#chops the direwolf

[acids-and-basses]

I finally did the color wheel art thing Red: Scarlett Orange: Jacklen hide Yellow: Novi Green: Blossom Blue: Bunny Model (I still don't have a name for them) Indigo: Chops Purple: Restless Black: Nox White: Selene

[polysucks]

why you think starks are brown. No hate, I just want to know reason 💓

No hate taken!!! I'm more than happy to give a little context.

I also talked a little and at length and then some about why I think the Starks are ndn or indigenous coded, therefore anecdotally "brown" if you want some more!

---

The Starks Are Indigenous and You Can’t Change My Mind

Look, I’m just gonna say it: the Starks are giving "we’ve been here for 10,000 years and you just got off the Mayflower.” Fandom loves to frame them as cold (literally), brooding white dudes who talk to trees and wolvves and die tragically—but if you zoom out just a bit, what you’ll see is a whole culture that’s basically been staring the apocalyptic Chekov’s gun in the face while mumbling “this is fine” for millennia.

Let’s start at the beginning: the First Men walked to Westeros on foot twelve thousand years ago (according to legend. it's giving oral storytelling), chopped some trees, made some mistakes, and then struck a sacred pact with the Children of the Forest. Instead of wiping the Children out like the colonizers down south (cough Andals cough), they basically said, “Yeah u right let’s chill,” and started building their whole culture around respecting nature, living weirwoods, and the gods that inhabit them. Now fast forward six thousand years and the Andals show up like, “Hey, we’ve got gods who look like us and wear robes, and also we’re here to murder your trees bc they're just trees they mean nothing.” (SOUND FAMILIAR?) And the North said: “uhhhhh doubt but alright try me bitch.” The Andals conquered everywhere else in Westeros, but the North? Untouched. Still praying to SpOokY tReEs, burying people under roots, giving a fuck about their ancestors, still naming their kids things like Brandon and Benjen and not, like, Luthor Tyrell III.

So when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I mean it. They are the last major ruling house descended purely from the First Men, with customs, spirituality, and governance structures that date back over ten millennia. They didn’t import Andal feudalism or Southern chivalry—they rule by duty, community ties, and vibes. There’s no divine right here, just “I said I’d guard the North, so I’m gonna guard the North, even if I die horribly doing it.” Which... they usually do.

Physically, too, the Northerners are not your typical pale-and-pink Southron types. Descriptions from the books associate the First Men—and thus the Northmen—with brown hair, darker complexions, and gray eyes. They’re closer to earth tones than the golden-and-ivory palettes of the Reach and Crownlands.

Now, it’s all fun and games until Robb Stark starts stacking Lannister corpses like firewood and suddenly—boom—“savage skinchanger” propaganda. The second the North stops being cold and quiet and starts sending wolves downriver, the Southern rumor mill goes feral. The same lords who wear wolf pelts to look edgy start whispering, “Is he... using magic? Unnatural beasts? Isn’t that his direwolf out there eating men’s faces?”

We’re not even being subtle anymore. This is textbook colonizer panic: “Oh no, the brown people with strong spiritual ties to nature and weird customs have found a way to beat our superior steel and horses! They must be cheating!” And this is coming from a place where Melisandre literally births a shadow demon out of her woman's place and half the people involved just shrug and go, “Well, kings do be kinging and doin whatever it takes to be kinged.” But Robb winning battles with tactics and a big-ass dog? Witchcraft.

And let’s talk tone. The way Northerners are described when they show up in King’s Landing is... gross. Dirty. Sullen. Uncouth. They bring the smell of snow and smoke and old gods into the nice, civilized complacency of the South, and the court acts like they're watching a pack of feral dogs crash a garden party. Even the Dornish, who are also not white-coded in many ways and face plenty of racism, are still seen as exotic—dangerous, sure, but sexy-dangerous. The Northmen? They’re not fetishized. They're feared. Loathed. Dismissed as brutes and barbarians with ways that are so different that they should be feared.

And this is a classic move in imperialist narratives: you marginalize a people, rob them of power and culture, and the second they resist? You demonize them. Turn them into monsters. Say they commune with beasts and demons. (Sound familiar? Because it should.) Whether it’s North American Indigenous peoples being accused of “savagery” the moment they defend their land, or these colonized peoples being portrayed as superstitious and irrational for refusing assimilation and persisting with their culture—Westeros is playing that greatest hit on repeat.

So yes, when I say the Starks are Indigenous-coded, I also mean that the way Westeros treats the North is textbook colonial anxiety. They’re tolerated when they stay quiet and frozen. But when they rise? When they win? Suddenly, they’re not just a threat—they’re unnatural. Inhuman. Monstrous.

And if that ain’t some real-world racial politics wrapped in an easy to swallow fictional narrative, idk what is.

Now let’s talk Boltons vs. Manderlys, the perfect case study in Indigenous vs. Settler-coded houses when it comes to the cultural conversation. The Boltons? Chaotic evil First Men energy. They used to flay people alive, possibly made cloaks out of skin (ok im sorry that’s so baller), and ruled from the Dreadfort for thousands of years as a rival to House Stark. They’re the North turned inward and twisted—a cautionary tale about what happens when colonization doesn’t get you, but intergenerational trauma does. Still, they’re part of the land, part of the same heritage. The Manderlys, on the other hand? Total transplants. They got kicked out of the Reach, showed up in the North all teary-eyed and humble, and the Starks were like, “Fine, you can live in this swamp by the sea.” And they did! Respectfully! But they never converted to the Old Gods. They still pray to the Seven, build stone cities, and have the audacity to name their castle White Harbor. That's like moving into someone’s house and renaming it “Good Christian Suburb.” (like. Like americ--*gets dragged off stage*) But they're chill. Because they never pretended to be something they're not. And they never tried to change the ways of the lands and the peoples who welcomed them when no one else would.

Even within the North, there's a whole spectrum of resistance vs. assimilation. You’ve got the Free Folk beyond the Wall—who are basically the “burn it all down, no kings, no lords” crowd—then the Starks, who are like, “Fine, I’ll wear a crown if it helps keep the peace,” and then the Manderlys, who are “we love it here please don’t send us back south.” It’s not unlike real-world Indigenous communities: some stayed in the woods, some ran into the mountains, some took settler names and built schools—but the throughline is survival. Resistance is survival.

And that, my fellow losers, is what the Starks are all about. They are the final boss of stubborn cultural preservation. They’re the people who would rather freeze than bend the knee to "gods" they don’t believe in. When Ned Stark says “Winter is Coming,” he’s not just talking about weather—he’s quoting a generational mantra. This, too, shall pass. And we will still be here. He's got seasonal depression and ancestral memory and PTSD, and he's still out here doing what is best for his people (well. not anymore, i guess.)

The North Remembers—and So Should You

When we say the Starks and the North are Indigenous-coded, we’re not just slapping a label on because it sounds cool and we’re desperate for representation. We’re talking about a culture that predates colonizers, resists assimilation, honors its dead, and survives against impossible violence. Whether it’s through sacred trees, communal leadership, or refusing to compromise on your ancestral values, the Starks represent the heartbeat of a people who never left their land—because the land never left them.

So yes. The Starks are “brown,” in the way that means something. Not necessarily in skin tone (though there’s canon support for that too), but in soul. In story. In surviving. And if you disagree, I’ll meet you in the godswood under the bleeding tree, and we can discuss it like Northerners—with our fuckin fists.

(this is a joke ur allowed other opinions)

[yourlocallunatic]

+18 smut, a/b/o dynamics

thinking about alpha!werewolf!Cregan rn… have you seen that man? the definition of a feral man, he’s a Stark for gods sake. just imagine him when you’re about to start your heat, no way he’s controlling himself when you smell so good and he sees you walking the halls of Winterfell trying not to desperately rub your legs together to give you some needed relief.

he absolutely loooooses it when he returns to your chambers one night just to see you nestled in your bed in the nest you made for yourself, his cloak trapped between your thighs covered in your slick that shines in the candle light. he would rip it from you before turning you over to your front and fucking you dumb and making you take his knot. you wait no more than 10 minutes before you’re begging him to take you again. his little northern wife taking his seed, bound to give him pups.

don’t even get me started on what he’s like close to a full moon, a literal animal in the sheets and a heathen in the streets. all of his banner men know not to even send a look your way close to the full moon lest they want their balls chopped off. he’s insanely protective of you. and once you got used to his direwolf form on the full moons he would spend night curled at the end of the bed keeping your feet warm.

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. VI

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @hueanhdang @delaynew @purple-1995 @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97 @mandeepandee1997

With the fourth day come and gone with no ground behind them, the little party wasted no time in packing up their belongings and trudging on once again.

Daenys was awoken from a dreamless sleep by a suffocating feeling. She was jerked awake by her own breathlessness, opening her eyes to be met with the brown fur of Dusk, who had grown impaitient with her sleeping in and made her chest his one personal bed. "Off, boy." She grunted, wheezing at the weight. She swore he could rival Morningstar in weight alone.

Cregan, at the opening of the tent and pack over his shoulder, snickered at the sight. He clicked his tongue twice, shooing the direwolf away. He leaned over Daenys, who was rubbing her eyes. Her hair lay around her in long, unruly waves, surely something that her handmaiden back in Dragonstone would have scolded her for. She usually slept in a loose braid but had forgotten her nightly routine in favor of passing out cold.

"Morning, Princess." Cregan greeted softly, watching her groggily wake herself up. He had been ready and packed long-ago, wanting to let Daenys sleep in and not worry about packing her belongings, most of which were tied to Mylo's saddle.

"Good morning," she mumbled back, stretching out under the furs. The scent of him lingered pleasently. She sat up slowly, the cold of the North making her body ache in the mornings more than it ever did in the South.

Daenys' hair fell around her shoulders and back, nearly to her waist. She cursed the fact that she'd have to spend another morning doing the entire thing all by herself, knowing her arms would be aching before she could even mount her horse. Just when she was contemplating chopping it all off, Cregan offered–"Would you like my help with...all that?" The offer was polite, not wanting to push any boundaries that might make the Princess shy away.

A man doing hair? That was almost laughable. If Daemon made the same offer to Rhaenyra, the whole family would be squaking with amused chuckles, knowing he had no clue how to do something as gentle as that. Perhaps that was why he chopped off his own long locks—or so Daenys heard.

"My hair?" Daenys questioned, looking up to him. He nodded, and she took a moment to think. How did he know how to braid? Briefly, she wondered if he had ever courted someone, perhaps in his youth before he was busy in his lordship.

"My sister, she insisted that I learn by practicing on her. Said it would help with my 'husbandly' responsibilities, whatever that means." They both laughed, while she guiltily felt a sense of relief. She rummaged through her bag briefly, searching for her wooden brush.

"Hm, I would have thought you might have a secret Lady Wife hidden away in Winterfell." Daenys mused, turning her back to him and sitting up straight. He sat behind her, taking the brush she had handed him in a big hand. Their hands touched for a moment, his bare hand making contact with hers for her first time. It was warm, though calloused from years of swordtraining, opposite of her own perfectly manicured ones. Had he taken off his gloves for this? It would be easier, she thought.

"Who's to say I don't? And perhaps a few heirs are already running about, playing as squires." When she glanced behind her, brow raised, he only chuckled and guided her head to turn back.

"I jest, of course. If I had a wife, she would be no secret." He said, grabbing small portions of her hair at a time, brushing from ends to scalp. The white mess quickly became calm waves once more with his handywork. Cregan paused a moment, "what braids would you like?"

Giggling, "how many can you do, Lord Stark?"

"You underestimate me. I have had all sorts of requests from Sara. The least I can do is try."

Daenys pondered what might be a quick one for him to do, deciding on her front pieces being pulled back into a crown, braided in a curving line together across the back of her skull. The rest hung down, providing a small shield against the wind on her neck. Cregan's hands worked smoothly, dexterous, and surprisingly gentle. He apologized for every tug, and was done quickly.

🗡

A young Daenys sat in front of Laenor Velayron, both of them on the floor in front of the lit hearth in Rhaenyra's chambers. Rhaenyra had left a few hours ago, leading young Jacaerys to go play with Aegon while she went to spend time with baby Luke in the nursery.

Laenor had some downtime, recently returning from a voyage to Dorne. Even though he rode the loyal Seasmoke, Laenor was a seaman at heart. He never went too long between being on his ship, which was gifted to him by Lord Corlys of Driftmark. After Daenys' fifth nameday, he lovingly allowed her to name the ship Eveningstar to match her dragon's name.

"How does the mighty Princess wish to wear her warrior's braids this morning?" He asked her in a dramatically knightly voice. "I can do anything you command."

"Dragon!" Daenys exclaimed excitedly, wishing for her hair to be done in the shape of her dragon, who was growing like a weed and already not allowed to be in the Red Keep due to terrorizing Alicent Hightower's children.

Laenor paused, brows high on his forehead. "Perhaps...the Princess overestimates this lowly knight's skill. Maybe a simpler design would appease her?"

Straightening up, Daenys glanced back up at him and scrunched her nose playfully. "I thought you said you could do anything."

Her father chuckled nervously, the scrutiny of the young girl reminding him much of Rhaenyra's sharp gaze. Luckily, Daenys' wrath was much more forgiving than her mother's. "I can do anything, within human limits." He mimicked her whining tone.

Daenys sighed loudly, thinking about what she wanted again. "What about the gems? Can you put them into the braid, at least?"

Laenor grunted as he stood up, joints in one place for too long. He rummaged through Rhaenyra's vanity, knowing she wouldn't mind if it was for Daenys. He plucked out some bright blue ones, with small holes carved in the middle for hair to poke through. "Blue?"

Daenys nodded, hair ruffling out of place from the jerking movements. Blue reminded her of the skies, the view she was gifted when she rode through the clouds on Syrax or Seasmoke with her parents. It was also quite like the sea, which she saw often at the docks with Laenor. It was perfect for today.

As Laenor returned to his position, he started his work. Different sized braids adorned the back of her hair, with the front pieces in bubbled loose strands separated in inches by the stones. The rest hung down in its usual waves, more stones hanging down from them. They twinkled when Daenys moved her head side to side.

"All done, my girl." Laenor told her, patting her shoulders.

"Can we go on a boat ride?" She pleaded with her father. She had been wanting to be out on the sea all morning, wishing to spend time with her father in one of their favorite places. Even if it meant dealing with the fishy scent of their catches, she loved the sailor's life and the boisterous people who lived it daily.

"I don't think so, Daenys. Your mother gave me an earful about letting you near the crew, last time." He told her, petting her hair back comfortingly when she frowned.

"Can we swim, then? At the beach?" She changed the question, knowing her mother's word was absolute. 'The Beach' was a little island between Dragonstone and King's Landing, which the dragonriders oft visited because of its seclusion from court and fisherman.

Laenor thought for a moment. Rhaenyra wouldn't be upset about it, surely. "What about your hair? We spent so much time on it."

She shook her head, the stones sparking together in turn. "It will be fine, I won't dive today."

Likely story, Laenor thought, but bit his tongue. "Very well, we'll take Seasmoke to the beach." He gave in, as always. No one could resist the little girl's charms, especially her father.

Daenys thought for a moment to bring along Jace but decided against it. He couldn't yet swim, and would only feel left out on the shore. Ever the jealous boy, Aegon would have to be his company for today.

Laenor took Daenys to the dragonpit, packing a small picnic for two and their swimclothes. The two spent the majority of the sunlight frolicking in the sand and salty water, enjoying small sandwhiches that the maids prepared beforehand.

Upon the Princess and Ser's return, Rhaenyra was gifted with many pretty seashells in a sincere apology for Daenys losing many of the blue gems. A small white sand dollar was placed next to Luke's crib quietly, Daenys knowing better than to place objects on his soft bedding. Jacaerys was given a sturdy red shell, but all-too-quickly returned it to Daenys' sandy hands as a crab popped its little black eyes out of it.

"Father!" Daenys called after Laenor, who was on his way out of the keep and to the docks. "There's a crab in this one. Can we return it to the beach?" She begged, jumping up and down and tugged at his sleeve.

Sighing, Laenor knew it would be a while til he made it to the docks. He couldn't resist that face, after all

🗡

Daenys felt the soft braid with her fingertips, satisfied at the evenness. She looked behind her, a grateful smile meeting his eyes. "Thank you, Cregan. I appreciate it."

He hummed, gathering her bag for her after putting her brush back into it. Cregan parted the tent flaps again, allowing the sunlight to peak through once again. Dusk was sitting outside of the tent, lying on her discarded dress. Whether he or Cregan moved it there was a mystery. They left the tent, Cregan folding it up while Daenys went to Morningstar.

The beast greeted her with a small chuff, though she did not lift her head. "What's the matter, pretty girl?" Daenys asked her lifted a hand to pet her cheek. The dragoness turned her head away, setting it on the clear ground below it. All the snow had long melted away around her in a ring, the dragon's body heat not giving it a chance to return. "Morningstar?"

A huff.

Daenys rolled her eyes at the dragon's brattiness. "I'm sorry, please forgive me. I promise It won't happen again, Cregan has looked after me." She spoke the apology in her mother tongue, sincerely. She never got a chance to last night, falling asleep right after the hunt.

The she-dragon lifted her head, eyeing Cregan as he walked up to them. "I heard my name?" He asked, an amused smirk on his lips.

Morningstar and Daenys turned to him together, four violet eyes squinted at him as if to say, 'stay out of it.' The dragon grumbled, shifting the stand on her wings. Cregan looked to Daenys, wondering why she wasn't happy to see her rider, as she usually was. Daenys opened her mouth to answer, only to be knocked down into the snow by a shove of Morningstar's snout. Confused, Daenys looked up to her, mouth agape. The dragon playfully nudged Cregan, asking for his attention.

Traitors.

Cregan laughed loudly at the display, giving in to the dragon's whims. Not like he had any choice, he feared what an angry dragoness might do to him if he rejected her so rudely.

Dusk sat himself next to Daenys, who had since sat up. The direwolf growled at the affection display, jealous of Cregan giving his attention to another creature, more specifically the dragon who had been hovering their whole trip. She ruffled his thick fur, enjoying the softness compared to Morningstar's smooth scales. Morningstar seemed to eye the two on the floor, grumbling again into Cregan's fur-coated chest.

Cregan helped Daenys up from the snow, letting her brush herself off before they untied the horses. Mylo greeted her with a lick to her palm, happy to see her again. They both sat upon their horses, eyeing the spot where Seamus' tent had been.

"Where's Seamus?" Daenys asked him, in a hushed tone as she leaned toward the man.

He sat up straight, not caring if Seamus overheard his words. "He went ahead when I was waking you. Claimed that he wanted to 'scout' ahead. As if Dusk can not do that." Cregan seemed irritated at the mere mention of the elder, so Daenys chose to nod and drop the topic.

The two horses walked side by side, while Daenys and Cregan idly chattered. "Your sister, Sara, where is she now? I never got to see her at Winterfell."

"She is residing at Mormont Keep now. A good friend of mine, the third son of Lord Grendys Mormont, proposed marriage a year ago. I'm expecting good news from Sara soon." Cregan smiled at the mention of his only living sibling. It had been nearly a year since she'd found her love match and left Winterfell for good.

"Eager for a niece or nephew already?" Daenys asked, corners of her mouth lifting. One day, she hoped for many nieces and nephews to surround herself with if she truly did end up a spinster. If so, she was comforted with the fact that she had only brothers, thus would have all their wives be moved to Dragonstone or the Red Keep to allow everyone to be close together.

"Indeed. It's been a while since Winterfell's keep has been graced with younglings."

Daenys almost snorted at the strange name for children but kept it to herself in hopes of not offending him. Northerners and their strange vocabulary. "I quite agree, it is rather quiet in the Great Keep."

"That is partially my fault, I must admit. My council and bannermen have been urging me to take a wife since I was but three and ten. For heirs, they say. I see it as them anxiously anticipating my early demise." He snorted.

"Perhaps a noble's real duty is to tolerate their council's nagging. I envy your patience, Lord Stark."

He turned his head toward her, a questioning look in his eye. "My patience? I have not seen you pushed to anger once in our time together, Princess."

"Whatever is there to be angry for?" She fired back. She'd never been a snappy person, except perhaps when her brothers stole her desert one too many times, but never was she considered an impaitient person.

Cregan stumbled slightly, trying to find the right words, "nevermind." he mumbled, cheeks pink.

Daenys bit her cheek, holding another laugh. Seeing the young Lord flustered amused her greatly. "Cregan," she began.

Perking up, he tilted his head towards her, "yes, Princess?"

"Do you think we ought to have spotted Seamus by now?"

He hummed, looking forward with careful eyes. "Mayhaps, but I think he is avoiding us purposefully to calm himself. He was quite humiliated last night."

Daenys snickered, remembering the taught look on the older man's face, red all the way to his neck. "Serves him right. Slaughtering an animal is one thing, but dishonoring it entirely is another. It is not right. Any respectable man would have left its head with its body so its soul could rest easy."

Cregan was silent for a few beats after her words. "I agree, the animals killed in defense have as much right to respect as the ones we hunt for food. Is that a Targaryen or a Velayron belief?"

Daenys shifted in the saddle, twitching at the mention of her blood. "Velayrons believe that we shall return to the sea, where we come from. Targaryens burn their dead, in the way of our ancestors."

"Which would you have to honor you after your death?" The question surprised her, seeing Cregan's sincere gaze upon her like a calmness in a storm.

"It's hard to say. My father burned when he died, and we could only lay his ashen bones in the casket that we sent into the sea. He never got a proper Velayron death as he would've wanted." She told him. "Perhaps it would be my fate to die like a Targaryen, on my dragon and being burned by my opponent. I must admit I have always been partial to the sea, though. Or, if the Gods will it, Morningstar and I would fall together. If such a thing does happen, perhaps buried in the crypts alongside her." She rambled on. Faces flashed in her mind. Drunken Aegon, spiteful Aemond, sweet Helena, even young Daeron. All dragonriders on the opposing ride, all her potential killers.

"Do not say such things, Princess. You will live to be an old dame, I am sure." The Northerner said, tapping his foot out of his stirrups to her own booted one.

"Apologies, my Lord. It is an awfully morbid topic for a Lady." She rescinded.

An awkward silence washed over the two, neither knowing if they offended the other nor what to say next. Curse her stupid big mouth. What kind of Princess talks to a man about her own death? Not one that will gain any prospects, surely. Daenys kissed her teeth, biting back a sigh. She wished to withdraw into a tent, or better yet, the skies atop of Morningstar.

It was hours before the two stopped for a break, watering and feeding the horses. Dusk rounded back to them, content with taking a break after his watch. He laid his large head on Daenys' lap, and she struggled not to tense at the reminder.

Cregan stole many discreet glances at her as she stretched out under a large tree. Her silence had worried him greatly, and the Lord feared that she would tuck herself back into her deep shell. Maybe literally, with all those coats over her shoulders. The roots were robust, sticking out of the ground and study enough to sit herself on.

He approached her after allowing her some minutes of respite. Offering his hand, Cregan lifted her to her feet, though he did not let go of her hand. Daenys stilled, wondering what he wanted.

"Do you have the dagger on you?" He asked.

Daenys nodded, "are we going hunting?"

He shook his head, backing away a step from her. "We have the spare rabbits still. Grab it." Suddenly, his voice seemed to change from his gentle one to a more firm one. Like the one he used for his men rather than for Daenys.

Bemused, she grabbed the dagger from under her skirts—she had decided that the belt of her garters would make a fine shealth. Cregan's gaze flittered to her exposed legs for only a moment before he forced it back to her face. Holding it out for him to take, she was surprised when he closed it back around her fist.

"It is still yours. I want you to attack me."

"Attack you?!" Daenys exclaimed, clutching the dagger toward her chest. "I will not do such a thing."

Cregan chuckled shortly, shifting on his feet. "I am asking you to, Princess. You will not hurt me, I assure you."

"I am well confident in your skills, my Lord. But, anything could happen, even accidentally. A Lady does not wield weapons against her own bannermen–or at all." Daenys stammered out.

Even Rhaenyra, who was made heir for the throne at seven and ten, was not made to learn the ways of weaponry. She had her loyal guards to protect her at all times, and that's not to mention Daemon, who is one of the best swordsmen Westeros had to offer.

He sighed at her stubbornness. "Humor me, just this once. I want to show you how to wield it without losing your grip, at least. As long as your weapon stays in your hand, you are still in the fight."

"I have my dragon." She insisted, sniffing.

"And where was she when you were wandering the woods, Princess?"

Daenys clenched her teeth, knowing she couldn't argue with his bite. Morningstar couldn't always be there to help her, something that she learned the hard way. In the woods, indoors, underground: all places that her dragon could not defend her in unless she wished to burn with the enemy.

"Come on, my Lady. This is what is best for you. I wager you will need to use such skills against an opponent some day soon, without the shield of Morningstar." He seemed tense, similar to his state when first coming across Seamus Knott.

"Cregan..." She pleaded, looking up at him with her dagger limply hung at her hip.

"Daenys." He was unmoved, though his eyes flashed with a unique softness briefly. Daenys' name coming from his lips made her belly fill with butterflies, a warmth spreading throughout her at his low tone.

She sighed, giving in to him. How could she not, when he looked at her like that? Every bit the ruggedly gentle Northern man she had grown to know well.

She shifted her stance, pulling the hand holding the dagger in front of her face, eyeing him over it. He had not moved, only observing her carefully, noting every breath she took.

Daenys stepped forward, swiping the knife towards his chestpiece, the safest option, only to stumble on her feet when Cregan grabbed her wrist and tugged her into his chest. "You were staring at my chest the whole time. Don't make it so obvious where you want to strike."

He kept her tight in his grip, the other hand on her back firmly. "I shouldn't be able to pull you off your feet so easily. If I can simply hold you like this so easily, imagine what a lesser man could do without breaking a sweat."

Daenys flushed at the implication, face warm with embarrassment. He paid no mind to it, releasing his grip and allowing her to stand straight again. Cregan shifted behind her, breath hot against her ear. "Stand lower, center yourself so you can not be felled so easily." He placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing down gently until her knees bent slightly. He pushed her with one hand, appeased when she only bent instead of falling into the snow. Cregan traced a hand down the expanse of her arm, reaching her hand and taking it in his own. He adjusted her grip on it, folding his larger hand around hers, "hold it like this if you wish to swipe instead of stab, like you intended."

When she obeyed, he nodded satisfactorily. He backed away again, standing in front of her. "Again." His voice was hard, rougher than he perhaps knew.

Daenys gritted her teeth, frustrated at his attitude. Was he angry with her for being so green with a weapon? Did most Northern ladies know all this stuff by the time they could walk? She hated the way he looked down at her, as if she was one of his soldiers instead of just Daenys.

Hours passed, with Daenys panting and exhausted from her exertions and Cregan perfectly unharmed in front of her. Daenys improved slightly after every attempt, much to Cregan's approval. They had lost track of time, well into the afternoon before they had eaten and set off riding again. They rode in a deafening silence, the only sounds being the horses' clompering steps. She wished to speak with him to understand why he suddenly was so stressed for her safety. He had promised to stay by her side. Why would she need to protect herself unless he was planning on leaving her?

He hadn't humored any of her longing glances, gaze as straight as his regal posture. In the sunset's glowing light, he looked quite like a Northern Prince sat upon his steed. She wondered if she looked the part of a Princess on her own, or ever. If she didn't have the signature Targaryen white hair or purple eyes, would anyone guess what she was? Jacaerys was always recognized, even without the sigil on his tunics. He always fit his role as heir perfectly. If she had shared his plain features, Daenys guessed that she would be mistaken for a random noblelady of a forgotten house. Her face familiar but none quite able to recall her name.

The two settled in a small clearing, the biggest they had been able to find for hours. Morningstar hovered for a bit before settled down in their find. She had been gone for the entirety of their little training session, most likely to hunt her own meal in the pause. The dragon curled up near the tent, already melting the surrounded area. Maybe the tent would be warmer tonight thanks to her.

Cregan and Daenys sat in front of the fire, roasting the skinned rabbit. Daenys glanced at him several times over the flames, only to be pointedly ignored. She sighed, standing to her feet. "I'll be back." She told him, getting a small hum in return. He assumed she was using the bathroom, so he made no move to stop her. Daenys wandered slightly in the wood, stretching her legs and enjoying her moment of peace. Whilst she was plotting her next words to Cregan concerning his silent attitude, she was stopped by Seamus, standing imposingly in her path.

"You've been gone quite a while." Daenys greeted with a short nod, shifting uncomfortably. He only stared back. "Are you going to set your tent up with ours?"

More silence. He didn't seem to have his pack on his back anymore, only his sword on his belt and a dagger's shealth on the other side to mirror it. She tensed, mouth drying up. Whatever his intentions might have been, none were good.

"Princess Daenys." He started, voice dark with spite. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for an opportunity like this. For twenty long and painful years, I served the Watch. Patient, biding my time until I can be restored to my rightful place as Lord Knott."

Daenys stepped back, reaching slowly to bunch up her skirt, trying to reach her knife without drawing much attention to it.

He mirrored her step. "I won't let that little brat take his place as pretender any longer. Because I have you, now." He grinned, baring his teeth down at her. His black beard was a stark contrast to his shining teeth, saliva parting at his lips. He reminded her of a rabid dog, slobbering and desperate to bite down on anything to relieve its own pain. He slowly unsheathed his dagger, pointing it at her from his spot yards away. "If I take you to the King, I will be bestowed with riches and titles above anyone. He will have to make me Hand in exchange for giving up the usurper's daughter!"

Seamus laughed at his own proclamation. It was a good plan, she admitted. Aegon would be generous enough to give him back his seat at House Knott. Daenys shook her head, taking more slow steps back. When she was about to attempt to reason with him, he lunged. Seamus wasted no time pinning her to the floor, covering her mouth with a dirty hand. "Oh no, Princess. Can't have that little brat ruining this for me. Just like his damned father."

She thrashed, kicking and clawing at his face. Even with the small lines of blood dripping from his face, he never faultered. He placed the dagger at her throat, pulling her roughly to her feet.

He pushed her in front of him all the way to the campsite, where Cregan was already looking to the treeline to spot her return. He stood immediately when Daenys came back, steel placed deadly close to her neck. He drew Ice to his hand, pointing it at the older man.

"Release the Princess, Knott." He growled.

The man chortled behind Daenys, hot breath on her neck, making gooseflesh rise to her arms uncomfortably. "Put that down, boy. You know you cannot harm me without hurting the little lass."

Cregan grit his teeth harshly, jaw ticking. He glanced to Daenys, who guiltily blinked up at him. Sorry, she seemed to say. For wandering off stupidly once again.

Dusk was gone, hunting his own dinner for the night. How convenient for the kinslayer.

Seamus slowly walked to the dragon, who had long since awoken when she spotted Daenys at the mercy of her aggressor. The dragon roared when he approached, hot breath washing over them both and the wind strong enough to make him stumble back slightly. "Command your beast to obey, or she will not have a rider to listen to anymore. Remember, Princess, I need you alive, not unharmed." He sneered.

"I will find you, Daenys." Cregan spoke firmly, standing at the base of Morningstar's wing.

Daenys, with the steel still cold at her neck, commanded Morningstar shakily. "Lykiri, Morningstar. Rual īlva naejot kipagon." She nodded stiffly when the white dragon whined, distressed at what she was being forced to do.

Reluctantly, the dragon lowered its wing to allow both onto her saddle, Daenys still sitting in front of him. He pressed himself tight against her back, one hand squeezing her waist in an almost choking manner. She felt nauseous, glancing to Cregan for reassurance. For the first time, the man looked helpless. Ice was discarded onto the snow, and his throat bobbed with tension.

"Fly, girl!" The man snarled, making Daenys flinch at the loudness. Cursing, she commanded Morningstar to lift off. "You will take us to King's Landing. Anywhere off course, and you will lose your little fingers one by one."

Daenys nodded, gaze straight at the dark sky, the blackness of the night providing her a lonely comfort. She knew Cregan was watching her disappear into the cloud's cover, not being able to do a thing.

Morningstar furiously roared and growled and cried out into the skies, helpless once again to help her rider.

Daenys patted her scales softly in a comforting motion, whispering to the dragon, "īlon jāhor ērinagon."

🗡

Rual īlva naejot kipagon - allow us to ride

Lykiri- Calm

īlon jāhor ērinagon - we will/shall win

Cregan's guilt for not being there for Daenys is eating at him 🙂‍↔️ and coming off all wrong. Whatever shall the young lovebirds do?

what is it that one post said a few weeks back, "paws that he calls hands"? I always think of that when writing about his hands its suck in my head

I should probably establish ages. With Laenor's flashback, its kinda wonky. Joff and Rhae + Daemon's youngest kids' age don't matter because they will have no importance to the story sorry not sorry

Cregan - 21

Daenys- 20

Jace - 18

Luke - 14

Joffrey - 5-7

Aegon and Viserys - Under 5

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 6.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.6k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, my terrible, terrible combat writing, descriptions of injuries, allusions to suicide

story playlist

Instead of sleeping that night, Shera read over Aemond’s notes, unable to start once she started. She lit a few candles, shoving Moongeist over in bed. “Taking up too much room, bubby,” she huffed, sitting cross legged and stacking some blankets and pillows into a makeshift book stand. Finally, after adjusting the candles position a few times, she could finally see. She began to read.

‘Ser Symeon was known to wield a long staff with blades at both ends and would spin it in his hands to chop down two men at once.’ the text said. Aemond had written, very crudely and sloppily; ‘Ask Criston about double ended staves. What about double ended morningstars? Is there such a thing?’

Between notes and annotations, he would have pieces of plain parchment shoved between the pages. Upon it were no words, but drawings. They started simply, a shaky depiction of a box, an etching of a vase in charcoal. As the years progressed through the book, his drawings improved. He never strayed from the medium of simple charcoal on parchment, but they were still very good. 

Shera tilted her head, inspecting the folded papers. She wouldn’t have expected Aemond to be the artistic one, she always thought Helaena to take up that mantle with her intricate embroidery of various insects and beyond. But these were on par with etchings pressed into a maester’s journal, or something displayed in a posh palace in Essos. She realized that besides a creative outlet, these served another purpose— it hit her quickly, he used drawing as a way to train his lone eye back into a sense of depth perception and attention to detail. Those two things were what Shera suffered with immensely, still. As adept as she’d become with sewing, she still pricked her finger or accidentally sewed into her skin because she couldn’t see the correct position of the needle. Her designs for her clothes were intricate but hardly ever symmetrical and never able to be duplicated. 

It was so… smart. It was so smart of Aemond to pick up the skill of drawing, something so inherently reliant on sight, to train himself back to some sense of regularity. It was so… Aemond. 

Shera clenched her hand, her nails sinking into her palm. Why didn’t she think of that? Why didn’t she do anything— her sewing was hobbyistic at best and not nearly enough to train her eyesight. She’d spent all that time wallowing in self-pity instead of doing something. 

She felt an acute feeling of despair, then. I should have written to him more. I should’ve bombarded him with letters and given him no choice but to reply. I should’ve pried to Helaena to see what he was doing beyond niceties. 

Letting out a sigh, she pushed those thoughts away. 

Out of curiosity, she flipped to the end of the tome and looked for the latest drawing. Three pieces of paper fell from the back, onto her lap. 

Opening the first one, it was a depiction of Helaena holding Maelor near the window. There were streams of light coming through the window and the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. Maelor was smiling, his chubby fist held out to the curtain, the small indent of his dimpled cheeks even visible. The detail was… exquisite, it was like looking at a mirror of such a situation.

Opening the second one, it was smeared with charcoal dust. Unlike the first drawing, this one took up the entirety of the page. It was hard to discern for Shera what she was looking at, at first. Leaning more to the light, it became clear. It was a portrait of Vhagar, evident in the pallor of her scales and lack of horns. Each scale was detailed impeccably, some wrought with scars and marks from her old age. The sag of her throat was held up in regard, her teeth jagged and crooked, opening in a sneer or even a laugh. 

Shera imagined what Vhagar’s laugh would sound like— something out of children’s stories, like a cackling witch, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she swirled a cauldron of bubbling green ichor. It made her giggle, the thought of Vhagar hobbling from a hut in the woods with a cane made of gnarled oak, waving away the children who dared to set foot on her property. She would need to tell Aem— someone about her depiction some day. 

She never did have the chance to see Vhagar up close, as much as she had wanted to. Aemond had promised to take her for a ride when it was daytime, so she could see the expanse of the ocean from the sky. But he never did. He wasn’t able to. Something in her heart clenched as she thought of the fact that Aemond only got one ride upon Vhagar with his full sight, one ride upon his destiny while he was still whole. Before it was taken from him— from… both of them. 

She unfolded the third paper. It was a drawing of a woman, someone Shera didn’t recognize. But they… felt familiar. The woman had billowing curls and a snarky smile on her face, eyes lit up with fire and fervor. The positioning of the piece made it feel like she was looking back to someone— her arm outstretched in an offering, as if to beckon the person looking towards them. 

Shera wasn’t sure what to make of it— the other two drawings had been something she knew and could understand. But she didn’t understand this one. She wondered who the woman was, even after she’d drifted to sleep.

—

“Shera, are you warm?” Helaena asked softly as she observed Shera fanning herself with her hand, while Moongeist was panting furiously. 

“She ‘ought to be,” Aegon grumbled, arms folded over his chest as he looked out the slats of the wheelhouse window. “She’s still dressed like she’s in the North. Winter isn’t coming down here, Shera. You can take off the fur.” 

“… a bit warm, yes,” Shera muttered, narrowing her gaze at Aegon. It wasn’t simply just the climate temperature, but the fact that there were so many people in this wheelhouse at present, all warm bodies exuding heat.

Helaena had Maelor on her lap with Aegon to her right, and the twins to her left, who were constantly swapping seats. Aemond was sitting across from Helaena and next to Shera. He tried to give her as much room as possible, but their thighs were still touching. Moongeist was sitting on the floor, riding out the bumps. 

“Who’s bloody idea was it to stuff all of us into one wheelhouse?” Aegon continued, a bit crabby due to his lack of wine. 

“We’re almost there, Aegon. You can stop your whining at any time.” Aemond finally uttered. He had been quiet the whole ride up to the Kingswood, focusing solely on looking out the window. 

“I will stop whining when there is a breeze, a bottle in my hand and that dog is about ten feet away from me,” the oldest prince huffed. “He smells.” 

“Aegon, you smell bad on the best of days. Moongeist just needs a bath— do you even know what those are?” Shera interjected, coming to her wolf’s defense in a heartbeat. 

Helaena, Maelor and the twins giggled heartily. Aemond cracked a grin at the joke. 

“Uncle Aemond should dunk you in the river again, kepa,” Jaehaerys tittered, still laughing away. “You might catch a fish in your mouth again!” 

Aegon rolled his eyes and sighed— his lips perking up into a soft smile. “Maybe Uncle Aemond and the dog can fish in the river instead. Isn’t that what wolves do? Catch fish?” 

“… that’s bears,” Shera said with an unamused tone. 

The wheelhouse came to a creaking stop and Aegon was the first outside. Moongeist was next, followed by Maelor, then the twins. 

Helaena helped Shera down the steps, Aemond behind her. 

In a turn of events, Shera unclasped the fur stole from her shoulders, as well as the outer layer of her dress, tossing it back into the wheelhouse. She instantly felt lighter, the breeze cooling her shoulders. She had on a gray silk dress with cutout shoulders and a high throat clasp. It was flowy, almost weightless material. She adjusted her hat, which was a gift from Helaena. It was a sun hat with a veil sewed around it, coming down just below Shera’s jawline. 

“Ah, finally, you look somewhat like Shera and not a furred beast,” Aegon whistled, walking backwards towards the clearing. 

“I don’t wish to be encumbered any more than I already am in the wilderness. If I am chased by a boar, I don’t need ten pounds of fabric weighing me down.” 

“If you’re chased by a boar, then we will be eating roasted boar that very night, won’t we, Moongeist?” Hela cooed to the wolf, who was letting Maelor climb on his back.

“It feels strange,” Aemond murmured behind Shera, his hand ghosting over the small of her back to help guide her, as Moongeist was playing nanny to Maelor– which she didn’t entirely mind. “To be back here after all of this time– all of us.”

“Except Daeron,” Shera reminded him gently, her hand going down to pat Moongeist on pure instinct, but upon realizing he wasn’t there, she let out a noise of discontentment, her hand going to her chest to rest upon her furs, which weren’t there either. “Ugh, I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m walking alone.”

“Moongeist is the new Daeron,” Aegon called back, now having Jaehaera upon his shoulders, while Jaehaerys was on Helaena’s shoulders. “I’m sure your dog can squire just as good as Daeron, anyhow.”

“You could always hold Aemond’s hand, Shera, like you used to,” Hela giggled, Aegon howling in turn.

“Oh, please, you didn’t get me anything for my nameday, brother– count this as my gift if you and Shera skip through the flowers hand in hand!” 

Aemond scowled. “If my niece weren’t upon your shoulders, brother, you’d be on the ground, preferably with a black eye.” 

Aegon stuck his tongue out mockingly and Jaehaera imitated him.

Soon enough, the troupe was sitting down in a grassy clearing, blanket over the dirt. The twins were stained blue already from the amount of blueberries they consumed, laying on their backs in the sun like two turtles. 

Aegon had managed to open a bottle of wine, sipping on it frequently while snacking on cheese and crackers.

 Helaena had a leaf insect crawling on her fingers, murmuring to herself as she observed it carefully. “They do not bleed… the mulberry leaves, they walk, animated upon mine hand… when crushed, they do not bleed, no blood… the leaves have no blood,” she hummed, the foliage-like creature.

“Do they change color with the seasons, Hela?” Shera asked as she, too, watched the bug. 

“Yes, they do,” the princess replied, violet eyes not moved from the insect. “In Winter, they die and crumble like the leaves, becoming gray and desiccated under the earth… but they’re just sleeping.”

“Mumma, mumma, tadboles,” Maelor squealed as Moongeist padded into the clearing with the toddler upon his back. “There’s… tadboles!”

Helaena was snapped from her reverie by his squeak. She extended her hand to offer the bug to Shera for a moment before an expression akin to recognition came over her face. “I’ll… put him back on the plant.” she murmured low.

Shera thought about her… disassociation spell from the previous day while staring up at the sky. They were in an enclosed clearing with tall trees all around them, the scent of pine sap wafting through the air. She watched birds pass overhead in the sky— they looked like robins, always in a flock. 

There was a large, dead tree near the edge of the forest. Its bark was stripped from its trunk, laden with woodpecker holes, cracked and splintered. It had a larger opening in it, showing that it was hollow inside. She wondered if a family of raccoons lived there. 

Turning her head to another part of the Kingswood, she felt that waft of breeze over her face again, just like yesterday. The same cream colored blur whizzed past her without any noise, merely the sensation of movement. She tried to follow its path, jolting up suddenly with alarming speed. 

She lost track of it. 

Putting a hand to her head, she groaned. She sat up way too fast, sending her brain into a tizzy. Glancing around, everyone else was gone— save for Aemond, who was staring at Shera. 

“Where did they go?” she asked, her mind suddenly off of the creature evading her vision and moreso focused on the fact that everyone was gone. 

“They left half an hour ago, Shera,” Aemond said, a brow raised. “They went to the creek.” 

“Oh.” Half an hour ago? 

“Helaena said you do this,” he continued. “Disassociating?” 

“It’s… new. I think.” she muttered, pulling her legs up to her chest. 

“You should go to a maester about that.” 

“Mm. And why are you still here?” she tried to ask politely, but it ended up coming out a bit harshly. 

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave you alone here while you were… occupied. That’d be depraved indifference.” he huffed.

“Depraved indifference? Like leaving a dog tied up outside in a storm?” she grumbled, digging a finger into the dirt. “Is it so hard for you to say you care about me?” she uttered suddenly, slightly mortified that it came out of her mouth without thinking. Well, I suppose the cat is out of the bag now. 

Aemond stared at her, the pupil of his eye waned to a slit. His jaw clenched and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t need to say it for it to be true,” he said. “Words mean nothing, they’re empty and meaningless. Actions are everything— keep that in mind.” 

“You write a lot for someone who says words are empty and meaningless,” she pressed, the flare of indignation broiling in her— something that only surfaced when talking to Aemond. 

“You misunderstand me, Shera,” he said her name like a blessing and a curse, his lip twitching again. “Someone can say all they like. That they care, that they will do something, that they will fix something— but their words are empty unless they actually do it.” 

Her eye drifted once more, seeing the cream blur dive into the forest. She didn’t know what came over her, her limbs spurring into action as she got up with a start, bolting after it. She heard Aemond’s garbled voice behind her as she ran through the forest, eye unable to focus on it, but she could see it. Glimpses of it, calling to her as it bobbed and weaved through the branches.

Shera, Shera. She heard the whispers of some unfamiliar being in the back of her mind like an itch, a buzz at the base of her skull. It was calling to her, pulling her to it. She lost her shoes somewhere along the way, bare feet traipsing on the ground, cutting into jagged rock and sharp branches.

Aemond’s voice was more urgent now, but she still couldn’t understand what he was saying. And she… she was outrunning him. She felt like a doe, agile and free and the pain of her feet, bleeding and punctured, didn’t even bother her. 

Come, come, little wolf! Come.

The dark of the forest let up into a wide expanse of blue sky, blue sky and the scent of the ocean… the blur was gone and all she felt was open air as she skidded off of the cliff. It was freeing, those splinters of wings bursting through her elytra, cracking and flitting. She treaded nothingness…

Then her wrist snapped, pulled right out of its socket as she was yanked back, her ears ringing as the adrenaline died down. The breeze of the sea stopped as she was enveloped in warmth, in fire. She glanced up– Aemond was staring down at her with a wide eye, hair sticking to his forehead with the sheen of sweat.

“What the… fuck, Shera?” he breathed, his chest heaving. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” 

“No– n… no,” she croaked in turn, her uninjured hand grasping into the leather of his doublet with such force that her knuckles were white, veins bulging against her skin. “The… it…” her tongue felt tied, throat dry as the pain of everything caught up to her at once. Her bleeding feet, her ballooning lungs that couldn’t catch enough oxygen, her dislocated wrist, hand aloft at an odd angle. 

Moongeist barked somewhere in the distance, howl echoing through the forest.

She did not remember much after that.

—

The next moon was quiet for Shera as she recovered from her outing. The maesters set her wrist back into place and set it taut with a sling. Her feet were bandaged and she was prescribed bed rest for at least a week. They tried to give her milk of the poppy, but she refused– she couldn’t stand how it made her head swim, swim more than it already did.

Cregan blamed Aemond, threatening to take Shera back to Winterfell until the wedding. Rhaenyra calmed him, citing that Shera wouldn’t go out of the keep without a more attentive chaperone.

Once she was mostly recovered, lunched with Helaena every day and watched Aemond spar with Criston every other morning– but she usually hid behind the ramparts to where he wouldn’t see her– she felt oddly shy about watching him. She hadn’t had any disassociation spells, nor saw anything of the mystery blur. However, she did have Ser Erryk Cargyll as her sworn sword, issued by Rhaenyra herself. 

She hated being followed, being observed under a lens like she was a child. Indignation broiled in her chest– but one eve, while passing Aemond in the hall, he didn’t say anything to her. They hadn’t spoken since the incident, where Shera was fairly sure that Aemond was convinced she tried to kill herself by jumping off the cliff– she wanted to explain that wasn’t the case, to explain everything she’d been experiencing. But he would think her mad. Surely.

She pulled herself out of the corset after, slipping into a more comfortable, loose fitting garment. Shera had sent away her maids and told them not to return until the morn. She didn’t wish to be fretted and pulled at like a sickly hen, feathers plucked before the slaughter.

Slowly, she untangled the veil from her hair and set it aside. Fingers gliding through her braids, she let her hair fall in curled tresses down her back, resting well past her bottom once it was all out. 

The last thing to come off was her leather choker— she placed it on her boudoir, the tips of her nails ghosting over the still prominent scar there. She abhorred looking in the mirror, seeing nothing but a banshee looking back. 

Even though she had retired to her chambers, she didn’t sleep. She found it hard to sleep most nights and ended up pacing. It was late in the night and most of the Keep were asleep, save for the occasional guard. She found it the perfect time to sneak out to the tunnels that crisscrossed throughout Maegor’s Holdfast. 

She wished to test and see if she truly remembered the path that led to the water gardens— which she hoped still sparkled just as wondrously under moonlight as they did before. 

Moongeist was curled up atop her bed, snoozing away. He worked so hard to guide Shera that she loathed to wake him, so she didn’t. She wasn’t completely hopeless without her wolf guide, but it could be teetering on the edge of stupidity, to wander the dimly lit secret corridors without her safety net. Stupidity that masked itself in bravery in her mind. 

Glancing back at her veil and choker, she left them behind as she descended into the tunnel— she would be out of sight, and wished to let herself breathe for once, uninhibited and unveiled. She pressed to the wall for balance, her nightgown fisted in one hand, the other committing the curve of the stone to her mind, for later. If her memory served her correctly, she should be passing the royal apartments and the other guest rooms.

The sound of hushed voices caught Shera’s attention. In hindsight, it is rude to eavesdrop upon conversations– but she couldn’t help herself. 

The somewhat familiar gruff sound of Daemon’s voice met her ears as they perked up, pressed against the wooden backing of a bookshelf that led to the tunnel from, what she could assume, was Rhaenyra and Daemon’s chamber.

“She won’t be beholden to us, Nyra,” Daemon’s voice whispered in an urgent, hushed tone. “She was raised under them, she has no reason to like us.”

“The North is a powerful ally we need on our side once the time comes, Daemon. Cregan is already beholden to us by the oath of his father,” she breathed, “This is merely another way to bring the Starks into the fold. I’d rather them be ready to defend us, Shera, at a moment’s notice.” 

“Beyond the allegiances, the betrothals, the treaties; she is hardly a worthy vessel of Valyrian seed. A baby with dragon’s blood would tear that soft bellied wolf apart. Even then, are we so sure she isn’t still… in favor of Alicent’s brood? You saw her with the two at the dinner.”

“You’re thinking too far ahead, Daemon. I suppose I do love your… farsightedness, but we must focus on nearsightedness. We will deal with the issues of the girl’s mettle after I’m on my throne,” Rhaenyra turned, a finger pressed to Daemon’s jaw, which was clenched in agitation. “You needn’t worry. If her constitution proves weak, she shan’t survive the court— and any trace of allegiance she might have to my half siblings shall be snuffed out swiftly when the time comes.”

Shera felt her sudden burst of confidence fester into bile rising from the back of her throat. Once the time comes? Her stomach churned– she knew that there had been tension between the two sides of the King’s family but she hadn’t expected such planning and cunning already, before the gauntlet had even been thrown down, before the King had even passed– 

And she was a part of that plan, apparently. Moreso a link to her brother’s allegiances and by extension, the North. 

The tunnel she was in suddenly felt very small, like the walls were closing in on her. Panic bubbled in her chest like frothing sea water, the undercurrent threatening to drag her out to the endless expanse, water filling her lungs until they burst.

Her bare feet stumbled as she continued forward, trying to recognize any of the exits from the labyrinth, but it seemed fruitless. Tears welled, stinging and blinding her even further. She wasn’t quite sure how long she had been lost for– but it felt like the better part of an hour before she finally pushed one opening forward, falling out onto the stone ground of another room in the holdfast.

Shera sniffed, her hair falling in front of her face like inky tendrils, clinging to her tear streaked face. Her knee was skinned from how hard she’d fallen, blood trickling down her skin and staining her nightgown. Glancing around, her vision was beyond fuzzy, her head spinning. 

Idiot, idiot. She chastised herself further, fists supplanted into the ground, her nail beds scraping against the unforgiving stone as she attempted to pull herself up. 

She hoped to every God, the old and the new, that the room wasn’t occupied.

“Alicent? Alicent… is that you?” 

Fuck.

Shera froze, the croaking voice directed at… her? It was like hearing the Stranger speak, whispering in her ear. Surely it was a figment of her imagination. 

“Ali-cent,” it spoke again, followed by a hacking cough and a drawn out moan. “My… my medicine— have… you brought it?”

Shaking her head, she ventured closer to the bed where the voice was coming from, a lone beeswax candle lit on the bedside. Some incense was also burning, an intense smell of concentrated herbs that was almost too much for even Shera— what was this? Finally reaching the bedside, she was in horror at what she saw. 

Was this… the King? 

He looked more corpse than human, cheeks sunken and teeth missing and blackened. His body mass was half of what it used to be— he… he was so small now, his labored breathing, moreso wheezing, wracking his body. His eye was missing. 

She held back the urge to vomit as she got closer, now knowing what the incense mask was for. He smelled terrible— complete of death and rot, as if his body was already withering and decaying. It was on par with the scent of a dead elk she and Moongeist had found a few years before while exploring just outside of Winterfell. Its body was bloated and stinking, maggots writhing from the orifices of its body. It was one of the most disgusting sights she’d ever seen— ‘twas tainted meat, as the ravens and foxes wouldn’t even touch it. 

The King— Viserys the Peaceful. He was no more a king presently, akin more to fodder for vultures. No, she didn’t think that vultures would taint themselves with his rotten flesh. 

She peered on. Viserys wasn’t much older than Daemon, was he? And… as much as she hated to admit it, Daemon was only just past his prime, mayhaps still even in it. But Viserys… looked aged to about eighty or ninety, his skin liver spotted and plagued with… some disease she couldn’t identify. His hair was all but gone, sticking to the skin of his skull in small patches, like a child’s doll that’d been mutilated.

“… y-your grace?” Shera whispered, unsure of what to do.

“A-ah, forgive… me… dearest, there is a glint upon… your eye.”

Yes, and you lack one, decrepit corpse. Shera resisted the urge to huff. 

“The… the vial—,”

“This one, your grace?” she murmured, seeing a small phial of liquid. She sniffed it, the overwhelming scent of milk of the poppy hitting her nostrils.

“Mm.”

She handed the medicine to him, watching him struggle to even lift his bony, gaunt hand. She brought the lip of it to his mouth, listening to him greedily drink it as if it were the most delicious of wines.

“Much… better, thank you,” he breathed, putting his hand back over his forehead. “Have… you thought much more upon… Rhaenyra’s proposal?”

“Her proposal, your grace?” Shera responded meekly. She still wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, where the king thought she was Queen Alicent. Her hands shook as she put the empty vial back on the nightstand.

“Helaena… and Jacaerys… ‘tis a fine match… it would… reunite our… the… the house of the dragon.” 

Gods, what year did he think it was?

“... I am still mulling it over, my king,” she responded, glancing around the room for any way out.

“And… have Otto… send a raven to Lord Stark…” he wheezed. “Propose a union… between your ward… and Aemond. The North… has stayed out of the… realm for far too long…”

Aemond? There were talks of a betrothal to Aemond? Her heart began to race, even though she knew that the king’s mind was at least twelve years in the past or more– the mere thought of… it could’ve been true, it could’ve happened– 

She bit her lip until blood welled to the surface. Everything could have been different.

Did Alicent refuse? Was there… even a raven sent? 

“Yes, your grace,” she sniffed, holding back tears. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Alicent.” 

[lavalais76]

You all remember this scene, when Sansa begs for her father's life, and just as they are chopping Ned's head off, Sansa Stark passes out.... I'm starting to wonder if some type of magic was at play here. Some type of "Warging magic?" Where did Sansa go? Where did Ned go? Sansa have other dreams and blackouts too. Many "Sansa Haters" blame her behavior on trauma, and sure, there is some trauma but something else is also at play concerning Sansa. They also love to say she has absolutely ZERO magic because she got her wolf killed and she is no longer a Stark.

I say there is waayyyy more to Sansa Stark than meet the eye. Martin says that ALL the Stark children are WARGS. Sansa even visits the underworld (or the world of Ghost, Jon's direwolf) when she is in the Vale. She remembers a kiss that we all know never happened and "SanSan shippers" say it's foreshadowing for the "false beast" Sandor Clegane. (WHATEVERRR) I say it's Jon Snow (real BEAST) and this kiss is something Sansa has already seen in the future. Jon's face isn't burned, but we all know how bad that eagle clawed one side of his face and I'm not talking about Kit Harington's cute little scar. The books describe it much more intense and a bit gruesome.

Sansa Stark has seen her children too. Her boys (whom she named) and the girl specifically that looks like Arya. Arya looks like Jon, so Yes.... Sansa is definitely a warg and possibly have greendreams.

[prclnivrstl]

a game of thrones, bran i

"...the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. if you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. and if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

this may be a bran chapter, but it tells us far more about ned and jon than anything else. and also there's lots of foreshadowing.

granfer starts the chapter by hitting you right in the face with the stark words without ever actually speaking them. summer is ending and winter is coming. there's a lot of heavy foreshadowing all through this chapter that i know i didn't catch on my initial read.

so let's start with the gossip old nan is feeding the children about the wildlings. she tells them all the ways the wildlings are hella evil and how they drink blood and they consort with ghouls. it's giving 'blood libel', if i'm being perfectly honest. something i found particularly interesting, though, was her assertion that wildling women laid with the others during the long night and made evil half-breeds. a possible folklore explanation for wights? since we are very aware now that wights are definitely A Thing.

bran is apparently old enough to witness executions (7) now, so he is being taken with the malefolk to watch ned chop the head off a watch deserter. it's gared from the last chapter. i can only assume he encountered the wights of will and ser waymar and fucked all the way off south of the wall post haste. this further contrasts him with ser waymar from last chapter. he was a 40 year veteran of the watch and failed his duties spectacularly. not only did he desert, he did so without warning anyone of what he'd seen and continued to keep mute on the subject even after being caught. clearly waymar had his number and was treating him accordingly to his judgements on gared's character rather than out of any character flaw of his own.

bran notes that he looks like a member of the watch except his furs were "ragged and greasy", which is interesting to note, because i'm fairly certain that most watchmen are in such a state, but i guess bran wouldn't know that because he probably only really sees his uncle benjen who would most certainly be better outfitted than most other men of the watch.

through bran's eyes and thoughts, we examine ned. he is a caring and interactive father who seems to enjoy frequently telling his children stories about the history and folklore of their land. being of the first men is important to him. as is responsibility (and duty) and he makes a note of hammering that home on several occasions in this chapter. firstly when he explains to bran why he is the one who performs the executions, and later when stressing that in order to keep the direwolves, the children must take care to adequately manage their care and training by themselves.

(also there's a bit of a jab at robert in there where he says that 'a ruler that hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is'.)

also he's apparently fucking ripped? he cleanly wields Ice in an overhead chop despite it being as wide as his hand and taller than robb (who is described as being big for a ~14 year old boy). impressive.

something of interest that we see is how bran compares and contrasts his two older brothers, robb and jon. it's obvious that despite having his mother's colouring, robb is his father's son. he is big and burly (like ned?) and clearly has a bit of that wild stark streak that his uncle brandon and aunt lyanna were so known for.

jon, on the other hand, has the stark colouring, but so much about him is just screaming rhaegar targaryen. he is his father's son as well. his eyes are described as being such a dark grey as to nearly be black (rhaegar had very dark purple/indigo eyes), and that he is slender and graceful. even at 14, jon is very thoughtful and serious. he is introspective and intelligent and a touch morose. also, his argument for keeping the direwolf pups is to point out that it is clearly fate which has brought them together. you could be forgiven for thinking he get's his serious demeanour from ned, but i don't think that's it. ned is serious because he is shy and traumatized and responsible for a great deal of things. i think jon gets his demeanor from rhaegar who is withdrawn because he's thinking and also a little other-wordly and destined. and speaking of other-worldly and destined, there's jon's immediate supernatural connection with ghost (the albino, pls) who he turns back for as they're leaving. there are also some fairly telling instances where jon shows that he feels othered amongst the stark children despite everyone's clear efforts to include him. i don't think that's solely down to him being a bastard, but because he genuinely feels as though he is different. i can't explain why.

there are some hints at familial levity which we do not see, but are sweet to note - namely ned wondering aloud what nonsense his boys have gotten into this time. this is a close and happy family.

in regards to foreshadowing, the dead direwolf is a big one. they even agree that finding it is a sign of some-sort. the real obvious foreshadowing, though, is that the direwolf was killed in a fight with a large stag, the sigil of the king. here we are shown the next conflict of note, starks vs baratheons.

something else, though, is the idea of mercy killing. it's interesting to note that in this instance, ned says that a quick death is better than a hard one with suffering. this very sentiment is later spoken by the king in regards to bran himself which kicks off the whole stark/lannister conflict that will cause all the strife in the riverlands.

[writingsofwesteros]

If fem!Cregan leaves Jace has to follow her it’s for her and the babe’s protection ignoring that the direwolf follows them everywhere. He’ll even leave the throne if Cregan leaves, Rhaenyra has to basically beg Cregan to stay in the throne room during the petitions. If Cregan has to nurse and someone looks at her exposed breast Jace would threaten to blind them/chop their head off/feed them to his dragon it all depends on the person and how long they stare. At council meetings Jace holds the babe while Cregan gets to sit and relax.

!!!!

The only time they would ever be apart is if Cregan promises him something sweet in the evening - it does not stop him from being distracted all day.

She plays with their babes on the beaches with the dragons always close.

[redwolf17]

Jon II Update

Prose: 9,504

Outline: 2,544

AN: 677

Like pulling teeth today. So annoyed. REALLY hoping I can finally finish cranking this chapter out by tomorrow night, I'm so ready to write literally any other POV, and the Arya -> Sansa -> Cersei chapters should be so, SO much easier than this fucker. Ugh.

Preview

"M'lord?" White breath steamed from behind Dolorous Edd Tollett's black scarf, just like it steamed from behind those of the half dozen men who served as the lord commander's tail. "Will you be having a rest now, or do you mean to watch until the yard is empty? Not to be impertinent, but that wolf of yours is looking awful peckish, and there's naught to feed him up here. I 'spose he could finish off what the maester left of my arm, if he likes his meat tough as old boots."

Jon Snow narrowed his eyes. Dolorous Edd looked back at him blandly, and Ghost licked his chops, his garnet eyes gleaming. What were they playing at? The steward knew full well that Ghost wasn't hungry. Edd was the one who had brought Ghost a haunch of mutton before the night began, and the direwolf had devoured every scrap, enough to keep him full for days.

[istumpysk]

Here I am, haunting your halls again. Life got in the way but I noticed some interesting things in my reread and since I did threatened to come yell at you, TADA!!!

Ok, so in Portuguese they divided Game of Thrones in two volumes so I can't give you the pages numbers in case anyone wants to go check, but I'll do my best to provide context for the little bits I bring.

- So many hands: Ghost brings Jon the hand of one of the man that got killed by the Others. Jon burns his hand. Jaime cuts Torrhen's hand in battle. And then Eddard, the Hand of the king gets his head chopped off. Listen either George got a fixation with hands or the Jon part could be a parallel just like we had the Direwolf killed by a Stag.

- Arya's future as an explorer: In Sansa's chapter after Eddard tells them he is sending them back to Winterfell, Sansa is upset and Arya tries to cheer her up by offering to fix the dress but also by sharing her excitement of traveling by boat, examining that it would be an adventure.

-Bran the Broken: Bran's Chapter in which all the northern lords are at Winterfell and he goes to join them for dinner. Torrhen comments about Bran's disability which leads Bran to think "Broken,...Bran, the broken?"

-Sansa and staying true to herself: ofc I had to add something about Sansa!! So, Sansa is this character that is a lady at 3, but also a dreamer, in love with a world of heroes and legends. And she crashes with the horrible truth that the world isn't a song. And yet, despite everything she stays true to herself. When she is forced to send the letter to Robb, her brother asks what is wrong with her, to which Bran replies that she lost her wolf. That would make it seem like she is now less Stark or that she lost part of herself. Which in a way is true but Sansa is still herself, when she gets fetched to the Queen to write the letter she is polite to the ones that went to get her. She is polite at court even when she is scared, she is polite to Jeyne even if she is thinking less than nice things. She is a lady, she is courteous by nature, and she stays like that just like Arya stays wild.

Now the Arya and Bran parts could be coincidence, could be that the producers took the "Bran, the broken" bit and used it. But I thought it was interesting.

I will also say that Season 1 had something that I enjoyed and miss in the books, Cersei and Robert's conversation. I really love their scene together from the show. But reading Jon's chapters again? Seeing my smart, observant boy again? Loveee it!! And little Sansa ❤️

That is all for now, got to go back to join Robb's revolution!!! Sorry for the huge text!!

Never apologize, I'm glad your reread is going well.

You forgot Catelyn cutting her hand! He's such a weirdo, his fixation on hands won't stop for the rest of the series (pray for Arya).

It's so funny, the Arya ship stuff starts fast and furious right from the beginning. I don't know how some people manage to read her chapters and not see it.

I forgot the Bran the Broken aspect starts appearing so quickly.

I would argue that Sansa is the Stark who is most sure in her identity. So I guess you don't need a pet wolf to feel secure in who you are. Shocking!

Definitely don't think anything you mentioned is a coincidence.

Enjoy the revolution! 😊

[jonquildove]

nxtalady:

Direwolves. Lemon cakes. It was hurting her mind, those words forcing themselves in, she parrying with her sword in her head. They were so familiar, words that had meant something long ago. Nymeria had been her direwolf, she having left it in the woods and said for it to escape, lest the Lannisters hurt it. She couldn’t let them mean anything now. "This is fine. Thanks.” She sat down at the table carefully, playing with her grubby hands to keep her mind off of everything that was happening. There was soup and bread too, which she liked, remembering spending a day with a man and a little girl who supported the Tullys, as she was with the Hound. That was beautiful rabbit stew she ate, it helping with soothing her clawed heart that had gone to smithereens, and she hoped they were okay now, albeit the man with a hurt head when the Hound took his money purse. They were nice people, they were friends in this cold desolate land. She was angry at the Hound for instilling such hostility to the nice couple, even as she thought it also likely they may not survive long in the winter. She remembered the girl and man were not very strong to chop wood. The man had asked if the dog could be help chop wood. The girl had said lemon cakes. That couldn’t have been a coincidence. They were Sansa’s favourite. “You’re from around here then, I take it?”

Sansa walked over to the cupboard, getting the lemon cakes and porridge out. She gently set them down on the table, placing some bowls in front of the boy and Robin. He smiled, eating the porridge with his bacon and eggs. He said he liked boiled egg, which she knew, she cooking it on a pot on the stove for a short time, so the yolk was rather soft in the centre. “Lemon cakes are my absolute favourite…” She smiled. She ate the delicious yellow lemon baked in the fluffy slice, tasting the stickiness of her fingers. It was a golden yellow, with white cream swirled on top. She could taste the beautifully whisked egg whites and flour and milk. “—Not initially, no.” “My Father here, Petyr, resided with me, in his previous holdings The Fingers…” She met some people there, like a woman called Kella, whom Petyr said was not her mother, her maam being a noblewoman in Braavos. Petyr sometimes called her Kell-bells in affectionate familiarity. As she walks through the Fingers, a dark dreary tower in a island of no trees by the way land, blue and grey clouds swirling in the sky, she thought she heard a dragon's stark wail of sadness if she listened closely. Yet weren't the dragons all gone? She read about in Targaryen history, when reading about Westeros. She looked in her bookshelf, getting the book out again, and read that may have been Vermax, whom Lucerys rode on, a dragon of the male sex -- they flying through the sky over the Fingers holding to be a messenger for Boros Baratheon for asking for alliance. Aemond had simply wanted Lucerys' eye, not to kill him, as when they were young, they had a fight, where the Strong boys had crowded him and ripped out his eye ; slashed with a dagger. “And then he married Lysa Tully…we travelling in the road through the Coldwater Burn, and thus, we now stay here at the Eyrie…” “And what about you? Where’re you from?”

[queen-of-andor]

GHOST'S INTELLIGENCE

It's obvious that the direwolves are no ordinary pets. They all share magic bonds with the Stark kids to some degree.

Today, I want to focus on the most extraordinary of them (at least in terms of appearance), I want to focus on Ghost.

Ghost is partly given his name because he's always silent:

"He's not like the others," Jon said. "He never makes a sound. That's why I named him Ghost. That, and because he's white. The others are all dark, grey or black."

AGOT, JON I

However, for an animal who is supposed to be silent, it was his sounds that made Jon discover him:

They had been riding off with the other pups, but Jon had heard a noise and turned back, and there he was, white fur almost invisible against the drifts. He was all alone, he thought, apart from the others in the litter. He was different, so they drove him out.

AGOT, JON VIII

It's not impossible even for a silent animal to make noise by the way they move. However, I find it interesting that Martin choose not to specify what kind of noise Ghost made and Jon turned back. Could be a noise only Jon heard because he was the only person destined to be linked with this specific direwolf? Was it the bond between them appearing even before their first actual meeting? Could Bloodraven be the one who interfered and made the noise so it was possible for Jon to be linked with Ghost, because he knew that would be important to later developments? I'm not ruling any speculation out.

Moving on, when Jon decides to leave the Night's Watch and his friends try to get him back, it's Ghost once again who makes a noise and betrays their location:

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon glimpsed a pale shape moving through the trees. Leaves rustled, and Ghost came bounding out of the shadows, so suddenly that Jon's mare started and gave a whinny. "There!" Halder shouted.[...]

Ghost moved out from under the trees and Jon glared at him. "Small help you were," he said. The deep red eyes looked at him knowingly.

AGOT, JON IX

I find the last sentance of the above passage the most interesting. Ghost looks Jon knowingly. The direwolf knows he was "small help" because he betrayed their location on purpose. After all, he's an animal known for being silent. Except this time he wasn't. Because like Jon's friends, the direwolf also wanted Jon to return to Castle Black (maybe a subconsious part of Jon also wanted it?)

Ghost also showed intelligence when he chop off the hand of the dead Jafer Flowers and brought it to Jon. The direwolf was playing detective outside the Wall (and he was more successful than many human ones, lol).

Finally, I wanted to hightlight that Ghost isn't only linked to the Old Gods due to his appearance but also the direwolf is wiser than men according to Jon:

And suddenly Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees …

AGOT, JON VI

The direwolf's red eyes were darker than garnets and wiser than men.

AGOT, JON VIII

I believe the magic is strong in this one direwolf.

Bloodraven told Bran that most children of the forest have golden eyes but there are exceptions with red or green eyes that are stronger in magic(greenseers). What if the same applies to direwolves as well? After all most of them have golden eyes:

"In a sense. Those you call the children of the forest have eyes as golden as the sun, but once in a great while one is born amongst them with eyes as red as blood, or green as the moss on a tree in the heart of the forest. By these signs do the gods mark those they have chosen to receive the gift.

ADWD, BRAN III

[ewinofthelake]

Arya was raised on a small farm in the Mountains of Winter. She had never owned fancy dresses, never pampered her long dark hair, but she was all the same the most beautiful girl in the North. She just didn't know it.

Her favourite pastimes were running in the woods with her direwolf Nymeria and tormenting the farm boy that worked for her family. His name was Jaqen, but she never called him that. To her, it was as if he had no name.

Nothing gave Arya as much pleasure as ordering Jaqen around.

"Farm boy, brush my direwolf's coat, I want to see it shining by morning," she told him one day, her hand petting Nymeria.

He was always so quiet, so courteous. "A man must serve." And maybe as handsome as she was beautiful.

A man must serve was all he ever said to her. He just looked at her. He always looked at her, always smiling. He saw her.

"Farm boy, fill these with water," she told him on the morrow, two buckets dropped near him.

He was outside, chopping firewood with an axe. "A man must serve." And a man obeyed.

She never looked at him. She just turned and left. But that day, her eyes stayed on him. That day, she chewed her lip to keep a please from escaping. That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying a man must serve what he meant was I love you.

"Farm boy, fetch me that kettle," she told him at the turn of the moon, the kettle so close she could reach it herself from where she was sitting.

He was in the kitchen doorway, a pair of heavy padded mitts soon in his hands. "A man must serve." And kneeling beside her, Arya drunk on his smile, they finally gazed into each other's eyes.

Even more amazing was that day. The day she realised she wanted to kiss that disarming smile. The day she realised she truly loved him back.

How their love survived the adventures with the three outlaws Tyrion the witty dwarf, 'Big Man' Sandor Clegane and Syrio Forel the fencing master, with the evil prince Bolton and his six-fingered goon Meryn Trant, and with the kindly magician in his robe of black and white, well... That is a story for another day.

Arya Stark Valentine’s Day Challenge 2023, prompts Secret Admirer/Alternate Fandom/Fairytale: Jaqen H'ghar/Arya Stark, The Princess Bride AU

[a-song-of-art-and-fire]

Bran I - The Deserter Executed, and The Direwolf Cubs in the Snow

"The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer."

A project I've been working on for a while, and one I'm SO excited about. I've done a few diorama pieces before, but I've been really wanting to do a specific chapter scene like this.

Like a lot of GRRM's best chapters, Bran I is a contrast between two set-pieces- Ned dealing out the Stark old-way execution of Gared, then Jon talking him into showing mercy to the Direwolf cubs. As such, I wanted to make a diptych of sports, with the two scenes contrasted on either side. GRRM has talked about how the image of this chapter just came to him fully formed, and it does have a certain stained-glass perfection to it.

On Ned's side, we have the execution. Funnily, one of the biggest challenges of this piece was a kneeling man ready for the chop, I basically had to build him from scratch from pieces. ASOIAF has a lot of big portentous executions, and I'm not looking forward to that challenge every time! I also forgot to cut off his ears until the last second, so that took some maneuvering! I know in the book the execution actually takes place in a square in the middle of a holdfast, but I think the show has been too influential in making me picture it outside, besides which it let me do the wall of trees to separate the scenes.

On Bran's side we have the discovery of the Direwolf cubs. We can assume Jon and Robb are just off-screen, but I wanted the simple primal image of the boy in the snow. I always struggle with the North having knee high snow in summer, so I wanted it to look like a patch of snow that escapes melting by being in the shade. I'll do a separate post for the Direwolf sculpt itself, here I'll just note I'm happy with the way the spray of blood around her throat mirrors the Weirwood leaves around Bran. Finally, it's mentioned that the Direwolf is found near a stream, and I thought it would make a nice little visual to have a corner of stream... that throwaway decision ended up taking more time than the rest of the sculpt put together! The various resins and varnishes and gods know what else needed to make that little corner of water nearly killed me, but I do love how it looks in the end.

[exponentialcrisis]

first, its worth noting that this company is putting out some seriously misleading press on this. they took grey wolf cells, edited 14 genes to mimic direwolf dna, and called it a direwolf. they specifically selected traits for phenotype (look) over genetic accuracy. in a very literal sense they pulled a classic jurassic park - prioritizing looks to get attention.

they have also explicitly stated that they believe this to be "functional de-extinction," that they got close enough that they can call these wolves the same as direwolves when they just are not the same species on a genetic level. thats hugely unscientific imo, and theyre getting flak from the scientific community at large for this.

on a more complex note (with a huge caveat that i am not a biologist and dont have a degree, am just a science enjoyer) - the ecosystem at large is hugely complex with many more moving parts than we even know about (example: we find new species all the time). resurrecting an extinct species and dropping it back into that system is far more likely to be disruptive than restorative, especially with long-dead species that evolution closed the gap behind.

in the case of direwolves specifically, they specialized in megafauna like wooly mammoths, which died out largely due to lack of habitat long before the industrial revolution. there is no remaining ecological niche for either of these animals, but this company wants to bring back both of them.

also - and this was a small throwaway line in the Times article, but a red flag im not willing to ignore - they mention preventing genetic disorders in humans. this smacks of eugenics. you can talk about dodging cancer genes all you like but i know whos on the chopping block - me and mine. intersex ppl, neurodivergent ppl, basically all disabled people.

ultimately i think the resources spent on this project and ones like it would be better spent making changes in how humanity operates NOW. there are plenty of ecological fuckups that could be prevented rather than trying to turn back the clock on *reads notes* an ice age that ended long before the industrial revolution.

Regarding those Dire wolves, don't we have almost 7 movies about why genetic mutation is bad?

If we continue down this path it'll put us in some *dire* straits

[kobedivision]

“Right now, you’re the only reason I’m not letting go.”

Timeline

Age 0:

Is born as Max Araki to Hyūga Araki and Marie Clover in Tokyo.

Age 3:

Is diagnosed with congenital insensitivity to pain (CIP) after accidentally slicing his hand open.

Age 5:

His father forbids him from making contact with his mother, going as far as to lock him in a makeshift kennel.

Age 7:

Learns how to lockpick and escapes the kennel, making secret visits to his mother.

Age 10:

Sneaks out and goes to the city, sneaks into an aquarium and meets [REDACTED], immediately develops a crush when she helped him from off the floor.

Finds a stray dog and keeps it as a pet.

Age 11:

His father finds out about his escapades and the stray dog, punishes him severely and kills the dog

Age 12:

His mother █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ and tries to █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ Max but was stopped by his father.

Age 13:

Max █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

His father is found decapitated and his mother strangled to death.

Age 14:

Sneaks on a boat to America and █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

Finds an injured wolf cub and nurses it back to health, gaining a companion and names him Hunter.

Encounters “Black Suit” and █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

Pledges loyalty to him and becomes his proxy

Joins an organization called “The Commission”

Meets fellow proxies, “Candymare” and “Ravage”.

Stands on neutral terms with Candymare but immediately despises Ravage.

Age 15:

Starts killing and assassinating for “The Commission”.

Black Suit brings the Proxies to meet “Strix”, a new Proxy in the making.

Defends Strix from Ravage’s bullying, unknowing creating an attachment to the kid.

Wins a competition against Candymare and Ravage, in return Black Suit deems him as Strix’s mentor.

Age 16:

Moves back to Japan and lives in Kobe City

Changes his last name

Meets and befriends Ren Nakashima.

Age 17:

Reluctantly starts high school under “Black Suit”’s orders.

Meets Sumire Shinomiya and quickly realizes she’s actually [REDACTED], his crush comes back at full force, becoming dangerously infatuated with her.

Meets Kaiji Sano.

Age 18:

Present.

Strix, now “Akumu Soukoku” is placed under his care with the identity of being his younger brother.

█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

Participates in Division Rap Battles with Ren Nakashima and Kaiji Sano, becomes 2nd member of Kobe’s Division 2nd Team Lovesick

Schedule

12 a.m. - 5 a.m.: Asleep

5 a.m. - 7 a.m.: Takes Hunter on morning walk

7 a.m. - 8 a.m.: Freshens up + Feeds Hunter

8 a.m. - 9 a.m.: Eats breakfast on the way to school

9 a.m. - 12 p.m.: Class

12 p.m. - 1 p.m.: Lunch

1 p.m. - 2 p.m.: Class

2 p.m. - 2:30 p.m.: Walks Ryōhei and Ayano back to their home

2:30 p.m. - 3:30 p.m.: Gets food and supplies from Ren’s house

3:30 p.m - 4 p.m.: Walks home with Akumu + Feeds Hunter

4 p.m. - 5 p.m.: Hunting for food

5 p.m. - 8 p.m.: Hunting and Training with Akumu

8 p.m. - 9 p.m.: Chopping wood

9 p.m. - 10 p.m.: Dinner + Feeds Hunter

10 p.m. - 11 p.m.: Plays with Hunter, Akumu, and Iris

11 p.m. - 12 p.m.: Chats with Ren and Kaiji

Character Hashtags

Regular Hashtags

#Wolf boy

#Nature lover

#Just a regular high school student

Trauma Hashtags

#All I want is love

#YOU’RE A MONSTER

#I can’t feel anything

Other Info

Hobby: Axe throwing

Weakness: Possessive

Trauma: “No one…loved me…from the moment…I was born.”

Twitter: @direwolf

Drinks: No

Smokes: No

Special Skill: “I’m…pretty good…at…wood carving.”

Intro Quote: “I’m…Max….Max Soukoku….nice to meet you.”

Trauma Quote: “I hate you…I hate you I hate you I HATE YOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU-“