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drwcn · 3 years

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Hello! I just read the whole Lan Yan AU and I have Feelings about it. Like damn I kinda want to cry. But also… bro do I feel bad.

I have a question tho. After it was clear that both JC and LWJ were wrong about each other, what happened then?

Ahhh hello friend! Many apologies for the feels >:){

Well... after the Guanyin Temple Drama Showdown, things... well, things didn't exactly go the way Lan Wangji thought it would.

(x) (x) these female rendition of Wuji inspired me lol. The first one is sung by A-Qing!

《midnight sun》 snippet 17 - f!wwx au. [original post]

The kite was flying away.

Wei Wuxian's aimless morning promenade stalled by the riverside training ground, her footsteps unconsciously carrying her to this familiar place she once loved. Along the boardwalk and concrete stairs, she saw the gathering of young folks carrying bows - Jiang Cheng's disciples in their uniforms of pale periwinkle and cerulean blue.

Gazing up, she watched the crane-shaped kite drift farther and farther with the morning breeze, out of the young archers' limited reach.

One of the taller, more muscular boys tried his hand at shooting it down, but missed by a foot. There was a chorus of groans that followed, signaling the disciples' disappointment.

Wei Wuxian chuckled.

"This isn't the training drill." Came a sudden voice from behind, calm but commanding.

The disciples quieted instantly, spinning around at once, startled gaze shifting between Wei Wuxian and the owner of the reprimand approaching them at a swift, even pace.

"Shi...shigu," the youngsters bowed, first at Wei Wuxian given that she was technically their senior and then at the fourteen-year-old who came to a stop at her side. "Da-shijie." (Shigu = martial aunt, since Jiang Cheng is their shifu).

Said girl bowed to Wei Wuxian in perfect form. "Niang."

"Yan'er, they were only practicing."

Jiang Yueqian - even after everything, she still refused to be called Lan Yueqian - grimaced, which for the usually unflappable First Disciple of Yunmng Jiang meant the smooth pale skin between her shapely brows dented ever so slightly.

"They're overextending themselves," replied Jiang Yan in displeasure. Then without hesitation, she reached into the quiver strapped at her side for an arrow, and in one smooth practiced motion, shot down the stowaway kite midflight.

Yan'er was not the oldest of Jiang Cheng's disciples by far, since ranking amongst martial siblings was dictated by order of admission into the sect and not by age, but she was certainly his most accomplished. The junior disciples stared in awe, before breaking into delighted hoots and cheers.

Go da-shijie! Da-shijie is the best!!

Jiang Yueqian huffed, the barest hint of blush dusting her cheeks. "Back to your assigned drills. Any more shenanigans and I will report all of you to shifu for punishment. Word has it that the floorboards need a desperate scrubbing."

At the threat of menial labour, the disciples quickly fell back into formation.

For a moment, the scene before Wei Wuxian melted into the waters, and the ground beneath her feet gave away. In her ears was the ringing of another group of disciples' cheers, another kite that was shot down, another lifetime ago when she still considered herself young, and innocent, and free.

At her side, Jiang Cheng would roll his eyes at her showing off again, but would smirk with pride nevertheless. Yet the affectionate eyes staring at her now didn't belong to her shidi, they...

They belonged to Lan Zhan.

Thirteen years, how Jiang Cheng had kept his promise, and kept Yan'er safe from the world. How frightening it must have been, thought Wei Wuxian, to keep a secret so dangerous so close to heart, when the evidence was this damningly obvious. Her hand drifted up towards her child's face before she could help herself.

Yan'er was her father's daughter.

"Niang?" Bright eyes stared at her curiously. "Is something the matter?"

"No." Wei Wuxian shook her head. She smoothed the fabric of her robes and changed the subject. "I - ah - wore the outfit you had picked out for me. How does it look?"

Yan'er smiled and then clung to Wei Wuxian's arm in an uncharacteristically juvenile display of affection, "Beautiful. Niang is always beautiful, but the robe is a nice change. Niang's hair too, it's refreshing to see it dressed. Shifu said back in the days, you rarely wore nuzhung because you were a rebel, but I think it's because Niang knew all the ladies would be too ashamed to show themselves because they knew they could never compare." (nuzhuang = female fashion).

Wei Wuxian laughed, pinching Jiang Yan's cheek. "That tongue of yours, what a rascal you are! Who taught you to sweet talk like that, couldn't possibly be Jiang Cheng!"

"Well, it's not sweet talking if it's true." Jiang Yan replied innocently, before suddenly realizing that her mother was not one to dress up for no reason. Releasing Wei Wuxian's arm, the smile on her face quickly faded. "He's visiting again, isn't he?"

Wei Wuxian sighed. "Yan'er..."

It's been two months since the Guanyin Temple incident, two months since Jin Guangyao's heinous crimes were made public knowledge, two months since Lan Wangji claimed the seat of Chief Cultivator.

A part of Wei Wuxian truly believed that if there had been no Yan'er, she would simply drift away into the world. The land was endless and the oceans unexplored. Her name may have been cleared, but her reputation could never be restored. Mo Xuanyu had resurrected her as she were; she still had no golden core. And whatever her reason for walking the dark path, whatever sacrifice she had made, it didn't change the fact that she was Yiling Laozu, the grandmaster of the demonic arts.

She never expected that she would ever be welcomed at Cloud Recesses, and she certainly didn't think she could ever set foot again in Lotus Pier, and yet -

— 娘，不要走。

— Niang, don't go.

Yan'er had clung to her in the golden morning light in front of the Guanyin Temple for everyone to see, and begged her to stay with those glassy hopeful eyes and flushed cheeks wet with tears.

— But I...

Then, over Jiang Yan's shoulder, Wei Wuxian saw Jiang Cheng's heavy, wistful expression as well.

— 回家吧。

Let's go home.

And really, how was she supposed to say no to that?

— Wei Ying. Yan'er.

All of Gusu Lan present had stared at Jiang Yan like she was some mystical creature, but she gave everything single one of them the cold shoulder, including Lan Wangji, who she refused to acknowledge no matter how much Wei Wuxian had coaxed.

Jiang Cheng must've learned more diplomacy than anyone gave him credit for, because to Wei Wuxian's absolute surprise, he had stepped up to Lan Wangji and Lan Qiren (who turned an alarming shade of green after learning the many revelations that came to light) and said, "Wei Wuxian is of Yunmeng Jiang and will be returning with myself and my disciples. If Hanguang-jun and Gusu Lan have honorable intents, then please act as customs demand. Yunmeng and Gusu are neighbours, and Lotus Pier has never turned away a friendly guest."

Which in 'Jiang Cheng Speech' meant: I don't give a flying fart if you bedded my sister and begot her with child, if you want to see her again, hoops you will hop, courtship you will do, bridewealth you will deliver in abundance to her front door, and then and only then will all of Yunmeng Jiang maybe consider parting with their Wei Wuxian. Until then kindly fuck off.

One day thereafter, Wei Wuxian overheard Yan'er complain to Jiang Cheng while he dealt with paperwork and nodded along to her rant half-heartedly.

— What's so great about that Hanguang-jun anyway, I can't believe Niang would forgive him after everything! She agreed to marry him?! Shifu, how could you let her do this!

—Let? Yatou, I think you don't exactly know how this works. (yatou = girlie, lass)

—If you forbid it, what can they do? Elope?!

Jiang Cheng had fixed his heiress with a look that said that was exactly what his idiot sister would do, and Jiang Yan had been extremely put out by this. The resulting pout that had ensued for the better part of the night was incredibly powerful - scaring off 95% of her fellow disciples - and an absolute mirror image of a young Lan Wangji.

Wei Wuxian sighed. If only her stubborn child knew how much she was like the father she claimed to despise.

"Lan Zhan is not what you think," Wei Wuxian reached for Yan'er's hand and gave it a soft squeeze. "Give him a chance, he is your diedie."

"He is Lan Sizhui's father."

"A-Yuan is - if you knew what it was like back then - yatou, he didn't know. I never told him and I made your shifu promise never to tell. Lan Zhan didn't abandon you."

"That is of no import." Jiang Yan's affect became blunted again, polite and cold. "He abandoned you, after he....after he sired me. Left you all alone to fend for the remaining Wens. That in itself is enough demonstration of his character."

"Yan'er -"

"Mother, I no longer wish to discuss this." Jiang Yueqian drew back. "There's much to do. I shall not take up any more of your time."

Turning to the disciples who were definitely eavesdropping and sneaking unsubtle glances their way, Jiang Yueqian said, "If you have the time to listen in on others' conversation, then it must mean you're all experts at this drill. Now, why don't you demonstrate for me."

#cql #the untamed #wangxian #corie fics #cql ficlet #midnight sun #lanyan #ly17 #all of lwj's attempt at courting wwx is just interrupted by their daughter's iceberg glare from 5 yards away behind a pillar

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dramarising-replacement · 7 years

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Ly17 of dramarising

Your comments on posts more often than not are a joy to read and make my day better. I hope life treats you well. May you be blessed with 5 egg nests and good pinkerton drops.

#praise #kudos #user #submission

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darrylfriar · 6 years

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Joseph has loved Anna ever since they were children. But he does worry about her secret that only he knows, a secret that their people must never know.

Joseph and Anna wanted to be married in the Holy Land. Feeling like fugitives with a hidden past, they immigrated to Israel in their early twenties.

Although it was reported that there were no survivors from the Israeli flight LY17, Joseph Zadok believes he saw his wife shortly after the crash. Reeling from the shocking encounter, he vows to uncover the truth. Haunted by mysterious nightmares, he struggles as he is forced to face the unknown. Within the depths of his soul, he feels changes are emerging. What it all means, only heaven knows. For at times it seems to him as if soft whispers of truth come to him as he drives the streets looking for something….

As enemies of their small nation circle like vultures, and remembering Anna’s premonition, Joseph realizes that it may be too late to stop an unseen adversary. No one can prepare for what is about to be unleashed… their world is on the brink of total darkness.

This unique Christian fiction reads like a thriller. Epic in scope, the mystery, suspense and climax are breathtaking. The Prayer, a Story of the Risen Christ is also a spiritual and tender love story about an enduring romance that transcends death. It speaks to the heart about the miracle of prayer, hope, and the healing power of God’s love. Discover this beautiful story about the Son of God, and the glorious new future that is closer than you think.

#Include all of the words in the categories listed above and: Christian fiction Love story Last days End of days Israel Holy Land Middle East

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hiatuswhore · 1 year

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♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ǝpıɹԀ

♕ A/N: Ahhhh here is The Prince and The Street Rat—A Game of Pride. So this was originally always where the story was going but for a minute I did consider taking it an alternative direction. If I did change it though every hint of this ending throughout the chapters would be some meaningless. There is one more part to this story. Let me know what you think, comments are a great motivator! Thank you for enjoying this story with me😁.

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 5.9K

♕ WARNING: Nothing out of the ordinary 🕺🏽

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♕ TAG LIST: @jasontoddorjasongrace @luluga @mizfortuna @ellathefriendlyalpacaaa @out-of-life @dark-night-sky-99 @graykageyama @lepoulpe-blog @s0urmarvel @singitoutgirl26 @buttercup-beeee @omega-horus @linkpk88 @millies0bsimp @ly17 @hydrationqueensworld @skinmittensgoblin @herfantasyworldd @burningshewolf @reneehillary69 @minttea07 @audigay @heavenly1927

Swallowing thickly, you exit the room with Aemonds cloak covering your shoulders. Your dismissal lacks directives, the guards trailing behind you aimlessly. The corridors are still more maze than familiar, finding your way through without thought.

“(Y/n)!” Taliya exclaims, rising to her feet taking two steps forward. You step back, staring as though a puzzle sits before you. Biting the inside of your cheek, Daltis blinks, studying you without pause.

"I want the truth. Did Cayde die for some foolish cause of having me rise in station?" Narrowing your eyes, Taliya turns to Daltis, who wears a face of stone. Bawling your fists, your head tilts as you meet Daltis's gaze. You grimace, barely above a whisper, "Do not lie to me."

"No. He died because he loved you. He knew not of these dealings—of the hope a Flea Bottom girl has inspired in thousands," A breathless cry leaves your lips, clutching the Targaryen cloak without care of the shooting ache through your muscles. Thousands.

"I will not be the face of an injudicious movement. The weaponization of my familiarity with the Prince is an act of treason. This cause will come with senseless deaths in my name. I will not bear this. I won't," Somethings never change. Not your stubbornness or Daltis's patience. All these years and still, your defiance shines, exhausting your elders.

"Do tell what Flea Bottom girl speaks as you do. Stands as you do, flouts about amongst high Lords and Princes. You have cemented your place in the histories. Done things no other has and lived to tell the tale. No matter how fast you run, how cunning you are—(Y/n) you cannot escape this," Daltis's gruff tone commands the room as a Lord Commander demands his men. A reminder of the strength that allows his underground dealings to flourish. Your grimace softens, lips trembling into a strangled cry. A long sigh leaves Daltis as you wipe away your tears before they build, "You are the very best of your father. Do better than he. Put trust in this. It is you who will better the realm. The world will never forget (Y/n) Rivers, I am certain of it."

Alicent structures your day-to-day with heavy vigilance. Roslyn aids you in the mornings and nights. Breakfast consists of terse silences leaving Taliya failing to garner conversation beyond the briefest of words. After you sit for lessons in etiquette and houses.

The days seemingly never end. You are Helaena's companion in your free hours. Joining her for walks, reading to or with her in the Godswood, and her favorite part of the day—braiding her hair.

"I hear you jumped from Vermax into the Bay. Far above the water and land," Helaena says, smiling gently in the mirror. You make careful work of lacing her hair with flowers. Not looking up to meet her gaze. Your second dance with death floods your memory.

"Rather pushed. I fear the story muddles in my memory. I cannot recall great detail," Helaena's smile widens as you finish her braid, using a flower to lock the ends. You offer a tight-lipped smile.

"I hear songs sung of your fearlessness. The people are quite fond of you. As am I," The young Queen's eyes shine with a level of obliviousness never known to you. A childlike glow. Forcing a broader smile to your lips, your stomach turns. No one speaks of your time with the Velaryon Prince, not to you, at least. The whispers and rumors fall deaf on your ears. You place your hand on her shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze.

"I am nothing but a humble servant. While your praises honor me, I am just a girl," Helaena shakes her head, placing her hand on your own. She looks up at you over her shoulder. The light squeeze of her hand earns a strained smile, and the moment ends as swiftly as it begins. A distant stupor seizing the eccentric Queen.

"Ablaze be the city as the bells ring, surrender leaving only the river," Helaena blinks with a shake of her head, rising to her feet with a giddy smile. She spins in the mirror, gushing at how the white flowers compliment her lilac gown.

"I beg your pardon?" You say, but she only reiterates her love of the flowers in her braid. Shaking your head, you take her hands. Meeting her gaze with urgency, "Before that, your grace. Your mumblings. You have shared them before."

Helaena frowns, your grip on her hands firm. She tilts her head, letting her shoulders fall, her eyebrows pulling knit, "The bells?"

Helaena turns to her mirror and grabs her earrings from her table, fastening them as a servant announces Aemond's arrival.

"My apologies for the intrusion. Lady (Y/n), can I have a moment of your time?" You glance at Helaena, who only smiles. He rubs his thumb along his fingers, carefully tucked at his sides. Aemond gestures to Helaena's empty library, allowing you to go first. You cross the room with your hands clasped before you, saying nothing as he closes the door behind you. Meeting your gaze, the room stills, neither of you eager to speak first. At the break of silence, you almost fail to hear the low him of his voice, "How are you?"

"You disappeared before my departure to Rivverrun. Then avoid me for weeks, and rather than presenting an explanation or anything for this new life thrust upon me, you inquire of how I am? We both know very well your grace, the answer expected of me as a proper lady," Your jaw clenches, eyebrows creasing in disbelief. He mutters an apology that drowns beneath your scoff. Shaking your head, a mirthless laugh leaves you. Squaring your shoulders, you supplant exasperation with a courteous smile, "I thank you, my lord, for your care of my well-being."

"Don't do that. Do not close me out," He's across the room, standing before you in seconds. You stare up at him, narrowing your eyes with an incredulous glint.

"The Dowager Queen made her expectations clear. What is it you want me to say, Prince Aemond? My fear is of no import. My lack of protection in the Keep walls concerns no one. So why bother shouting when no one will hear me?" You shove him back, one push becoming three, three becoming five before he stands pressed to a wall. He makes no effort to stop you, the dejection in his demeanor fueling your fire. He mutters you are right, halting the assault you inflict upon him. Your hands trembling as his words cut through your anger with ease. You release a strangled cry of frustration, stepping away as you run your hands over your face.

"I am sorry, (Y/n). The mess I have made of your life is a wrong I cannot undo. My selfishness has brought us here, but I swear to you. Ask of me anything in the realm of possibility, and it is yours," You drop down onto a chair, your leg bouncing incessantly beneath you. Realm of possibility. A gentle reminder of the reins that hold you steady. Little to no leverage to support your wish to leave. You stare off, focusing on nothing, in particular, the bounce of your leg coming to an abrupt stop. Aemond saying nothing as your face turns to stone.

"Break your oath to the Baratheon girl. Wed yourself to me," The words leave your lips without a second of reconsideration. Before your very eyes, the gentle Prince vanishes. Aemond's gaze darkens, a sneer taking his features.

"Do not toy with me," Aemond seethes, pacing the room like a caged animal. You rise to your feet, his theatrics doing little to curb your composure.

"I do not jest. I do not love you as you wish me to, but I do love you, my childhood companion. This marriage is not to appease you but of self-interest. Your mother is right; you have endangered me so. The assassination of a Prince's whore is of no consequence, but a Targaryen Princess? That comes with a hefty debt to be paid, a costly one. Your brother will gain the favor of the common people in light of our union, further solidifying his claim to the throne. You trapped me in this storm, now aid me in weathering it," Your perfect posture and level head conceal all evidence of your parentage—your history. A known girl through the streets of Kings Landing.

You speak plainly, watching Aemond blink vehemently. His eyes scan the room aimlessly. The offer of his dreams, and he stands like a bumbling halfwit. You bite your bottom lip, your chuckle filling the silence. Aemonds incertitude written across his face, "Quite the love story you and I, huh? They'll sing songs of our love. The poets will write ceaselessly of faux tales of the long journey that brought us to our union. One of passion and wild romance."

Helaena skips through the doors hooking her arm through your own, announcing it's time for supper. You half nod in Aemond's direction, leaving the room without another word. Like breakfast with Cayde's parents, dinner with the Royal family carries on in agonizing silence. If Aegon's drunk enough, he entertains you all with his nonsense that reminds you all of the imbeciles who sits the Iron Throne. Tonight he sits fiddling with his potatoes with the focus of a maester performing a procedure. The clanging of cutlery against plates fills the air.

"Your hair looks lovely this evening, my girl," Otto beams at Helaena, an earnest you would not believe was there without witnessing firsthand.

"Thank you, Grandsire. (Y/n) did it for me. She is very good at braiding," Helaena leans her head on your shoulder, smiling up at you before retreating to her food. Otto nods his head, his gaze cutting to you.

"Very impressive lady (Y/n)," You bring your cup to your lips to cover the scoff that edges to the surface. Taking a long gulp, you lower the cup displaying a dazzling smile. The Lord Hand only chuckles, turning to his food as his daughter wears a pointed stare. You stare back with a blank exterior, giving no inkling of submission.

"I have an announcement to make," All eyes move to Aemond. Grabbing your chalice once more, you raise an eyebrow as his eyes meet your own. On his feet, even Aegon refocuses his gaze from his plate to his brother. "I am to wed the Lady (Y/n)."

You continue eating even as Otto turns to you. The clang of Alicent's fork against her plate echoes through the hall. Helaena's claps in approval fall into her lap as her mother pinches the bridge of her nose. Aegon's eyes bounce between yourself and his mother, chuckling while reaching for Helaena's glass. He takes several gulps of it as Alicent reminds her second-born of his betrothal to Floris Baratheon.

"Why in the seven hells would we break our needed alliance with the Baratheons?" Alicent focuses her glare on you as she speaks to Aemond, her father's gaze never leaving your calm composure. You bring a fork of potatoes to your lips, chewing slowly as your skin crawls the room granting you audience.

"The favor of the people. People of Kings Landing know her. Tales of her exploits have swept the realm. The people love her. Wed her to our Aemond. A common girl to a Targaryen creates an illusion. They say Targaryens are closer to the Gods than men, and with their union comes a fantasy. That of the low-borns being closer to Targaryens. Closer to the Gods. Bringing much-needed favor to Aegon's claim to the throne," The twinkle in Otto's eyes brings you pause. He turns to Alicent with a pleased expression as she openly gapes. She questions the solution to appeasing Boris Baratheon, a simple fix. The promise of Aegon's heir to a Baratheon child, the promise of a Baratheon with a Royal title. A pipe dream.

"Well, then, I believe congratulations are in order. To my brother and his lovely bride-to-be. A wonderful addition to the family indeed," Aegon grins like a madman raising Helaena's cup as he stares at you. You raise your own cup, the falsity of your gratitude covering nausea plaguing your gut. The ache of shackles that forever bind you. A Targaryen Princess.

The Green Council are the first to learn the news. You sit relishing in Lord Lannisters sneer. No one dares to question your presence or the need for an emergency meeting. Your smile grows as Otto makes the announcement. Lord Lannisters eyes widen as silence takes the room. Otto regales their rationale briefly, shifting to the true purpose of the meeting, the expectations of your own and Aemond's union.

Word spreads like wildfire with the summons of all Lords in the realm expected to be in attendance. House Baratheon coined an honored guest. An array of events carefully crafted by the Green Council.

Escorts by the King's Guard through the city, a stroll through the markets. Many familiar faces do not miss the opportunity to congratulate you, feigning more familiarity than necessary. Both you and Aemond are present at food banquets, personally handing food to the needy of the city. Low rides on Vhagar showcasing your unheard-of betrothal, a Prince, and a nameless girl.

You go from a pawn to a show pony in a blink of an eye. How delightful. Overnight your wardrobe changes drastically. Hightower green at the forefront, if not green, then an emblem skillfully sewn to the bodice. You say nothing about the constant changes in your environment. Each day brings a new public outing, carefully orchestrated by the King's privy council down to the styling of your hair. Feeding off the fondness the common people share for you. Outside these outings, Aemond often disappears, and every inquiry of where earns long silences.

"Very lovely choice, your Grace," Roslyn laces the back of your gown. The fabric traps your body's heat.

"Must I wear this all night?" You squirm, rolling your neck, relishing in the light pops of your muscles. Roslyn chuckles as you grumble about the gown choice not being your own.

"Smile, my lady. Today you make history. (Y/n) Rivers. A Targaryen Princess. Your betrothed wished to start your day with a surprise," You shiver against the cold against your skin. The blue sapphire sitting between your collar bones. Bringing your hand to the shimmering gem, your back stiffens.

"He gifted me this?" You turn as she finishes tying the gown. Her smile widens as she nods. Chewing your bottom lip, you turn back to the mirror. Closing your eyes, the faint hum of water plays at your skin's edges. You take a deep breath basking in faux weightlessness.

"What do you think?" Aemond's lips pursed as you stood before him. Your lips gapped as no words left you. The silence in the room was without a hint of its beginning or end. He released a heavy sigh, muttering a slew of regrets as he adjusted his eye patch.

"Prince Aemond One-Eye. The most fearsome warrior in all of Westeros. I think when read in the histories, you shall sound quite legendary," Your hands grab his wrists, the eye patch resting on his eyebrow. A tight-lipped smile on your lips as you looked into his eye. You moved slowly, not taking your eyes off his lone one. The removal of his eyepatch came with a deep shudder from the young Targaryen.

"I—do you ever yearn for something you cannot have?" Aemond shifted on the balls of his feet as he dropped his gaze.

You chuckled while deeming him a fool, "There's plenty Flea Bottom girls yearn for that they can never have. If I had to say, then I would say family. But whilst looking at yours, I fear maybe not."

"We're family. You and I."

"Are you alright?" You wet your lips, opening your eyes with a deep exhale. The chamber doors open with a quick knock, Taliya offering Roslyn a half nod.

"It's time," She says warmly, holding out her hand with a wide smile. Neither of you says a word whilst journeying to your carriage. A sea of guards surround you at every turn. The open top leaves you privy to watching eyes. Gripping Taliya's hand, the whites of your knuckles contrast the rest of your palm. "All will be well."

Her touch gentle as the guards lift you both up from the ground. The march out of the Keep reveals cries of excitement through the streets. Smiles greet you with urgent calls of hello. Your mind awaits the second you open your eyes to greet the sun beaming down on your hammock. It never comes. The many faces blend into an indiscernible crowd chanting in unison.

(Y/n)!

"Smile. They love you," Your gaze cuts to Taliya. She smiles happily at the city's people as though it's a common occurrence. No longer a nameless face in the crowd but the cause of the gathering. A weak smile takes your lips, the Sept drawing near in the distance.

Soldiers struggle against the masses who fill the road to see you, just a girl, on her wedding day. Swallowing thickly, you raise your hand, earning a thunderous roar of cheer. The soldiers stop at the Sept stairs. Daltis stands at the bottom behind a row of soldiers. He dons fine blue silks, with ripple stitching decorating his lapel—matching his wife.

"It's quite strange. Despite all he has brought to my life, I question if I can do this," Squeezing Daltis's hand, you pull him close, shielding your trembling form from onlookers. Holding back a shudder from wracking your body, you release a mirthless laugh, "I scheme for the Black Queen."

Daltis meets your misty eyes with a sharp gaze. The wordless interaction lasts mere seconds before he nudges his head toward the Sept. You grip your skirts, stabilizing your feet as Daltis continues with a smile ghosting on his lips.

"Did you not hear me?" Tugging at his arm at the top of the steps, the blinding shine of the sun matters little. Dalits turns to the crowd with a wave, fueling their cheers that fill the air.

"Your machinations are for the good of the realm, are they not? Why bother looking back? You're not going that way," The squeeze of his hand on your own comes with a quiet that clashes against the many yelling patrons behind you.

At the top of the stairs, you look up where the structure's edge meets the sky. The ground beneath you exists in mind only. You know you stand before the people of King's Landing, an indisputable truth.

Yet still, your body lays, the soft ripples of the Bay swaying your limbs above the surface. Just because you don't get it right away doesn't mean you will not.

The moments blur into a peculiarity unknown to you. You take note of every second from the moment you step into the Sept. The eyes of strangers watching your every move, all trained in the art of neutrality. Deceit beneath boards.

The eye of Aemond stays on you as though no other exists in the world. His boards now dismantled, adoration painting his features. Dalits drums his fingers against your palm the entire way without faltering, and you spare each other mere glances. His eyes find Aemond, the wordless transaction leaving to a path you have long traveled. To the House of Dragons.

Even now, as the world erases history, your mind screams reminders of the past. Before you stands a blubbering young Prince eager for his own dragon. In front of him? Not a woman grown, not a Targaryen Princess, but a sharp-tongued Flea Bottom girl—a bastard, oh the irony. Two children, spouting vows lost on the schemes of larger powers.

"The love of the Seven is holy and eternal. The source of all life and love. We stand here tonight in thanks and praise to join two souls as one. Father. Mother. Warrior. Smith. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. Hear now their vows," Inhaling sharply, your gaze stays on Aemond. Your eyes cut to your hand bound to Aemond's by ribbon, the tremble of your hand clear.

"I am his, and he is mine."

"I am hers, and she is mine."

His lips on your own reveal the tether tied all those years prior while two fools scaling an alleyway wall. Oblivious of all to come. A fate only the Gods could foresee.

On the Sept stairs, you both wave, masks of joy painting your expressions. In your carriage, away from the prying eyes, you both find yourselves watching the other.

"Are you alright?" You break the silence, fiddling your fingers in your lap. Aemond's eye travels from your own to the sapphire between your collarbones. The silence deafening.

"I had hoped you'd want this as much as I. Have I doomed us?" He speaks barely above a whisper, watching as your eyes focus on your fingers. You lift your shoulders, dropping them with a childlike huff. The calls of your name make your head snap up, and your eyebrows pull knit.

"Princess (Y/n)!"

"Princess (Y/n)!" Aemond chuckles softly to himself, the voices of many filling the carriage. Your eyes lock with his own, a faint smile on your lips. We'll figure it out, you mouth, a weak smile taking your lips.

Stepping into the grand hall hand in hand, a line of congratulations awaits you. Aegon toasts to Aemond and yourself, announcing Boris Baratheon as an honored guest. You narrow your eyes as Aemond grins to himself, the servants setting out an array of dishes.

"By the gods!" Reaching forward, the familiar Dornish candy garners stick between your fingers. The sweet mixing with the sour on your tongue pulls a hum of approval from your lips. Aemond chuckles, sipping his wine, "Well, you're the clear culprit behind this. This is my favorite of all sweets."

"I'm aware I specifically requested it. Aemond the generous remember," He says. A soft chuckle leaves your lips, turning forward, your cheeks burning as you scan the room with wary eyes. Nothing. Not a single element of the festivities sit out of place, your stomach somersaulting as your heart hammers. The high merriment and endless wine do little to pull your avid overview of the feast.

"Are you alright?" Aemond's hand finds your knee. His eyebrows pull knit as you offer a contrived smile. "We can retire early if you like."

"No, I guess I'm just not used to so much attention," You murmur, looking around the room once more. It all remains the same. If the Rogue Prince plans to strike, he offers no clear warning to you.

In the corner of your eye, you watch Aemond follow your careful scan of the room. His eye narrows, swallowing thickly as your corset becomes a slow choking death. He knows. Your frantic state hides beneath a blank stare. Rising to his feet, an eerie smile takes his lips, "I have a surprise for you."

"Uxoricide is frowned upon, I've heard," You joke, failing to break the pressure that holds your chest. Aemond only rolls his eyes. His smile faint as he guides you toward the dance floor. The crowd parts like the sea in a wise old tale. Nobles make haste at the sight of your presence, offering bows and curtsies in reverence except for one.

The coils of her hair strike you first, a clear connection as only one other in the room shares such a rare look in Westeros. Your strides slow as you take her in from a distance, almost trailing behind Aemond as a result. Her skin glows beneath the candlelight like your own, her parentage and connection to yourself without a shadow of a doubt.

You come to an abrupt stop. Aemond's body jerks back to find you akin to a statue. Staring forward like a woman possessed, your eyes glaze over as your mind scrambles to make sense of who stands before you. Aemond returns to your side, his touch cautious as his breath tickles the shell of your ear.

"My absence in recent weeks has been little to do with the pending war. Your father's Pentosi background proved to be a challenge, even I could not conquer it, but Dorne was not. This is Syva, your mother's mother," Syva stands with a gentle smile, and her eyes crinkle in the corners. You turn to your husband, swallowing the fire that bubbles in your throat, willing the tears to remain in your ducts.

None of you move, Aemond pursing his lips, likely scrutinizing his actions to deem them good or bad. It's Syva who breaks the standoff. She stands before you taking your hands with a gasp.

"By the gods. You look just like her, my Mala," She cries, a misty haze in her eyes. Mala, her name was Mala. Aemond greets her with a familiarity that rings truth to his recent absences. You watch as your grandmother places her hands on both of his cheeks, thanking him profusely. Words evade you, your throat drying as Aemond excuses himself. His smile beaming as he passes you, joining some nameless Lord not too far from your shrinking form. Opening your mouth to speak, nothing leaves you. "I imagine you have many questions for me, dear girl. Not for a second do I ever want you to think I didn't want you. Pranar…your father, He and I never truly saw eye to eye. When I got word of his—I looked for you, but I just couldn't seem to find you. For a time, I thought maybe you had been taken too."

Lacing your fingers in her own, your lips tremble into a crumbling smile. The music and dancing around you now distant fixtures in a grand hall far beyond anything you know. Syva smiles, wiping the salty tears from your cheek, disregarding the few who whisper of you both. "Oh, but look at you now. A Targaryen Princess. From the day you were born, a force like no other."

"Please, grandmother, join us. I wish to know you. To know my mother," Your request leaves you in a raspy plea. Syva chuckles, urging you to remember yourself.

"You are no Lady or nameless Princess of some quaint Realm. You are a Princess from the House of Dragon Riders, dear. I have no place at that table with you, but if you'll have me here at court, I would be honored to know you," Swallowing the ache of your cheeks, your smile does not falter. Nodding your head like a giddy child, you swear to her she's more than welcome, confessing familiarity to be what you most desire. "I have heard the tales of your husband. The cruel Prince, the kinslayer. And that may all be true, but the fervor that boy carries for you, dear. You don't see that every day."

Following Syva's gaze, your eyebrows raise at the outlandish sight. Aemond stands with his brother, a boisterous laugh consuming the two—a new cup in his hand. You excuse yourself from your grandmother, promising to find her before the night's end. At Aemonds side, you ask the dragons to share what humors them so fervently. A pause sits between the three of you as Aegon retells his tasteless joke leaving Aemond to shift on the balls of his feet. The frivolity of your laugh breaks the ice leaving the three of you in a band of grins.

You find Aemond already looking at you as the laughter dies down. No longer at your wedding feast but on your rooftop without a care in the world. Smirking up at him, he narrows his eyes, raising his eyebrows.

"My apologies, my Lord, I almost mistook you for my husband, Prince Aemond. About this tall, a brooding Maester with love for awfully boring things. Such as philosophy and history," Aemond chuckles, intercepting his next cup of wine you down it lacing your fingers into his own. A gag leaves your lips silently, cursing the Lannisters and their coveted Lannisport wine, "While this arrangement may not have been my hearts to desire. I give you my word, I will try."

"Are you certain of this? If today marks the day I become dragon food, the history will write of the Kings Landing Bastard who haunts the Targaryen dynasty," You whined as Aemond rolled his eyes. He walked several paces ahead of you, practically dragging you to the Dragon Pit.

"We are bonded. Even now, Vhagar knows of my care for you. She will not harm you," Aemond insisted. You halted in place as she came into view, your eyes wide as Aemond tugged at your arm to go with him.

"You ride that?" You visibly gulped as Aemond grinned with pride. Aemond's pleasure did not falter at the hesitancy that seized your body. You squeezed your eyes shut, allowing him to guide you, the low rumbles of Vhagar making every muscle in your body tense.

"Lykirī! Dohaerās!" Aemond rested his hand on top of your own as he pressed your palm flat upon the beast's scaly skin. Your eyes remained shut as you pushed back into Aemond's chest. “Vhagar, rhaenagon issa jorrāelagon.”

"What's that mean?" You asked, eyes still clamped shut. The low rumble of the world's largest dragon eased beneath your fingers. Aemond only chuckled, the warmth of his hand atop your own gone without warning. Your eyes whipped open, "Aemond!"

"Avy jorrāelan," Aemond rests his head against your own, Aegon grumbling as he abandons the two of you in the center of the dance floors.

"What's that mean?" Meeting his gaze, your chest knots, weaponizing incompetence easily. If he knows, he reveals nothing studying your face with a smile akin to a giddy child. Cayde sits in your mind, the lines of your morality blurring. Have I betrayed him? Does he hate me?

"At the latest hour, leave with me on Vhagar. There's a home for us in Dorne, isolated enough to hide Vhagar close enough to Sunspear for you to find work, which I know you enjoy. I can dedicate my days to my studies and to a new life. Syva lives in Sunspear. You can know her—our children can know her. She helped me with all this. It's your family home," You stumble from his hold, an incredulous look in your eyes. Onlookers eager to be privy to the dealings of the odd marital pairing.

"What of your family? Your sense of duty and pride would never allow such fantasies, so what is this?" You narrow your eyes, practically hissing as you visibly seethe. No care for the crowd that forms around you.

"You and me, this friendship is my greatest accomplishment. My pride and joy. You're my family. My duty is to you. This marriage is an oath I will not break. I love you," You cannot evade this, his words clear. Aemond pulls you back in, his smile unfazed by your venom. The fury that bubbles in your chest renders you silent, the weight of his words crushing you, "Feel no obligation to say it back, for my words are nothing. I have broken every oath to you, but I love you, and I wish to show you rather than tell you. A home away from all this awaits us. Let's start our lives together. No Iron Throne. No Hightowers or Targaryens. No Royal drama. We can be happy. I can make you happy."

"I—" Your eyes flutter shut, opening and closing as your vision splinters. Stumbling forward, Aemond takes your hands as the room turns, a fog consuming you whole as your body melts into your husband.

“(Y/n)?” A faint ding reaches your ears, drowned by a chorus of gasps. You whip your head toward the doors, following the gaze of the masses. A Kings Guard stumbles to his knees, clutching his throat. Crimson red paints the floor, Aemond muttering of it being one of his niece and nephew's guard. The clanging of his armor to the ground echoes through the room, a barrage of screams following, the room descending into utter chaos. The Rogue Prince.

"Aemond?" You cry. Violent gags jerk your neck forward, your vision blurring and refocusing as it pleases. The buckle of your knees comes with the chill of the hard floor beneath you. Aemond cradles you close as legs race around you in an endless flurry.

"I need Maesters now!" The ferocity of his screams small against the thunderous screams of scattering nobles. You clutch his shoulders, a strangled cry leaving your lips, a raging pressure setting your windpipe ablaze, holding you captive.

"The b—" Your eyes wide as he screams for a maester a final time turning his attention to you. A loud cry leaves his lips as his eye lock with your wide ones, terror dancing in them as you frantically grasp at his shoulders. Your nails claw his skin as though holding him keeps you tethered to the earth.

Head tilting back, the sky blue sky greeting you with the beaming of the blindingly hot sun. Taking a deep breath, your chest swells at the ease that comes with the taken-for-granted task. Water creeps further up on the sides of your head, a cramp shoots through your chest. You jerk forward, a hand flat on your back, keeping you above the surface.

"Dad?" A frown takes your lips, and in a blink of an eye, the dark ceiling and strands of white take your vision. Your lips crumble as a cry leaves your lips once more, finite doses of air invading your windpipe.

"It's going to be okay. Issa jorrealagon. I'm right here," Aemond coos. Wiping your tears from your cheek, he pulls you to his lap. His voice wavers and cracks as he rocks you both back and forth. "We'll name our little girl Mala, like your mother. I pray to the gods she looks like you, but she'll be a brooder, and you'll hate it—I just know it. And a son, we'll name Cadis to honor your friend. He'll be every bit of you. He'll have your laugh and your distaste for anything scholarly. I'll steal eggs for them from Dragonstone. No child of ours will go without a dragon. We'll be happy, our little family. Can't you see it?"

Violent tremors cut through your body, specs of black dancing across your vision. Each of your senses collapses into each other except one. A clear ringing sits in your ears, the tintinnabulation becoming your focus. The bells. Aemond takes your hand in his own, your hands trembling as your mouth opens. He leans down, your breathing low and choppy, "For water can withstand the beast. Pride will drain it dry."

The line between consciousness and unconsciousness blurring. Your head tilts once more, reality and fantasy colliding all at once. The Blackwater Bay greets you. The ripples of the water knock your body gently, but still, you stay afloat, basking in the fresh air. Closing your eyes, you open them once more, releasing a deep breath. A distant roar rips your eyes open, far above a shadow soars, earning a giggle from your lips.

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hiatuswhore · 1 year

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♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ sǝuoɹɥ⊥

♕ A/N: Ahhh I always get so happy when I complete these little mini stories because I have a terrible habit of not completing them despite have a full story ready to go. Send me any questions you have! I have already been gathering some of them and I am going to do one large overview and answer them all in a post. That will be posted in a few days. Sorry for the wait I didn’t realize how long it had been this definitely could have been ready days ago. Anyhow here is The Prince and the Street Rat—A Game of Thrones, the final chapter—well more like an epilogue.

♕ WORD COUNT: 2.3K

♕ WARNING: None

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The young Stark walked without words, the taunting words of the Kingslayer still fresh in his mind. His slow gait through the icy corridors muted, offering curt nods to those who pass him. The air somber, the walls knowing. He opens his sister's chamber door without warning, the steel beneath the cloth in his hands nearly weightless.

“Septa Mordane says I have to do it again. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. Who cares how they’re folded. They’re going to get all messed up anyway,” Arya scoffs, throwing a cloak into the wooden case, a deep frown across her features. Jon glances at her white and grey direwolf pacing about, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s good you’ve got help,” He says, his tone low and gruff with a boyish hum, a gentle reminder of his youth. The amusement in his words reaching his sister but likely being lost on a stranger.

“Watch. Nymeria, gloves.” Arya’s frown falls, a smile taking her lips as she squares her shoulders. Nymeria stops in her tracks, taking a seat as she stares with a blank expression. The silence persists for a few seconds before Jon turns back to his sister.

“Impressive,” He says, a smirk ghosting on his lips as Arya tells him to shut up. She tries once more, but Nymeria merely tilts her head. “I have something for you. It has to be packed very carefully.”

“And I you,” Arya says, rushing across the room. She tosses several things onto her bed. A blunted wooden sword, an incomplete knitted cloth with a sloppy direwolf sewn atop, and many parchments. Her grumbles fill the room before a chuckle supplants it before returning before her brother with furs covering her hands. She places it on the bed, nodding toward him, “You go first!”

“Close the door,” Jon instructs, chuckling as Arya practically skips across the room. Her eyes never leave the cloth in his hands. Barring the door, she says no peeking. He removes the fabric, assuring her he will not look as he turns, holding up the dainty steel. Arya beams as she steps forward while Jon removes the sword from its sheath, “This is no toy. Be careful you don’t cut yourself.”

“It’s so skinny,” She takes it from his hand, her eyes traveling up the blade.

“So are you. I had the blacksmith make it for you special. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re quick enough,” Jon says, smiling as she gently waves it in the air. Her eyes locked upon her sword. She says she can be quick. “You’ll have to work at it every day. How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”

“I think so,” She fiddles with the base before looking up at her older brother. The two with the most Stark likeness besides Bran and Rickon. Jon leans down, placing his hand on the side of Arya’s face.

“First lesson,” His eyes lock with her own he speaks as though a sensitive secret sits between them. Small Arya clinging to his every word, so enthralled she fails to notice the smirk that threatens his lips, “Stick them with the pointy end.”

“I know which end to use,” Arya rolls her eyes as Jon hums a softness to him that the gods would soon wipe from the earth. He leans back up, dropping his hand, taking in every little detail of his sister as his future looms beyond the walls.

“I’m going to miss you,” He says, a silence sitting between the two before she steps forward, arms out wide. Jon flinches back, calling out careful as Arya’s sword swings ahead on his right. Arya places it down on her bed, looking up at her brother before jumping up. Her arms around his neck, he holds her from the ground as the two embraces. Jon mutters, “All the best swords have names, you know.”

“Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I’ve got a needle of my own,” She squeezes Jon a second time. Silence takes the room as the two hold each other. Arya pulls back first, Jon gently placing her back on her feet as she announces she must give him his parting gift. She nudges him to the side, removing the furs revealing a book. The cover shows beautiful sketches of dragons above a skillful drawing of Kings Landing. Jon’s eyebrows furrow, his fingers running over the title, Lady Calamity.

“Do not mistake my confusion for lack of appreciation, but why have you gifted me a book of—Targaryen history, I think?” Jon says, flipping open the cover sits a faded sketch. His eyes bounce over the assiduousness of the drawing. Many people appear to scatter around the couple at the center. A Targaryen cradling a bride in his arms, a dying woman.

“When people speak of the Dance of Dragons, we hear the same names and the same stories. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Black Queen. Prince Aegon Targaryen II, the usurper. Prince Aemond One-Eye, and Princess (Y/n) the beloved. The tales never speak the full truth. This Northern Sept dedicated his life to studying this through journals and parchments at the Citadel. Did you know Princess (Y/n) was a bastard from Flea Bottom?” Arya’s eyes shine with excitement as she speaks with nothing but confidence. Jon’s head snaps from the page to his younger sister, who beams at him. “No one can say for certain the relationship between the Princess and Prince Aemond, but there was a parchment from Queen Alicent to her father of an unbecoming friend of the Prince years before the war. The book believes it was the Princess. Some say they were friends and loved each other, and some believe the Prince to have an obsession. The reports are conflicting, but she is known in history as the third person to die in the Dance of Dragons. Hers and Prince Lucerys’ deaths sparked the war. Aemond one-eye torched Riverlands, the people rioted, and the realm became one of violence.”

Jon's eyes flick to the bottom of the drawing, the words staring back at him. The final moments of Princess (Y/n) Targaryen. The bells rang that of the swan song.

“Who killed her?” Jon asks, his eyes flicking back to the dying Princess. The drawing puts more emphasis on their faces rather than the movement around them.

“No one can really say. Many Septs challenge each other’s recounting of this history. At first, the realm blamed the Black Queen for the assassination of their Princess and the butchering of Aegon the Usurper’s eldest son. Sept Umberais debunked this in his research. While officially, the Black Queen and her forces are still credited, Lord Otto Hightower was executed by his grandson for the murder. It was incorrectly reported that Otto was beheaded during the fall of Kings Landing, but Queen Alicent's private journals reveal otherwise. The book goes into far more detail, but I think you should really read it. Sept Umberais found everything he could on the Princess. A bastard who shaped history. I do not wish you to die shaping history, but I do believe you will do great things, brother.” Arya flips the pages of the book, landing on another sketch, one of a statute. “During all of this madness, a statue was made in the Princess’s honor where she was laid to rest. Many believe her place of rest is one of misfortune if not given the proper reverence. I am going to visit it when I arrive at King's landing. Maybe receive a blessing for our family. Even King Robert was too afraid to desecrate it as he did the other Targaryen emblems.”

Arya flips to the final page, her brother’s eyes widening at the sight. The line work reflects an unmatched talent, the detailing almost intimate. Jon frowns, his chest aching as his eyes study your features. He cannot remove his gaze from the soft smile that nearly negates your forlorn eyes, “Princess (Y/n) Targaryen.”

The departure from Winterfell arrives with a heavy fog of naivety. Every Stark oblivious to the storm cloud lingering high above their home. Jon’s face of stone keeps all who travel around him without an inkling of his thoughts. When the opportunities arise, he opens the book, clinging to every word of the limited information on your life.

He cannot explain it, nor can he shake you from his thoughts. Besides his father, Jon cannot find another name that sparks this move in him. The journey to the wall consists of him wondering if you knew when it all began for you—if he will know. Your stories stay close even within Castle Black. It’s nothing like he imagined and everything Tyrion Lannister warned him of. Many nights, tales of your short life make the cold watches warm and the long days tolerable.

Arya’s journey south, her eyes bounce along the tree lines and hillsides. Her curiosity childlike and eager. Sansa rolls her eyes, sitting with perfect composure, a clear divide between the Stark girls. Their days in Kings Landing persistently absent from the others’ company. Arya walks the corridors picturing moments in history she’s read more times than she can recall. She treats the Red Keep more like a museum than a current resident to many, including herself.

“Must you always talk of a dead Targaryen Princess? Do you not fear slighting the King?” Sansa questions. Arya rolls her eyes, telling Sansa of the crown’s respect for the Princess. Septa stops their bickering, commending Arya’s knowledge while scolding her unladylike behavior.

She focuses on her dancing lessons and fails to convince her father to take her to your statue. Lord Stark, only hums, nodding his head to all her reasons but never answering the question. She’s sure it’s merely amusing to him, a laugh threatening him. The days blend into a smokescreen of routine, blinding the Stark girls from how swiftly the walls around them concave.

Arya’s heart hammers through her body with a ferocity that rattles the entirety of her entire body. She steps out into the road, the ding of the bells and chatter of the streets nearly nauseating. The few who pass her move with urgency leaving her in the dark.

“Hey, where’s everyone going? What’s happening?” She calls out. The two little boys who speed past her skid in their tracks, talking over their shoulder with glee.

“They’re taking him to the Sept of Sorrows!” The boy continues rushing up the stairs, Arya’s inquiry of who almost not reaching his ears, “The hand of the king!”

Arya drops the pigeon from her hand, rushing with the rest of the crowd. A few become many, and the back of their heads becomes her main view. The unfamiliar courtyard does little to halt her movements. She steps onto the side of the statute, not sparing it a single glance as her fathers brought out and escorted through the crowd. The mob screams words of malice, waving their weapons, but Lord Stark’s eyes lock with his daughters. In the group, many faces blend, spitting insults. At the pull of guards, Eddard scans the crowd warily. His eyes land on Yoren, bumping into his chest. He yells, “Sorrows. Sorrows!”

The moments fleeting, and the air stale. Silence consumes the crowd as Eddard’s voice booms throughout the courtyard. The gruffness of his tone clear and paced. Despite his lies to appease the few, the public still grumbles with resentment.

“As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of Gods and men. He has confessed his sins before the Sept of Sorrows. He has given reverence to the resting place of a girl given to this world by the Gods. She is a reminder of the poison in treachery but also the failures of acting without mercy. What is to be done with this traitor, your grace?” Arya frowns. She cannot grasp why this occurs here and now. The Queen mother shifts uneasily as the young King grins like a madman. It’s all so wrong.

“My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night’s Watch. Stripped of all titles and powers, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father. So I bring you all here today. A sad day for a very sad excuse for a man. In this place lies dead a woman who could not be protected by her husband nor her King! Today I mark a new beginning, a King who will protect those deserving, one where no treason shall ever go unpunished. Ser Illyn, bring me his head!” Joffrey’s words fill the ample space, following a roar of excitement like no other. The cries of Sansa and the pleas of Cersei falling on deaf ears as Arya’s eyes sweep the crowd in disbelief. Arya climbs off the statute navigating the crowd with quick feet, her tiny stature bobbing and weaving without pause. It becomes less dodging and more pushing as her throat and eyes burn ceaselessly. A hand wrapping around her wrists, jerking her back, forces a gasp from her lips. Arya squirms to no avail, her father getting further and further away as her vision blurs and refocuses.

“Let me go!” She screams, blocking her view from the front. He forces her head toward the statue. Her struggles do nothing against his rigid grip. The indiscernible chatter of the crowd and Sansa’s screams fill the air. It lasts for seconds before a swift silence sweeps the crowd, and everything stills. Arya grows as straight as a pencil. She stops fighting Yoren’s hold her stare shape. The lump in her throat nearly suffocates as everything numbs. A part of her wants to laugh at what captures her eyes, a sick irony—a cruel one. The blue sapphire gem sparkling and vibrant, unlike the bleak air that lingers.

Princess (Y/n) Targaryen Rivers

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