systraes

[systraes]

eldrith - my sweet angel, you are insane for this and im straddling the blurry line between executing you via stretcher, or worshipping you for the feelings this evoked within me. Therefore while i contemplate your punishment, ill share the special bits that tore me apart in the best way possible:

‘his heart beats, and its rhythm is your name’

‘there is a queen in the red keep who speaks of liberation with fire upon her tongue’

‘blame a frost bitten tree for refusing the hope of spring.’

“I’ve never had to try.”

YOU are SICK and TWISTED; and i love you and cannot wait to talk more about This Man and our Devious plans with him. you never fail to amaze me, my jaw is on the floor.

I want to tell him everything is going to be alright while i wipe away his tears and dry hump him. God forbid a girl understands what a man needs??

˗ˏˋ if i believe you ˎˊ˗ jon snow

jon snow x reader words: 2.4k synopsis: "There is a queen in the Red Keep who speaks of liberation with fire upon her tongue and necks beneath her heel. and Jon Snow unravels by the hour." notes: finally posting some jon yaaay <3 lit had no idea what to title this so whatever... but im rly trying to learn to write his character so all feedback is appreciated!! n e ways i think this could be read as reader being a targ, but there is no physical description nor much background at all. so do what you love! dedicating this to @dipperscavern & @systraes words can't describe... but u know warnings: major show spoilers, p light smut, angst, references to danyxjon, canon-divergent; i lit don't know my own timeline here but i hope you guys are willing to overlook that LOL. post battle of winterfell. jon is still in the north & dany just took kl. idk. i dont know im sorry im so sorry please i just wanted to post this masterlist requests for jon snow are open.

WHEN NIGHT FALLS, THE KEEP OF WINTERFELL GROWS QUIET. 

These days it is a welcome change; not particularly due to any lack of solitude when sought – but because you, a creature brought forth to the world from a nest of bustling civilization, find yourself rather placated with the silence of Winterfell’s blizzarded walls. You quite enjoy the snow in the North, and all things serene and quiet that it has brought in the days following the fall of Death’s march; but tonight, your heart aches. 

Because it is dawn you dread this evening.

The flames before you dance; and you, rooted to the settee, hold your hand over the flames and consider not for the first time what it would be like to never feel the burn of heat licking flesh. 

Outside, snow comes in droves of howling wind and tiny icicles pelting the glass and stone; Some part of your heart mends itself at the sound – for you know your solitude will be relieved quite soon. 

Because it always snows when he comes. 

This evening, it is not the gentle kind; No flurries dance from the heavens to kiss your sleeve, no wayward lace drifting down from far-off peaks like some god’s idle sigh.

No; this snow is heavy. Relentless. 

It worms through the stones of the old path, creeps into the marrow of the earth, blankets the frozen bloodstained ground in a thick quiet, numbs the breath before it can even leave your mouth. 

He doesn’t knock. 

Jon hardly ever does. 

And you feel him before you see him; always, with a gust of flurries and a hitch in your breath, his footfalls come with that same strange stillness that has seemed to shadow him ever since his heart began beating again. A stoicism, some odd stutter in the world – as if he’s come from the past. 

As if he’s still part of it. 

You have always kept your chambers warm – a habit that often drips in tease from Jon’s lips in the light of morning, though he hardly ever makes any effort to quell your quest for warmth in his embrace when the sun has yet to rise. 

Snow melts in rivulets down the dark furs clinging to his shoulders, beads into cold stars on his lashes as your eyes find his own. Behind him lingers his Ghost – perhaps the only being in Winterfell more quiet and haunted than he. 

He crosses the chamber with a slow pace and you do not so much as rise, far past used to the lack of formalities required between you and Jon.  

You know why he is here just as well as he does.

The raven came this morning to the hands of the Direwolves; speaking of victory and scorched earth of a sister – of nobody – roaming ash-whirling roads and blood-slick alleys.

Someone new sits upon the throne of swords as night falls over the smoldering remains of King's Landing.  

Jon’s gaze casts down to where you sit upon the settee, back to him, warming your weary bones before the hearth. He admires your frame; though he speaks not of it, still you know – you have never required the pretense of courtesy. He does not hide his admiration of you anymore. 

Jon steps just behind you, not daring to disrupt the hazy solitude of you and your blazing hearth. 

Now, he has become something of a shadow of your own; with a sturdy chest, burdened shoulders, and a gaze that cuts through any hesitation you’ve ever foolishly entertained. Your head turns once again to take in the dark kiss of fur across his shoulders, the slope of his jaw, the tied gathering of dark hair along his temples. 

Jon’s eyes are warm with a tenderness you know as no other has ever known; affection in that spiraling pit of solemnity. Though he does not yet remove his cloak. 

It is not long before his voice comes, heavy as the snowfall beyond your door. “I saw your torchlight.” 

The doors in this wing of the keep have thin gaps above the warmed stone; your gaze leaves the curve of his shadowed jaw to trace the lines of light stretching their curled talons beneath the oak slab where they fade against the bitter bite of freeze. 

“I could not sleep,” you sigh, if only to answer the question he does not ask. 

His sigh is gentle, consolatory; and his hand twitches upon his side, as though his fingers yearn to caress the stray tresses that come loose near your neck. 

You know he cannot sleep either – and you do not have to say why. 

Because the why is here; it is woven into the threads holding the freshly spun Stark banner out in the courtyard, it is leaking through the weakened gasps recovering in the infirmary, it trickles from the very thick flake that falls from high in the gods’ skies and beats the remnants of frozen blood far beneath the earth. It’s in the emptiness in the town and the whistling calls of the hills, in the beat of echoed horses towards the Kingsroad hardly more than a fortnight ago.  

The war in the North is over, but peace has not come. 

The ravens came this morning. It is ture: There is a queen in the Red Keep who speaks of liberation with fire upon her tongue and necks beneath her heel; there is ash and blood in the streets, howling screams carrying through the wind.

The realm is spun in a thick web, and Jon Snow unravels by the hour. 

He stands there, your shadow grown behind the settee; Perhaps he watches the flames, or perhaps he watches you. 

The glint of firelight in your hair, upon your cheek. The stillness of your breath, how it rises and curls over the neckline of your dress, how your fingers tug at a thread of upholstery beneath you. The curve of your hips along the fabric of your dress, the slight curve of your neck. 

It is a look of love, by any other name. And perhaps, if you were a different person, and he, a different man – you might ask something from him. A promise, perhaps. 

But you ask for nothing from him; because you know what Jon Snow is. 

He is the man who leaves – who kisses you in the shadows and becomes a pillar of salt in the first shy wink of morning light; and you cannot, for all the spite and selfish hunger in you, bring yourself to blame a frost bitten tree for refusing the hope of spring. 

You love him in spite of it. Or, perhaps, because of it. 

And so you hardly stir when his palm finds the junction of your neck and shoulder, a creeping and almost apologetic thing.

A calloused palm, one so weary and hardened and yet relentlessly kind; Your jaw tilts in quiet invitation as he stands behind you, letting his thumb soothe over the raised gooseflesh of your skin. 

When he says your name, a flood of warmth pools in your stomach; you ease into his touch, sighing when his palm slides away to rest upon the back of your settee – though his warmth remains. It always does. 

His voice comes once more, still low, resigned. 

“You’ll hate me.” 

You don’t speak for fear of the tightening in your throat; for the visions of cloudy skies and floating ash, of sliding breaths and sharp daggers. Of fire, and blood. The thought is bitter and it breaks something far buried within your chest.

A harsh thing, reality has always been. 

There is a long road ahead for Jon, and it is not large enough for two. You’ve known this for some time. 

His voice is exhausted and it comes in a breath, as though he swallows back the burden of which you both refuse to name outright; and perhaps it is some effort to defend the necessary, to excuse the pain to come. 

“She burned them.” 

And you know the name which dances upon his tongue, though he does not speak it. 

The firelight licks over the chambers – some false illusion of warmth in a room which now drips with solemnity. Your throat is tight with the grip of a fading hand and a thick swallow claws its way down your neck. 

“She was a girl once,” you say faintly, biting your lip. “A girl sold. Traded, abused, hunted.” Your heart, a fist beating at your battered rib cage; Your lip does not tremble, though you think it might. “Of course she burned them.”

His breath comes slow and long. “She burned children.”

The words come before you recognize them from your own mind –

“And Stannis did not?” 

He flinches. 

You feel it rather than witness it, through a still air and a stretched silence in which your heart thuds dully and sings the songs of souls long since burned to the gods you do not know. 

“I don’t want to argue.” It’s that tone once more; exhausted, tired – trying. The chambers are warm, and yet somehow his presence is warmer. 

“You never do,” you whisper. You never do, and I love you for it. 

He comes round to face you, backlit then by the greedy warmth of the hearth; how the flames curl around his frame, melting the last stubborn flakes from his shoulders. His hair curls; tresses tied from his drawn brows, pouted lips defrosted and pink in the firelight. 

“I had to see you,” his words come once more, eyes deep and searching your own. “Before–” 

You’ve risen to meet him before the fire, and your immediate presence stuns his words. 

“You mustn’t do this, Jon.” Your eyes sting with unwanted grief; a hollow thing, to know what fate worse than the worst awaits your love. “You mustn’t say goodbye if you’re not going to die.”

His breath trembles, a ripple of wind in a steady sea of pine; the stubborn shake of a handsome visage as he denies the path of ease for the sake of what is right. You love him for it. You hate him for it. 

“I might.” 

And this, it seems, is your final straw. “No,” your hands shake with an unknown ache. “You won’t,” your breath hits his lips as you exhale, “that’s always the curse with you.”

Your words are cruel, and their verity cuts as deep into your heart as they do his own. His face, somber and patient, is warm in the firelight. And that’s just it; memories bloom from behind your eyes, bruises unhealed. Visions of frozen lips and lifeless eyes – of a hollowness that, somewhere deep inside, never quite filled again. 

You had loved him before those scars.

Before death stitched its silent seams across his soul; before hearths blew out in the far North and shadows crawled across the sun. 

And still you love him after, though he came back to you strange and faraway; sometimes angry in a way you will never quite understand, try as you might. 

Sometimes you believe there is a part of him that never truly left the snow – some part of him that does not any longer belong to this realm.

You love him for it the same. 

Jon’s hands caress the curve of your arms when you plant yours on his chest; a steady heartbeat below your palms, through even the scarred skin and breaths of hunger that grows yet never feeds. 

He wants you.

Gods, he does, and he burns for it. You see it in the hitch of his breath, in the way his gaze traces the curved bend of your lips when you let out a small breath. You see it other times, too, in the tracing of your collarbones across halls, in the aching bewilderment of a man who cannot help his hunger. And though his jaw sets and his eyes flick away, though honor sings louder in him than impulse – you know, you know. 

There is no shame in it, not anymore; Jon does not know how to lie with his body. 

But Jon will not take first. He will not take what he wants until it is surrendered to him with bitten lips and soft sighs and breathy pleads; it is a dance unspoken but entwined in your shared nature more than breathing itself. 

And you know; If you asked, he would unmake himself entirely – king, bastard, man – simply to feel your palm in his and your warmth by his side. 

A surrender not out of duty, but devotion; a willing unraveling, thread by thread, until all that remains is the man who wants you. Without titles, without name. 

With nothing.

Though you do not dare betray him with such a request. Because wanting is the first sin, and what comes after is unspeakable. 

Jon was made to lose what he longs for. To hold a knife against his chest and remain unflinching even as the blade pierces through; To blink only when the wound begins to bleed.

And still, you would bleed with him. 

Again and again, in that selfish, aching way, you would – if it meant one breath more of his hands in yours, of that tired, torn, unbearably tender gaze; one final glimpse of such warmth before he turns from you once more.

You study his visage; a grim one, swimming in that dark molten hunger that lives unspoken and unsated in his stare. A kind man – a man who once held you so tenderly and spoke with words far too kind for the world which gave him nothing but pain.

A man who keeps burying the ones he loves.

His hands curl at your waist, a reserved thing that still yet coaxes your skin to sing, to crawl in that hungry way toward his warmth even as it slips away. 

“You love her,” you say. 

The line of his throat is thick in the firelight, and his swallow is heavy. You do not waver in your resolve, and he does not betray you with any feigned sympathy. 

“I tried to.” 

It does not sting like, perhaps, it should. Your nod is stiff and placated only by memories of ruddy youthful stares, brooding glances secretive and rapt across both torchlit halls and flurried yards. 

Outside, the wind howls and pelts snow in thick layers over the rapidly disappearing print of his footfalls. Ghost lies still and solemn, quiet against the pelt upon the stone floor near your door. 

And it is a foolish thing to ask, when he is here and holding you; but you say it anyway. 

“And me?”

Jon’s glance is one that brings the rush of the deepest warmth to your cheeks. A look as though you are the one preparing to leave and never return; a glance of knowledge, of ghosts over lips and hands over trembling skin. 

His heart beats, and its rhythm is your name. 

Jon does not blink, nor does he look away. His palm, large and inexplicably warm despite the howling squall outside, cups your jaw – and then he says your name; a whispered secret to his gods who have long since ceased to listen. 

“I’ve never had to try.” 

His words from minutes ago rebound in your mind; and you, with soft palms and a heavy heart, pull him close. You’re going to hate me. 

“I won’t hate you,” you whisper into his palm, lips brushing over the tremors he hides. “Not even then.”

He closes his eyes with a flickering inhale, sharp and thick with unshed emotion. And then, when he returns his stare so devoted to your parted lips – his hand drags lower, trailing from your jaw and down to your throat. 

A stray thumb presses gently against your heartbeat, as if assuring some deep worry hidden below furrowed brows and a tremorring heart; breath catches in your throat, that dull hunger rising from your stomach and curling warmly through your very veins. Jon’s stare devours; and your eyes hook a yearning ache over the curve of pink lips, flickered by dark shadows and weak restraint. 

You’re eager; an unwitting lean towards him with caught breath, you let his palm trail warmth over your skin and pause at your collarbone – as if he’s unsure he has the permission to touch you at all. 

You don’t wait for him to ask, because he never will. You simply give. 

“Please, Jon,” you whisper, hardly more than breath and want. “Touch me. Let me feel you.” 

And there in the faint flicker of the hearth, the corner of his mouth twitches; the echo of some disbelieving, admiring expression he’s long since forgotten how to wear unless he is with you.

Soon his gaze drops, hazed and sultry, to where his thumb rests just above the hollow of your chest; searching, as if your heartbeat might answer some riddle he’s carried since boyhood. 

You wonder if perhaps it does, because he moves.

It comes not with the fevered gasp of relief that falls from your lips but with the gravity of a man laying down his sword; Jon’s hand trails lower still, hands grazing the rise of your breast and flexing against the touch. From his lips falls a desperate sound; something swallowed soon by his mouth upon your own, heavy and hungry and far too much for what the night could be. 

Dexterous fingers spread, cupping just below the swell of your breast as your own slip under the fur-lined cloak still hung round his thick shoulders. Rough linen lies underneath – cold with the remnants of the snow yet warm with the body he tried for so long to keep away from you.

Your fingers slip beneath the fur draped over his shoulders, and he shudders – shudders – like it’s the first time he’s been touched since his gods forgot him.

“Jon,” you whisper against his lips; needy, wrecked – and that alone breaks the dam already so brittle and wanting; his arms come to pull you tight against the firm heat of his chest. “You’re trembling,” you murmur. 

His lips find your throat; open-mouthed, reverent and hungry, teeth grazing and tongue soothing. The tug of his tresses between your fingers kicks his shaky moan against the hollow of your throat and a warmth spreads heady through your trembling body. 

“Aye. It’s you,” he breathes with honesty, lips brushing your pulse. “I always do.”

The words send a tremor down your spine, a flush pooling between your thighs as his mouth descends, grazing the dip of your collarbone. Teeth catch slightly on your skin, not rough enough to mark, but just enough to make you gasp; just enough to make your hips tilt toward him, hungry and unsatisfied.

The wind howls, wails. The snow swallows the horizon in a dark smother. Your knees back into the mattress; the weather beyond the castle is wild and sharp in its longing, and with you Jon is no different. 

You reach for him and he follows you down, a storm dragged from the mountains and rolling over the hills of sheets. The furs kiss your dress beneath you as Jon takes you into his arms, heavy with heat and muscle and hunger; pressing you into the feathered mattress. 

Hands tug at the laces of your bodice; breath harsh against your throat and words murmured into the damp skin of your throat. Your thighs, then, parting with the shared tremors of fevered desire; a sudden steadiness of hands whose muscles remember the shape of you. 

His mouth hovers just above yours, breath shared, noses brushing. 

Jon takes you with a low and slow groan pressed into your hair; and you with trembling thighs and nails embedded into thick-corded shoulders, head thrown against downy pillows.

The window flickers with the swallowing blanket of the flurry; the hearth’s light spills over the hardened planes of Jon’s body, softened under your fingertips and coaxing raised bumps of desire. 

And when he moves inside you – slow, aching, right – you wonder if perhaps the world might end this very night. 

And if it does, you think as lips press to the corner of your mouth, as a moan strangles his breath, as your body takes him in, if it does, let it end here. Beneath him. Around him. 

Here, with the snow pelting outside, with the fire licking shadows of your entwined bodies upon the wall, licking warmth over his back, up the curve of his jaw, into the wrecked chasm of hunger pooling in his eyes when he looks down at you and thinks, I was never meant to have this.

You pour your love into each kiss he steals; Hands finds your thighs, pushing higher, gripping your heady skin like something already lost. Every inch of him is warm, heavy, solid – and you, reveling in the weight of a man who has only ever known how to carry things that break him. 

When all that’s left is heaving, sweat-kissed chests and intermingled breaths – when your fingers soothe over his cheeks, trace the furrow of his brow, press to his temples; when his calloused palms rove over your hip, tugging you by the neck into his chest, tangled in furs and heat and silence – then, then you allow yourself the heartbreak. 

“I love you,” you whisper into the night air, into the slinking shadows with webbed wings and smoking breath – into the unfurling frost around the casements, into the chest of the man you have known and lost more times than you can recount. 

He says nothing for some time; a shaky inhale as your hands trace over the jagged scars which litter his torso, as his own fingertips idly swirl over your own marks. 

And Jon tells you he loves you with his eyes closed, with his lips pressed to your own. You drink in his words and you do not wish for anything else. 

He says it again, and again, until his voice cracks and his lips dry the tears you swore would not fall.

You do not sleep much that night. 

Lied beside him, you trace the curve of his spine, follow the silky webs of scars above his ribs, across his abdomen and up to the hollow of his throat, where a dagger once claimed him. 

Your hands will remember him.

Slowly, you memorize how his breath deepens in the soft surrender of sleep. You memorize the twitch of unconscious fingers slung across your own bare hip. You memorize the beat of his heart against your palm.

You memorize the shape of him as though you’ll be asked to describe it to the gods. 

And when dawn comes and you stir from the rest that’d claimed you, he is already dressed. 

Ghost waits at your door. 

Jon does not say goodbye, and you do not torture him with words that you both are thinking. 

He says nothing; just presses a kiss to your forehead, cupping your neck, thumb caressing that cherished beat of your pulse – and leaves with a curls of snow brushing into the entryway of your chambers. 

And you stay.

You stay in the room where his warmth once brought you over the edge of sanity; you remain beneath furs once shared, listening to the swirling silence he left behind. You drown in sheets and pretend they are arms. 

You stay – undaunted by snowflurries and howling winds, by hard men and hard women and hard weather. A blue moon waxes and wanes for the first time in seven years. 

The war ends; the queen falls. 

The North remembers.

The seat beside the Queen in the North is worn and a welcome warmth beneath you. The hearths remain bright each nightfall. 

But you remember him. 

And the snow still falls, even now.

tagging some mutuals since this is a new character :') @dipperscavern @dr9carys @inkandarsenic @systraes @swordgrace @kenna-the-cosmic @snow-blower @cregan-starks

[systraes]

⟢ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫.

𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

𓇢𓆸 𝐉𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𓇢𓆸 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[systraes]

⟢ 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 & 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒.

𓇢𓆸 this blog is unsuitable for minors.

𓇢𓆸 this blog does not tolerate hate or any kind of offensive messages.

𓇢𓆸 i write for asoiaf. however, in the future I may stray from this.

𓇢𓆸 feel free to come chat in my inbox, but spam won’t be tolerated.

𓇢𓆸 I will not write triggering themes such as any form of SA. implications will be my limit if I think it is crucial to the story/plot.

𓇢𓆸 requests are open !

- I am currently taking requests for: jon snow + robb stark.

𓇢𓆸 everything I write is purely fictional. i take creative liberties, I make headcannons - anything that strays from the source material is not canon; my word is not law. If you personally disagree with it, or think otherwise, that is completely fine! but failure to simply respect my personal, harmless views, such as instigating hate/an arguement will not be tolerated. I’m all for discussions containing opposing views, but mindless arguements fucking bore me. do not waste my time.

𓇢𓆸 I do not tolerate any of my works to be plagiarised, copied, or translated in any way. I also do not permit my work to be used for any AI purpose.

— lots of love and kisses, systraes.

[systraes]

⚔︎ 𝐉𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐬, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭.

𓇢𓆸 𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒:

[ coming soon ] - 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 : in the wake of war, you are left utterly alone; now that the starks are but a memory. within that memory, you find solace in the semblance of snow. with no choice, in the homely shadow of a man, you head north. To a house of sin and treachery; to castle black - holding to the hope of a name that hasn’t fallen from your lips in years - to a name men used to snicker at, the name men now shiver at. You must face certain death, or the man who beat it. angst, fluff, smut.

[ coming soon ] - 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 : in search of a night unconstrained and unburdened with the poise of being a princess; you fall into a lair - deep in the woods, unbeknown of the two wolves who stalk your trail; the two lords, robb and Jon - who have caught your scent, and don’t plan on letting go until they have you in their teeth. smut.

[ coming soon ] - 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 : the weight of a crown, the weight of kinghood, the weight of a woman he cannot have - the weight of your kiss upon his shoulder. angst, fluff, smut.

𓇢𓆸 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒:

[ coming soon ] - 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞

[systraes]

♛ 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭, 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧.

𓇢𓆸 𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒:

[ coming soon ] - 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝, 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 : a lion caught in the den of wolves; a lannister hostage trapped within the constant scrutiny of the king of the north. Your hatred binds you, that fickleness of an unclear betrothal encases you both in spools of gold and silver. angst, smut.

[ coming soon ] - 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 : in search of a night unconstrained and unburdened with the poise of being a princess; you fall into a lair - deep in the woods, unbeknown of the two wolves who stalk your trail; the two lords, robb and Jon - who have caught your scent, and don’t plan on letting go until they have you in their teeth. smut.

[systraes]

⟢ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮; 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 - 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 - 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𓇢𓆸 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 ! if you would like to request, ask, or talk to me about anything — feel free to either message me or anonymously pop in through my inbox. my pronouns are she/her.

𓇢𓆸 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ! this blog is nsfw, and will contain explicit content unsuitable for minors. if you choose to continue after knowing this: it is your problem, not mine.

𓇢𓆸 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 & 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

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