fur-lined cloak and throwing it on her shoulders before she can even protest. His hair is plastered to his head just like in pools in Godswood and, for a second she finds herself enchanted by the way raindrops drip down his face, along the line of his jaw.

‘’No, you’re cold too.’’ She shots back, grabbing his hands in hers, meaning to rub them together as she used to with Rickon’s and Bran’s in the North. But somehow, miraculously, Gendry’s skin is wet but still warm and she yelps in surprise, his heat making her fingers tingle.

He grins at her smugly.

‘’No, I’m not. What did you say about South being too warm for you, my lady?’’

‘’It is too warm.’’ She huffs in annoyance, trying to gather the will to drop his hands down and not finding it. ‘’But it’s hard not to get cold in a godsdamned thunderstorm. Should’ve known you’d be abnormal.’’

‘’I got caught in the storm too many times to be much affected by it.’’ He shrugs. ‘’Got used to. To be honest, they may be more sudden and vicious than the ones in the North, but you will see that they last far shorter.’’

‘’I didn’t know they sky can turn such a color.’’ She observes, stealing a glance outside behind her shoulder. ‘’It looked almost yellow before it turned dark.’’

‘’How do you think, where did Baratheon colors came from? We took them from Durrandons, who took them from the Stormlands’ sky before. Gods, you really should’ve dressed warmer.’’ Arya bites on her lip just in time to keep the gasp from escaping, as Gendry raises her hands to his lips and blows on them.  Hot air of his breath warms her palms and then travels through her veins; to the tips of her fingers, to her wrists and the crook of her elbows, to her neck and face, making her tremble slightly.

‘’You still have the smallest hands I’ve ever seen.’’ he grumbles, his thumb tracing circles on her skin.

‘’My hands are not small. Yours are just too big.’’

‘’Blacksmith’s hands. Mikken has always used to say so.’’ he recalls sadly, gleam disappearing from his eyes as he leans on the wall of the cave.

‘’You’re not working anymore?’’ she unlaces their fingers in favor of wrapping his coat tighter around her and moving closer to his side. ‘’In the forge, I mean.’’

He just shakes his head.

‘’Don’t have time to. Storm’s End… there’s a lot of things to fix, if I’m being honest. ‘’ his Adam’s apple bobs and Arya really wishes he wasn’t so tall, because then she could see his face better. ‘’And I really hope I can be honest with you, Arya.’’

‘’Of course you can.’’ she’s almost offended he can even think otherwise. ‘’We’ re-‘’

Friends, she wanted to say we’re friends, but we aren’t anymore, are we?  We are betrothed.

‘’Friends.’’ Gendry finishes instead of her, turning his head to lock his eyes with hers. ‘’No matter what, we’re friends first. And.. uhm… everything else…  next.’’

It’s quite dark in the cave, but even in the shadows, she can see blush blooming on his cheekbones. And maybe this sight of vulnerability gives her the final push to ask the question that has been burning in her gut far longer than she cares to admit.

‘’Why do you want me to be your lady, Gendry? You could’ve tried for Sansa’s hand. Or any of the Stormlands’ ladies. Hells, even Princess Daenerys or Jon’s younger sisters, if you were quick about it. Why me?’’

Rain’s still pouring down outside, but it does not matter, cause Gendry’s voice is nowhere as quiet and tentative as hers.

‘’You still have no idea, don’t you?’’ he chuckles, leaning his head back against the rocks and raising his eyes to the stone ceiling. ‘’Gods, Arya, I don’t know even where I should start. You’re - you’re so smart. No one has your head for numbers. And you are an excellent horsewoman. Not to mention a great archer. And undefeatable with your Needle. And you care so much for people! I mean, do you even notice that? You have such a big heart for everyone. You want to take care of those around you, even those lowest. You-‘’

‘’Stop it!’’ she raises on her toes and presses her hands to his mouth, silencing his words. She has never heard Gendry saying so much at once and she has definitely never heard him praising anyone the way he just praised her. She can feel her whole face burning.

Gendry’s blue eyes gleam like twin gemstones. He slowly raises his own hands and grips her wrists, pulling them down from his face.

‘’Will you let me continue?’’ he asks softly, but it does not sound like a question at all. One of his arms sneaks around her waist and he lowers his head so now they’re standing pressed to each other, nose-to-nose. She can see drops of rain sticking his eyelashes together. ‘’You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. The most willful. Most – most beautiful.’’

Air escapes from her lungs. Beautiful. Beautiful. He called me beautiful.

With his other hand, he cups her face and she can see his eyes hesitantly searching for any sight of discomfort from her part, but he will not find any.

There is no discomfort in Arya.

She is no scared.

All she feels is warmth, warmth engulfing her head-to-toe. Warmth like the forge in Winterfell, cause Gendry’s embrace doesn’t feel like anything else but home.

You chose each other. That’s a good groundwork for marriage.

She crooks her head slightly, letting her cheek fully lean against his palm. Still, in silence, her lips part as he rests his forehead against hers.

‘’I was not lying Arya, when I told you I don’t want to be a lord.’’ His voice drops to the lowest of  whispers. ‘’And after seeing how it looks like here, I definitely didn’t change my mind. The only way I will manage to do it, is with you. Nobody else, but you. Will you be the lady of those lands with me?’’

‘’I’ve already told you, stupid.’’ She huffs, placing her own hand on his cheek and smiling. ‘’I’ve already said yes. To you and to everything. But I hope you know, I’ll be the real pain in your arse.’’

‘’Ha, I know that.’’ He chuckles. ‘’That’s the only thing I’m sure of.’’

‘’What would you promise me in return?’’ she asks playfully, biting on his lips and watching as his eyes darken.

‘’Well, what would you want me to?’’

‘’Humor me. I’m giving you my hand, it better be something nice.’’

She’s thinking they surely must look like idiots, holding each other’s faces and smiling at each other, close enough that they share air and their noses bump.

But she just can’t seem to mind that.

‘’I promise to always be true to you.’’ His voice is like laughter and sun and weirwood leaves; his voice is like gravel on the Winterfell courtyard and the smell of the forest, the sound of waves crashing on the cliff. He is both the most familiar and the most unknown and there is nothing that Arya doesn’t feel when he whispers; ‘’To love you and to keep you wild. ’’

***

Sansa and her husband arrive two weeks before the wedding and her sister takes maybe two steps out of the wheelhouse before Mother runs to her and wraps her arms around her, Father soon following.

Arya watches the whole meeting from the sidelines, standing next to Gendry and trying not to bite on her lip too much. Sansa’s even more beautiful in her memory; she seems to be glowing from inside out the way expecting women are supposed to.

But well. She was always an expert in doing things she’s supposed to do. Why would pregnancy be any different for her?

Prince Aegon also remains in distance to the general merry-making, instead politely greeting Lady Isabelle and Lord Robert, who was wheeled outside on a chair, and whose head sags against his chest as if he was far older than he really is. Arya honestly admires Prince a little bit for coming so close to him, even going as far as kneeling on the ground to make talking to him easier. Robert Baratheon makes her feel a lot of things, pretty much none positive; and her general opinion of him is not improving due to the way his bloodshot eyes follow her every movement whenever she’s around him, a weird mix of nostalgia and desire written on his face.

Robert may hate all Targaryens with burning intensity, but apparently even he is not stupid enough to be rude to the Heir to the Iron Throne. Or maybe he doesn’t have the strength to be, gods only know. Anyway, he seems to be talking with Prince Aegon quite politely, every second word interrupted by the fit of coughing.

Arya thinks she’s probably staring at him a little too intensely, but she cannot help her curiosity; because she did not attend Sansa’s wedding, this is the first time she’s meeting her good brother. And what a sight he is – tall and lean like a willow tree, fair-haired; slim where Jon is broad, lithe where Jon is bulky. One would never guess they are half-brothers.

Where Prince nods his head in front of her, she notices his beautiful blue eyes, darker even than Gendry’s; like the evening sky long after sunset.  

“Arya.’’ Sansa calls for her from Father’s embrace, a small smile on her blushed face and her hands cupping the slight bulge of her belly. ‘’It’s so nice to see you, sister! Please, come closer.’’

Is it really? Arya almost scowls, but Gendry lightly pinches her side before she has a chance to and offers her his arm and, when they’re crossing the courtyard together, she’s feeling strangely giddy. Gendry’s wearing this doublet she likes, the one with claw marks along his shoulders (being subtle has never been his strongest suit) and it’s so good to be by his side, his longer strides matched with her quicker ones.  Marveling at that, Arya manages easily to kiss Sansa’s cheek and politely congratulate her on her pregnancy. She thinks she could even, maybe, possibly, do a little wedding-related small talk on her own free will… just as long as Gendry would be holding her hand the whole time.

***

When Sansa asks her to take a walk around the castle’s gardens, she does not think much of it. Maybe Mother asked her to, maybe she wants to gloat a little, or maybe she lacks female companionship. There could be a number of reasons, all ultimately unimportant.

At first, it goes as expected; they stroll agonizingly slow, Sansa babbles excitedly about the wedding and her babe and how beautiful Dragonstone is and everything else, and Arya listens to her quietly, trying not to look as bored as she is.

But then Sansa sits down on of the benches, taking yet another break. She quiets down for a moment, before lacing her hands on her lap.

‘’Are you in love with him?’’ she asks suddenly, her voice low and serious; a far cry for her previous cheerful tweeting. She keeps her eyes glued to the ground and refuses to meet Arya’s confused stare.

And Arya is simply dumbfounded. Not only to hear this question from Sansa, of all people, but to hear it at all. No one ever wonders about being in love. It’s a silly fancy for women of their kind and even Sansa, so enamored by the tales of knights and fair ladies must already know that. Love is something that one can wish for, but it’s not an end goal. Even Mother and Father have never mentioned it. Gendry and Arya like each other a lot, enjoy each other’s company, are of an equal station and actively asked to be matched, so it was far more than enough for them to be married.

But Sansa is asking about something else entirely. And so Arya finds herself quite at loss to what to say.

‘’I’m not.’’ – she says at last, deciding on the most honest answer she can think of. – ‘’But I think maybe I will be. One day.’’

‘’But you love him, don’t you? And even if you don’t, you know him. You know…’’ Sansa pauses and takes a deep breath before continuing. – ‘’ I am so very jealous of that. Have been, since the moment I realized you will be married to him one day. I met Aegon a week before we were wed and did not know a single important thing about him.’’

The sea breeze plays with stray pieces of Sansa’s beautiful auburn hair and the fringes of her scarlet dress. With her swollen belly and porcelain skin, she’s stunning beyond belief, just like she has always been. And yet, she’s sitting here and telling her, little Arya Horseface, that she’s jealous of her.

When Arya looks at her, really, truly looks at her beyond the perfect exterior Sansa pulls off so well, she notices a few things she has never bothered to see.

There is an unhealthy paleness of her sister’s cheeks and the sheen of sweat on her brow even though they were moving at the snail’s pace during a relatively chilly morning. The Targaryen red shade of the velvet of her gown crashes terribly with her hair. She looks-

Honestly, she looks unhappy.

‘’I still feel like I don’t know him at all.’’ Sansa adds quietly, putting her hands on her belly delicately. ‘’But you two grew up together and he was always so obviously fond of you. Didn’t even spare me a glance, same as Jon. I don’t know if Father intended one of them for you from the beginning, but even if he didn’t, it was soon decided.’’

And of course, Robert Baratheon wanted a Ned Stark’s daughter to marry Gendry right from the start.

Arya thinks about Bran’s absolute conviction, aligning now with Sansa’s words. Was it truly so transparent for everyone, that only she couldn’t see it?

But then again, Arya never wondered much about betrothals and marriages when she was a kid, definitely not even half as much as Sansa. So maybe she just never bothered to notice the clues right in front of her.

How Mother never forbade her running around with Gendry and Jon, long after it stopped being proper. Why would it matter if she got ruined, if it was by her future husband?

How Father turned his eyes away from Arya’s sneaking out to ride with Gendry through wolfswood and how he never said anything against him giving her piggyback rides to her chamber after the supper.

Arya opens her mouth and closes it back, finding no good answer to Sansa’s words.

‘’I think he hoped for either of us to marry him.’’ she says slowly, carefully. ‘’Because Gendry’s Robert’s son. But I’m sure at the beginning he was thinking about you more than me.’’

‘’He won’t be a bad husband to you. He wouldn’t be bad for me also, I’m sure.’’ Sansa chimes and Arya suddenly feels quite faint. Gendry marrying Sansa. How would that feel like? Would she feel anything at all, watching the two of them in front of Septon? Maybe not, if she didn’t know how it feels to stand in his arms, his body so warm and strong against hers. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

‘’But Aegon’s obviously a better catch.’’ somehow, Arya’s statement sounds more like a question.

‘’Oh, he is.’’ Sansa’s giggle is as delicate and lady-like as possible. But the scowl on her face isn’t. ‘’True prince from my dreams. I’ll be his Queen someday, just like I always wanted. What an honor.’’

Her words sound empty. Her eyes are empty; two blue glass marbles set in a lacquered mask.

It’s a particularly pretty spring morning. Soon, they will both go back to the castle and Sansa will surely throw herself into choosing right flowers for the ceremony or pleasantly chat with Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters about the weather for hours with no end. During supper, she’ll sit by Prince Aegon’s side and smile politely, eat like a bird and retire to her chambers early.

But for now, Arya’s standing in Storm’s End gardens in front of her beautiful older sister and, for the first time, pities her.

And maybe it’s just enough for her to bury all the resentment she feels for Sansa deep enough to sit on the bench next to her and lace his fingers with her.

Just enough, that when Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise and her hand twitches in her grip, Arya doesn’t let go.

***

Three days before wedding, they sneak out again; this time, to the beach below the castle.

There’s Gendry, his eyes laughing, his cheeks pink from harsh sea breeze; his pants cuffed so the material won’t get wet in the shallow water, standing next to her and showing her ships sailing somewhere in the distance.

And there’s also this insistent, dangerous thought that keeps on blaring in her mind on repeat ever since they left that cave.

Kiss me.

Kiss me, kissmekissme

She bites on her lip just to keep this plea inside, but he notices, of course he does, cause he is infuriating like that; how can one man be so absolutely dense one second and then suddenly turn perceptive like a hawk?

‘’What?’’

She lowers her gaze to her feet. Pale and submerged, they look like weird fishes.

‘’What, what?’’

‘’What’s going on?’’

The seagulls are shrieking, but it’s nowhere loud enough for her not to hear the sounds coming from the castle. Horses and people and everything. All this fucking noise.

Water splashes around Gendry’s ankles as he moves closer to her. She takes a step back, but he sneaks an arm around her waist, keeping her in place.

He’s so warm. Against sea and wind and sky, he is the warmest thing that exists, warmer even than Nymeria’s fur and Winterfell hot springs.

‘’Arya.’’

Even his voice is warm. Yet, his fingers still make her shiver when he raises her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his.

‘’I just- It’s stupid.’’

‘’I doubt it.’’ He says, so confidently that she almost laughs.

‘’How do you know that?’’

‘’Well.’’ He puts his other hand on her lower back. She is now locked in his embrace, her feet in-between his, his arms around her. ‘’You are not a stupid lass, Arya. So I don’t thank whatever you want to say is stupid either.’’

‘’That’s a stupid line of thinking, tho. Even stupid people sometimes say wise things.’’ Before she can stop herself, she puts her hands on his shoulders, lacing her fingers behind his neck. With the sway of the tides that makes them sway also, it feels a bit as if they were dancing.

‘’Gimmie an example of that.’’ He demands. He’s smiling; he’s always smiling when he’s looking at her, just like her father said. How could she not notice that before?

‘’You. Sometimes you manage to say a thing or two that makes sense.’’

He barks with a booming laughter, loud enough that he startles a few little terns that were resting on the rocks next to them.

‘’Oh, my lady, no one sweet talks me like you do.’’

He’s really, awfully handsome. If Sansa saw him like that, Arya thinks, she would die of jealousy. But I’m the one he wants, I’m the one he asked for.

He saw me, dancing with a practice sword on the courtyard, running around with my hair messy and dress muddied. He saw me and he saw Sansa. And between us two, he chose me. He’s the only one who ever chose me.

Gendry, still chuckling lightly, tucks stray streak of hair behind her ear and stills.

And he is the only one whom I could ever choose.

Courage fills her lungs as she admits sheepishly, in haste, before she can think it over;

‘’I don’t want my first kiss to be in front of all those people.  The king, the queens. My parents. All those lords and ladies. It’s just- I know you don’t – I mean-‘’ she starts to mumble and it suddenly feels too hot in his arms, too scary when he looks at her like that. She’s getting nervous again. Oh, gods. What did she even want to say? It was all a bad idea, the worst. ‘’I’m not asking you to- oh, fuck that, it was stupid, just forge-‘’

Suddenly, underneath blue, blue sky, ankle-deep in cold, cold sea, Gendry’s kissing her.

Her feet on the sharp, slippery pebbles, seagulls shrieking and thunder rumbling somewhere in the far distance, Gendry’s kissing her.

Smiling against her mouth, his lips chapped and warm, Gendry’s kissing her.

And she supposes she’s glad she brought it up at the end, cause it would be embarrassing as hell to gasp like she just did in front of all the guests; to freeze first and then close her eyes and melt, raising on her tiptoes and burying her fingers in soft, dark hair at the back of his head to press him closer to her. Their teeth clash and she winces, but he coaxes her lips to part with his tongue and – oh.

Oh.

***

The Royal House Targaryen streams through the open gate with all the pomp and extravagance possible.  And even Arya has to admit, they are truly a sight to behold. It’s hard not to gawk.

King Rheagar rides first, on a stunning white horse and clad in silver, which, paired with his skin and hair,  makes him look a little bit like a fallen star, as if he was out of this world. He’s far older now than when he took the throne from his father, but still as handsome; and those melancholic eyes are only part of the appeal… at least that’s what Arya’s handmaidens at Storm’s End claim. Then, there are his two Queens, who simply couldn’t be more different from each other; Elia Martell, dark and subtle, her eyes lined with kohl and swaddled in sandy yellow gauze and purple velvets versus Lyanna Stark, pale as the moon, her long brown hair cascading down her back and wide grin on her lovely face when she spots Arya’s father.

But as much as Arya wants to finally meet this woman, her eyes keep on searching, impatience burning in her veins until she spots Jon.

Prince Jaehaerys hops off his horse the moment the procession stops and, ignoring all protocol and curtesies, crosses the courtyard to gather Arya in his arms, spinning her around until she wheezes with laughter.

‘’Jon, let me go!’’ she kicks her legs underneath her skirts, suddenly feeling like a little girl again.

‘’I will, but only so I can take a look at you.’’ he chuckles, finally setting her on her feet and surveying her head-to-toe, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘’Well, you did not grow much, didn’t you.’’

She thinks her mother would positively whip her if she hit a crown prince of Seven Kingdoms in the presence of the rest of the Royal Family and that’s the only thing that stops her from doing just so.

‘’You, on contrary, should really stop growing. Nice to see you, friend.’’ Jon turns to Gendry, who grins in return and soon they’re patting each other’s backs, playfully wrestling like they used to back in Winterfell.

‘’My love, maybe you could introduce me?’’ soft, melodic voice breaks their reunion bubble and soon Arya’s looking at someone who surely must be the most beautiful girl she has ever seen.

Jon’s face splits into the most lovesick and sappy smile in the history of lovesick smiles as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

‘’You’re right, of course. Gendry, Arya- my wife, Princess Daenerys.’’

‘’Dany. Just Dany is enough, we are amongst friends, right? I heard so much about you two, you have no idea.’’ Daenerys winks at them playfully. She’s wearing a simple lilac dress and her silver hair is down, already messed-up by the wind, but Arya supposes it doesn’t matter at all if her face is so strikingly perfect and her body seems to be carved from marble by someone’s loving hands. Daenerys Targaryen would probably still be heart-stopping if she was barefoot and in rags.

‘’Oh, I think we may have some idea about the things he could tell you,  Your Highness.’’ Gendry lowers his head respectfully and Arya takes it as a clue to curtsy also. ‘’Welcome to Storm’s End.’’

‘’Please, no ‘Your Highness’ me. I told you, my name is Dany.’’ Daenerys clasps Arya’s hands in hers. ‘’I heard you have a similar problem with titles. Please, support me here.’’

‘’Of course – Dany.’’ Arya finds it easy to return the smile, squeezing Princess’ fingers. ‘’Besides, we don’t title Jon. It’s only fair not to do that with you.’’

‘’You’re only not titling me, because you have seen me sprawled half-naked on the snow after that prank that Theon pulled.’’ Jon murmurs grimly, but Arya can see how content he looks like with their introduction to his wife. ‘’After all, it would be impossible to remain dignified after that.’’

Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up and she narrows her eyes.

‘’I don’t believe I heard this particular story.’’

‘’You don’t have to know everything, Dany.’’

‘’Oh, but I definitely do.’’ Princess turns back to Arya. ‘’Can’t wait to learn what else he hid from me. We must get to know each other better. Please?’’

And because Jon looks so unquestionably happy when he stares at his wife and because Dany’s plea sounds so incredibly honest-  it’s enough for Arya to exchange a glance with Gendry before they both nod in unison.

It’s different now, when there is an additional person in their old good triumvirate. But somehow, she thinks this might be a change for good.

***

On the morning of her wedding, she wakes up too early - it’s barely grey outside, silent in the whole castle.  Even Nymeria is still deep in her slumber and apparently dreaming of running, judging by the erratic movements of her paws.

Arya jumps from under the covers, walking barefoot on the stone-cold floor to the window to check if Gendry was right yesterday, when he told his mother stop fretting about the weather -  it turns out he was indeed, because the sea is still and flat like a table and the wind has died down, leaving only chill breeze that makes her shiver and wrap her arms around her.

Tomorrow, she will wake up in different chambers, with a better view. And just like the water outside, she is strangely calm with this perspective on the horizon. It’s all right. It’s all good.

It will be fine.

One big, fancy ceremony and she will forever be allowed to kiss Gendry whenever she wants and they will never ever have to sneak out again to go for a horse ride. It doesn’t seem like a too big price to pay.

Alright then. Let the madness begin.

She bathes in rosewater, her cherry maids scrubbing every inch of her body with sea sponges until her skin is pink and itchy.

Then, her mother and sister dress her up in fine white silk adorned with ermine fur and pearls on the hem and around cuffs. The gown is lighter than a traditional Northern one would be, but still heavy and uncomfortable, and Sansa laces it tight enough that Arya has to stop herself from wincing every time she takes a deeper breath. They braid her hair in a soft coronet, adorning it with silver thread and small blue flowers, and they powder her face and paint her lips and cheeks with the rogue.

Sansa gifted her a long string of pearls from the Summer Islands for the occasion and now she takes it out of the box and loops it around Arya’s neck a few times, so that it would complement her dress. After doing that, she steps aside, with a satisfied smile on her face.

When they put her in front of the mirror, she has to blink a couple times to recognize herself.

‘’Look at you.’’ Her mother says, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she clasps her hands together and covers her mouth with them. ‘’You look so beautiful, Arya.’’

Arya’s heart clenches painfully and she looks down, avoiding Mother’s soft gaze. She has waited her whole life to hear those words.  To fit in. To feel like she belongs.

Right now, standing still in her beautiful gown, dripping with jewels and all dolled-up, she finally looks like a proper noblewoman. Proper lady. Even next to the glowing Sansa, queen-to-be in royal scarlet, she does not look out of place.

Beautiful, that’s how her mother called her.

It doesn’t feel good at all. It feels empty. It is empty, because the woman looking back at her from the mirror is not Arya, just some stranger in her skin.

Gendry, thou. – crosses her mind suddenly, filling her with warmth. – Gendry called me beautiful in the forest, when I had my hair loose and I was soaked to the bone with rain. Why would it matter, what anyone else thinks of me today?

Holding onto that thought, she wills her mouth to curve into a smile. If they want her to play the blushing bride, she will be one for today, easily. Because this marriage won’t be her shackles.

‘’Thank you, Mother.’’

***

First, they marry in Sept.

Storm’s End has a beautiful little chapter, ornamented inside with amber and colored glass, making it look like a jewelry box. When light pours through the windows, it basks people in an orange-golden glow and suddenly everyone and everything becomes simply ethereal. Women are porcelain figures. Men – carved marble. The smell of burning spices is making Arya’s nose twitch, harsh light is making her eyes water. At the back of her head, she registers all of it; Nymeria’s silent presence by her one side, Father’s by the other;  the sound of her maiden cloak sweeping the stone floor; Sansa’s red hair looking like a flame around her face.

But it all feels very much unreal, even when she stands in front of Gendry and watches how light dances on his face, turning his eyes green.  The Septon keeps on talking and talking, gods know what about. She doesn’t hear any of his words, only white noise pulsating in her ears. She is not really here, not really registering what’s going on - not until their linked hands are wrapped with silk ribbon and it’s time for them to say their vows.

For a second, her throat goes dry.

There is no turning back now.

She cannot breathe, cannot think, not will all those people watching her and with those godsdamned spices burning, not with her laces so tight and her heart so heavy-

Gendry’s fingers gently squeeze her own and it’s like a fresh breeze on a hot day, like a bucket of blissfully cold water poured on her head.

This marriage won’t be my shackles.

‘’Father.’’ He starts, his voice confident and loud, echoing through the chapel.

And she breathes in.

‘’Smith.’’ The corners of Gendry’s lips twitch slightly.

And she breathes out.

‘’Warrior.’’ She raises her chin up, looking him straight into the eyes and letting smile bloom on her face.

‘’Mother, Maiden, Crone.’’ They say in perfect unison, and Arya feels how her chest rises and falls, how her heart beats steadily, how everything is a song and she just wants to sing it as long as she’s alive.

‘’I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.’’ They stand so close to each other, their linked hands being the only thing that keeps their bodies apart; Gendry leans his head down and she does not care for guests or for the feast or for being the lady of Storm’s End when he’s right here and promises to be hers.

The Septon untangles the ribbon and Gendry’s fingers immediately fly to the laces of her cloak; but then, just as suddenly, he drops them.

He sends her a blinding grin and, instead of taking it off, he simply reaches for the Baratheon black-and-yellow cloak and pulls it on top of her Stark one and she’s quite sure no one ever smiled as widely as her at that moment, when gathered guests gasp and Gendry fulfills her promise to her in the most beautiful way he possibly could.

And then.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.’’ She almost sing-songs, feeling like a giddy girl about to dip into Godswood pools.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.’’ Gendry’s voice drops an octave lower, sending shivers down her spine, before she raises on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

‘’I now pronounce you man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.’’  The Septon announces, and it’s a perfectly lovely line, truly;  but all Arya ever wants to hear is Gendry’s breathy laughter as he embraces her tightly, sweeping her off her feet.

***

They truly do get married when the night falls, at least from Arya’s perspective.

The Godswood here is, of course,  not even close to what she left behind in Winterfell, but it’s easy to fool herself when it’s dark and lit with torches and bigger part of her family is there. Most of the guests decided to remain at the feast inside, so the ceremony is far quieter and simple – only aunt Lyanna, Jon and Daenerys stand next to Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters on the one side of the path, watching as Arya is once again lead towards her husband by her father. From the other side, Sansa sends her a soft smile, locked in Prince Aegon’s arms and Rickon whistles sharply until Mother whacks him on the head.

This time, Father pulls her close before giving her away, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and quietly telling her he loves her and this is when it really, truly hits her- this is goodbye. A farewell. Even of Gendry didn’t take her cloak off… since now, she’ll forever be Lady Arya Baratheon in the eyes of the world.

This makes her cry, just a little and it’s good that Gendry’s close enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

When they kneel on the sweet-smelling grass in front of the bloody-teared heart tree, she closes her eyes and silently asks the old Northern gods of her ancestors to replace Winterfell in her heart with Storm’s End. And for Gendry to never leave her again. And to finally feel that what she has is enough.

***

Aunt Lyanna dances through the whole evening with anyone and everyone who gathers enough courage to ask her; she twirls in her husband’s arms, spins around nearly all Kingsguards, claps along with the rhythm with her son and Prince Aegon, drags Arya’s father to the dancefloor despite his loud complaints.

She even steals Gendry for a song or two, promising Arya to give him back in one piece and just as handsome and bursting into laughter when Gendry turns red.

Elia Martell also dances her with husband, son, nephew and brother, but she is nowhere as blinding as Lyanna, nowhere as attention-catching. She spends most of the feast quietly talking with Sansa and Dayne siblings, only making an exception to sweetly congratulate Arya and Gendry on their union and to wish them to enjoy each other’s company until they’re old and grey.

Funny thing thou; while Elia seems perfectly calm and content to sit at the sidelines, Arya catches Aunt Lyanna longingly stare a little too long at the Stark sigil hanging from the ceiling along the Baratheon one; and, while she’s still a relatively young woman, there are crone’s lines deeply carved in the skin around her eyes. If observed long enough, her laughter sounds quite hollow and there’s some unhealthy nervousness about her quick, erratic movements.

She truly does resemble a caged songbird.

Beautiful and sad, that’s what Gendry said about her years ago. And although probably no one else would call her the latter, Arya supposes he was not wrong at all, just more perceptive than others.

King Rheagar’s sadness is out in the open. For Lyanna’s, one has to dig a little deeper.

But Arya’s  pondering about the subject is rudely, if deliciously, interrupted as Gendry’s lips suddenly brush her earlobe when he whispers:

“Would you do me an honor of dancing with me, my lovely wife?’’

She turns towards him, cheeks blushed, breath catching. Wife, wife, wife.

He’s straight-up fucking beaming at her. She hasn’t been even aware that he can make an expression like that. And when she immediately puts her hand in his, no hesitation, his smile stretches even wider, making his eyes crinkle and highlighting this tiny dimple he has on his chin.

It is unmistakable, how unabashedly happy Gendry looks like.  Oh gods, how could she even think about anything else than him this night?

‘’Lead the way, husband of mine. And try not to step on my toes.’’ She teases and bursts into laughter as he pulls her in-between dancing pairs and spins her around.

***

‘’Maybe we could just ran away.’’ Arya whispers, gently tracing the slope of Gendry’s nose with the tip of her finger. The guests behind their doors whistle and shout obscenities, but they could as well be far away in the North for how little attention Arya pays them. Her and her new husband are laying on top of Gendry’s magnificent featherbed, stripped to their small clothes and in no hurry whatsoever, all hushed voices and feather-like caresses. He’s playing with her hair. She’s exploring his features. Time feels sticky; thick and sweet like honey.

She wants to savor it, every single drop.

‘’Drop the titles, the castles. Just be us.’’ She sounds dreamy and, ultimately, it is exactly what she plans on doing. She’s gonna daydream. She’s gonna talk and talk with him, the way they have always did. And just hope that whatever follows won’t be the first thing that won’t come easy to them.

‘’What would we do?’’ he plays along, gently grabbing her hand and kissing the delicate underside of her wrist, his eyes shining in the moonlight, his lips parted. There’s something written on his face tonight and she does not know how to decipher this message; she only knows it makes her toes curl, her fingers tremble.

‘’You’d be my blacksmith.’’ Arya braces herself for a moment before she swiftly rolls on top of him, settling her hips against his and chuckling when he groans.

‘’And you’d be my Arya.’’

Mine, mine, mine – her blood sings, her breath catches as she watches how he lays spread underneath her, both rough and soft, vulnerable and strong and hers, hers to keep.

His hands rest on her waist and then move upwards, finding her breasts and she moans involuntarily under his touch,  evoking a wave of loud cheering from the corridor. Gendry’s pupils are blown wide, his eyes are so dark that they don’t even look blue anymore.

‘’Aye, I would be.’’ she agrees before lowering her head to capture his lips with hers. ‘’I would always be yours.’’

Never believe things men will tell you to bed you. They won’t mean it, not truly. - Septa Mordane used to warn her and Arya briefly wonders if the opposite is maybe also true. Right now, she would say everything and anything to get Gendry to move, to touch her, really touch her.  This dance they’re doing is marvelous, is delicious, is unlike anything else she has ever felt before. With the anticipation making her dizzy, with want making her silly, there are not many lines she wouldn’t cross.

‘’Say it again.’’ He demands in between kisses, twisting her nipple in-between his fingers and using her moment of weakness to flip them over, swallowing her breathy gasps with his mouth. ‘’Please.’’

‘’Yours. I’m yours, I’m yours.’’ She pants, giddy and happy, and letting excitement bubble inside her as he replaces his fingers with his mouth.

‘’And I’m yours.’’ He vows sweetly, pressing short, burning kisses down her body, stripping her of any shame until everything else disappears without a trace, wiped from the face of Earth, leaving only place for the two of them, together.

***

The next morning, Gendry takes her to the stables with her eyes blindfolded with a silk shawl.

‘’I know where we are going.’’ She whines, feeling more than a little ridiculous as he leads her like a child. ‘’I know you’re gonna give me a horse. Why do we have to do it this way?’’

‘’I’m a fan of all things proper.’’ Comes his answer and Arya’s absolutely sure she must be red to the roots of her hair cause there was abso-fucking-lutely nothing proper about how Gendry spread her thighs and licked her into oblivion just a few hours ago.

‘’Oh, surely you are.’’ She snickers, making him chuckle in response.

‘’Are you suggesting I did not – took care of you properly last night?’’

When did he become such a tease?

She’s just about to shoot something back, but Gendry takes her hand and places it on top of something incredibly delicate and warm.

‘’Say hello, my love.’’ He tells her softly, undoing the knot at the back of Arya’s head. ‘’I hope you’ll be satisfied.’’

In front of Arya stands the most magnificent pale sand steed she has ever seen. It is elegantly built, with the long neck, thin legs and small hooves; even while standing still, it looks like an epitome of grace. From underneath its grey fringe, dark eyes stare intelligently right into hers. The beast is calm like the untouched surface of the lake and Arya can do nothing else but stand and gawk, her hand still resting above horse’s nostrils; she’s just too enchanted to say anything.

‘’Trystane and Oberyn brought her with Dorne on my request.’’ Gendry continues, patting the horse’s side. ‘’How do you like her?’’

How do I like her?

Suddenly, Arya feels a strange urge to cry.

She has dreamt of a sand steed all her life. To just jump onto one and  - ran away, as swiftly as possible, faster than the wind. To disappear somewhere of the horizon, in the lands unknown. To become a tale incarnate. And Gendry knew it all well, for how many times she talked his ears off with her ice dragons, leviathans, Old Valyrias, Elisa Farmans, Princess Aereas and Sea Snakes.

And yet – he gave her this beautiful, beautiful horse and trusted her not to use it to leave him and shame him.

He’s looking so proud of himself. – she thinks, her heart fluttering in her chest like a moth around the flame. Gendry’s eyes are twinkling and he has his arms laced on his chest, standing tall and strong. He’s smiling at her, as always. – And he has a right to be.

‘’If you- if you expect me to call her Lightening to match your Thunder, you will be sorely disappointed.’’ She manages to utter at last, trying to keep her tone playful. – ‘’This would be ridiculous and we won’t be doing that.’’

Gendry barks a laughter, leaning back on one of the wooden pillars and glancing at Arya fondly as she lets the horse sniff her palm before gently pressing a kiss to its nose.

‘’How will you call her then?’’

Arya combs through mare’s fine, silvery mane with her fingers and recalls the feeling of steel grey waves crashing around her calves as Gendry was kissing her on the shore. The feeling of galloping with him on the cliffs, cold rain soaking their clothes. The Old Nan’s stories of the Northern Sea, filled to the brim with monsters from the wildest imagination. The image of the clear sky after the storm, pure and light.

The night they have just spent together.

‘’Shiver.’’ She finds herself stating, with one side of her face pressed to the horse’s warm, strong neck. Her mare smells like sand and sun and salt. Like the only freedom her husband can give her; the freedom to be who she is. ‘’Her name is Shiver.’’

***

As they’re seeing the royal guests away, Aunt Lyanna surveys them both for a moment silently, before exhaling deeply.

‘’Look children, I know you received a lot of well wishes already, but please let me add to the pool.’’ She reaches out and take their hands in her small, glowed ones – Gendry’s in her right, Arya’s in her left. ‘’I hope that your wedding was not the best day of your lives. I hope you will get many, many better in the future, each one more wonderful than the previous. I hope your years together will be as joyous as they can be.’’

Arya’s eyes involuntarily escape from Lyanna across the courtyard, finding Father’s still figure. Her parents are going to accompany royal family to the Capital before going back North and simply the thought of it makes her want to throw up. After they’re gone, only Nymeria will remind her of home.

After they’re gone, there will be no more ceremonies and pleasantries, or formal dinners to suffer through. Only day by day, years passing by.  

‘’My dear.’’ Aunt Lyanna pats her cheek delicately to regain her attention and looks her straight into the eyes, grey meeting grey. ‘’I know it’s hard for us, she-wolves of Winterfell, to live in the South. But you are strong. You will survive this separation – and soon, your childhood will become just a sweet memory to cherish, not something that makes you ache. Believe me.’’ She finishes quietly, quickly bidding them goodbye and hurrying to her horse with skirts fluttering around her ankles as if she was afraid she said too much.

Her voice rings true and Arya suspects she believes in her words. But Lyanna still looks so small and bittersweet in her blue gown, surrounded by the sea of crimson and black. She stands out, a single winter rose in the garden of glasshouse-grown ones. From one side, King Rheagar glances at her, brow furrowed. From another, Jon shoots her a concerned look, wrinkle on his forehead deep like a gash.

Mother hugs her tightly, caressing her hair and saying something about being proud of her, but Arya’s more or less fine until Father appears in front of her and stares down at her so lovingly that she’s sure her heart will break clean in half from the pain.

She can feel her lower lip trembling and before she can even notice, she’s locked in Ned Stark’s warm embrace, surrounded by the familiar scent.

‘’My girl.’’ He whispers softly, letting her tear up against his shoulder and holding her tightly. ‘’My girl, I love you so much. You are going to do so good, you’ll see.’’

‘’I’m going to miss you.’’ She cries, not even carrying if anyone hears. Let them know Starks love their pack. Let them know whose example she is going to follow. ‘’So much. But I’ll do my best.’’

‘’I know you will.’’ Father says warmly, his voice laced with such a certainty that she smiles through tears. ‘’You are a natural; you were born to order people around. And I’m sure you will be happy in Stormlands. Right, Gendry?’’

Arya still has her face pressed to Father’s fur collar, but she’s fully aware that he fixes  a particularly icy stare on her husband, because Gendry’s ‘’I’ll see to that, Lord Stark.’’ sounds a little nervous.

‘’You don’t need to scare him, Father.’’ She says quietly. ‘’You said it yourself; he will be good to me.’’

‘’Oh, I don’t worry about it. But it’s better to be extra safe than sorry, right?’’

So this is how she says goodbye to her family; her face wet and the corners of her mouth up, her husband squeezing her hand tightly as the horses disappear, swallowed by the woods.

***

A week later, just when she thinks all the hard talks and surprises are behind her, Lady Isabelle invites her for a tea in her solar.

Dressed in a teal gown and with her blonde locks half-up, her goodmother looks as delicate and bird-like as always and Arya wonders for the thousandth time how a woman like that put up with years and years of Robert Baratheon, how did she survive giving him a son and three daughters. If Isabelle is akin to a dove, Robert is nothing but a boar; big and loud and vulgar.

And still in love with another woman, even after all those years.

‘’Oh, Arya. Sit please.’’  The woman sets down her embroidery hoop on the table and reaches for a teapot. ‘’I hope you like tea? I heard Xingise don’t drink anything else.’’

‘’I do enjoy tea a lot, goodmother.’’ Arya dutifully takes a seat and watches as Lady Isabelle is pouring dark, sweet-smelling liquid into her cup. There are fresh cut roses in the vase between them and one of the petals falls off just as Arya’s trying to remember if the two of them were ever alone before. To be honest, she cannot recall such situation.

With a cling of porcelain, Gendry’s mother puts teapot back on the tray and announces simply:

‘’Robert and I will soon leave Storm’s End.’’

Arya’s eyes widen. She has expected – fuck, she doesn’t know what she expected, but definitely not this.

‘’Where to, my lady? I thought Lord Robert’s condition doesn’t allow him to travel.’’ She asks carefully, trying not to sound too brash, or, gods forbid, too happy. Even if she is a little bit happy. Which probably makes her the worst person ever.

‘’You are not mistaken.’’ Isabelle purses her lips into a tight line. ‘’But my husband is barely holding onto life the way he is now. Him and I will only trouble Gendry, and he does not need extra problems on his head. Especially… now that he already has you.’’

She could’ve as well slap Arya, for how painful this subtle jab was.

‘’Let me make something clear, Lady Arya.’’ Isabelle continues, any trace of sweetness gone from her voice. ‘’I was against this match, same as I was against Gendry being fostered in Winterfell, especially since we could’ve send him to Eyrie, to my family. Bringing you here is an insult to me, considering – well, considering.’’

Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna. Why won’t you just say her name? We both know you’re thinking about her.

‘’My son is a good man, I made sure of that. I thought there is not a trace of Robert in him, except his looks. But it seems I was wrong.’’

‘’Gendry is different than his father. Completely different.’’ Arya protests, but her words seem distant and distorted as if she was under the water. This whole conversation threw her completely off balance. Where did this woman hide this venom for all those weeks?

‘’Not when it comes to taste in women, apparently. ‘’ Isabelle scoffs and Arya curses in her head, this goddamn shadow of Aunt Lyanna always stuck to me. ‘’Still, I respected his choice. But you should know, you would never deserve him. Never.’’

Looks like an innocent flower, but there’s a true furious stag underneath          

Arya cannot hate Lady Isabelle; she cannot even dislike her now, not when it turned out she is not so bland after all. Years stuck with Robert, seeing his whores and wine would make even a saint bitter.

Besides…  she does understand where her good mother’s fears come from.

Arya laces her fingers on her lap, more lady-like than ever, and takes a sip of her tea.

‘’So let me be honest also; I love your son. And I intend to be a good wife for him. But I will never take your road. I won't ever let him harass me into becoming who I’m not. However, I believe I should thank you for raising him... Because I know he would never do that.’’

Lady Isabelle stares at her for a moment, before nodding slowly.

‘’He wouldn’t. He won’t. Hope you know how lucky you are.’’

In fact, Arya feels like she’s been slowly realizing that from the moment she stepped onto the Storm’s End courtyard and it’s only becoming clearer with time.

‘’Anyway.’’ Isabelle reaches for her own teacup, only the slight tremble of her wrist indicating she has just straight-up insulted Arya. ‘’I wish to visit my older brother and his wife in Runestones. I hope clear mountain air would do Robert well, not like the clammy heat here.’’

Oh, it will certainly do him good. – Arya narrows her eyes, trying to stop herself from chuckling. – So will being tossed in the wheelhouse for weeks, on the hard terrain, when he’s already so weak. You minx. I underestimated you.

Her goodparents do leave eventually, against Gendry’s loud and explicit wishes, and taking his youngest sister with them.  It takes five men to load Lord Robert onto the wheelhouse as he coughs and wheezes and Maester of Storm’s End refuses to see his lord and lady away, whispering to anyone who would listen that this whole idea is pure lunacy.

But it is easier to breathe in the castle without them and Gendry smiles more when he doesn’t have to visit his father every day and see him fading away. Even his two remaining sisters, Aelin and Lara, seem to be a little bit more carefree and talkative, and Lara goes as far as starting to practice water dancing along with Arya.

For all this bliss, Arya doesn’t kid herself into believing that is the last she sees of lady Isabelle. After all, she is of House Royce and Maester Luwin taught Arya her houses well.

And Royces of Runestones have a very memorable motto indeed.

We remember.

***

Little Lady, that’s how smallfolk has taken to calling her. Little Lady and Lady Wolf and Winter Rose even, sometimes, after someone starts to marvel at her likeness to Queen Lyanna. It stung at the beginning, made her stomach turn with irritation and her eyes roll. She could stomach Lady Wolf – it sounded kind of bloody fantastic, to be honest – but all the rest she was honestly despising.

Soon enough tho, a new addition come in front of each of her many names, the one that completely turned everything around.

‘’Our Little Lady’’ - servants address her tenderly, when they think she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Our Lady Wolf!” –  village children would laugh, crowding around her on the streets, tugging on her clothes and begging for sweets and stories.

“Yes, our lady is simply amazing, isn’t she?” – guards would whisper in between each other, after not-so-discretely watching her practice archery in the courtyard on a sunny afternoon.

She does not like being The Lady any more than she thought she would. But she supposes could be their lady, the lady of those people, when ‘’our’’ sounded like a bigger honorific that whatever followed it.

Stormlands grow on her, slowly and surely, like a vine covering stone. This beautiful, violent lands; deep, dark woods, blindingly white cliffs of Durrandon’s Point and Shipwrecker’s Bay’s angry, stone-blue sea.  The sky that seems to always be in motion, just like in the North. Storms, so constant and yet so breathtaking, leaving a peculiar aftertaste in the air. She spends every free moment on the horseback, riding from village to village and along the coast, exploring every inch and nook and letting Nymeria roam loose, until her wolf collapses by Gendry’s feet in the evening, panting and satisfied.

To be honest tho, there is not much time for Arya to waste it like that.

She’s keeping  herself busy, filling her days with bookkeeping and trade negotiations and construction of guilds, with breeding hounds and tending to horses. There is a lot to mend; Robert was a reckless spender and his wife loved unnecessary frivolities, but Arya’s sure they can pay off their debts just fine  if they will manage without peacocks for suppers for a while and cut the amount of lavish feasts in half.

Gendry shows her the maps of trade routes in the region and they spend hours upon hours of reviewing the stream of goods, arguing about the possible new harbors on the coastline and the construction of roads. She’s losing her sleep in favor of counting taxes, monitoring the state of their coffers and wondering what else they could possibly produce. Arya would’ve never guessed all of it would be so engaging, but it is. And all the work feels so very rewarding, so useful.

It’s easy to have a clear objective, when it has a name and a face, be it freckled Mel from the kitchens, her favorite guard Willen or Old Tom that sits in the docks all day long and gifts her with fresh clams every time she’s passing him on Shiver. It’s easy to work for them, to make their lives better. Especially because Arya’s and Gendry’s lives are already so good.

Soon, she introduces her favorite Winterfell tradition of dining with a different resident of the households, be it the Captain of the Guard or the Head Stablemaster. But instead of moving to sidelines like her mother used to, Arya sits on one side of their guest and Gendry on another one, asking questions together. Maybe, just maybe, she even talks more.

Maybe she generally does just as much governing as him, definitely more than is expected of her. Maybe people talk behind her back about how improper it all is.

Maybe, but Gendry himself certainly doesn’t seem to mind all that.

At night, he hoists her legs up, rests her calves on his broad shoulders and fucks her, long and hard and slow, nipping on her neck and collarbone now and then, or suckling on her nipples until she’s trembling like a flame in the fireplace, desperately beginning him with a broken voice that she doesn’t even recognize as hers to please, please, just go faster and finish her off.

She told him she would not bow to any man and she keeps her promise; she does not bow to him. She surrenders thou, gladly and sweetly, if only because it makes her all hot and wet every time he puts his hands on her and pins her down forcefully to cover her body with his. His grip is strong and bruising and maybe she should feel violated by that, but how does it even matter, if his kisses are so gentle and his eyes so loving? This is safety; this is her Gendry. She could close her eyes and moan all she fucking desires and he would never, ever hurt her.

She leaves scratches down his back and he leaves her skin peppered with love bites and they ruin and devour each other in the most delicious, delirious way there is.

How her mother and her sister warned her of a marriage bed. She wants to laugh every time she thinks about it.

***

A raven comes with news of Sansa bearing a healthy girl named Alyssa, said to be red of hair and purple of eyes.  And, as on cue, Arya’s moon blood comes once, twice and then stops.

Soon, her breasts fill up painfully and she stops sleeping well, fruitlessly tossing and turning in bed until Gendry sleepily gathers her in his arms and caresses her hair, calming her down.

And then she barges into the kitchens one day and demands, very loudly, for the cook to stop preparing fish, seven hells, can he just not, is it really that hard to understand that fish makes her sick?

And she knows what it means. She’s not blind or ignorant. But this knowledge feels heavy, so heavy that she’d rather leave it untouched than try to carry it on her shoulders. They have just settled into some kind of routine. This… this will turn everything around yet again.

Unfortunately, she did not marry a stupid man either. A little silly sometimes, but not stupid.

So, when he buries his face in-between her breasts one evening and her gasp clearly a pained, not an aroused one, he carefully rests his chin on her clavicle and breathes out deeply.

“Arya.’’

‘’Gendry.’’

He huffs in annoyance, raising himself up on his elbows and taking his weight off her.

‘'Arya, please.’’

‘’Yes?’’

If he plays dumb, she will also.

‘’Are you with a child?’’ he asks her, straight-up, and his voice – gods, his voice. Everything rings in it, every possible emotion; fear and excitement and anxiousness and hope and love. So much love and he doesn’t even try to conceal it.

And maybe it’s the babe – she seriously hopes so, because otherwise she’s just getting soft which is simply ridiculous – but Arya can feel her heart painfully clenching in her chest as her husband’s blue eyes flicker in the candlelight.

She gently cards her fingers through his thick curls, pushing them away from her face.

‘’Would you like me to be?’’ – she already knows the answer, but she still wants to hear it. Just.. just to be sure. Just to lean against his unwavering strength and drew from it when her doubts eat her alive.

He swiftly rises to a kneeling position and pulls her along, settling her on his lap with her arms looped around his neck and her bare thighs straddling him. A fresh wave of arousal crushes over her and she hums in delight as he places his hand on her hip, his fingers digging into her skin.

‘’Arya. I would be by far the happiest man in the world if you were.’’ He says solemnly, his other hand cradling the back of her head. ‘’But being honest, I am already happier than I ever thought I will be, having you with me. So tell me. Please.’’

He lets go of her hip to tentatively cup her still-flat belly and she just cannot drag it any longer, not when he seems to tremble in anticipation underneath her.

‘’Aye.’’

He breathes in and out deeply, his eyes still locked with hers. There is a dazed expression of his face and Arya’s sure no one has ever looked at her that way; the way Septas look at figures of Mother in Sept, the way Jon was looking at dancing Dany at the wedding, the way sunsets are supposed to be looked at.

He looks at her as if she was a gift sent from gods.

“Aye?’’

‘’Aye. I am.’’ She’s nodding and oh fuck, when did she start crying? When did she start grinning, when did he pull her head closer to his? When did he start kissing her, laughing against her mouth and tasting salt on her lips?

Aye, aye.

Aye.

It seems all the sweetest moments in her life start with just this one word.

***

Dany and Jon come to visit, just as they promised during the wedding; they arrive with a surprisingly small escort and the whole trip seems as informal as possible, for what Arya’s eternally grateful.

She has started to throw up so often and so much that she has grown frail, which drives her insane and irritable. It doesn’t help that the more she vomits, the more Gendry frets, so with the guests at Storm’s End at least he has something else to occupy himself with besides asking her if she’s fine the thousandth time a day.

Which she is. She is perfectly fine and perfectly capable of riding a horse or managing her duties. Thanks gods he has enough reason not to question it out loud, or else she would positively stick him full of holes with a Needle.

Which she is also capable of, just to be clear.

Dany, of course, looks like a daydream. She brings Arya a ton of books and even starts teaching her Old Valyrian, laughing at her butchered pronunciation. The Princess is also far more vocal about the situation at King’s Landing than Jon has ever been and all that she’s talking about gives Arya lots to ponder over in her head at night.

Especially Queen Elia revelation.

‘’I’m honestly surprised it’s not public knowledge already.’’ Dany simply states, ignoring Arya’s wide-opened eyes. ‘’They’re not even trying very hard to be discreet anymore.’’

‘’But – Arthur Dayne? And your brother, he allows it?’’

‘’Arya, please. In this whole situation they have, my brother is the one with the least power whatsoever. After all – ‘’ Dany takes a sip of wine from her goblet, smirking a little, ‘’- he is the one who caused this mess. First, he married Elia even though he didn’t want to. Then he married Lyanna because he wanted to. And one could argue whether or not he was right in any of those cases.’’

“And the children? I mean, doesn’t anyone question if they are really his?’’

Daenerys gracefully rests her chin on her hand and humms.

‘’Well, Aegon is Rheagar’s, there is no wondering about that at all.’’ Arya supposed it was true, given her good brother’s true Targaryen coloring. ‘’Rhaenys, well, maybe one could dig deeper when it comes to her, but why should one bother? It’s not like she is the heir of anything. She’s married now, shipped to Highgarden and, as far as I know, greatly enjoys wreaking havoc there.’’

Arya bites on her lips, looking out of the window and the busy courtyard.  She can hear the sound of hammered steel and that involuntarily makes her smile. They did a few changes in the staff of the castle and now they have such a good steward that Gendry manages to steal a few hours a week to work in the forge. He looks happier now; calmer. Even when he frets over her, it’s less frantic.

‘’You two are adorable.’’ Dany giggles, which makes Arya wheeze.

‘’Please, stop it.’’

‘’No, I’m serious. It really shows how much you care for him. And him for you.’’ Dany’s looking at her with eyes sparkling with mischief and Arya has only a second to brace herself before her almost-goodsister asks: ‘’Is it good in bed? I’m sure it’s good in bed.’’

‘’Dany!’’

‘’What? You’re with a child, do you think I’d believe a stork brought it to you one afternoon?’’

***

‘’Did you know that my father wanted to marry Ashara Dayne before the whole situation with uncle Brandon?’’ she asks Gendry one afternoon, making him tear his eyes away from the scroll he’s currently studying.

‘’What?’’

‘’Oh, yes. Apparently, they were very much in love.’’ She rubs the gentle curve of her belly absent-mindedly, looking at the gathering storm outside. The babe has just started quickening, and she’s starting to get used to the strange sensation. ‘’It’s not like it was not possible. Although that would surely be unexpected, to have a Dornish woman so far North.’’

Gendry murmurs something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like bloody Daynes.

‘’Oh please, stop it already. Ned’s a perfect noble knight.’’

‘’There’s nothing noble in the way he devours you with his damn eyes every time he visits.’’

Arya giggles, trying to imagine honorable, bland Ned ogling anyone.

‘’I think you are irrational. But rest easy; soon I’ll be too fat for anyone to devour me, with their eyes or otherwise.’’

This time Gendry’s groan is even louder and perfectly clear.

‘’Damn you woman, stop whining.’’ He raises from the chair and collapses on the bed next to her, making the mattress bounce. ‘’You know you’re beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Even more beautiful now. How many times will you make me say it?’’

‘’Take off your boots.’’ She grumbles, but softly. It’s hard to be irritated at him when he gets like that; when the candles are so short and she just wants to curl by her husband’s side and talk with him about just anything and everything until they fall asleep.  Gendry sneaks an arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him and resting his forehead on her back, between her shoulder blades.

For a moment they’re just laying like that; under the yellow canopy and buried in the soft furs, with a distant sound of thunder outside, as the room gets darker and darker.

‘’Sometimes I’m wondering if any marriages are happy at all.’’ She lets out with a sigh, making Gendry stir awake from his half-nap. He props himself on the elbow to take a look at her face.

‘’Your parents are happy, I think. Even if they wanted to marry different people at the beginning.’’

‘’Yeah, but- I don’t know. Can you really forget your first love completely?’’

Arya saw Ashara Dayne at the wedding, peering at her father from underneath a fan of dark lashes, her violet eyes so striking and her still pitch-black hair so lovely that even Catelyn Stark’s pale irises and greying red locks didn’t stand a chance in comparison.

And surely Mother must’ve looked at Father many, many times through the years and wonder about uncle Brandon and what could’ve been-s. How weird it must have been for her to live with him and aunt Barbrey those first few years?

‘’I cannot possibly know that.’’ Gendry says gently, raising his hand up to caress the side of her face and then placing it on top of her swollen belly. ‘’You were my first love anyway.’’

‘’You have never told me that before.’’ She breaths out. The babe flutters inside her anxiously and she reassures it inside her head everything’s perfect, everything’s fine. She has never asked him, truth to be told, but she did not kid herself into believing Gendry did not have any flings before he asked her to marry him. ‘’Did you – back in Winterfell?’’

‘’Of course I loved you in Winterfell.’’ He grins, spreading his fingers wider on her middle and trying to feel tiny kicks better. ‘’You were small and always dirty and absolutely unafraid. And underfoot at all times. And you loved to talk, but you would listen so patiently. I was gone before I even knew what’s going on.’’

Cold mud in-between her fingers , crusting her hair. Gendry making faces at her from across the table. How they made wildflower crowns for each other and the one she made for him fell apart in seconds, but the one he gave her stayed intact for the whole weeks.

She loved him then, that was never a question.

‘’But it was different.’’ Her voice is small, laced with too many emotions to untangle them all.

‘’Damn well it was different. ‘’ his arm sneaks underneath her back, pulling her closer until they’re face-to-face. ‘’Until I saw you in that green dress. It was like a lightning strike.. You have frighteningly nice tits Arya, really.’’

‘’Oh gods.’’ She starts to giggle, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck. His skin smells like iron and steel and fresh breeze and she inhales it as deeply as possible. ‘’One can always trust you to ruin the mood, Gendry. Here I thought it’s the time for grand confessions, but you just wanted to admit you married me for my tits.’’

‘’Not only for them.’’ He pinches the side of one of her breast lightly, making her yelp. ‘’But they were definitely a factor in my decision.’’

‘’I love you, you big, stupid idiot.’’ She admits in-between fits of laughter, her lips moving against his skin and shivering violently when he hitches up her nightgown to touch her naked waist that has just began to widen considerably.

‘’I love you too, you wild woman.’’ He chuckles, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of her head. His hand travels down and she can feel her eyelids already fluttering. ‘’More than I ever thought I would love anyone. And I really hope I can prove you wrong – with this no happy marriages thing.’’

‘’You’ve already did.’’ He slips his fingers in-between her folds and curls them, so her voice comes out like a sigh rather than a statement. The hell with how he disarms her, with how he makes her feel. ‘’Because I am happy, I really am.’’

She would never lie to Gendry, she’s sure of that. However, she also does not think she has ever been  as honest as she’s now, saying those words.

***

But the sky falls down upon them anyway.

Arya wakes up in the middle of the night, in the pitch-black chambers; Gendry’s still snoring beside her, the two of them cocooned by the soft furs. She keeps her eyes closed and tries to fall asleep again, to come back to the ever-pleasant dream of running through the Stormlands’ woods on all fours, searching for the prey. But some deep, unsettling sensation inside her keeps her awake; it raises in intensity until it transforms into  pain in her lower belly sharp enough to make her gasp. She shuffles a little, her hand immediately shoots to cradle her bump; and instead of easing, it gets worse with the change of the position, forcing her to kneel on the mattress with her thighs spread.

What’s going on? What’s going on, what’s going on – is running through her mind on a loop and she’s still too sleepy to really get scared until something within her tightens like a bow, making her spine arch and she’s sure she must let out a moan or whine, because Gendry stirs a little. And then whatever was tightened lets lose suddenly, only it does not feel like letting loose; it feels as if someone tore her insides in half, the way maids tears old shirts into rags.

Hunched-over, her lids shut close, and more awake than she has ever been, she begins to pray.

Millions of women  has surely prayed like that before and will pray like that until the end of times. There is only one prayer for a moment like that, the one no one had to teach them; no pretty hymn, but a broken litany.

Don’t, dear gods, don’t, don’t kill my child, please, please don’t let it happen, please, I’m begging you

But it’s for naught, of course.

When she opens her eyes, all she sees is blinding crimson spilling out of her, sticking to her skin, staining the sheets, staining everything.

There is wind blowing outside and wolves howling in the woods and Gendry sleepily asking her what’s wrong, but she does not hear any of that; all she’s hearing is white noise ringing in her ears endlessly, drowning her desperate no-s and please-s in it.

**

Arya's handmaiden Irene is everything Arya isn’t and more; tall and rounded, and fair-headed. Graceful. She curtsies beautifully and wears her hair up often, exposing the beautiful line of her neck.

But most of all, she has two small boys with identical gaps between their front teeth. They herd around Gendry’s legs in the courtyard like the rest of the children at Storm’s End, begging him to play hide-and-seek with them and shrieking with joy when he starts to chase them.

And the very sight of that grips Arya’s throat with an icy fist, stealing her breath away.

She used to play with those children too, teach them letters during sunny afternoons, telling them stories about North and defending them from the cook when they were caught in the kitchens with sweets in their hands. She used to love their presence, their high-pitched laughter and little hands. They were the only ones who listened when she asked them to call her by her name, not ‘’Lady Baratheon’’.

But ever since she lost her babe, she hasn’t been able to muster the courage to tend to other women’s children, Irene’s least of all.

Her boys are dark-haired and blue-eyed, and that inevitably makes Arya wonder, suspicion festering in her heart like maggots on the open wound. How old are they? Three and four? How many years has passed since Gendry came from Winterfell back to Storm’s End?

Numbers are swimming in her mind, stealing her sleep as she lays at night by her husband’s side, having once again escaped from his arms. She curls with her back to him, knowing full well she’s being stupid and inconsiderate and ridiculous. Gendry promised her he’d be true and gave her no reasons to believe he would ever break this promise.

And yet.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he had Irene on a side, or any other woman. Why wouldn’t he?

It’s been a long time since he was a boy with fine leather breeches stained by the Winterfell’s mud and she was a little girl, laughing together after they ate summer peaches, juice dripping down their chins.

Now they’re older and she is nothing but broken.

***

‘’My lady, would you like to go for a horse ride after dinner?’’

‘’I’m sorry, I don’t feel so well today. I think I’ll go and lay down for the afternoon.’’

‘’Lady Arya, would you like me to accompany you on your walk?’’

‘’There is no need Lancel, I’ll be fine on my own.’’

‘’Please, eat some more soup. Or maybe you’d like something else? Some ham or bread with cheese?’’

‘’No, it was enough. Thank you.’’

She burns letter after letter after letter; the fire in their chamber never dies down, fed constantly with Ned and Catelyn’s words, with Jon and Dany’s words, with Sansa’s words, with Bran’s words. Her words are the same and constant, on every parchment she sends back.

I’m fine, don’t worry about me.

It feels easier to lie when they are so far away.

It’s not so easy to lie to those who surround her, and so, for the first time in her life, Arya turns into a lone wolf. Her days are long now; nights even longer - stars obscured by the clouds and corridors of the castle empty and dark when she strolls through them hours before dawn, Nymeria following her soundlessly on her soft paws like a shadow, baring her teeth at anyone who dares to come closer.

It’s weird how washed-down everything has suddenly became, all those things that used to be vibrant and thrilling. The sound of Shiver’s hooves hitting the ground, the icy waters of Shipbreaker’s Bay washing her feet, the stone walls warmed by the sun. Her husband’s eyes. Food in her mouth, air in her lungs.

She naps plenty during the day and in her dreams, she’s back in Winterfell, she is still one and ten and the sky is still the right color. She’s running through the Godswood laughing; she doesn’t see her pack but she knows they’re there, she can hear their voices, she can almost see them in-between trees. And every time, just as she’s about to reach them, the dream turns into air and mist. No matter how fast she’s running, no matter how loudly she calls for them.

Time after time, she wakes up; one second she’s full and another - empty again.

***

One afternoon, as she’s sitting in her solar and reading a book still in her nightgown with Nymeria curled by her feet, Gendry all but barges in without knocking.

She almost jumps, startled, and her direwolf lets out a warning growl but Gendry crosses the room in three long strides and drops to his knees by her chair before burying his face in her lap. All without uttering a single word.

His fist clutch the material of her skirts and when she tentatively puts a hand on his shoulder, he starts to tremble.

‘’Gendry..’’ she sighs, as Nymeria licks his exposed forearms and flops back on the floor, apparently deciding he’s not a danger of any kind.

He’s still not saying anything, so she cards her fingers through his hair – how soft it is, she almost forgot it –  and dragging her hands along the sides of his face before gently pulling his chin up.

He’s crying.

He’s kneeling on the floor in front of her and crying, his blue eyes all wet an eyelashes tangled and she has never seen him like that before. And if she thought she was heartbroken before, she was damn wrong, cause this is what heartbreak feels like. She cannot even breathe.

‘’Gendry. What’s-‘’

‘’I should be asking you that. What’s going on, Arya? Where did you go?’’ he lets those word out of himself like arrows, fast and true. - ‘’Where are you?’’ he asks desperately, staring at her with such intensity that her first instinct is to hide.

‘’I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’ She says weakly and almost winces herself at the falsehood of this sentence.

Gendry’s face breaks.

‘’Arry.’’ He scrambles to his feet, instantly towering above her as he leans down to cup her face in his hands. ‘’Arry, please, don’t do this. Please, come back to me. Please.’’

His tears roll down his cheek and drop on her skin and it’s like the dam inside her was broken, because suddenly a sob escapes from her chest, once, twice, before turning into a wail and she doesn’t even notice  when or how, but she’s in Gendry’s arms, crying her heart out like never before in her life.

‘’Arya, Arry, my love, please.’’ He’s whispering sweet nonsense in her ear, letting her stain his shirt and holding her tight enough that her ribs hurt. He caresses her hair: ‘’It’s alright.’’

‘’No, it’s not.’’ She manages to let out in-between sobs. Her body feels hot; she’s shaking like a leaf on the wind and her crying only intensifies with every passing second. ‘’You don’t – you don’t understand.’’

‘’Arya, it was my babe too-‘’

‘’It died inside me!’’ she’s positively hysteric now, but it doesn’t matter cause he still doesn’t get it. She tears herself away from him to look at his face, her eyes stinging from salt so much that she’s barely seeing anything at all. ‘’I felt it die inside me, spilling out of me! You don’t understand – you don’t understand.’’

‘’You’re right.’’ He leans his forehead against her. ‘’I don’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Arya, I’m sorry.’’

She thinks he must be crying almost as hard as she is, for how many times he apologizes to her, their noses bumping and breaths shaking, until she buries her face in the crook of his neck and he embraces her again; they’re rock back-and-forth together like that for what seems like hours until her sobs turn into hiccups and he starts to speak again.

‘’But you didn’t give me a chance, Arya. You took it all and locked inside and – how do you expect me to compete with your stubbornness, huh? You cannot.’’

And it’s a testament of how much she loves him and how well he knows her, that, against everything, she quietly chuckles at those words.

‘’I’m sorry too.’’ Her voice sounds small and teary, but also like hers and it’s something that she hasn’t experienced for far longer than she realized.

There’s liberation in how they’re sitting, wrapped up in each other on the floor, faces wet and clothes disheveled. He breathes in; she breathes out. She can even feel his heart beating so steady and strong next to hers. She cannot remember ever feeling closer to him than in this moment, pouring all this pain and suffering she’s been feeling onto him and only getting love back.

‘’I- I should’ve talked to you.’’

‘’You should’ve. Or I should’ve never let you get so far. I will never make this mistake again.’’ He rubs her back in circles, his lips pressing to her exposed shoulder blade the sweetest of kisses. ‘’Please, don’t leave me alone. You promised you’ll be with me, you remember?’’

‘’Of course. We are family, right? Even if-even if I-‘’ she cannot force herself to finish this sentence, no matter that the words already hang in-between them heavily. Even if we won’t have children.

‘’Don’t think like that.’’ His arms tighten around her. ‘’We’ll get another shot. And yes, even if we won’t .. you’re all the family I need. Now and always. You are enough. More than enough.’’

She loops her arm around his neck, pressing his face closer to her body until he rests it on her shoulder. Her fingers tangle in the shorter hair at the back of his head and there are fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, but she’ll let them flow. It’s about time for them.

‘’You are enough for me too.’’  

***

This evening, the lady of the castle walks down the stairs in black-and-golden dress, hand in hand with her husband, and sits down by his side in the Round Hall of Storm’s End without any big ceremonies. Her eyes are a little red and she’s still too pale… but it’s nothing that good stew and a little bit of sunshine won’t fix, the cook reasons, peaking at the table from the kitchens and barking at the servers to bring some of those lemon cakes she likes so much to Lady Arya, gods, cannot they think about such things for themselves, must she tell them everything?

Arya’s not laughing, but she smiles and eats, and, when they pour wine into her goblet, she accepts. There is a traveling bard dining with them tonight; when asked, he sings some song about Nymeria of Rhyone and the corners of Arya’s lips rise up slowly, almost shyly, as she rests her head on Gendry’s shoulder and listens.

Some keener-eyed servants notice that Lord Gendry is holding her hand under the table through the whole meal and of course, every maid in the castle starts swooning, because how romantic is that? How lovely?

Stable boys, stewards or guards don’t care much about all this nonsense, or at least they claim so – even if they are quietly wondering how much time will pass since a certain short figure will appear on the courtyard again to order them around. Regardless of them, one thing remains true; all of the residents of Storm’s End, the oldest and the youngest alike, stare at Arya and Gendry this night and let out a collective breath of relief.

Arya would have to be blind not to notice that.  And she won’t be lying; it makes her feel a little bit soft inside.

***

Gendry turned out to be right in the end, as he as an infuriating tendency to be – they do get another shot.

At the height of the blooming spring, little Ned is born, piercing the ears of everyone at Storm End’s with his cries ever since his first breath.

Arya’s heart sings when they lay him down on her bare chest and he looks up at her – her boy, her sweet little boy who blinks his gray eyes at her and seems to know exactly who she is – and she caresses his chubby cheeks with her finger.

‘’Oh, hello, darling.’’ She must sound ridiculous, but it does not feel ridiculous at all. Not when Gendry first holds their son in his arms and stares at him with this pure adoration written in every line on his face and then doesn’t change the expression at all when he raises his eyes to her.

Not when she breaths in Ned’s perfect baby scent and then breathes out and realizes it’s the end of walking on eggshells and acting as if she was made of glass like they did throughout her whole pregnancy. Their babe is with them and he’s just – he’s just theirs to keep and to have and to love.

Not when Ned falls asleep on her breast while nursing and a drip of milk escapes from in-between his tiny lips and Arya notices he clutches a strand of her hair in his fist.

And definitely not when she wakes up in the middle of the night because it’s so hot and finds Gendry walking around the room shirtless, rocking Ned gently and singing to him lullabies quietly, his eyes shining in the darkness and the sound of summer storm outside.

It does not feel ridiculous.

It feels like she can finally stop searching for some unknown things; it feels like a cue to stop where she’s standing and let her roots grow deep.

Gendry snoring, his face so soft and smooth when he’s dreaming. Ned napping, his tiny head pillowed on her clavicle. Storm’s End; strong and ancient and hers and home, the sea always humming outside its walls.

All my summers and winters are yours. She makes her vow silently and lets her lids drop.

#gendrya #gendrya fanfiction #gendrya fic #asoiaf fanfiction #got fanfiction #gendrya au

[moonlitgleek]

Do you think the Golden Company being worthless is a show invention, or could that be something GRRM actually gave them? They've never actually *won* anything, have they? And Aegon's whole narrative is based around unearned victories, so I thought maybe there could be a glimmer of something Martin would write in there.

Definitely a show invention. The Golden Company is a major military force in the books, an unparalleled sellsword company built on ideological faithfulness to Bittersteel’s vision with a clear influence on the politics of Essos and a stellar reputation across both Essos and Westeros. They are unanimously considered a trump card by everyone who brings them up in the books, from Tyrion to Stannis to Doran to Arianne. Yunkai’s willingness to pay a frankly obscene price to contract them for their campaign against Dany in Slaver’s Bay certainly didn’t come from nowhere.

Saying that the Golden Company never won anything is an oversimplification. It’s true that they never did manage to conqueror Westeros for the Blackfyres but we know that they at least came very close during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Despite their eventual defeat, the campaign waged by the Band of Nine under Maelys Blackfyre show what a force the Golden Company is. They overran the Disputed Lands, sacked Tyrosh, won the Stepstones and posed a serious threat to the Iron Throne. Westeros threw its full military weight at them and yet not only did Maelys manage to mount a charge that found and killed Ormund Baratheon at the onset of the conflict, it’s reported that “the war hung in the balance” until Barristan Selmy managed to kill Maelys. It certainly says something that the royalists appear to have won by the skin of their teeth when Westeros was mobilized in its entirety against the threat. And while the push for Westeros effectively died with Maelys, the fact that it took six months of hard fighting before the Stepstones were freed speaks of the strength and discipline of his forces.

The Golden Company’s significant weight in Essosi politics shines through in the fragments we hear about the conflict between Lys, Tyrosh and Myr as well. We get direct information that Myr’s decisions in the war were entirely dependent on their contract with the Golden Company (“It had been rumored that Myr was about to enter the war on the Tyroshi side, but without the Golden Company the Myrish did not believe they….”), and the news that the company has broken the contract with Myr registers as important to several big players because of how unusual it is. The irony here, of course, is that it does not seem important to Cersei who believes the happenings of the Free Cities do not concern Westeros and thus misses all the clues of the impending invasion by Aegon’s faction as well as Dany’s rising power.

While Aegon’s campaign for the Iron Throne is the first time we get to see the Golden Company in action, it certainly looks like their reputation is well earned.

Fortunately [JonCon’s] own ship had been one of the first to reach their destination. Then it had only been a matter of establishing a campsite, assembling his men as they came ashore and moving quickly, before the local lordlings had any inkling of their peril. And there the Golden Company had proved its mettle. The chaos that would inevitably have delayed such a march with a hastily assembled host of household knights and local levies had been nowhere in evidence. These were the heirs of Bittersteel, and discipline was mother’s milk to them.    

[Griffin’s Roost] rose from the shores of Cape Wrath, on a lofty crag of dark red stone surrounded on three sides by the surging waters of Shipbreaker Bay. Its only approach was defended by a gatehouse, behind which lay the long bare ridge the Conningtons called the griffin’s throat. To force the throat could be a bloody business, since the ridge exposed the attackers to the spears, stones, and arrows of defenders in the two round towers that flanked the castle’s main gates. And once they reached those gates, the men inside could pour down boiling oil on their heads. Griff expected to lose a hundred men, perhaps more.

They lost four.

The force that had taken Griffin’s Roost represented a quarter of their available strength; Ser Tristan Rivers had set off simultaneously for the seat of House Morrigen at Crow’s Nest, and Laswell Peake for Rain House, the stronghold of the Wyldes, each with a force of comparable size. The rest of their men had remained in camp to guard their landing site and prince, under the command of the company’s Volantene paymaster, Gorys Edoryen. Their numbers would continue to swell, one hoped; more ships were straggling in every day.

Ten thousand men sailed from Volon Therys but not even half of them had reached Westeros by the time their campaign began. They split that number four ways and yet managed to gain control of Griffin’s Roost, Crow’s Nest, and Rain House with one stroke, with Mistwood, Greenstone, Tarth and half the Stepstones falling to them afterwards according to Arianne’s TWoW chapter. One might argue that the Stormlands isn’t at full strength and so the Golden Compnay has an easier time capturing castles than they usually would. That may be true but the fact that they managed to befall many garrisons with very minimal casualties is a feat. The attack on Griffin’s Roost shows how the Golden Company operates as a “united war machine” as @racefortheironthrone describes them in his excellent analysis of the Golden Company which I highly recommend.

Tl;dr: there is no chance that the Golden Company turns to be worthless or irrelevant like their show counterparts. They are already relevant in the books since they currently have control of half the Stormlands and are about to go after Storm’s End next. We’ll see them launch a full fledged campaign for Aegon’s kingship and they are certain to go head-to-head with the Tyrell-Lannister forces at one point. They might have a much easier time taking Westeros than they usually would due to the current factionalism of the Seven Kingdoms, the casualties of the War of the Five Kings, and Euron’s shenanigans in the Reach engaging a number of the Reachmen along with Willas and Garlan Tyrell, but I expect the ability and discipline of the Golden Company to be in full display. They were build up to be this capable for a reason.

#Anon asks #ask box #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #the golden company #of course that doesn't necessarily mean they'd withstand dany's dragons if there is a confrontation #but I don't consider that a knock on their merit in any way

[starksinthenorth]

A Room with a Red Door

Pairing: Sansa/Dany Rating: T Part: 1/1

Read it on AO3.

Summary:

Sansa Stark’s first kiss with Daenerys Targaryen happens before Dany even knows her real name, and they make love long before they have a deep conversation. Somewhere along the line, they relax with each other, becoming just Dany and Sansa. And even though there are not many words between them, there is much and more in the way of feelings, emotions, and love.

Excerpt:

Four days into the queen’s diplomatic visit to claim the Eyrie’s loyalty, Daenerys presses her lips lightly to Alayne’s. The next night, Sansa kisses Daenerys first and wraps her arms around the small queen while they fall asleep together. So intrigued by her witty banter and stories is the queen that when she leaves the Gates of the Moon after just one week, she takes Alayne along as one of her handmaidens.

#daensa #danyxsansa #dany x sansa #daenerys targaryen #sansa stark #my fic #mine

[nightqueendany]

“No One Wants Daenerys for their Queen”

(Includes comparisons between Dany’s ‘Conquest’ of Westeros and The War of the Five Kings/Robert’s Rebellion)

Whenever I see this argument that “No one wants Daenerys in Westeros/for their Queen” and/or therefore she’s “invading” and “subjugating” people to her rule, I just have to laugh, for many reasons. 

1) First and foremost, and most simply, Westeros is a monarchy, right? So the country at large never gets to choose its ruler. They’re stuck with whatever little twerp inherits the thrown from his father (or other family member should the current king not have a direct heir).

The only time Westeros has gotten to “choose” a leader has been in times of war and the high lords throw their support behind whomever they want on the throne more.

It’s happened in the past a few times and that’s exactly what is happening now. Parts of the country are happy/ambivalent about the Lannister regime (though not many). And parts of the country obviously aren’t.

And as Jorah told Daenerys back in S1 “The common people pray for rain, health, and a summer that never ends. They don’t care what games the high lords play.” - And if it doesn’t matter to the common folk who will sit on the Iron Throne in name, we have to think, who would be a better ruler for the common folk? And the answer is clearly Daenerys. She’s literally the only leader who genuinely cares for them.

2) So my second reason for laughing at the above claim is that, despite this belief by antis that Daenerys’ presence in Westeros is unwanted, that’s simply not true because she’s coming over with many allies already in Westeros and has had/has many advisors who are also Westerosi (Jorah, Tyrion, Barristan, Varys to a lesser extent - because he’s not Westerosi by birth but now calls it his home).

One of the ways people brush point 2 aside is people claiming Dany’s allies only support her because they hate Cersei: “Olenna is only siding with her because she’s angry Cersei killed her family.” “Ellaria is only siding with her because Oberyn died in trial-by-combat fighting Cersei’s champion.” “Yara and Theon are only siding with her because their mean old uncle stole Yara’s throne even though her people didn’t vote for her.”

However, to criticize the allies Dany has because of this, is fandom bias at it’s finest. Why? Glad you asked.

First off, Olenna Tyrell - the Tyrells had a tentative working relationship with the Lannisters that was pretty strained from the business with the High Sparrow but working nonetheless. Then Cersei blew up the Sept to kill the High Sparrow and Margaery and Mace and Loras. Olenna lost her entire family (or what of it has been shown on the show). So Olenna wants revenge against the monarch who killed her family.

What does this remind anyone of?? Oh!!! Right! Robert’s Rebellion!!! When a monarch (Aerys II) killed a high lord’s family (Ned’s father and brother, Rickard and Brandon Stark) with wildfire!!!!

Aerys II = Cersei.

Rickard and Brandon Stark (a father and son) = Mace and Loras (a father and son) + Margaery.

Death by wildfire/strangulation in the throne room = death by wildfire at the Great Sept of Baelor

So like Aerys, Cersei killed her “enemies” in the same manner Aerys killed his “enemies” AND smiled while she watched the Sept go up in green flames. 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~CERSEI. IS. AERYS. TO. A. T.~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Now, Ned is not criticized for calling his banners and making alliances with other Kingdoms and Houses in order to overthrow a mad monarch who slaughtered his family.

And yet, Olenna is. Why? Ned lost his brother and father and his sister was missing. Olenna lost her son, grandson, and granddaughter. Yet it’s okay for Ned to rise up against Aerys but not for Olenna to rise up against Cersei? Keeping in mind, Cersei didn’t even know Olenna had been the one to poison Joffrey so Cersei had no reason to take action against the Tyrell’s other than that she didn’t like the fact that Margaery had influence over Tommen. But anyway, moving on...

Ellaria Sand likewise wants “justice” for her paramour Oberyn (and Elia and her children possibly too though it’s not mentioned). Robert Baratheon wanted “justice” for his betrothed, Lyanna’s supposed stolen virtue and to get her back and to kill Rhaegar.

**And if anyone tries to argue that the war wasn’t to overthrow Aerys II and it wasn’t about Brandon and Rickard Stark and instead was all about finding Lyanna and bringing her home safe - then boy, have I got a shit ton of receipts for you that you likely posted yourself arguing the opposite. When 7x07 aired, all the Targaryen antis were up in arms about Bran saying “Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie,” going on and on in post after post that the war was really about ridding the country of the rule of the “mad and evil Targaryens” with what Aerys II had done to the Starks being the last straw.**

So while finding Lyanna was part of the reason, the Rebellion was also about revenge (for various people) and overthrowing a mad ruler.

Dany’s Conquest, for her allies, is about revenge and overthrowing a mad ruler. Dany’s arrival in Westeros is just convenient for them.

I’m sure if there had been some long lost Stark or Baratheon or other coming over to Westeros during the Rebellion with an unstoppable army, Ned and Robert would have aligned themselves with said person to get Aerys off the thrown, justice for Ned’s family, and to find Lyanna.

To Olenna and Ellaria, Daenerys is the one who will overthrow the rule of a Mad Queen - the Mad Queen who is responsible for the deaths of their family members.

Now for Yara and Theon, it’s not all about Yara getting the Salt Throne that Euron stole from her. It’s also about getting back the independence of the Iron Islands. Theon’s words, “We ask that you give them back,” are so powerful in that scene when he and Yara first meet Dany.

Now what does this remind people of? OH YEAH! The War of the Five Kings!

It’s not unlike Robb Stark seeking an alliance with Renly Baratheon. Robb was fighting for the freedom of the North and knew Renly would be a powerful ally. Renly would allow Robb to call himself King in the North but also asked for fealty and to support Renly’s claim to the Iron Throne. Daenerys agrees to support Yara’s claim to the Salt Throne as long as Yara agrees to support her own claim to the Iron Throne and that the Iron Islands will respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms - no raping and pillaging and stealing lands along the coast anymore.

*Side note: I think it’s funny how antis accuse Daenerys of knowing nothing about the Seven Kingdoms and yet in this scene, it seems she’s quite familiar with the ways of the Iron Islanders and their violent tendencies. I mean, did Tyrion really pull her aside moments before she was to meet the Greyjoys and tell her all about the hundreds and hundreds of years of the Greyjoys rebellious and brutal ways? Or perhaps is Daenerys is a little more knowledgeable about Westeros than the antis give her credit for? Hmm...*

So yes, Dany’s allies want something from her - assistance with revenge, independence - but it’s no different than what the Starks had done in both Robert’s Rebellion and the War of the Five Kings.

However, with Daenerys, antis accuse her allies of “not caring about the Seven Kingdoms” (as if every other war was because of the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms) and use this as a way to invalidate their reasons for aligning themselves with Daenerys, therefore invalidating the counterclaim - some people want Daenerys for their Queen.

But seriously? Robb flat out admits he doesn’t want the Iron Throne and doesn’t know what he’ll do once he kills Joffrey. He’s willing to leave another country completely leaderless for his revenge and his independence. And Ned? No one knew who would be King after Aerys II was dead. Jaime was asked who should be crowned and he said he didn’t care. Many people thought Ned would be a better ruler but it was Robert who took the throne because he had the better claim having a Targaryen grandmother.

Olenna, Yara, and Ellaria, however, have someone in mind to rule them/ally with: Daenerys. Their plan isn’t just to seek revenge on Cersei/Euron and kill them. The second part of that plan is to install Dany on the Iron Throne.

Olenna and Ellaria wanted Daenerys for their Queen. And in the books, the Dornish support of a new Targaryen monarch is even more prominent as Doran had plotted to put first Viserys and then Daenerys on the Iron Throne with one of his children as the consort.

If Ned Stark and Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully can want Robert Baratheon as their King simply because they didn’t want Mad King Aerys II as their King, and that’s considered acceptable, why isn’t it acceptable for Olenna and Ellaria to want Daenerys as their Queen? Hmm??

Because for the last time, Daenerys is from Westeros. She grew up with stories of Westeros, she grew up speaking the main language of Westeros, she’s considered Westerosi by nearly everyone she meets in Essos, and she was born there.

So this idea that “no one wants Daenerys for their Queen”... 1) that’s not true and 2) Olenna, Yara Ellaria side with Daenerys because for the same reasons as what Starks did in previous wars. To claim their reasons for going to war are invalid but the Stark’s reasons were just is TOTALLY bias. Aerys II killed lords who displeased and disobeyed him in a cruel manner and laughed while it happened. Cersei did the same and made good on Aerys II plan to blow up [part of] King’s Landing with wildfire. Just because she started as an intriguing character and has had her own struggles, does not make her less of a villain than Aerys.

3) And my third reason for laughing at the claim that “No one wants Daenerys for their Queen” is because of this:

We speak of Rhaegar’s sister, born on Dragonstone before its fall. The one they called Daenerys.” “The Stormborn. I recall her now.” Mollander lifted his tankard high, sloshing the cider that remained. “Here’s to her!” He gulped, slammed his empty tankard down, belched, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where’s Rosey? Our rightful queen deserves another round of cider, wouldn’t you say?”

Antis can rage all they want, the people are lifting their cups to their true queen whether they like it or not.

#Daenerys Targaryen #Daenerys Defense Squad #game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #asoiaf #debunking anti myths