#r.asoiaf

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Lord Rowan would never overstep his co-marshall in their dealings with vassals and their disputes but that little chaos bug bites him in the ass sometimes and he just looks at his wife’s dragon and thinks:

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:)

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Lord Rowan’s last commissioned set of armor has pauldrons with portraits of all four of his daughters, two for each side. @reynlrunnr

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lord rowan knows his cousin, lord re.dwyne, sides with the greens years before there’s ever thought of a conflict. rafi fucking hates him.

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    the face of a Rowan queen about to give birth to her third illegitimate child from the same man.

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An Heirling: Heart Stretched Too Thin ❂ ━━━━━━━━━━━━➤   part  one  of  ???. note: tfw you just reunited with your family after a year but one sister is getting married and another, well, you’ll see..... anyway, couldn’t remember the names i gave maria and margaret for this verse so i just used their... names. will amend later. i plan on writing a few more of these, maybe all the way to rafi’s own wedding? we’ll see.

       “It is said Northern Lords consummate marriages for their groom - subjects.” Maria, a girl of ten and three years, cheekily says. Where she got that information, Rafi did not know and, looking up from where he sat at their elder sister’s feet, eyes her suspiciously.       “You’ve made too much conversation with the hound - master’s son, I see.” Margaret laughs, gaze never lifting from her needlework.      “The hound - master? I thought he was childless?” Rafi asks, confused.      “Our Lord Father was displeased with him, so he got another.” The eldest Rowan answers her brother. “It cannot be helped, father’s fickle nature.”      A deep inhale, meant to quel what anxiety brewed in his chest. Lord Rowan worries about the hold he once called home, his sisters, his mother           upon learning he was named heir, he was swiftly picked up and taken to Goldengrove, abandoning those he wished to protect. Such heavy burdens this boy of fifteen has placed upon himself          

     When silence settles between the three, Rafi takes it upon himself to inquire about the upcoming wedding ceremony that had brought up the Lord of the North.       “Will... will you have one?” Broad back leans against his sister’s leg, head of auburn curls resting back and atop her knee. From this angle, as she peers down at him, she looks like their mother.     “Have one what, brother? Speak plainly.” Impatience tinges her words.     “A       a bedding ceremony.”     “Ah,” her tone softens, she displacing her needlework and combing lithe fingers through her brother’s curl.     “Yes. It is expected of me.”     Lord Rowan’s nose wrinkles. Nothing should be expected of the sister to the heir of Goldengrove, even if she were to be a lion’s bride.     “Then you did not protest?”     “Weakly, yes, but what is one night to ease the realm’s mind?”      He thinks for a moment, still uneasy in his sister’s response.      “Now, as we speak, is that what you want?” Rafi shifts onto his knees, dark hues never leaving her pale ones. From the view of their younger sister, they look like mother and child.       Though Margaret’s eyes spell out her uneasiness, she smiles wryly.      “I will champion you.” Lord Rowan responds quickly to her sad smile. “If you do not want the ceremony, you will not have it. I will inform Lord Lannister that there will be no viewing of the consummation and         ”       Slender hands, one on either cheek, still him into silence.       “Father has brokered this affair. I will not start another war between you and he.” The last tumultuous disagreement between the Rowan lords happened upon the proposition that Margaret was to wed at fourteen, and though Rafi was but a boy of nine, he fought viciously so that would not be so. Rafi’s father accused venomously that it was his own wife that puppeteered his son’s bitterness or even Rickard, Lord of Goldengrove, but it was neither. Rafi saw Margaret weeping the night she was given possible suitors, still very much a girl, holding onto that straw doll an old stable - hand made for her. If her own father would not champion for her, her younger brother must.        Cheek, amazingly stubbled with dark hair, leans into his sister’s hand as he cedes.        “We have just reunited.” Lord Rowan mutters softly, watching Maria cuddle next to Margaret on the day bed. “And I will lose you so soon again. Perhaps forever.” The elder sister somberly smiles        there was to be nothing to keep the three of them apart forever, not even the gods.        An oddly quiet Maria catches the attention of her siblings, wiping the silent tears from her eyes. She sniffs and with her big, dark Rowan eyes stares angrily at her brother, who has started to laugh. When the cacophony of her sibling’s amused and pointed laughter frustrates her so, her ears flush a bright scarlet, just as they did now.      Rafi pats his younger sister’s knee. All in good fun.      “And you       You thought me too somber to remember? With haste, tell me about this hound - master’s son you’re so fond of.”      

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Rhea overhearing Rhaenys passively mentioning missing the figs in Goldengrove while on Driftmark just for Rhea to bully their older sister Rhaella into also wanting figs and peaches and flying her back to Goldengrove…. Only then for the eldest Rowan to be like “y’all can’t leave me here”. The Rowan daughters abandoning their parents and married families to go back home and get fruit is so ?????

Rafi finding out and being like “My love, let’s LEAVE” to Rhae

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Older Lord Rowan being questioned by an intimate friend about his wearing of Targaryen colors: “An inescapable fate it is for a woman, married or a maiden, to wear the colors bestowed upon them, by husband or father. I choose my colors, as does my wife, as do my daughters. By marriage, I am a Targaryen, my wife, a Rowan. My daughters are of old blood, of Valyria, of the Reach. They carry more legitimacy in their veins than colors could ever afford them. I am my wife and she is me. Her colors are my own, our daughters’, and I will wear them proudly.”

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when the d@nce ends, rafi is fucking 77 years old. sorry, but we gotta let that man rest.

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i remembered this was just supposed to be a doodle page as i was adding the details to rhea’s armor and blood-splattered face so i stopped 🧍🏻‍♀️ anyway:

Lady Rhialta waits patiently for her Lord Father to peel and cut her fruit. A very patient and observant girl!

Lady Rhaenys and Lady Rhaella were given the very gentle suggestion by Lord Rowan to        spitball        possible suitors. Nothing too serious, of course! Just something to make their grandmother happy. (As far as their father was concerned, they happily could be unmarried and live forever at Goldengrove). They finished the task haphazardly and in less than five minutes. The pair have better things to do         like discussing Valyria, dragonriding, the cosmos          and even the Northmarch’s agricultural yields.

Lady Rhea has proven herself a vicious mounted warrior        ruthless but not cruel. She is more than capable of defending her and her honor, herself; unfortunately, she has had to do so more than once. At the age of majority, she reached her highest height, standing six - feet and three - inches tall, just as her father. As she ages, she sports a resting scowl. Many of the Reach attribute this to her father’s own resting frown and that of the line of the once - disreputable Rowans he came from. Others in the Crownlands attribute it to Queen Visenya’s likeness. Either way, you’ll never get her to smile, especially when she is at court with her father. Maybe you can catch a glimpse of it at Goldengrove, if you’re lucky.

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“Hold your tongue before my betrothed.” Lord Rowan-core

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you KNOW lord rowan rolls the fuck out of those r’s when he speaks high valyrian

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Rafi’s older sister: I will not be cause for our father to treat you so harshly and scorn you. Please don’t interfere on my part. Rafi’s younger sister: Come and fucking get me from Oldtown right now these bitches are ANNOYING. I don’t even believe in the gods, bro.

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       The dim light of dusk paints the stables a fleeting crimson, illuminated only by the lanterns just now being lit. All is quiet except for heavy footsteps as they weave their master through the cobblestone paths to the other and the rendezvous spot. “Come, come.” The young Lord Rowan addresses the other, sprinting past them and into the stables. Grabbing his saddle, he preps his stead, “we ride south through the night. There’s a village not far off the Mander, we’ll rest there in the morn. We’ll ride past Highgarden, we won’t take the road. We must reach Oldtown quickly.” He’s on a mission            Operation: Save Baby Sister from the Faith.

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       The broad - shouldered lord appears terribly bashful, hands held behind his back while he kicks a pebble between his booted feet. Conversation about anything other than his martial studies or his newfound interest in Old Valyria, its people and language, was terribly difficult to make. The teenager pouts his lips to a corner of his mouth, dark hues peering down at the other. “Spring is almost o’er. I do not want for Summer. Hardly.” He laughs faintly. “I was a babe of Winter.”

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Rafi and Ba.elon would be such good friends, methinks. Alyssa’d give him a hard time but he’d love her just the same. And he’d love Vise.rys and Da.emon, they are his nephews after all. And Rha.enyra.... A Black through and through, Lord Rowan is.