#first was robb then Arya…..is the next one bran? he’s the third closest to jon…..

[jon-sedai]

ok so we all agree that Jon’s gonna straight up desert the Watch, right? But the question is why? I think there’s a rule of three pattern with his previous attempts. The first was to avenge Ned and help Robb, the second to help Arya plus his thing with Ramsay. There’s a clear theme of vengeance mixed with justice, juxtaposed with his want to help a sibling. And it always has to do with the STARKS. So the third time might finally be the charm. I mean he could always be stopped, or he could succeed. So if he does leave the Watch, it will be for the Starks…..but which one?

[thehiddendooronserpentinesteps]

IS THERE WOLF-BLOOD IN THE DOG? - PART 2.

I finished part 1. with the possibility of a Vale-thread, when talking about the Cleganes’ wolf-blood. I think, that Martin left some hints, that point to the Vale, and the presence of Stark descendants there. And these hints might be in relation with the Cleganes.

The first hint I based this part of my theory on, is Catelyn explaining the closest Stark relations to Robb in ASoS:

„Your father's father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest . . . it might have been a Templeton, but . . ." (ASoS, Catelyn V.)

I cannot imagine, that Martin will not unfold this thread of the story, especially considering Sansa’s currently in the Vale…

And my other hint is Bronze Yohn Royce. I find Sansa’s description of him very striking:

“The Lord of Runestone stood as tall as the Hound. Though his hair was grey and his face lined, Lord Yohn still looked as though he could break most younger men like twigs in those huge gnarled hands. (…) She heard his voice booming off the walls when he rode back from a hunt with a buck behind his saddle. She could see him in the yard, a practice sword in hand, hammering her father to the ground and turning to defeat Ser Rodrik as well. (…) Bronze Yohn had slate-grey eyes, half-hidden beneath the bushiest eyebrows she had ever seen.“ (AFfC, Alayne I.)

I know, that some people like to compare the Hound to the Kettleblacks, because of their dark hair and hooked nose. But with Bronze Yohn, there are much more similarities: the height, the strength, the fighting abilities, the huge hands, deep voice, bushy eyebrows, and most of all the grey eyes…. No, I don’t think, that Sandor is Lord Yohn’s son. But let me further explain my theory.

The third clue, I’d like to talk about is Bran’s vision in ADwD. He sees people through the eyes of the weirwood tree of Winterfell. First, he sees Ned, who’s most certainly praying for Robb and Jon would grow up as brothers. Then, he sees a young girl, who looks like Arya, fighting with sticks with a young boy. But he recognises, that that boy is not him, and he and Arya have never fought like this.

„After that the glimpses came faster and faster, till Bran was feeling lost and dizzy. He saw no more of his father, nor the girl who looked like Arya, but a woman heavy with child emerged naked and dripping from the black pool, knelt before the tree, and begged the old gods for a son who would avenge her. Then there came a brown-haired girl slender as a spear who stood on the tips of her toes to kiss the lips of a young knight as tall as Hodor. A dark-eyed youth, pale and fierce, sliced three branches off the weirwood and shaped them into arrows.” (ADwD, Bran III.)

I know, there’s a theory, that the knight, who’s as tall as Hodor might be Dunk, and the brown-haired, slender girl is Old Nan. But I’d like to offer another explanation.

First, Bran sees his father, who already fathered Robb. The next glimpse is I think Lyanna and Benjen, fighting in their childhood. And from this scene we’re jumping one generation each time: I think the mother could be Lyarra Stark, pregnant with Brandon. What could be the story behind it, I don’t know. But in the next generation we find Rickard Stark, and his only sister Jocelyn, who married Benedict Royce from the Vale, that younger son of Raymar Royce. So. My suggestion is, that the slender girl is Jocelyn Stark (whose slender figure Sansa could inherit), and the tall knight she kisses is Benedict Royce. And what if, their third daughter did not marry a Templeton, but a Royce, from the  bigger branch? If Lord Yohn would be their son, that would explain his height, eyes, and his sons' names as well: Andar, Robar, Waymar could come from their ancestor’s, Raymar’s name.

I know, that Martin can change the already released TWoW chapters, but I think it’s no coincidence, how Sansa in the first Winds of Winter chapter describes the Waynwoods: „Ser Roland was the oldest of the three, though no more than five-and-twenty. He was taller and more muscular than Ser Wallace, but both were long-faced and lantern-jawed, with stringy brown hair and pinched noses. Horsefaced and homely, Alayne thought.” (TWoW, Alayne I.)

The ground is very shaky at this point, and I’m always aware that I could be wrong. But my suggestion is, that Bronze Yohn might have had a sister… who ran away with a young knight, whose father was only a kennelmaster. It could have not been otherwise, for the Royce family is a high-born, prominent family. She could have disappeared this way, and give birth, to tall, strong sons, and Sandor could have inherited the long face, gaunt features, grey eyes, bushy eyebrows, all that… and his attempt to run away with Sansa from King’s Landing could have had one other motive.

But if I’m right and the Dog really has wolf blood in him, does he know? Well, I’ll check it out in the next part. :)

[writingthrones]

the northern dragon.

A PROLOGUE. 

DESCRIPTION: the world thought that just 2 dragons survived, that house targaryen was missing its third head. but there was another-- the youngest, the final child of the mad king and queen rhaella. of course, she was almost part of the near extermination of her house. but the honorable ned stark, unable to watch a babe be murdered for crimes she did not commit, rescued her from an awful fate. instead, she grew up amongst wolves within the walls of winterfell.

NOTES: of course, this will include many changes to the events of GOT, though only the show. i have pulled some knowledge from the books, but this story will be based on the events of the show. i’ve come up with a lot for this story, so you’re in store for multiple parts. i still haven’t come up with an end, so i’m not sure how many it’ll be. i’d also like to add that i am totally up for suggestions. obviously, this is a story i came up with totally on my own so if there’s anything you would like to see, feel free to shoot me a message. i can’t guarantee it’ll be added but i will consider every request i get! constructive criticism is also welcome.

oh and italics = flashback. 

Your childhood was good-- much better than most who were born lowborn. It was unfortunate how fixed everything was, one’s status in society was decided at birth and moving up was nearly impossible. Lowborn were only allowed to wed lowborn, only allowed to occupy jobs deemed worthy of their status. But you-- you were lucky-- a lowborn girl rescued by the Warden of The North. Your entire village had been slaughtered in Robert’s Rebellion, caught in the crossfire. Ned found you clinging to your dying mother. Staring down at an innocent child, a victim to the absolute worst luck, he couldn’t just walk away. So he scooped you up and when everything was over, you were brought back to Winterfell.

It was rocky, to say the least, your first few days there. When Lord Stark returned to his castle with two children-- claiming just one as his bastard and another as an unfortunate orphan, Lady Catelyn was rightfully devastated. As if she was to believe that just one was a bastard. But after those few days, things shifted. She was still noticeably upset, but considerably less so than before. It was a peculiar sight to those around, though quickly forgotten. Things eventually returned to normal-- if one thing was sure, Ned and Catelyn Stark had a love that was unbreakable. The pair went on to have many children.  Of course, you don’t remember any of that.

So, things were good. You couldn’t be treated like a member of the house, but the Starks considered you like family none the less. Because you were lowborn, you were to perform domestic duties around the castle. In your free time, though, you were allowed to play with the other children. You and Arya got along well, both of you were rough around the edges. Then there was you and Jon, the two of you being able to bond over the fact that you weren’t an official member of the family. There was Theon, too, though you never got too close to him. It was the same deal with Robb, even if you tried. Sansa had gotten you into fashion, occasionally bringing you dresses she’d been able to make. Despite the previously mentioned “rough around the edges” thing, you did like to look pretty sometimes.

There was one problem with that, though. For as long as you could remember, you’d been forced to wear a cover similar to that of a septa. Sansa made some for you that were prettier but it didn’t help much. The rumors were that you had some horrible condition that caused you to go bald and to save you the embarrassment, Lady Catelyn arranged this. In fact, she was the one to put it together each day. At a certain point, she’d taught you how, though.

And that certain point was your 10th nameday. That was the day everything changed. Early that morning, Lord and Lady Stark entered your chambers before everyone in the castle began to wake. That morning was when everything changed for you.

“Y/N, there is a talk we must have with you now,” Catelyn said in a soft voice as she sat on the edge of your bed. You were still groggy, yawning before murmuring as “Yes, Lady Stark?” you replied. She always told you to call her Lady Catelyn, as it sounded less formal, but you were so sleepy you couldn’t remember. As you became more awake, though, your heart began to race. What could this talk possibly be? Why was it so early in the morning? What was it that no one else could hear? They had always treated you like family, but somehow you wondered if they were telling you that you needed to leave. You began to visibly shake.

Ned took note-- seating himself next to Catelyn and resting a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. But how could you not? Taking a deep breath, you prepared yourself for whatever news they were bringing you. It was nothing you could’ve ever expected. You were the last daughter of the Mad King, princess Visenya of the nearly extinct House Targaryen. The shaking had only gotten worse. They explained to you that the wrap you wore on your head was to conceal the silver hair that fell down your back. They couldn’t bring themselves to be so cruel and have you actually shaved bald. Besides, that would expose your identity to yet another person. Ned and Cat alone were certainly enough. Your eyes, though purple, were a deep enough shade for Ned to insist they were blue. Though, it’s not like anyone was inspecting.

From that day forth, you had to live with that on your shoulders. For a while after, you felt on edge nearly all the time. The feeling subsided eventually. When you sat for lessons with the Maester, though, and learned of your house.. you felt heartache. You felt heartache for the things they’d done but also the family you’d lost. They couldn’t have been all bad, right? You had to remind yourself to let go of that hurt, though. The Starks were your family.. or at least the closest thing you’d ever get to family. 

The years came and went and it became easier to handle your identity. You had to just.. forget about it. It didn’t matter because you’d never be able to reveal it or you’d surely be killed by the king or any of the other various enemies of House Targaryen.

It was vain, but one of the hard parts of concealing who you were was the head wrap you were forced to wear. When you were alone in your chambers, you could sit and brush your beautiful silver hair. It truly did transform you once you let it free and yet no one would ever be able to see it. It got worse as you got older and grew into a woman. The boys had gotten older and girls became more appealing.. so when a young woman like you was forced to dress like some old hag, it caused plenty of snickers. It hurt. Jon was the least likely to participate in the whispered teasing but there was occasions you could swear he was joining in. Theon was the most shameless and it was no wonder considering the way he shamelessly objectified other women. Robb typically went along with it. You had to remember that, hey, at least you were alive but it just couldn’t erase your feelings.

Things changed when Lord Stark left for the capital with Sansa and Arya-- not only that, but Jon left for the Wall. Lady Stark fell apart when Bran was injured. Rickon was young and you found yourself trying to keep him occupied while his mother tended to Bran. Finally, you were left with only Robb and Theon for some real company, as the two were almost your same age. You had your moments but honestly, you felt quite alone.

FINAL NOTES: i hope you guys liked it! i’m still figuring out how exactly i want to write this story. there might be points where i need to go into the 3rd person in order to show other events going on but i will try to keep most things from the reader point of view.

[7deadlycinderellas]

No more math and history, summer time has set us free ch1

Ao3 link

Camp Durrandon was the same as it had always been. Two lines of sixteen cabins, separated by gender and age, and two more lines of staff cabins in behind. The mess hall, the showers, the sports field, the drama barn, the campfire circle, the stables. They were all the same. The lake gleamed in the summer sunshine, the canoes tied and floating. The trees spring up behind the camp buildings, the forest the same as it had been for a hundred years, as it would be for a hundred more.

Even as she climbs out of the bus, Arya can’t believe it’s been four years.

The three buses pull into the front, in order of the distance of their departure; King’s Landing, Old Town, White Harbour. Standing around, Arya feels like a tree rooted in place. The majority of the children milling around her are in camper yellow, their names and cabin numbers currently being written on their backs by the blue clad unit counselors. Arya spies her brother Bran, carefully guiding his wheelchair down the bus ramp, in his CIT red.

Arya feels somehow both perfectly in place and out of place. Sixteen years old, despite her small size, her jean shorts and purple shirt mark her for what she is this year, a junior counselor. The picture on it, of the horses below the seven pointed star, tells of what. Horseback riding this year.

On one side is her sister Sansa, seventeen and in purple like her. Her shirt, unlike Arya’s, bears an image of mummer’s masks, she’s teaching drama this summer. On her other side is Meera Reed, an old friend. Eighteen and in the green worn only by senior counselors, she puts her hands on her hips and addresses Arya.

“I can’t believe you betrayed me. You always said when you could come back to camp, you’d teach archery with me. I’m stuck with another Mormont this year!”

Arya smiles.

“Lyra had a foot in ahead of me, the Mormonts have run archery here since we were campers. And there's another one after her, so there might be another coming too.”

Meera still looks miffed, but they drag their bags to check the list for which staff cabin is theirs this year.

Sansa’s going to be in Cabin 2 with Margaery, the drama senior counselor, and the aforementioned Mormont. Arya feels a pinch of heartache. When she was younger, she always shared a cabin with her sister, even when they should have been in separate age groups. Meera’s finger spots their names, they’re in Cabin 3, right next door.

“At least we’re in the same cabin,” Arya wheedles, “Who’s our third?”

Meera runs a finger down the list.

“Ygritte.”

Arya’s surprised. She had heard from Jon that she was planning to return to camp that year, but she still hadn’t been sure if she would get to see her at all.

Well, since it turns out the list says Ygritte’s the senior riding counselor, she’ll get to see her a lot.

Cabin 3 is a short walk up a hill, under a tree.

“I don’t remember the staff cabins being this far from the mess hall,” Arya complains.

Meera laughs.

“It’s been four years Arya, you might have forgotten a lot of things.”

The cabin contains three cots with trunks, a table, and a small bathroom. Arya throws her duffel on her cot and starts unpacking as fast as she can. She cringes at the sight of her two pairs of jeans. The Stormlands are extremely hot and humid in the summer, but you can’t ride horses in shorts, so she’s stuck.

“I’m going to go check on things in the stables,” she tells Meera, “And then down to the waterfront.”

“Will you make it to orientation?”

“I’ll try, but it’s not like Brienne can send me home if I don’t.”

“Don’t test her, she might,” Meera warns.

With a laugh, Arya leaves the cabin. The stables are in back of the camp, next to a trail that leads into the Mistwood National Park that the campgrounds are a part of.

They are much as she remembers. Dusty wood and the ever present smell of animal and leather. She stops to pet Nan, the old mare she had learned to ride on all those summers ago, on the nose, before she continues her search.

She doesn’t find what she’s looking for, but before she leaves, she runs into Ygritte, literally. The senior green pairs well with her flaming red hair.

“Didn’t see you there, sorry,” Arya’s voice rushes, as her breathing returns to normal.

Ygritte raises an eyebrow.

“So I take it I get you as my underling this year?”

Arya laughs. Ygritte’s only twenty, but always seemed to Arya like she was so much older than her.

“And cabin mate too. Don’t worry, we gave you the bunk closest to the bathroom. “

“I’ll be up there, I just had to come down and see old Crow here for a bit,” she tells her, rubbing the old black gelding on the nose.

There’s a long silence, which Arya breaks with a cough.

“Has Jon written to you since he shipped out?” she asks. There’s no reason to beat around the bush.

Ygritte smiles sadly and shakes her head.

“He hasn’t written us either,” she assures her. Arya’s memory of Jon leaving home in his uniform, promising to write them all about training and what he’s being taught. He’d enlisted the day of his eighteenth birthday, and had been gone since.

“I wouldn’t expect him to,” Ygritte admits, “I know the WAF takes training seriously, we used to go past the airfields all the time on long rides.”

Ygritte was from the north like them, but the far north. The far, far north. The part where you could ride on a road for hours and hours and never pass a single town. She lived on a sheep station. Arya still wasn’t sure why she even came to summer camp, it seemed to her like her normal life was like camp.

It’s with a curt nod that Arya leaves Ygritte to whatever it is she was doing.

The waterfront remains the same, the rocky shore and the dock, the lines of canoes. The posted signs every few feet, of the strictly enforced rules.

Arya steps in the lake, just far enough to get her feet wet. The feeling of the cool water and algae collecting on her toes is one she’s missed terribly. It had been far too long.

Her reminiscing is interrupted by a whistle that makes her jump and trip onto the ground.

“No swimming!” a voice behind her yells.

She stands back up, rubbing her bruised backside.

“I wasn’t swimming, I was standing-”

She turns to where the other voice is coming from, her own freezing up in her chest.

Taller than before, and broader than ever. His hair wasn’t quite as long, but his blue eyes are just as bright.

Completely unbidden, Arya feels a smile sprout upon her face.

“Gendry Waters,” she says, sauntering towards him. Her insides are doing an energetic dance, but she’s always been strangely confident around him.  He’s wearing the red and white t-shirt and trunks marking him as a lifeguard, the ultimate authority over the waterfront. “This place must be hard up if they gave you gainful employment.”

He grins, wolfishly, and her stomach does a series of increasingly acrobatic flips

“Arry,” he says, his voice disbelieving, “Never thought I’d see you back here. You look-”

“The same?”

Arya knows that’s not completely the truth. She was a skinny little shrimp at twelve, and had been the victim of an utterly terrible haircut earlier that summer. She still wasn’t exactly tall or womanly, but she thinks she looks less like a little homeless boy than before. Shirt color aside, she’s even dressed exactly the same.

“I finally started showering regularly and brushing my hair of my own accord. Sansa was so pleased.”

She eyes the whistle and shirt, and whistles herself.

“You’re the lifeguard now? What happened to Anguy?”

Gendry chuckles, and Arya feels the memory of the goofy old lifeguard, the one who so often looked the other way for their group’s little pranks.

“Anguy got the boot last summer when he got caught with a girl in his cabin.”

Arya raised an eyebrow. Anguy was charming and decently looking, he’d always had girls all over him.

“How was that strange, it can’t have been the first time?”

Gendry inhales roughly.

“It’s been a few years since you were here Arya, Anguy was twenty-two last summer...the girl he got caught with was only seventeen.”

Arya feels her lungs deflate.

“Classy as always I guess.”

There’s another pause, but it’s a comfortable one. She was always so comfortable around him, despite the reminder of how many years it had been.

“What else have I missed?” she asks.

Gendry puts his hands behind his head, chewing on his lip while he thought it over.

“Lommy and Weasel haven’t come back for a few years. Hot Pie skipped a year, but he’s working in the kitchen this summer.”

“Really?” Arya asked, surprised. Hot Pie had always been large and very fond of food.

“I worked in the same restaurant he did in King’s Landing this past year, and I let him know there was an opening here and he jumped at it. Wants to go to culinary school after he graduates.”

Arya laughs, thinking of the boy who’s greatest asset to their group being his ability to sneak them all extra snacks working in a loud kitchen.

“What about you?” Gendry asks.

Arya feels her stomach drop.

“What about me?”

“Have all of the illustrious Starks returned to camp for real this year?”

Arya pauses too, and hugs her middle.

“Sansa and I are junior counselors- she’s in the drama barn, I’m at the stables. Bran’s a CIT, Rickon’s the only of us who’s still an actual camper.”

Gendry’s eyes fade for a moment, so she continues.

“Jon joined the WAF as soon as he finished school, they haven’t even given him leave. And Robb is trying to work out the mess that is Dad’s company…”

Her voice trails off. Talk of the company always meant having to talk about Mum and Dad being gone, and she’s not ready to repeat all of that, not even to Gendry.

“Seven hells,” Gendry curses, “They’ve really got Jon up there flying planes?”

Arya smiles.

“We don’t know yet, he might end up a navigator or a mechanic or something. Not all of them can be pilots.”

Arya’s chest is warm. It’s such a pleasant feeling, and like being back at camp, it feels like it’s been too long since she’s felt this way.

“Gendry!” a voice says. Arya turns, and sees the source, a girl perhaps a year her junior with dark hair in CIT red, “We’re going to be late for orientation.”

“I’ll catch up to you, Shireen!” He yells after her. He turns and points down the path, and the two of them begin to walk side by side.

“Who’s she?” Arya asks. She doesn’t recognize her. And after attending Camp Durrandon from the ages of eight to twelve, she expects to.

“My foster sister, she’s never been here before.” Gendry replies. His eyes look a little haunted at the words, and Arya’s heart aches, remembering his stories of having to spend his childhood being bounced around like a pinball. It was only through an outreach ministry that he had even been able to attend camp.

When they speed up, Arya’s eyes go wide seeing the side of Shireen’s face which is angry pink and puckered, as though she had been burned.

Her mouth starts to open involuntarily, but Gendry grabs her hand and squeezes it.

“Don’t say anything. Please.”

And with a deep breath, Arya keeps her words to herself. Gendry looks surprised, she understands. She could never do that before.

They file in among the crowd for orientation, colorful dots among a sea of yellow. Up front, at the flagpole stands Beric Dondarrion, the camp owner, and Brienne, in Arya’s childhood the indomitable head girl’s counselor, now the activities director.

She’s got a clipboard and her whistle, and she’s making the same announcements that precede every camp session. Arya knows them by heart: no wandering outside camp by yourself, no going into the forest, no screwing around at the waterfront, lights out at 9. As an activity counselor, Arya has extra responsibilities, namely the upkeep of all the horses and the stables themselves, but also extra perks. Among them, better pay, and that once lights out came, no one much cared where they stayed.

Brienne leads the group around camp, showing them the cabins, the waterfront, all the activity areas. The tuck shop selling overpriced candy and t-shirts. The bathrooms, showers and laundry.

Orientation ends at the mess hall, a glorious smell emanating from within. Only the kitchen is actually inside, the line moving past several service windows ending in the open salad bar. The rest of the hall is long wooden tables under the cover of a white canopy, printed with the seven pointed star.

Fried chicken on the first night appears to still be the tradition. Arya plunks two drumsticks on her tray along with a heap of potatoes, before moving along the line and joining the others at the staff table.

Gendry’s barely poking at his food as he keeps turning to where Shireen sits. The CITs sit out among campers, they’re being trained on making sure they behave. Arya’s eyes follow his, and when they recite the grace of the seven before eating, Shireen looks completely bewildered.

Arya catches Gendry’s eye curiously. He reaches under the table and squeezes her hand.

“Please don’t ask here, I’ll tell you later.”

Later, when the welcome sundae bar comes out, she returns the words. They stand to get in line, when Bran rolls in front of them, leading his cabin to the line.

“I’ll tell you later too.”

Once the meal has winded down, Brienne stands and leads everyone to first-night campfire.

The smell of the wood smoke fills Arya’s nose, and she breathes it in. It smells like burned marshmallows and coming home.

Missandei has apparently become the campfire leader, sitting at the microphone holding her guitar. Arya is pleased. Missandei speaks five languages and knows lots of songs in all of them, not just the goofy ones about the Maiden and the Smith.

Arya spares a glance across the fire to where Gendry has sat down next to Shireen. It suddenly occurs to Arya where Shireen’s confusion might come from. If it weren’t for the grace before meals and the silly songs at campfire, you could forget quite easily that Camp Dundarron was run by the United Westerosi Church of the Seven. Arya frowns. Even in the north, where more than half the population attended other churches, most people still recognized the symbols and prayers.

Eventually, Missandei’s voice quiets, and Brienne claps to alert time to return to units.

When they make it up the hill toward cabin 3, Ygritte takes off. She’s on first patrol that night, and gets to walk around shining flashlights into each cabin to ensure lights out is being followed. Arya changes into her pajamas, sweat shorts and a t-shirt with the logo of the White Harbour Direwolves, a local baseball team. It used to be Jon’s, and nearly comes down to where Arya’s shorts end. Laying back on her bunk, Arya asks Meera,

“Do you think Brienne still has that weird saddle Jojen used to have to use?”

“The one with the seat belt and the extra straps? Probably, they didn’t have to get it special or anything, I think it’s been around since the older Tyrell’s were here.”

That makes sense. Margaery’s older brothers both had been to camp years before any of them, and she’d heard that Willas kept riding years after he’d been thrown from a horse. Arya’s face turns pensive. She wonders where it’s ended up.

“Trying to get Bran riding again?” Meera asks.

Arya nods.

“There’s a ranch that does therapeutic riding up further north from us, but we haven’t been able to work out the logistics of getting him there yet. I thought maybe if I could get him excited about it again, he would push us more at home to figure it out.”

There’s a pause, and Arya asks something that’s been bugging her since they got off the bus.

“Why didn’t Jojen come back this summer? You said you’ve been here every year.”

Meera’s quiet for a minute.

“He ended up in A&E at the end of the school year. He’s on a clinical trial now to see if a new anti-seizure medication works for him, and can’t be too far from a hospital for monitoring. He was so upset when I left.”

Arya’s chest tightens. She hadn’t meant to poke a wound.

Once Ygritte returns and flops onto her bunk, Arya stands.

“I’m going out for a bit.”

“Heading to the kissing tree?” Ygritte asks with a smirk.

Arya snorts, and ignores the fluttering in her chest. She’s referring to the tree behind the stables, next to the sign where Mistwood Park starts, and the property line ends. It’s one of the only parts of the camp that can give you a modicum of privacy.

“Just to the pier.”

Ygritte's rolled onto her stomach and is out already. Meera shrugs. She’s pulled out a book and has it open against her knees.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll make it to the kissing tree eventually.”

Arya leaves the cabin, huffing, and wishing she had never confided in Meera years ago about the last time she had snuck out the pier.

It was an easy enough walk. Their little crew, the Brotherhood Gendry had called it once, would sneak out after lights out. Hot Pie would sneak them all extra snacks, and they would plot itching powder revenge and sprees of short sheeting.

The last time they had done it, it had just been the two of them.

Halfway there, she wonders if Gendry will even be here. It’s been four years, they can’t have kept it up that long, really?

But there he sits, at the end of the pier, feet dangling in the water. Arya’s chest tightens at the sight, the moon is reflecting off his dark hair, shorter than he used to wear it.

She tries not to think too hard about the last time they’d come out here, that night that it had been just them. “Sansa’s gone off to the kissing tree with Joffrey,” she had told him, huffing. “She won’t shut up about it, and won’t believe me that he’s mean to all the other kids.”

 “Let that be her problem. I’ll help you sneak into his cabin and drop stink bugs in his clothes.”

 Arya had giggled at that. It seemed appropriate. She had still felt huffy though. Ever since Sansa had met Joffrey that summer, she hadn’t wanted to spend any time at all with her.

 There’s something else too.

 “Why does everyone make such a fuss about kissing anyway?”

 Arya had gotten her period earlier that summer, and questions like that had started coming to her more and more. Most of the other girls, even Sansa and her friends, had been so nice about it too, actually answering her questions instead of laughing and leaving her behind. It had been a change, like those silly pamphlets they got in school had described, but Arya, somehow, didn’t feel any different at all. Most of the time.

 Gendry had shrugged at that.

 “Cause it’s fun, I ‘spose.”

 Arya had pouted. Not that she’d assumed he’d never kissed a girl, he was fourteen after all, and that seemed so much older than twelve.

 “If it’s so fun...can you show me?”

 Gendry was taken aback.

 “How come?”

 Arya huffed even further.

 “Cause I want to know!”

 Gendry had looked back and forth, half looking like he was worried someone was going to sneak up on them, half like he was certain this was a prank.

 “Promise you won’t push me in the lake?”

 Arya thought from the outside it must have looked like a first kiss from the movies, with the clear blue lake in the background and the moon hanging overhead. It made her feel that way too, giddy, warm, her heart racing.

That was the last time she saw Gendry. All of the Starks were gone from camp in the morning. Arya sits beside him at the end of the pier, tucking her knees up to her chest.

“Which of us should go first?”

After a moment of silence, they both stick out their fists.

“Dragon, wolf, stag!”

Arya wins, though she still doesn’t understand how stag beats dragon.

Gendry leans back against the pier, face staring upward at the stars.

“The day I got home from camp, my foster dad kicked me out. I was just glad my things were already packed and I didn’t have to throw everything in a bin bag. The woman I was sent to next was...the worst one yet. There’s still an active court case ongoing because of her. After that, I got sent to live with Mr. Davos, and him, me and Shireen have been together for three years.”

Arya nods. She’s still sitting with her knees pulled up against her. She can’t see his face.

“That was one, now it’s your turn.”

One. She only has to tell one story, or one secret. That was how these always went.

“We all left camp that morning because Beric got a call that my father had died of a heart attack.”

Gendry bolts upright.

“Life went to chaos after that. There’s more...a lot more...but that’s just my one for tonight.”

Gendry starts to lean forward. Arya’s still hunched over. His hand reaches out to rest on her back, but hesitates. Arya pushes herself back ever so slightly and his hands lingers softly against her back, the warmth going through straight to her skin. She swallows roughly, a single tear running down her cheek.

“It’s late,” she says. “We should be getting back.”

Gendry nods, though she can’t see him.

“Yeah. Swim tests are in the morning.”

Arya chuckles.

“I almost forgot about swim tests.”

“So you’re just going sleep in tomorrow, not get your clip and then spend the whole summer in a life jacket at the waterfront?”

Arya sticks one foot in the lake and uses it to fling a bit of algae at Gendry’s face.

“Your name may be Waters, but if you think I’m going to give up the title of summer-wide lake zombie hunt queen, you’ve got something else coming.”

[moon-ruled-rising]

as the rain hides the stars

read the full story on Ao3...

v. i will not fold

I will not fold,

she’s in control.

Of everything.

Of everything and everyone.

-The Lumineers, “Scotland”

They left Winterfell before the sun was up. The motorcade of cars traveling along the Winter Road to White Harbor, the closest thing the North had to a city. It was also the only town in the North to have an airport large enough for commercial aircraft.

Barrowton had a small one for bush planes and small private jets and some lords had hangars on their properties but the Starks never felt the need for such luxuries. Their commercial flight got them to King’s Landing just fine. 

They were never ones to flaunt their money, mostly to appear relatable to their citizens. The North was a poor country. What would it look like if half the people were starving in winter but the royal family had a private jet? According to Ned, it would look tacky and selfish. Lord Manderly on the other hand, owned three and his fleet of yachts was rivaled only by the Redwynes of the Reach.

But the Royal Starks weren’t saints, they had their weak spots. Specifically, fancy cars that weren’t built to drive the speed limit. Those extravagant purchases were only on the occasion of an important birthday. Arya and Bran were the last ones to receive their tricked out vehicles and they were still waiting for their first race with their older siblings.

The King’s Landing airport was huge and flashes of cameras greeted them. A far cry from the welcomes they received at home. In the North, the tabloids weren’t interested in the Starks. And the Starks worked hard to keep it that way. 

They were escorted by men in white and gold uniforms to a line of black cars waiting for them. One for the King, one for his children, and a third for any extra security detail. 

The capital city of the United Kingdoms of Westeros was much larger than Jon anticipated. There were so many cars and people, White Harbor was a mere hovel compared to the sprawling grid of high rises. It expanded past the jumbled gathering of squat buildings comprising the Old City and into the definition of modernity and industrialization.

Sansa gazed out the window, giddy as a young girl on her name day. Robb tried to hide his amazement but he’d never seen buildings so tall in person either. Jon would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed by them too.

He couldn’t hold back the feeling that the large buildings were mocking them. This is what happened when your ancestor was too stubborn to bend the knee, they taunt, the world moved on and left you in the past.

Curious pedestrians looked at their cars as they passed, as if their eyes could see through the dark tint. Jon couldn’t shake the feeling they were animals in a zoo. Wild northerns out of their native habitat.

The buildings got shorter the closer they got to the old city. The road narrowed, just wide enough to allow their vehicles through. The disappearance of the skyscrapers did little to lessen Jon’s apprehension.

The Old City was poorly planned. The influx of people after the establishment of the southern capital didn’t allow for proper city planning and the construction of the low buildings was rushed to accommodate the people. The streets were still cobblestone like they were in ancient times and the facades on the buildings crumbled. It felt like a different city entirely.

“I read that the old city isn’t anything more than a tourist trap now,” Sansa remarked.

“I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live here when there’s a shining city just feet away.”

Robb sunk back against the seat, eyes still glued to the Old City. 

“They remind me of White Harbor,” Jon commented.

The one massive difference between White Harbor and King’s Landing lay ahead of them. The detached mood of the car brightened when the gates of the Red Palace came into view.

They were impressive. A high wall of red brick interrupted by an iron gate flanked by two silver dragons with widespread wings. As the cars drove around the courtyard they got a view of the large fountain. Three dragons spouting water from their jaws instead of fire. It was obvious the fountain was meant to convey the greatness of the Targaryens but the absence of fire made it less fearsome. 

The fountain didn’t need to be menacing. The facade of the palace rose above them, intimidating in red marble. Hundreds of windows and dragon shaped gargoyles leered at them. It was as if Jon stepped through the gate to another dimension. He couldn’t imagine a structure with dominance disguised as opulence. 

If the front of the palace was breathtaking, the entrance hall was even greater. The high ceilings painted like the sky with dragons resting on clouds and flying between them, Targaryens atop their winged backs. A chandelier descended from the false sky, the clear crystal sparkled in the natural light from the high windows. At the back of the room stood a large staircase of red marble, just like the floor. The walls hosted large paintings in front of the intricate blood red wallpaper, interspersed with busts of important figures. From the picture frames to the delicate filigree moulding along the edges of the room, everything was accented in silver.

It was overbearing and Jon suffocated in the gaudiness. Something in him wanted to run but the King awaited them.

“That’s not how I imagined Rheagar looking,” Sansa commented.

Jon remembered the Targaryens having silver hair. The man who stood before them was short and sharply dressed, his cropped dark hair streaked with grey. 

“Welcome, your graces, to the Red Palace. His Majesty apologizes for his absence but he had important matters to attend to but he looks forward to meeting you at the gala tonight. I’m Petyr Baelish, Palace Coordinator.”

“We understand. Rheagar is a very busy man. Tell him-”

“No need, I’m right here.” 

Descending the staircase was a thin, tall man with silver hair, his posture erect. That man was a king. He had a charming smile and moved as though he wore a heavy crown on his head, though there wasn’t one there.

“My apologies again, Your Majesty, some matters can’t be handed off to an eager assistant.”

“I understand entirely.”

“I trust your journey was well?”

“It was, thank you,” Ned smiled, “This is Jon, my eldest.”

Rhaegar turned to Jon, “Your father tells me you spent time in the armed forces.”

“I was stationed at Castle Black for four years with the Night’s Watch.”

“Good,” he affirmed, “Military service makes for good kings. I was stationed in the Stepstones for a time. That was an experience I’ll never forget.”

“My next eldest, Robb.”

“And you’ve just graduated from University?”

It was strange. The way Rhaegar spoke to them as though he’d known them for years even though they’d never met once before. There was no etiquette or formality. Jon tried to catch Sansa’s eyes to see if they were picking up the same feeling but she was too focused on Rhaegar.   

When he was done with Robb, he complimented Sansa on her grace and beauty, as everyone did. 

“A pleasure to meet you all. I would have more people to introduce but it appears they’re all too busy preparing for the gala tonight. Baelish, would you please show our guests to their rooms, I’d like a moment to talk alone with Ned.”

Rhaegar gave a knowing look to the Northern King before Baelish ushered them out of the hall. 

“Did you get the feeling there’s something else going on here?” Jon whispered as they trailed behind the palace coordinator.

“They weren’t even trying to hide it,” Sansa agreed. 

The assistant showed them the guest rooms, which were just as decorated and saturated as the entrance hall. Jon got lucky with the room he was assigned.

It was much quieter with simple white marble instead of red and significantly less decor. He set himself to work unpacking the three piece suit required for that night’s gala and trying to not get distracted by everything around him.

“I’ve never seen so much stuff,” Robb said, strolling through the door connecting their rooms. 

“They’ve been here forever.”

“We’ve been in Winterfell for centuries and we don’t have half as much.”

“You obviously haven’t been to the first keep recently,” Sansa entered and lowered herself onto the plush bed, putting her feet up in the air.

“They have a marble bust of every ancestor. Isn’t that overkill?” Robb asked.

“We have a marble bust of every ancestor too. We just keep ours in the crypts,” Jon remarked.

“By the way, Jon, dad wants to talk to you.”

Sansa rolled onto her stomach to look at her older brother. As if he knew what was going on.

“About what?”

“He wouldn’t tell me so it must be really important.”

Jon sighed and abandoned his suitcase, heading off to find his father.

The study of the guest apartments was another overdone room with green and gold walls and marble floors. There was even a mural of a luscious orchard set between rolling green hills with a far off castle. Ned sat behind the imposing mahogany desk, a manilla folder in his hand.

“Please close the door and sit down.”

Jon did as told and awaited his father’s words.

“Is there anyone special in your life right now?” 

Jon chuckled, “No.”

“Well what about that girl who works at the Smoking Log, Ygritte? What about her?”

“There’s nothing there.” 

Maybe once, when they were eager teens who spent a lot of time around each other, but not anymore. Jon was sure she wasn’t crown sanctioned and approved. Being the daughter of a local diplomat put her on the list (at a very low position) but she still had no real title and her current job was a strike against her.

“What does my romantic life have to do with this meeting?”

“Do you remember why we’re here?”

“You said the charity tonight is an environmental conservation we support,” Jon said, unable to take his eyes off the folder.

“Yes, but that’s not the only reason we’ve come. A couple of months ago I received a report from Maester Kennet that crop yields for this year are significantly low compared to last year. He also included in his report, a prediction by the weather service that this winter will be the longest and harshest we’ve endured in the past hundred years.”

“We’ll have enough for ourselves and Wintertown. Surely the other great lords can figure something out.”

“The great lords are already asking for more supplies and it’s only the middle of summer,”

“What can we do?”

“Patience, Jon. Let me finish.”

Jon sat back in his chair, eyeing his father.

“I reached out to Rhaegar to see if we could reach a trade agreement. Something that would allow us to import food from the Reach but still recognize our sovereignty. And he agreed. A week later he contacted me and told me that the Senate refused to send us aid without us joining their union. They claimed the original treaty was so well thought out that there weren’t any loopholes.”

Jon wanted to speak up but he remembered that he had to be patient. He was not a politician and this was a political game.

“But there is one exception.”

Ned placed the folder he was toying with in front of Jon. He opened it carefully. An official portrait of a young woman with white blonde hair and violet eyes. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, first of her name, Princess Royal of the United Kingdoms of Westeros and Lady of Dragonstone. The look in her eyes and hint of a smile on her face reminded Jon of the famous painting of a Braavosi Lady, haunting and mysterious.

He looked at his father in question.

“Association by marriage. If an important royal family member is linked to our country they will send aid. Marriage is the only way to do that.”

“What?”

“Since we are in desperate need of support, Rhaegar offered the marriage contract between you and the Princess without hesitation.”

“Isn’t this archaic?”

“It’s old-fashioned, sure, but it’s necessary.” 

“It can’t be,” Jon protested.

“I know it’s shocking-”

“That’s one way to put it,” Jon huffed as he turned over her photo to look at the rest of the dossier. 

There were a few other words Jon could think to use in that situation. Earth shattering and heartstopping, to name a couple.

The report listed all of her charity work, schooling, and family. Jon remembered Sansa talking about a gossip column from one of the tabloids she liked to read. That tidbit was strangely absent from the information. No doubt the Red Palace wanted to smooth over the rough parts of their princess.

“What about Robb?”

“I suggested your brother first. He’s certainly the better choice, politically. Their union wouldn’t cause a fuss since she’s not inheriting the whole kingdom. But Rheagar insisted that it be you.”

“They’ll never accept her,” Jon stated.

“They don’t have to. She’s the key to our survival and she gets a say in the treaty. Tonight, your job is to impress her, get on her good side and convince her that we are worth the sacrifice.”

“What if I can’t?”

Jon had to be honest with himself, he was not a “lady’s man”. That was Robb’s department. 

“You don’t have to sweep her off her feet like Prince Charming. Arranged marriages aren’t uncommon for people of our status, if you make her feel comfortable and understood we shouldn’t have a problem.”

“I can try,” he promised.

“That’s my boy.”

Taking another look at the princess’ portrait, he ran his hand over her title printed at the bottom of the page. When he was younger, and still a bastard, he dreamed of proving himself to his father and gaining a title and lands. When he was legitimized he thought the need to prove himself would go away but there he was, with another test to face. And Jon knew he was going to do everything in his power to pass it.  

“You can’t be serious! We can’t have a southern queen!”

“We know Sansa. The situation isn’t ideal but it’s what dad thinks is best.”

“Did he tell you about her scandals? She’s been spotted with dozens of different men, not to mention her nipple was all over the internet! The small council will have a field day with her.” Sansa paced back and forth, the train of her dark green dress swishing.

“Our own people will mock us,” Robb objected.

“You act like I have a choice in the matter!”

Jon ran his hand through his messy curls, disrupting the gel that held them back.

“We’re not saying that,” Sansa assured him, reaching out to fix his hair.

“It’s upsetting.”

Robb stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his suit jacket. He picked up the folder with the Princess’ information in it.

“She is beautiful,” he mused.

“Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s … calculated.” Sansa smoothed out the shoulders of Jon’s jacket.

“Calculated?” Jon asked.

“When she wants something, she’ll do anything and everything she can to get it. That’s what the Dothraki Khal said about her in an all-access interview.”

“A Khal? Oh, you’ve got competition buddy,” laughed Robb. 

“I doubt measuring up to a horselord is the thing to worry about. The Maester claims that if we don’t get aid we won’t survive. And we all know the Boltons are looking for a crack in our armor.”

“And marrying a Southerner is supposed to strengthen that armor?”

“It’s better than letting our people die.”

“What about the Kingdoms in Essos? Couldn’t we arrange trade deals with them?” Robb interjected.

“Not without paying them. And our economic situation isn’t in the best place either.”

“The last thing we need is to be indebted to other countries.”

Sansa pushed Robb out of the way so she could fix the gold butterfly pins in her hair. She’d forgone the tiara, wearing her hair down. She always thought she was too young to wear her hair in the complicated updos favored by the older ladies. 

“So, what’s our plan?”

“Our what?”

“Our plan,” she enunciated, “We need to secure this alliance for our people and, let’s face it, Jon’s conversational abilities are subpar.”

“Hey!” 

She gave Jon a sympathetic look. 

“We’ve got to win over the princess.”

Dealing with the soul crushing weight of his future marriage would have to wait. There was only one mission for the night, to impress the princess.

This whole thing wouldn’t matter if you blew it tonight. The errant thought danced across his mind and Jon took no joy in the fact that he even considered it. If he slipped up in the slightest, his people wouldn’t get aid. And they wouldn’t survive the winter.

“Sansa, what was that tabloid picture you mentioned earlier?” Jon questioned.

Her phone was in her hand before he finished his sentence. 

“The tabloid issued a statement that the photo was doctored and offered an official apology to the princess. They also took the photo down, but not before I could screenshot it.”

She held her phone out to Jon, the article in question displayed. He read the caption and a name stood out. 

“Who’s Daario Naharis?”

“Tyroshi tech millionaire.”

“A millionaire and Dothraki horse lord? Jon doesn’t stand a chance,” Robb laughed.

“Well, he has one thing they don’t.”

“And what’s that?” He handed her phone back.

He wished this evening long roast by his siblings would end.

“You’re going to be a King.”

[alliekitaguchi]

teaser / opinions needed

so i’ve been working on a new idea for a story and i wanted to drop a teaser to see how many people would be interested......... lemme know!

READ MORE UNDER THE CUT

The day she’d been born, the skies had wept.

Violent, dangerous rain had pelted the side of Winterfell’s castle, rough winds screaming along the stone walls and through the courtyards. Thunder boomed loudly overhead, echoing in the dimly lit chambers and overcoming the wails of Catelyn Stark, who was attempting to give birth to her third child.

Ned Stark had watched, brows furrowed in concern as his wife screamed in pain. It hadn’t been like this for Robb and Sansa, hadn’t been nearly as chaotic. Robb, with only four name-days under his belt, had held his younger sister close to him as she wept, squealing whenever another crack of thunder exploded around them.

Ned held onto his wife’s hand, her face pinched in pain as another wail tore its way out of her throat. Sansa was still sobbing in the corner, only two name-days in, her face stuffed in her brother’s chest. He shushed her quietly, his soft noises getting drowned out by the storm pounding against the castle.

“Robb,” Ned had called, pitching his voice to be heard over the sounds of Catelyn’s moaning. “Take your sister and get out of here.”

“But father—”

“Go, Robb. Find Jon.” Ned had told him, his eyes darting to one of the Septa’s nearby. She had nodded at him, understanding, and gently took Sansa from Robb’s arms, taking the small boy’s hand in hers. Ned had turned back to Catelyn, quietly murmuring, “It’s alright, my love. You’re doing wonderful.”

“Lord Stark is right, my Lady,” Septa Mordane had said, eyes never leaving Catelyn’s open legs. “I can just about see the head.”

“About damn time!” Catelyn had growled, her lovely face twisted in a snarl as veins popped out on her forehead and neck.

“Push, darling.” Ned had kissed his wife’s hand. Catelyn had thrown her head back, gritting her teeth as sweat dripped down her skin. She clamped down hard on Ned’s hand and he yelped in pain as she howled. Ned could barely make out the Septa’s soothing tone over the sound of the wind shrieking outside.

As the babe came into the world, a bolt of lightning touched down just outside the window, the thunder so loud that Ned let go of his wife’s hands to clamp his own over his ears. Everyone in the room seemed to be screaming—the new babe, his wife, his other children from down the hall.

“It’s a girl!” Septa Mordane had proclaimed loudly, pushing away from her Lord and Lady. She had cleaned the baby off as Ned tended to his wife, stroking her hands soothingly.

Catelyn had been panting as Ned looked down at her. She had looked utterly drained, exhaustion seeping into her entire body. She had motioned with her hands and Septa Mordane placed the child in her waiting arms. She and Ned had stared down into the babe’s fresh face, her mouth open as a wail came out.

“She’s lovely,” Catelyn had whispered, her voice croaky from all of her screaming. “She’s a wolf, this one.”

“A fighter,” Ned agreed softly, transfixed by the small bundle in his wife’s arms. “She’s a fighter.”

“Aye, she is.”

“My Lord?” The question had come from one of the Septa’s in the room, who was staring at the window in horror. The panic in her voice made Ned lift his head from his daughter. “You might want to see this.”

Ned had stood slowly, reluctant to leave Catelyn’s side. He had made his way to the window and froze as he peered outside. It was still pouring, though the thunder seemed to have finally stopped. Outside, directly below their window, one of the giant trees along the outer wall of the castle was on fire.

Leaves were dripping from the burning sapling, brilliant orange against the dark sky around them. Licks of fire seemed to climb up higher and higher, reaching upwards until his eyes started to water from the heat. It almost seemed to be reaching for something as the flames crept up the side of the castle, mere feet away from where Ned’s head was poking out the window.

Behind him, his daughter let out another wail.

The flames flickered underneath him.

The rain seemed to have no effect on it whatsoever. The fire continued to rage and burn, sending smoke drifting up towards him. He had stepped back in surprise, swallowing dryly. The smell of burning wood seeped into the room, nearly suffocating him. He had turned to the Septa and said, “Send some men to put that out immediately.”

She had nodded, only once, and strode out of the room. Ned had returned to Catelyn’s side, gently sitting beside her on the bed so he could peer down at his daughter. Catelyn had glanced up as he sat down, asking, “What is it?”

“The tree under our window is ablaze.” Ned had told her.

“In this storm?” Catelyn had raised an eyebrow, aghast.

“It will all be alright, my dear.”

Catelyn had seemed skeptical but turned her attention back to the babe in her arms. She and Ned had watched the small girl wiggle in her furs for a few moments before Catelyn had quietly said, “We need to give her a name.”

The wind drifted in through the window, the breeze suddenly much gentler than it had been moments before. Ned’s hair was blown back slightly from his face and the wind seemed to whisper in his ear. He had looked upon his daughter and smiled. “Arya,” He had stated. “Arya Stark.”

When the next child was born, the sun had been beaming down on Winterfell. Brandon Stark entered the world with a gentle whimper, his eyes opening and taking in the world around him in wonder. Rickon Stark was born under a brilliantly shining moon, the stars twinkling down on him as his pale eyes sought out Catelyn’s grinning face.

As the Stark children grew older, their differences became staggeringly apparent. Robb Stark was tall and handsome, with his mother’s auburn hair and her blue eyes. He was charming and confident, erring on the side of conceited, with the authority of someone who would someday be a Lord.

Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, grew to be as strikingly handsome as Ned Stark had been as a young boy. His hair was nearly black, curling around his face wildly as he moved. His eyes were the same deep charcoal grey color that Ned’s were and he had the same, determined set to his jaw as the Lord of Winterfell.

Sansa grew up to be elegant and graceful, with her long legs and creamy white skin. Her hair, the color of autumn leaves, was shiny and sleek, always twisted into a gorgeous hairstyle. She also had the Tully look—fiery hair, high cheekbones, and clear, blue eyes. She held herself with the grace of a future Queen.

Bran was still young but was slowly becoming a man. He was often brash and childlike, but was learning from Robb, Jon, and Ned on how to conduct himself as a young man. Catelyn liked to remind him that someday, when he was older, he’d marry a Lady and become the Lord of a foreign land.

Rickon, the youngest of the group, wasn’t quite pressured in the same way Robb and Bran were. He was free to roam about Winterfell, though he often tagged along with his elder brothers anyway—gazing at them with the same adoration Bran once had. He idolized them, following them around no matter where they went.

Arya was the odd one out.

She was the complete opposite of her sister, closer to being a boy than a girl. She absolutely refused to wear anything with a skirt and would sneak into the training yards to watch her brothers practice. No one was ever really sure when or how she’d done it, but over the years, she’d learned to be a talented archer.

Out of all the children, she was the one who resembled the Starks the closest, except for maybe Jon. Arya had the same dark, wild hair that Ned and Jon did, though hers was perpetually messy and streaked with mud. She even had the same piercing grey gaze, slightly longer face, and the grim look about her that her half-brother and father did.

Though their family was close, Arya had always favored Jon. In return, he taught her how to hold a sword, gently correcting her stance and allowing her to swing a few of the practice swords on occasion. He would listen to her chatter day in and day out, giving her the softest of smiles whenever she appeared in his line of vision.

The rest of her family took her fascination with Jon in stride and left her be.

Her other brothers paid her no mind and Sansa was often cruel towards her, so Arya learned to keep to herself early on. She wasn’t quiet in nature—where she went, destruction and chaos seemed to follow—but she learned at a young age to hold her tongue in the presence of her family and any passing guests.

She knew she wasn’t her mother’s favorite, but she was quite certain that her father held her in high regards, though she wasn’t entirely sure. He allowed her to keep the sword Jon gifted her for her thirteenth name-day and even got her a “dancing” instructor, but his eyes still followed her warily whenever she was in the room.

She knew why he was scared of her.

They all did.

Since the day she was born, death seemed to follow closely at her heels.

The storm that had carried her into the world had also taken nine people out of it. Arya’s seventh name-day had brought upon an inescapable snowstorm, one that swallowed up a family’s entire home. On her first journey to Riverrun, two of the Knights guarding her had fallen off the path and drowned in the river.

The first time she had ever fallen ill, a sickness spread throughout Winterfell and three of the villagers died in a single night. Arya’s own illness had passed the same night and she woke up healthy the next morning. The first time she was allowed out riding with her brothers, they found a deserter from the Night’s Watch and had to witness his beheading.

The first time she had appeared on the training grounds, one of the men practicing had been accidentally stabbed with a live blade and he’d bled to death on the ground while she screamed for a Maester. When the Baratheon King came to visit, an assassin was ripped apart while trying to murder Bran in his chambers.

Arya knew that the townsfolk whispered about her. She knew that they told stories of the pandemonium that she seemed to draw. Part of her started to believe them. She often wondered if she was the cause of the death that seemed to loom around her. When her father was executed with her in the audience, she stopped wondering.

[roadsiderose]

Three Eyed Crow and Celtic Mythology (Part III)

Conclusion to the three part series on the identity of the Three Eyed Crow.

Since I first read the books, I believed the three eyed crow is a character that's closer to home for Bran.

The crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of fear, and the grey mists shuddered and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil, and he saw that the crow was really a woman, a serving woman with long black hair, and he knew her from somewhere, from Winterfell, yes, that was it, he remembered her now, and then he realized that he was in Winterfell, in a bed- high in some chilly tower room, and the black-haired woman dropped a basin of water to shatter on the floor and ran down the steps, shouting, “He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s awake.” (Bran, AGOT)

I always felt the character of the three eyed crow was in some parts inspired by the Celtic myth of Morrigan, whose symbol was the crow. This led me to believe that the three eyed crow was a woman. She knew of Bran's greenseeing abilities, and wanted him to meet the last greenseer, Bloodraven who could teach him how to use them.

There is also a slight allusion in the Faith of the Seven song, of the maiden giving dreams to little children.

The Maiden dances through the sky,

she lives in every lover's sigh.

Her smiles teach the birds to fly,

and gives dreams to little children.

We know that all the Stark children having warging abilities. With Bran possibly being one of the strongest wargs in their family (after all he could warg into Hodor). Warging into a raven seems a fairly easy feat for any warg.

Slipping into Summer’s skin had become as easy for him as slipping on a pair of breeches once had been, before his back was broken. Changing his own skin for a raven’s night-black feathers had been harder, but not as hard as he had feared, not with these ravens. “A wild stallion will buck and kick when a man tries to mount him, and try to bite the hand that slips the bit between his teeth,” Lord Brynden said, “but a horse that has known one rider will accept another. Young or old, these birds have all been ridden. Choose one now, and fly.”

When Bran reminisces stories of Old Nan, he wishes all his brothers and sisters were with him. He wonders if they could all turn into ravens and live in Maester Luwin's rookery.

Old Nan had told him the same story once, Bran remembered, but when he asked Robb if it was true, his brother laughed and asked him if he believed in grumkins too. He wished Robb were with them now. I’d tell him I could fly, but he wouldn’t believe, so I’d have to show him. I bet that he could learn to fly too, him and Arya and Sansa, even baby Rickon and Jon Snow. We could all be ravens and live in Maester Luwin’s rookery. (Bran, ADWD)

Now for my tinfoily conclusion: I believe that the three eyed crow is Lyanna Stark. I believe that Lyanna is the one strong and mysterious female character in the story, that we don't see… however has a huge presence throughout the entire tale, a bit like Morrigan herself. I think it possible that Lyanna warged into a raven at the time of her death. She appears to Bran in his dreams, as the three eyed crow. Lyanna probably knew Bran was the gifted one, and her purpose as the three eyed crow was to guide Bran to Bloodraven who could 'awaken' his greenseeing abilities. I would not be surprised that Lyanna had met with Bloodraven while growing up in Winterfell. She was always the adventurous one, who may have ventured to the other side of the Wall, if not as herself, disguised as a warg. The reason she appears as a three eyed crow in Bran's visions is because that is the closest appearance she keeps, and the third eye is a symbol of her 'awakened' self.

Since all the Stark children have strong warging abilities, it only makes sense that the older Starks; Brandon, Lyanna, Ned and Benjen had warging abilities too. Ravens were also kept up North, near the Wall. This way she could also stay closer to Benjen.

Five men, three boys, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given over to Benjen Stark by Maester Luwin. No doubt they made a curious fellowship for the kingsroad, or any road.

Now you might wonder, if she could be the one warging into Jeor Mormont's raven. I think it is possible. After all, she knows more about Jon that anyone else in the story.

I also find it sneaky how the show has associated feathers with Lyanna multiple times. The one time Robert Baratheon visits her in the crypts, he places a feather next to her statue. And the recent promo, depicts a feather float past her statue. There are also the still depictions of Ned on the Iron Throne, sitting next to a raven. I could be very wrong about this theory. But I like the idea of Lyanna still being alive, and I've carried this idea for over six years since I first read AGOT. The reason I never posted this in its entirety, is because reddit/asoiaf fans can be brutal. Hah! Nevertheless, here is my two cents on one of my pet theories in ASOIAF.