#robb stark mentioned

[lives4lovesworld]

It's always assume that at the very least Sansa will i) out smart Petyr Bealish, ii) regain autonomy and her identity, that iii) in some way or form Petyr's tale will become true such as Sansa securing herself a marriage with Harrold Hardyng and her having such a strong influence on him that he will a) wage war for her 'birthright' or b) aid the North by providing goods, food and manpower. With the Vale enthusiastically doing his every bidding, simply because she is his wife and she asked him nicely/is so courteous and eloquent/he is so inlove with her/its profitable for the Vale.

In this meta I will list (and explain) the problems I have with these speculations that seem to be rooted in wishfullfilment rather than the probability of certain plots being likely to become canon, or if they are even feasible or realistic.

i) How Sansa is suppose to outsmart and overthrow Petyr Bealish, AND remain in power afterwards?

Petyr Bealish is the man that managed to crawl his way up to the ruling elite of Westeros, despite his incredibly (relatively speaking) low birth, lack of power, wealth, family or image (he does NOT fit the feudalistic standards of a man his positions). And yet, he remained in power through several civil wars that brought houses, dynasties and monarchs to fall. Petyr is the man with circa two decades of experiences and had no qualms of sacrificing countless souls, including his self-proclaimed "true love" and lives by this philosophy:

Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you. - Sansa V, ASoS

Yet the one to supposedly bring him down is the thirteen year old girl that needed to witness her own father's decapitation for her rosa colored glasses to fall off. And this after she was present to her idol and her "love" ordering her direwolf's murder to mend their wounded pride! This is the same girl that is so quick to build her entire hopes and dreams upon strangers (that shows her a little bit of kindness and fit her conforming prejudices like Margaery and her circle did) and got carried away in her own dreamworld that she could not even follow conversations and plots, even in ASoS:

Sansa wrinkled her brow. "Our true purpose, my lady?" [...] "To see you safely wed, child," the old woman said, as Butterbumps bellowed out the old, old song, "to my grandson." [...] Wed to Ser Loras, oh . . . Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She remembered Ser Loras in his sparkling sapphire armor, tossing her a rose. Ser Loras in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful. The dimples at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. The sweetness of his laugh, the warmth of his hand. She could only imagine what it would be like to pull up his tunic and caress the smooth skin underneath, to stand on her toes and kiss him, to run her fingers through those thick brown curls and drown in his deep brown eyes. A flush crept up her neck. [...] "Would you like that, Sansa?" asked Margaery. "I've never had a sister, only brothers. Oh, please say yes, please say that you will consent to marry my brother."

The words came tumbling out of her. "Yes. I will. I would like that more than anything. To wed Ser Loras, to love him . . ."

"Loras?" Lady Olenna sounded annoyed. "Don't be foolish, child. Kingsguard never wed. Didn't they teach you anything in Winterfell? We were speaking of my grandson Willas. He is a bit old for you, to be sure, but a dear boy for all that. Not the least bit oafish, and heir to Highgarden besides."

Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? "I," she said stupidly. - Sansa I, ASoS

Some (very in favor for her) could argue there is some desperate small wiggle room here and there for insisting that Sansa has evolved (for the better). (While nonsensically insisting she at the same time is almost stupidly naive and "idealistic", but also these traits are not obstacles to her potentially rise to an autonomous player. No they make her all the better for it.) But even if she had a stellar development; How exactly is she with no true authority suppose to best a man like Petyr Bealish?

After ASoS, Sansa has become a disgraced orphaned female beggar, married to the enemy "Imp Kingslayer", and has become utterly dependent on Petyr Bealish as his natural born daughter, depriving all her limited autonomy and authority from him as Lord Consort.

Petyr Bealish has also managed to gain Sansa's compliance and ensure her loyalty and secrecy to him by filling her head with his wonderful tale of him as her benefactor that is going to gift her all her dreams, while reminding her of her status as wanted by the crown and making her a complice in the murder of her aunt and a participant in his scheme to poison SweetRobin Arryn.

Not to mention that Sansa has yet to express her wish to detach herself from Petyr (in her POV) in the first place, but as of TWoW's releases, Sansa seems pretty content with all the privilege (x, x, x) she has as his daughter. Nor does she not seem to have a problem in being his pawn:

The Merling King's returned to Gulltown, and old Oswell had some tales to tell."

She knew better than to ask what sort of tales. If Petyr had wanted her to know, he would have told her. - Alayne II, AFfC

And as said, even if she would want to due to her involvement in Petyr's schemes as well as her being wanted for kingslaying, she would risked death herself.

But let's assume for the sake of the argument that she does; what sansa would truly need are people to genuinely protect, stand by, believe and defend her in the Vale, and as of now there is no such one, especially after the death of her aunt.

And no, Lord Yohn Royce's question if he had already meet Alyane is NOT the same as actually recognizing Alayne as an older Sansa AND publicly voucing for her on behalf of her identity, despite her stans insisting otherwise. Yohn Royce (like all vale lords) did NOT fought for Robb Stark (Winterfell's heir with an northern army at this back and strong ties to Riverrun), which really does not bode well for the possibility of him fighting for her. And this knows even Sansa:

He will know me. How could he not? She considered throwing herself at his feet to beg for his protection. He never fought for Robb, why should he fight for me? The war is finished and Winterfell is fallen. - Alayne I, AFfC

At best (which would entail the Vale remains oblivious to her involvement in those schemes and have the lords of the Vale not sell her to the crown for the bounty) she would remain a "guest" to her cousin, and likely be married off to the next best suitor that befits her unfortunate status (as Lady Lannister)

ii) A believable explanation (any really) has yet to cross me as to HOW Sansa would (or even could) reclaim her identity without taking for granted that everything will work out in favor for her. 1) which would entail the majority of highborn lords in the Vale unquestionably believing Sansa that she, who was introduced to them as a bastard (which are seen by society as greedy and treacherous) of the Petyr Bealish (known for his schemes) is indeed Sansa Lannister, simply because she makes a teary proclaimation with her pretty Tully blue eyes. And 2) that the lack of a direwolf serving as proof will not be an obstacle 3) nor the lack of a relative voucing for her.

Infact her closest, most influential relative's death Lady Lysa's, which occurred while Sansa was supposedly already under her care as her lord husband's natural daughter will also not in any way, shape or form make them wary of her tale. Nor appear like an identity theft and poor attempt to grasp power for their own gain in the eyes of others.

Secondly, Sansa's very identity (the disowned female orphan to an overthrown House, married to the "Imp Kingslayer") does not allow her to be an autonomous player so many want her to be. Robb Stark and House Lannister saw to that. Nor would an identity reveal, even believed by everbody, give her more opportunities than the (relatively speaking) limited ones she already has as the current bastard daughter of Petyr.

iii) Petyr's tale (and why I believe it is just that and not a plan that will actually become canon);

When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa . . . Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. - Alayne II, AFfC

So Petyr Bealish has managed to match a marriage pact by buying all of Waynwood's debts, providing Lady Anya with an enormous dowery and because at this point Harrold Hardyng remains nothing but the son of the perished sister to Jon Arryn and a landed knight sworn to the Waynwoods. His relatively low status at the moment would allow such a "low" match with the bastard daughter of the disliked temporarily Lord Consort of the Vale. However, if SweetRobin truly dies and Harrold indeed becomes the Lord, all the reasons why "Alayne Stone" is unfit for Robert Arryn will apply for Harrold as well:

You are the Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, and you must wed a highborn lady and father a son to sit in the High Hall of House Arryn after you are gone." Robert wiped his nose. "But I want —" She put a finger to his lips. "I know what you want, but it cannot be. I am no fit wife for you. I am bastard born." [...] Some call my father upjumped and ambitious. If you were to take me to wife, they would say that he made you do it, that it was no will of yours. The Lords Declarant might take arms against him once again, and he and I should both be put to death." [...] "You must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of noble birth." - Alayne I, TWoW

Now Petyr Bealish's further step is to reveal Sansa's true identity on their supposed wedding, which would not solve the problem of the bride being unfit for a groom of such a caliber and it holds in and of itself many obstacles that prevent the very plan to unfold.

To start with; (as already said) should Harrold indeed become Lord Paramount he will be showed with marriage proposals by the ambitious feudal Houses of the Vale (as they were already courting widowed Lysa in AGoT) and its rather unlikely that they would grant that position to a "foreign" beggar (which Sansa would be either way, whenever she goes by her real name or by "Alayne Stone".) instead of trying to make one of their own daughters the next High Lady.

Secondly, the marriage pact entails "Alayne Stone", not Sansa Lannister. Petyr's plan to reveal Sansa's identity while she is walking down the aisle risks invalidating that very pact. And while the fandom refuse to acknowledge it, "Alayne" being revealed as Sansa would neither lessen the insult of the lie and betrayal by "Sansa Lannister" being more "attractive" as a political match. And no such a scheme would not simply brushed under the rug.

Yes, Sansa would be high born, but Harrold would get nothing politically speaking from their marriage given the position Sansa is in (as Lady Lannister). Neither will her previous marriage, especially to the House that the Vale believes has murdered their previous Paramount Lord make her more attractive. Whenever Tyrion might be believed dead or Sansa assures her virginity ten times, it more than likely that she would be seen as "sullied leavings" in the eyes of others.

Lysa Arryn likely only allowed a marriage between Sansa and her precious son, because she was her sister's daughter, and despite her flaws, their complicated relationship and her unstable mental state saw Sansa as family. And while Lysa mention Sansa's claim, (which will likely cease to exist as soon as Robb's Will becomes public knowledge) she also saw Sansa for what she was and reminded her of her position as well.

Petyr HIMSELF has pointed out how Sansa would bring nothing to any marriage (excluding her body):

"Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark," Cersei objected.          "Marriage contracts can be broken. What advantage is there in wedding the king to the daughter of a dead traitor?"                 Littlefinger spoke up. "You might point out to His Grace that the Tyrells are much wealthier than the Starks, and that Margaery is said to be lovely . . . and beddable besides." [...]

Littlefinger agreed. "The Stark girl brings Joffrey nothing but her body, sweet as that may be. Margaery Tyrell brings fifty thousand swords and all the strength of Highgarden." - Tyrion VIII, ACoK   

And while Petyr has also mentioned Sansa's claim, it should mean little to nothing to Harrold considering that i) House Bolton has been installed as Warden of the North, ii) House Stark lays broken and it would have to re-establish itself as sovereign to the North. A bloody, tedious and costly task with little to no profit as the North is even under its best circumstances poor and hard to cultivate. As soon as iii) "Arya" is revealed as Jeyne Poole, it will even further slim the credibility of her identity reveal. iv) Her claim will be even further catapulted down in the line of succession with Rickon, Arya, Bran's impending reappearances. Not to mention that v) Jon will more than likely involve himself in the matter of succession as well and vi) Robb's Will will disinherited Sansa and make Jon his heir. (x)

And while most has yet to unfold on page, it would extremely OOC for Petyr Bealish (and the story!) to believe everything will work out in Sansa's favor and that Harrold will marry her out of his own volition, (which is indeed a condition in the marriage pact).

Much and more is made of his and Sansa's little playful banter at the tournament, yet what we know of Harrold's character, it's likely that he will pose the biggest threat to Petyr's little "plan".

Harrold is known for his high opinion of himself, his classism and that he has no qualms of fathering bastards on girls, he is infatuated for a brief time and then abandoning them as soon as he stops viewing them as sexually attractive. Petyr has also already stated that Harrold thinks Alayne is beneath him:

This betrothal was never [Harrold's] idea, and Bronze Yohn has no doubt warned him against my wiles. You are my daughter. He does not trust you, and he believes that you're beneath him." - Alayne I, TWoW

And it's not entirely unreasonable to think that Harrold would be insulted at the idea of marrying a girl whose virginity is questionable and who doesn't bring him any ties or wealth as Sansa Lannister. And the fact that she plans to use him and his position for her political gain will likely not make Harrold more sympathetic towards her.

The part hardest to dismantled because no matter from what angle you look upon it, it shouldn't be feasible to become canon;

. . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. - Alayne II, AFfC

So Petyr supposedly plans to use Sansa's marriage to Harrold to mobilize the army of the Vale to reclaim Winterfell in the name of House Stark.

As already said (a dozen times) Sansa (as the orphan married beggar of an overthrown House) should NOT be able to secure the Lord of the Vale as her Lord husband in the first place. Realistically speaking, Sansa should only be able to match such a marriage if she and her family would still hold the same position as of the start of the series, but as we all know, this is NOT the case anymore. House Stark is neither the secure, ancient sovereign of the stable peaceful north nor is Sansa the indisputable maiden daughter of said family. Sansa should NOT be an attractive potential bride in the eyes of the Vale without House Stark retaking the North and it becoming politically attractive enough again for other kingdoms to be of interest and them voucing for her identity.

–> Thus Petyr's entire plan falls apart, before it can even truly begin.

But let's push this all aside for the sake of the argument: Even the concept of the entire Vale doing Sansa's bidding simply because she would be their Lord's newlyweded wife is absurd as well. Her aunt had been their Lady for seventeen years and they still did NOT view her as one of them nor as a authority figure;

Young Lord Hunter said, "Lysa Tully was never truly of the Vale, nor had she the right to dispose us." - Alayne I, AFfC

Also; Why would a girl's birth claim to an entire different region that is uttelry in shambles due to the political uproar after her family's fall from grace matter to Harrold or any Valeman?

If Sansa were to marry Harrold under normal circumstances (if House Stark was still in power and Sansa would have never been married off) what would be expected of her is to rule by his side (if Harrold is progressive enough to allow it) give him children and her place would be in the Eyrie or at the Gates of the Moon. As it would befit (and deem more than sufficient for) any high born daughter that has married into another Great House of Westeros.

Never once in the history of ASoIaF was there ever a High Lord that wage war against another kingdom because his wife wanted her father's seat as well. Nor was there a High Lady that held her father's lands AND was simountanastly the High Lady to an entire different kingdom as well. This would not even be feasible.

The question as to HOW a vale army, (a southern army!) would even reach the instabil (due to the already happening civil wars, the mass exodus of the Free Folk, the famine) war torn North given the lack of a fleet or the renewed impregnability of the Neck in the middle of winter also remains a big question mark.

However, let's brush this essential question aside as well; The assumption of the vale army conquering the North is absurd as well. GRRM has already empathized how a southern army is not fit for the North's harsh climate in ADwD with Stannis Baratheon's suicidal march, contrasting it with the marching mountain clans. Nor is Harrold (a "green" boy commander) likely to win against the seasoned ruthless Roose Bolton, which the lords of the Vale would surely know too. Another reason why the vale army would NOT simply do its new young untested Lord's bidding, if he were to call for war. Harrold will likely need a few years to prove and establish himself before the valemen will willingly follow him into battle, especially into a economically nonsensical war whose favors are against them from the beginning.

And while yes, someone could argue the vale army would be better rested and organized (than Stannis's measly beaten ragtag of an army) and therefore have better chances, even in the best case scenario the vale army would likely lose most of their men in the battles against House Bolton and its banners for a gigantic region that brings them nothing; no wealth, no man power, no minerals, no goods, no trade.

All these points listed above, together with GRRM's comment on how Petyr would never give up Sansa, Petyr's wish to marry her himself (when she was Sansa Stark) and the fact that it would be incredibly stupid of him to ever allow Sansa to detach herself from him (as it would put him at risk due to her knowing so many of his crimes) further marks Petyr's tale in Alayne II, AFfC as a tale to ensure Sansa's compliance and nothing more IMO. Not to mention, which author would tell his audience the plot of a character word-for-word in dialog beforehand?

Now, some believe that instead of waging war Sansa will influence Harrold to aid the North by providing goods, food and manpower, which (fair enough) is only an ounce more feasible than the alternative. Yet, it is still something NOT supported by the books;

For this to happen, Sansa would first need to grasp the gravity of the famine that is plaguing Westeros, and care enough about the (common) people's wellfare.

Which she does not given the fact that she cannot fathom why the commoners love Margaery and as of her last chapter has her organizing a feast with 64 dishes in the middle of winter, amongst these dishes even a 6 feet tall lemon cake that required every lemon in the Vale with her being very proud of herself. Nor does she have any reaction whatsoever to Petyr's plan to cutting the food supply and hoarding food as war tactic, which would hit the common folk the hardest. Not to mention that Sansa's POV never showed her really thinking about... really anything happening in the North (especially its people), neither prior nor post House Stark's fall.

So beside all that, it would also requires the Vale to suddenly become altruistic and humanitarian, given that all possible supplies send by them would essentially all be gifts since foreseeable payment is unlikely given the north's state.

Some even have the idea of Sansa somehow achieving it all in another way on her own (because they hate the idea of Sansa marrying Harrold) (which is even less likely than Petyr turning into her Santa Claus) and exaggerated the potential influence her skills have even more. But has @brideoffires already perfectly explained in her post Sansa has NOT evolved in terms of learning new skills (unlike Arya) and more importantly none of the political plot in the Vale is moved forward through her own knowledge or scheming.

It's all propelled forward and catalyzed by her relationship with Petyr Baelish. [...] As in King’s Landing, Sansa is /being/ moved by the machinations of other people and being induced or compelled to act in certain ways because of the politics around her. - excerpt from @brideoffires linked post

Her particular skillset can only be of use and influential if the priori are Sansa already having strong ties to political thriving male relatives or/and a husband. Otherwise her skillset are not of use as GRRM has already shown throughout the whole series; Sansa can be as charming, courteous and polite as she wants to be, it does not give her agency, protection, support or power.

There is so much unrealistic, unreasonable, OOC nonsense, no one would even dare to suggest if it would be any other character, already taken for granted because it's Sansa. Sansa is always the expection. As always, everything will work out in Sansa's favor.

So why is it that even the ones critical of Sansa believe it all becomes canon anyway, one way or another? The most popular arguments I have seen are the proclaimnation that Petyr Bealish is Sansa's personal antagonist and therefore their "arc" simply MUST conclude with her triumphant. There is no other way.

The other is that SOMEONE has to get the Vale involved in the affairs of the realm, SOMEONE has to mobilize the resourceful Vale for the War of the Dawn and to aid the North's etc... And Sansa is the POV character located in the Vale so logic says GRRM MUST plan for her to be this SOMEONE to accomplish these tasks.

An entirely different reason is the fandom's climate; Basically Arya, Bran and Jon fans seem to concede Sansa these gigantic convoluted unrealistic plots (= a triumphant vale arc) in hopes that her fanbase will do the bare minimum of NOT butchering the story's integrity and the ones of their favs by not stealing their individual importance, relationships, ties, skills and arcs in the North to give Sansa a place in the northern plots (which her fans insist on having).

In conclusion; these reasonings are infuriating and incredibly offensive to the story's integrity and Sansa as a character. And more importantly, this fandom should stop offering to concede and tolerate it all simply because her fanbase is just that incredibly wild.

[ladystoneboobs]

the younger starklings about robb (robb the strong and brave big brother, the perfect heir, the fierce and unbeatable young wolf):

arya

bran

sansa

meanwhile, actual robb (robb the lord and then robb the kitn):

before arya ever promised to be strong by using robb as her benchmark, the definition of stark strength, ned had to remind robb to be strong as the ruling stark in winterfell. (strong for bran and rickon, the brothers he thought he failed by sending their would-be killer away, leading to his great moment of weakness in jeyne westerling's bed.) as his siblings' faith in his ultimate triumph held strong, even after the loss of the north, robb himself was struggling with despair.

as grenn once told sam, maybe everyone is just pretending to be brave, maybe that's how people become brave. robb was faking it to make it too, imitating his father's lordly attitude as bran later tried to imitate robb's. as his younger siblings remembered him as their shining example, robb was trying to live up to his father's example. not the ned who'd been in his circumstances, a teenager unexpectedly turned into a lord and fighting a war to save his family. no, ofc, he never knew that young ned. the ned he knew as his father, the standard to measure himself against, was an adult man in his mid-30s who'd ruled the north for ~15 years. but was that standard for a 15/16yo any more fair and valid an expectation than 8/9yo bran believing he was almost a man grown and holding himself to the standard of 15/16yo robb as robb's heir?

and the only person left close enough to see robb as the boy he still was died with him.

[babybells123]

(ASOS, Sansa II)

(ASOS, Jon XII)

[rise-my-angel]

I think my favorite thing about Robb and Jon comparison is the way they handle personal conflicts with other men.

Robb is so blatant without ever having to pull it out, that hes got a 20 inch cock. He will put men twice his size in their place with an even tone like with Greatjon Umber, or utterly take control of a conversation with Jaime Lannister who is an expert at controlling a conversation to his wants.

This one nod of dismissal from Robb was a bigger giant cock sized power move, then anything Tywin Lannister has done in his entire life.

He doesn't have to pull it out for me to know its 20 inches. Its obvious in his commanding demeanor in any given situation who is really in control.

Jon though, that man will take you by surprise.

Normally he gives no indication he's like that, and will not put men in place for the same things Robb would. See how Robb responds to Greatjon calling him "boy" while hes in command, and compare it to how Jon responds when hes in command and Janos Slynt calls him "boy". Very different reactions. Jon does not take command so blatantly, and so he comes off as normal and average sized.

But then he will suddenly put a man in his place by showing off that he has a cock the length and girth of his fucking forearm, out of goddamn nowhere. In the most unhinged manner possible.

The most obvious is when he calls Tormund a coward, who then accuses Jon of only being brave enough to say that because hes in chains. Only for Jon, who has to fucking look up to meet his tall ass eyeline, but doesn't say a fucking word as he makes eye contact whole unlocking his chains while hes right in front of him. And it smacked the man in the face how big Jons cock was that hes fucking speechless and then immediately gives him the information he wanted. The most sudden stealth showing of his giant cock in mere seconds.

Though, we already saw this cock before. Considering Jon in the show is so matched in Ned Starks level of unhinged. Jon doesn't just threaten Rast in the middle of the night. Jon in the show, literally gags him as he doesn't even say anything threatening, just not to touch Sam. Jon in the show was unhinged and physically gags him so he can't call for help, and is so sure Rast got the mesaage he just walks away. And sure enough Rast is fucking silent about what Jon did.

Imagine having such a big cock, confident that he scared the shit out of Rast, that he walks away fearing no consequences and literally does get away with it.

I'm telling you, Stark men are unmatched in how big their cocks are.

[hum-suffer]

"Have you ever wished for another love?" Jaime asks Tywin on one night, particularly bold after wine and the dread of the future war curling in his throat.

Tywin doesn't know why Jaime is asking this, he's never taken a lover, not one that Tywin is aware of. And how Tywin regrets it.

Jaime is the most like Joanna out of everyone born of her womb. Cersi isn't Joanna, she never was and never will be. Cersi is a reflection, a poor one at that. Nothing that made Joanna, Lady Lannister, is ever present in the girl. Her viciousness comes from and it holds her over just like it does him.

The imp isn't anything to Tywin, but the only thing he has of Joanna is the way he holds his quill, having learnt it from Tywin by watching him. Tywin himself learnt it from Joanna; she held the quill using all but her pinky finger and he had found it ridiculous. Ridiculous enough to learn how to write like that, just to mock her.

The habit overtook his hand when she died. It was the same way he wrote the first missive to her father, informing him that she had died. He never stopped.

Jaime is...more. Jaime is more Joanna than anyone else.

His eyes are the same shade, as are Cersi's, but hers aren't animated. Jamie's eyes are the same shade of seafoam as Joanna's were when the sun hits them. Jaime has the enjoyment of life in him that Joanna did; the confidence that he excluded that was often childish and cocky, his habit of being unable to sit still for more than ten minutes.

Jaime still has love in his heart, still has hope bursting in his chest. Jaime still loves that imp, enough that the monster's first word was the name of his elder brother. Jaime still loves Cersi, enough that he decided to keep the white so he could look out for her in Robert's years. Oh, Tywin has known of this. Jaime hates the bloody white cloak and how it tainted him, it is laughably obvious. Jaime could have spent the rest of his years being the heir of the most prosperous Kingdom of the continent but chose not to, for Cersi. Jaime lied to his Maester about his inability to read correctly so he could spend time with Tywin, with an excuse.

Tywin remembers those days, days immediately after Joanna's death. Tywin knows. Jaime pretended often to not understand the words, but he had a tick that he'd inherited from Kevan, his bottom lip jutted out for a beat before he pursed his lips and pretended to look upset.

Kevan and Jaime both do that, even today.

He acknowledges the truth to himself. Out of all of his children, he has only ever loved Jaime. His son, holding onto the love of family and the respect of legacy and the importance of good decisions. His son, covered in blood and sitting on the Iron Throne, standing up because Tywin gestured him to. Giving up the Throne and the nation with one side eye from his father, because Jaime knew he wouldn't be able to handle the continent and the power wasn't in the throne away. Jaime, earning a debt from the new King even before the coronation.

Jaime, who smiled when Tywin ordered the Maester to look at his wounds as soon as they made it on the road to Casterly Rock. Jaime, who didn't scream even though he was wrapped in bandages to cure several burns on his body.

His son, who woke up in the middle of the night to see Tywin sitting beside him and writing and reading in the light of a single candle. Jaime, who held his father's wrist under the table for several meals and often brushed his finger against Tywin's pulse, as if reassuring himself that Tywin was alive.

Jaime, for whom Tywin left himself to be ordered around. Jaime, for whom Tywin would set the world afire.

"No," Tywin says,"I never had the time to."

Family didn't end with Joanna, Tywin feels, but it will end with Jaime. The only one who can love in this cursed family, the one who will leave the records of Casterly Rock more golden than even Tywin, because his history will be less cruel than what Tywin has written for himself.

He feels only pride when he looks at Jaime, even if he knows his son can be a fool for love. He feels regret, Cersi won't leave King's Landing, for she is addicted to the power, and Jaime will never leave her alone in that shit of a city.

Jaime will live in that hell and never again go home, all for his love.

He aborts the thought. A war requires them. He needs to leave.

"Jaime," he says as he stands up, pushing his hand against his son's warm cheek and making him look at Tywin. "You're a Lannister, and you will act like it. Tomorrow, you'll face this brat of a Stark, and you'll come back again. Make sure to kill him."

[myrxellabaratheon]

“And you, Theon,” she added, when Greyjoy lingered. He smiled and left then. […] “You might have given the command to any of them. Gods be good, you might even have sent Theon, though he would have not been my choice.”

Can we just admit Throbb is canon and Cat knew about them?! Because she didn’t have ANY reason to nominate Theon in that conversation except that she knew that if Robb had to chose someone else to relent the comment of his army to that person would have been the one he trusted the most, aka Theon.

They are sooooo boyfriends coded!

[thelustybraavosimaid]

The words stayed with him long after the execution was done.

It wasn't the blood or the dead look in the deserter's eyes that lingered, but Lord Stark's words before he took his life. They were all he could think about, even as he dodged another of his brother's quick blows.

"You're distracted, Snow. You're thinking about it, too, aren't you?"

Jon rose his head, and met gazes with his brother. Robb pushed a shaggy wave of red hair from his eyes as he cocked his head, lowering his practice sword just as Jon had done the same.

"What?"

"The execution," he explained. "Did you notice that Father has a different voice when he sentences someone? Like a—"

"—lord's voice," Jon finished. Of course he noticed. There wasn't much that escaped him, but he figured that was a part of what Maester Luwin told him—bastards grow up faster than trueborn children, he said.

A part of him was almost proud of it, but a larger part of him wished it weren't so.

He was nine. Still a child.

"Yeah," Robb nodded. He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest, lowering his voice. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

A few times Jon nearly laughed when Robb's voice nearly cracked, but he still couldn't deny the strength of the words or the way they made him feel. For a moment, he could almost hear it all in their father's voice, see Robb's practice sword descend as if it had been Ice itself.

Blood on the snow running in a steaming pool of crimson. A rolling head, denting the crust with its weight.

Jon shook his head.

"You know," Robb started, "soon we will be lords ourselves. We'll have to do the same one day, too. We should practice with our lord's voices, don't you think? Maybe somewhere no one else can hear us?"

He snapped his fingers. "The top of the library tower! No one ever goes there. We can practice our swings, too—make sure the cuts are just as clean as Father's."

Blue eyes crinkled as lips curled to a wide grin. "Race you to the top?"

"Done."

[imaginarianisms]

hi hi hi your native starks got me thinking abt lily gladstone as lyanna

👀👀👀👀

[swordgrace]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!healer!reader.

SYNOPSIS: serving as a healer on the frontlines of a war that is tearing the realm apart, you come to tend the wounds of the warden of the north. inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 8.2K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), fic is inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship, description of wounds/injuries, mentions of violence & war, canon-typical misogyny (cregan goes to the northern school of feminism), heavy mutual pining, both cregan and reader have experience, p in v sex, unprotected sex, all stark men have a breeding kink, size kink (cregan is much taller/bigger than reader), fingering (fem!rec), biting, breast play, hair-pulling, rain-soaked cregan, bed/cot breaking, lotus position, riding/cowgirl, gentle-ish sex, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Back with another Cregan fic! I absolutely love writing for him & this request was so perfect. This is taking place during the wars (HOTD S3). Thank you guys so much for your continued support and kindness, it means a ton to me! I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 — 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Yet, as he lay in his tent, feeling the bitter sting of what pain could bring, face-to-face with carnage, he felt some semblance of fear. It was the only time that a man could ever be brave, in the face of such strife. The Riverlands were occupied by Ser Criston Cole for some time, and in the name of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Cregan Stark aimed to reclaim it.

The road to the Riverlands had been a lengthy one, hard on his force of Winter Wolves, greybeards that itched for combat. They were met with resistance at every turn after crossing the Twins, yet they endured, still a force of nearly two-thousand men.

More were on their way from the North, bannermen of all ilk and family called to-arms at Winterfell, to ride North and join his forces in the Riverlands. Despite his youthful age of one-and-twenty, Cregan was a fierce and proficient fighter, better than a great deal of the men under his command.

Struck by a stray arrow and slashed with a blade, he bared his injuries incredibly well — better than most. Cregan’s stalwart, hardened exterior served him well, never giving way to the pain he felt beneath. The arrow had gone clean through, thankfully. Much of his recovery was simply bandages and time.

He chafed at the notion of being bound to his tent for days on-end — he wanted to be with his men, helming any attacks, leading them to victory. He was useless here, abdomen wrapped in soiled bandages, laid-up and no good to anyone.

The healers who passed through all possessed older, wrinkled faces — men who had seen countless wars, perhaps thrice his age, acclaimed in talent and skill with the art of mending wounds and sewing bone together.

Imagine Cregan’s bewilderment when a young woman entered his tent one dismal morning.

You couldn’t have been much younger than him, clad in a tattered, coarse dress with a hem steeped in mud, white apron sullied with countless stains. Much of the cruor on your garments wasn’t your own, the blood of Stark men, men from White Harbor.

“Good morrow, Lord Stark.” The songbird’s lull of your voice had made him unusually calm, as if able to quell the growing tide of irritation he’d felt with his inaction. You brought with you a basket of supplies, tools of the trade that you had to scrounge around to get.

Men never looked upon a woman-healer with interest or a desire to teach — much of what you knew was from your own mother, or things you’d observed and taught yourself from piles of books at your disposal. Though, you found yourself excelling within your area of expertise.

Perplexed, Cregan watched you hawkishly, sluggishly sitting up from his bed of furs, a low grunt escaping him in the process. “My Lady,” He greeted with a nod of his head, muscles aching and sore from the clashes and skirmishes, coupled with time spent on the road. “You are a new face.”

Part of you wondered if he would take offense, given that you were a lady, but you decided not to address it. “I certainly hope that it isn’t a disappointment,” You mused, placing your supplies down at his bedside. “Other hands were needed elsewhere.”

He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.

Cregan found you to be breathtakingly beautiful — it took one stolen glance for him to discern that. Your very presence seemed to flourish with warmth and amiability. It was a welcome change from the old men who poked and prodded at him, and he wouldn’t complain about being in the presence of someone his own age.

With a huff, he shook his head, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his visage. “Not at all,” He murmured, studying you with a thinly-veiled intrigue. “A welcome change.” Cregan replied, catching your amiable smile, as warm and as bright as the first inkling of springtime.

You had seen Cregan only in-passing, brief moments where you spotted the young Lord atop his dark steed, or stomping through muddied encampments alongside his soldiers. Now, up-close, you realized how young he really looked, with a youthful, babyish visage that did not match his stony expression or wisened, gray eyes.

“You say that now, but you’ll have to get used to me first, my Lord.” You mused, reaching for the first wrap of his soiled bandages. It was easier to make small-talk in the midst of situations like these — it often eased your nerves, gave you something else to think about.

Cregan moved his arms just enough, allowing you to unravel the crimson-crusted bandages. There was some momentary relief, without the scratching and irritation of coarse linen, wounds exposed to the lick of fresh air.

A steady exhale escaped him, and he watched as you discarded the bandages, fetching more from your basket, coupled with some strange poultice in a jar. He did not recall his former caretakers ever giving him something like that, and he refused Milk of the Poppy.

“How long have you had an interest in this?” Cregan inquired, genuinely interested in what led you down such a path. It wasn’t commonplace for a woman of your station, not in the slightest. He would never discourage it, but he was itching to know.

As you wrung out a cloth of hot water, you brought it to his left shoulder, thick and burly with muscle, gingerly swiping over the wound to clean it. “Many years,” You hummed, brows furrowing together in concentration. “My father didn’t like it, but I learned what I could from others.”

Cregan was the stoic sort, an indomitable mountain of a man who appeared so rugged and indifferent, yet he possessed a gentle hand and heart when away from wandering eyes. He listened attentively, soothed by the tenderness in your touch.

Becoming a Maester was something you’d desired in your youth, yet the Citadel never allowed for women to study and attain the position. You were left to your own devices, a life of healing and service to those who needed it most, and you were content with that. You would forge your own Maester’s Chain.

You then pressed the cloth against the still-swollen gash from the sword across his abdomen, the flesh around it somewhat angry and reddened. “You took quite a beating. I have no desire to see who was on the other end of your blade.”

A soft huff escaped him as he rolled his shoulders, dwarfing you completely in size and stature. Even for a man of his youth, he seemed imposing, larger than plenty of young men his age. “Best not to dwell on it,” He grunted, stormy hues following you wherever you went. “You are not a Northerner.”

The lack of a Northern accent gave it away, but you also spoke properly and eloquently, as if you had been raised somewhere with plenty of civility. “The Stormlands — I am from Bronzegate.” You replied, which happened to earn you a very threadbare smile from Lord Stark.

“A Southerner, then,” A twinge of amusement seemed interwoven with his gruff, husky timbre, a voice that you were rather charmed by. He was mesmerizing to listen to, Northern dialect and deeper voice marked by a stalwart calm. “What are you doing here?”

As you cleaned away the sluggish ooze of cruor, you ensured that his wounds were free of dirt or dried blood, inspecting them for infection. “Finding my way in the world,” You confessed, reaching for the jar of herbal poultice, a salve that you had made yourself. “As we all are.”

Cregan could respect your honesty and earnestness in knowing that you didn’t know what you were doing with your life — sometimes, he didn’t know, either. It was easy to forget oneself when tasked with the charge of leadership, easy to allow it to become a burden instead of a challenge.

Dipping your fingertips into the salve, you gently spread it across the wound on his shoulder, the strange concoction icy against his hot flesh. “What is that?” He questioned, the unusual smell of it stinging his nostrils. Whatever it was, it felt incredible.

“A salve that I made,” You chimed, clicking your tongue as you concentrated on spreading it thin, layering it across his skin. “It’s not something conventional. I exchanged certain herbs for others, and added something of my own. It takes the sting away, numbs the flesh around the wound.”

It did take the sting away, as you said, and soothed his wound at the same time. Cregan admired your ingenuity, charmed and ensnared by you. He hadn’t expected to enjoy your company as much as he was, which was always enough to draw some concern.

A union formed out of wedlock was a dangerous one, but these were perilous times, in the midst of war. He was bound to no one — he had no one. Gray hues silently appraised you, and whenever you got close enough, he could feel your sweet breath upon his flesh, smell the faint aroma of wildflowers and a dab of honey.

“If you are willing, I’d like to have your ingredients. It would be worthwhile for the rest of the healers to craft it, too. Do not waste it all on me.” Cregan rumbled, a soft sigh of relief escaping him as you spread the poultice all along the gash across his abdomen.

The instantaneous relief he felt made him relax, the tension unfurling within his shoulders. Once the salve began to dry just slightly, you took to bandaging him again, nearly chest-to-chest with him when you wrapped the linen around his torso.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, muscles tightening whenever you pressed closer, even if the action was a necessity. You felt the onslaught of warmth creep into your features, goosebumps cascading down your spine with the intensity of his gaze.

You happened to meet his smoldering stare for just a moment, butterflies swelling within the pit of your stomach, followed by a rush of heat that seeped into your very bones. “I will provide you with the list tomorrow.” You murmured, finishing wrapping up his wound.

The arrow puncture on his shoulder was something that you covered in a few layers of sturdier medicinal cloth, before wrapping it once to keep it stable. You had backed away slightly, the close proximity having made your nerves spark to life.

It was a warmth and intimacy that you hadn’t touched before, unfamiliar yet wild with curiosity. Perhaps you had a tryst with a young man back in Bronzegate, but never to this degree of intensity. Cregan gazed at you as if you were the only one to exist.

“I am finished here,” That was enough to shatter Cregan’s incendiary look, the heat dissipating from his gray hues. His visage resumed that stone-faced look, and he suddenly remembered himself and the bonds of propriety. “I will visit tomorrow with your list, if that’s all you need from me.”

He noticed how you straightened, posture somewhat rigid, fingertips stained in dried blood and cruor. You retrieved what supplies you had, placing them all back into your basket before you curtsied, as a Lady would before a Lord.

“You do not have to bow, my Lady,” Cregan assured, standing to his feet with a strenuous grunt. He was massive even when sitting before you, but seeing him upright and so close — Gods take you for the things you began to ponder and imagine. “I am grateful for your aid in these dour times.”

Cregan was as stubborn as an old mule, despite being so young. Rarely did he accept help from other people, preferring to do it all himself and be the guiding example, but this was something he was not practiced at.

“It is my duty, my Lord. It is a responsibility that I share for yourself, and for your soldiers. I pray that the Gods will usher you into a swift recovery, and victory.” That smile — Gods, you had a beautiful smile. It could melt even the hardiest of ice, bring exuberance and joy to those who had none. “I should take my leave.”

“Of course,” Cregan bowed his head, timbre gentle and akin to the roll of thunder before an encroaching thunderstorm. He retrieved his tunic from the foot of his bed, and before you could disappear from the tent, he cleared his throat. “What is your name, my Lady?”

You smiled, gaze dancing with a twinge of mischief and amusement as you chewed at the inside of your cheek. Lingering within the entryway of his tent, you took one, deliberate step backwards.

“I suppose you’ll have to learn that tomorrow.”

Sitting idly by while a war raged nearby had soured Cregan’s mood exponentially.

He had stared at the canvas canopy of his tent for so long that he began to lose count of the hours. It was only when his second-in-command harkened him to the war table, that he obeyed.

Green forces had stationed a battalion at The Trident, and the rest were attempting to seize Harrenhal from Daemon Targaryen and his Rivermen. Cregan intended on cutting off the battalion, ripping them out root and stem, effectively carving away a portion of Cole’s forces.

War was an ugly thing — killing a man never pleased him as it did some, but it was an unfortunate necessity. Ensuring that Rhaenyra Targaryen took her place upon the Iron Throne was paramount, an oath he forged with her son, Jacaerys Velaryon.

Cregan covered his wounds with his tunic and a fur cloak, knowing that the weight of armor would only hinder his recovery, and he needed to be prepared for what was to come. He spoke strategy with Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, before taking his leave.

You happened to occupy his thoughts — a girl from Bronzegate, with a rosy, heartening smile and a demure nature, tending to his wounded men. Not a moment passed from last eve to now, an afternoon marked by grim, gray storm clouds, that he hadn’t thought of you.

It was improper, perhaps, to think so fondly of a young maiden out of wedlock, one he barely knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to you — and he had a feeling that you felt the same, a mutual sentiment.

The massive tent erected for those wounded in battle was marked by an ivory canvas and the hurried pace of healers floating in and out. Cregan knew where to find you, and he had learned of your name from several of his bannermen.

He spotted you outside, washing your hands free of crimson, the ends of your sleeves just as tattered and wrought with blood that didn’t belong to you. Your tresses were pulled into a braid to avoid interference with your work, brow creased in concentration.

“My Lady.” He greeted you with that familiar timbre, husky and gallant. There was a warmth that radiated from him, both in his tone and physically, that enveloped you whenever you were in his presence. He was a man of few words, but you made up for it.

Surprise settled into your features as you regarded him with mild bewilderment. You weren’t expecting him to seek you out. “My Lord,” You exhaled, bowing your head in reverence as you wiped the blood from your hands with a rag. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Cregan enjoyed your concern, staving off a threadbare smile before he shrugged, wisps of chestnut tresses fluttering with the breeze. The air smelled of rain, an approaching deluge. “You never said that I had to stay.” He stated, looking towards your hands.

A huff of laughter escaped you, hands mostly free of any blood, your knuckles bruised and bearing some scrapes. “Are you feeling well enough?” You asked, head canting to one side. There was a quell in the battle for now, allowing you time to recuperate.

“I have been for some time,” Cregan sighed, brows furrowing together. “Old men wished for me to stay abed, and I heeded them, until now.” Two wounds wouldn’t stop him — there was something powerful about him, a determination to continue even in the face of agony or strife.

You couldn’t help but smile in spite of his stubbornness — you wondered how his men dealt with him. Many soldiers and bannermen that you had conversed with praised Cregan, with nothing but honorable things to say about him. He was regarded as stoical and resigned, patient and pragmatic.

“Let me have a look. It’s the least that I can do, considering you made the trek here.” You motioned for him to follow you, sweeping the canvas aside as you beckoned him into the wounded tent. There were scores of men in worse states than he — some of them brushing close to death.

Cregan stepped behind you like a massive wall of stone, a mountain of a man, his shadow casting itself over you. Some of the healers seemed surprised with his coming here, a handful being familiar faces that had tended to him when he was first wounded.

The space in which you operated was a great deal smaller, yet tidy and orderly. He sat down with a grunt atop the cot you gestured to, shrugging off his fur cloak. Part of him felt strange for being here, considering the grievous state of some of the men.

A roll of parchment lay atop your footlocker, a lengthy list of ingredients used in your medicinal salve, the one that Cregan had requested yesterday. He watched you scurry about, fetching fresh bandages and your mysterious poultice that seemed to do him a world of good.

Some of the healers looked upon you with thinly-veiled disdain and scrutiny, eyes of wizened men who believed themselves to be better than you. A woman doing such gruesome work wasn’t exactly proper.

“Your tunic,” You murmured, averting your gaze away from Cregan’s body as he removed the smoky-blue garment, revealing his herculean musculature. The more you studied Lord Stark, the more enamored you became — he was handsome and well-spoken. Stubborn, perhaps, but most Northerners were. “Thank you.”

Cregan thoroughly enjoyed watching you work — it was a captivating thing to behold, the way you navigated a wound with such care and precision. Your hands were disarmingly gentle as you shifted the linen wrappings away, exposing his shoulder to the brisk afternoon air.

The pain had certainly diminished, moreso in his shoulder than his abdomen. In usual silence, Cregan studied you closely, storm-colored hues appraising you, committing every detail to memory. There was something breathtaking about you, a magnetizing pull that drew him in, kept him enthralled.

He reveled in the sensation of your fingertips tracing around his wound, feather-light and delicate, leaving behind a trail of fire in your wake. “It’s healed wonderfully,” You murmured, brows furrowing together as you applied a dab of honey, a natural antiseptic. You placed the bandage back over it. “How does it feel?”

“Acceptable.” He grunted, though his tone seemed somewhat warped with amusement. Your lips twitched into a brief frown, as if he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I am well enough. You needn’t worry, my Lady.” Cregan assured, resting his thick forearms atop his thighs.

A soft sigh left you as you circled around him, coming to stand before him with a tender expression. Your countenance still seemed furrowed with concern, but he neglected to comment on it.

Peeling away the linen bandages that clung to his abdomen, the angry-red swelling had nearly dissipated, and the gash remained, still healing. “The salve seems to have helped,” You fought hard to ignore the closeness between yourself and Cregan, mere breaths apart. “The swelling has gone down.”

The scent of your warm breath fanned across his visage, basking him in your saccharine smell. Even if your garments were well-worn and speckled in gore, he could still detect the aroma of wildflowers on you.

“You have my gratitude, my Lady.” Cregan uttered, a valiant attempt to relieve some of the lingering tension. It was something he rarely, if ever, experienced with a woman — especially one such as yourself.

“You know my name already, Lord Stark. You do not have to continue to refer to me as a Lady,” A twinkle of amusement lingered within your eyes, knowing that his bannermen had shared your name with him. “I am not of noble birth, I’m afraid.”

Cregan huffed, and he realized that you were clever. The wit and fiery spirit leapt out from you on occasion, and this happened to be one of them. “Honor and good pleasantries demand that I continue to refer to you as a Lady.” He replied, tender and deep, like the shaking of a mountain.

With an amiable smile, you changed the bandages around Cregan’s torso, applying your salve before discarding the old ones. “Don’t,” You chimed, tone softening to the lull of a songbird. “Call me by my name.” You stood, wiping your hands against a swath of clean cloth.

A low, rumbling ‘hm’ escaped the man, whose chestnut brows furrowed together as he ogled you — shamelessly, this time. There was a fond playfulness laced within your banter, something that Cregan wasn’t entirely accustomed to. “Cregan.” He insisted, establishing a firm foundation for your blossoming relationship.

“Cregan.” You repeated, his name sounding sickeningly sweet from your Southern tongue. The young Lord moved to tug his tunic back on over his hulking frame, musculature working in such wondrous ways. It was difficult to tame your wandering eye, heat crawling along your spine.

Ripping yourself from your trance, you busied yourself with something else. “The salve ingredients that you requested, I made a list.” You stepped towards the footlocker, retrieving the scroll of parchment as you offered it to him. “I hope that it will do some good.”

After having placed his thick cloak over his shoulders, Cregan grunted, the vibration spreading throughout his chest as he accepted the list. “This is noble of you,” He murmured, turning it over within his roughened hand. “The men here owe you their gratitude — as do I.”

Dismissive of his praise, you remained humble, politely curtsying before Lord Stark. “It is my duty, that is all. I will continue on for as long as I am able.” You didn’t like being thanked for healing — it was a passion that you chased after, a job that brought you joy.

“If there is anything that I can do for you as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, name it — it will be done.” Cregan nodded, countenance bristling with a burning affection, one that wasn’t concealed in the slightest. Despite his stalwart demeanor, he made his fondness of you known.

A delicate hum escaped you, but nothing of importance came to mind. You didn’t want to make any demands of him, especially given the circumstances — he had little time to cater to a healer when war loomed overhead.

“If you insist, I would ask for a suitable stationary set,” Simplistic and curious, something uncommonly asked for. Writing was something you had no part in, but illustrations — that was a different story. “Do not toil over it, my Lo — Cregan. Your generosity is kind enough.”

Cregan nodded, taking it into consideration. “I will not toil over it,” He replied, peering over his shoulder toward a pack of healers. There were plenty of wounded men that required your attention more than he. “Consider it done. I will leave you to your work.”

You bowed again out of common courtesy, hands folded together as you offered Cregan another warm smile. “Of course. Should your recovery change course, please do not hesitate to return. I wish you good fortune in the battles to come.”

“Until next we meet.”

Bellflower flourished in moss-laden groves around the forks of the Trident, petals ranging from ivory to shades of cerulean and a light lilac. It grew in clutches, its blooms spherical and pleasing to the eye. Despite the deluge plaguing the Winter Wolves at every step, it seemed to slow Cole’s army down exponentially, too.

As dusk fell in a dark, cloudy gloom across the encampment, Cregan carried a bound bundle of bellflower in his hands, to be given to one person in particular.

It had only been two days since your last meeting in the healer’s tent, his wounds on the mend, no longer weighed down with bandages. The stationary you requested had been brought to your tent sometime the next day, after you had addressed it with Cregan.

It was intended to be a gesture of gratitude, something that he knew you would find favor in, but it was easily passable as a rite of courtship. The constant prodding of a marriage proposal was always at the fringes of Cregan’s mind — it was his duty to marry, and he had prolonged the process as much as he could.

With war tearing the realm apart, there was little time to consider a marriage — but a relationship, perhaps a budding bond, that was something he could make time for. Even in his duties as the Warden of the North, a champion for Queen Rhaenyra, there would be a lull, a calm in the storm.

Your tent wasn’t a far trek from the healer’s tent, smaller and humble compared to his own. It didn’t seem fair, given your importance and what you had contributed to their cause, but he didn’t dwell on it — not now, anyway.

To see the ferocious, stoic Cregan Stark carrying a bundle of flowers that seemed minuscule within his grasp was a most peculiar sight. His fur trappings and leather-and-chainmail bore the motif of the Direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, making him seem larger than he already was. His ancestral longsword, Ice, remained slung across his broad shoulders.

The glitter of candlelight cut through the dismal haze of rainfall around him, its orange glow pooling from your tent, closed-off for privacy. Through the sliver of canvas, Cregan could see you, hunched over your chair, moving a quill across parchment. You wore your hair down this time, visage framed by wisps of your tresses, brow creased in concentration.

Cregan stepped forward, announcing his presence with a noisy clearing of his throat. “My Lady,” He rumbled, standing just outside of your tent, chestnut tresses sticking to his skull from the deluge. “If I might have a moment of your time.”

Your surprise was palpable as you flung open your tent, with Cregan Stark standing before you, soaked to the bone and entirely unphased. Your gaze fell to the bouquet of bellflowers in his hand, features becoming hot almost immediately.

“Cregan,” You stepped aside to usher him in, getting him out of the storm. “I apologize if you attempted to summon me, I’ve been preoccupied.” Preoccupied with the wrong things, perhaps, but you felt horrible that he had walked all this way in a torrential downpour.

“An apology isn’t necessary,” Cregan assured, so tall and mountainous that he seemed to consume much of the space in your tent, scalp scraping the canvas above. “I merely wanted to extend my gratitude, for your diligence and steadfastness in my recovery.” He murmured.

Your lodgings were quite humble, your bed nothing more than a cot lined in fur blankets, pillows stuffed with linens to make it bearable. The rickety wooden chairs were ones you’d borrowed — it served as a place to draw, a series of candles sitting along your footlocker. The ground below was covered in layers of canvas and fur — perhaps more comfortable than the cot itself.

You offered him a polite smile, though the air seemed charged with more than just friendliness. “You’ve already extended your gratitude, my Lord. You needn’t do it again,” You replied, heart thrumming within your chest. “You are soaked to the bone. Why don’t you warm yourself?”

Cregan was plenty warm, his own metaphorical sun, blood running exceptionally hot — especially this evening. “There is no need,” He rumbled, jaw somewhat tense as he extended the bouquet of bellflowers to you, bound together with a thick cord. “Blooming along the Trident. I thought of you.”

Thought of you — did he do that often?

Gods, did you think of him — you thought of him at each waking moment, torturing yourself over him, the Lord of Winterfell. There were nights where you fantasized about him in such sinful ways that it left you gasping for air. It made your belly stir with butterflies, heat simmering across your flesh.

“These are beautiful,” Touched by such a simple gesture, you accepted the bouquet from him, moving to place it inside of a tall flask that once held one of your salves. Its mauve petals added a flair of color. “Thank you, Cregan.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Every man in this dreadful encampment paled in comparison to Cregan Stark, who gazed down at you with such intensity that you feared you would melt away. Your breath hitched within your throat when he stepped closer — involuntary or not, you sorely yearned for the closeness.

Droplets of water rolled from his temples, chestnut tresses sticking to his forehead, garb damp from the rain. He smelled of the woodlands — pine and petrichor, intermingled with that of a natural musk. Those gray hues of his raked over you, drinking you in with a thinly-veiled rapture.

“There are other ways to express your gratitude.”

Your mouth moved before your mind could tell you to cease — speaking to your Lord in such an uncouth manner was grounds for trouble. You hadn’t fully realized the salacious implications of your statement until it sank in, and you became nervous. Before you could apologize, Cregan stopped you.

“Why do you think I came all this way, my Lady?” He rumbled, lifting his hand to cup your face, palm nearly engulfing half of your visage. Gods, you were beautiful — nothing short of perfection in his eyes. The bulk of his arm hesitantly reached out to circle around you, drawing you closer into his embrace.

That wasn’t the only reason — Cregan’s fondness of you had manifested into something uncontrollable, and you shared the same sentiment. Your feelings were now just as raging as his own, like a wildfire spreading across a forest, unchecked and unchallenged.

“Aren’t you cold?” You whispered, brought into the warm expanse of his chest, broad and taut with muscle. Even through his armor, you knew that he was indomitable. Though, for all of his physical intimidation and mesomorphic might, he was disarmingly gentle, this mountain of a man.

“No,” The husky timbre of his voice made goosebumps dance along your spine, causing you to shiver. “Not anymore.” He murmured, gaze silently asking to kiss you. He did not move, didn’t intend on acting until you decided to let sentiments flow freely.

It was you that kissed him first, seeking his lips with a desperation that rattled even you. Cregan didn’t hide his mutual desire, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated your kiss, using the leverage of his arm to lift you closer.

His lips were rough, icy from being in the damp outdoors, visage slick from the rainfall. It was a stark contrast to the softness of your mouth, pliant and plush against him, your body curvaceous and perfect within his grasp. He felt your palms press against his chest, drifting towards the nape of his neck.

Rain-soaked tresses glided through your fingers, curling inward to grip and pull, kissing him with such dizzying passion. In the slim space of your lodgings, with rain pounding above, it provided a gentle ambiance that only provided to the charged atmosphere.

Your hands shifted toward the clasps of his thick cloak, hesitating as you pulled away, looking to him for approval. If it weren’t for the many layers he needed to remove, you would’ve shed your dress already.

“Is this what you want?” Cregan needed your consent and assurance before continuing on, thumb drawing circles into your hip as he held you close. His voice had dropped to a near-growl, husky and thick with desire. It only served to stoke the growing fire between the both of you, cracking with a mutual need.

You nodded, nearly rendered breathless. “Yes,” Barely above a whisper, you felt his hands settle over yours, unclasping the metallic direwolves that loosened his cloak. It was all damp and soggy from the rain, and it felt good to be rid of it. “I need you.” You murmured, voice pitched with lust.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, hands unfastening his armor, buckle by buckle, piece by piece. Your hands sometimes joined in on occasion, loosening a strap or helping to take it off altogether. You didn’t move away, allowing each item to join the growing pile until he was left in his smallclothes.

He gently reached for the nape of your neck, massive palm caressing into the base of your skull, tracing along your silky flesh as he brought you in for a kiss. Even without his armor, Cregan was impossibly large, with a bulk and stature that dwarfed your own.

His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, each kiss blistering with passion, an eagerness that never exceeded into something rough. There was a domineering undertone to his actions, but never anything that would hurt you or scare you off.

Northern perfection, an immaculate wall of strength and muscle, yet so gentle — it rattled you to your core in the best possible way, filling your belly with molten heat. You kissed him fervently, until he stopped to kiss along your jaw, roughened lips finding the silky column of your neck.

The coarse, cloth ties that gathered at the small of your back became unraveled by you, loosening the periwinkle-colored garment until it sagged upon your body. You let it drop, your plain dress pooling to the ground in a heap of wrinkled fabric. You nudged it aside, letting it join Cregan’s armor.

Gray hues flickered across your naked flesh, beautiful beyond compare, a woman’s body that possessed the loveliest of curves. Cregan was swift to lower his hands, smoothing them across your sides, and then to your hips, shamelessly grabbing greedy handfuls of your derrière.

“I’ve never seen a beauty like yours before.” Cregan rumbled, mouth pressing soft kisses all along your neck, and then to the hollow of your throat. His calloused palms caressed everywhere they could, savoring the sensation of your velveteen skin.

You shivered at his reverent touch, lips parting as a soft gasp escaped you. Your hands held his biceps, thick and taut beneath your fingertips as a warm slick continued to mount between your legs. He hitched one of your legs around him, keeping you steady.

As he continued to savor your throat, mouth dragging from your neck to collarbone, his available hand stroked along your belly, tracing a path toward the heat between your thighs. Cregan searched for signs of hesitation or protest, but found none, thick fingers sluggishly slipping against your core.

“Cregan,” You gasped, a sharp inhale escaping you as you desperately held onto him, clinging on like a drowning woman as he toyed with your cunt. He deftly pushed past your folds, digits tracing along your slit in rhythmic motions, exploring your body. “Gods, don’t stop.” You pleaded, face pressing near his shoulder.

Teeth scraped along your throat, gently biting at your sensitive flesh as his digits found a steady rhythm. With two fingers stroking along your cunt, his thumb moved to nudge against your clit, circling around the sensitive clutch of nerves. He was silent, save for the rumbling sounds of his grunts.

Gently coaxing you towards your cot, Cregan didn’t stop to think about how feeble it was for two people. Nevertheless, he sat beside you, wood groaning and splintering in protest to the sudden amount of weight it bore. Sitting atop the furs, he collected you into his lap, slotting you against his thigh.

Tangling your hands into the hem of his tunic, you managed to maneuver it off with his assistance, all wisps of air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him. Seeing him in this light, full of desire with candlelight dancing across his skin, he was wonderfully handsome.

One palm cupped your hips, holding you close as his fingers resumed their previous ministrations, thumb seeking your clit. He touched you with such fervent passion, mouth clamoring for yours, lips unable to tear themselves away.

Each kiss left you gasping and heaving, wanting more of him, all that he could give. Your hands sought to drape themselves over his broad shoulders, threading into his damp tresses as you rocked yourself into his hand. The friction it created was delicious, a raging heat that crawled all over your body.

Thunder split the skies outside, rain coming down in a noisy deluge that pounded against the durable canvas of your tent. Cregan shifted backwards, the cot continuing to groan and creak beneath his bulk, threatening to snap into two if your ministrations continued.

You felt along the corded muscle of his shoulders, his skin unusually soft beneath your palms. With the relentless appetite of a wolf, Cregan kissed you again, pulling away just enough to kiss your collarbone instead. Thick digits continued to nudge against your cunt, threatening to push their way inside of you.

At a slow pace, he eased two fingers inside of you, stretching you just enough for it to be quite pleasurable. A whine of delight tore from your mouth, head rolling back enough for him to have unobstructed access. Teeth nipped at your collarbone, providing a sharp sting that flourished across your body.

He was gentle yet vigorous, digits sluggishly pumping themselves in and out of your tight cunt, thumb providing a burst of stimulation against your clit. Your warm, sweet breath fanned over him, mouth agape as a series of excitable pants escaped you.

Planting hot kisses just above your breasts, Cregan’s rough palm caressed from the swell of your hip to your chest, full and perfect, kneading into your breast. The entirety of your body felt so soft — like a plane of velvet, unblemished and left in some state of perfection.

Rocking yourself into his hand, a myriad of needy whimpers left you in droves, ones that occasionally tapered off into wanton moans, others left hushed. Cregan’s chest blossomed with a stoic grunt, the vibrations of it rattling you to your core.

“Cregan,” A fleeting sigh of passion escaped you, breathless and wanting, caught within a tempest of desire and carnality. Your digits touched him wherever you could, from the bulk of his shoulders to his biceps, thick and taut, and his face. “Gods, I need you.” You moaned, coaxing him in for a kiss.

Such a sentiment was mutual — Cregan did not know what depths of want he was capable of, and the carnal need he developed for you was intense. Though, it had also manifested into something else, transcending into affection and ardor.

He did not want to be parted from you after this.

His rough lips molded themselves to yours, kissing you desperately, until he stole every wisp of air from your lungs. He occasionally scraped his teeth across your lower lip, digits still working their way in and out of you, continuing to palm at your breasts.

Between the stimulation of his mouth and digits, you were already worked up, tangled within a web of desire as the cot groaned in protest again — and then snapped.

Only one of the wooden frames suffered damage, and Cregan was quick to shield you from harm, if there was any harm to begin with. He simply sagged further into the canvas, a look of mild amusement rising to his features. “The ground, then.” He rumbled, and you began to giggle, nose crinkling from the awkwardness of it all.

“I could’ve warned you,” You mused, affection dancing within your fond gaze as you kissed his jaw. “It would not survive with your muscles sitting atop it.” Cregan found it difficult not to smile, the gesture faint yet prevalent as he stroked along your spine.

“I will have it replaced.” Cregan grumbled, but you didn’t care in the slightest, the both of you relocating to the sprawling floor of thick, layered furs. It was arguably more comfortable than your cot would’ve been anyway. Drawing you back into his lap, he touched you everywhere he could.

The glow of orange illumination covered the both of you, however faint, aided by slits of clouded moonlight that poured in from the gap in canvas. You were beautiful — everything that he had ever wanted, caged within his arms, staring at him with a heated intensity.

He was mountainous, even when sitting, large and powerful enough to move you wherever he pleased. Your kisses became feverish, as if each entanglement would be your last, heart hammering within your chest with a flurry of excitement.

For a moment, Cregan withdrew, content to gaze upon your smiling visage, gaze sparkling with affection. He lifted his hand, cupping your cheek and jaw, allowing himself a moment to commit every feature of yours to memory. His next kiss was agonizingly slow in the best way possible, causing you to sigh with passion.

He needed to be close to you, chest to chest, savoring every inch of your silken flesh. Cregan had never touched something so soft before, drinking you in again with those tempestuous hues, as alluring as gray clouds before a thunderstorm.

“I want you inside of me,” You pleaded, lips parting slightly as Cregan’s jaw tensed, lust festering within him. Gods, what a wonderful mother you would make — the thought was fleeting, but it lingered like a thick fog, taking up residence within his mind. “Please.”

Cregan did not hesitate, hands joining yours as you hastily unraveled the leather ties of his trousers. He wanted to stay this way, sitting up with you in his lap, allowing him to look upon your face, ravage your skin as he guided you atop his length.

To match his imposing stature and wall of muscle, his cock was just as intimidating, causing your stomach to turn with a twinge of worry. Then again, you had become so worked up that pain seemed impossible. Cregan’s hands steadied themselves atop the swell of your hips, bringing you up enough to let his cock glide against your slick folds.

“As you wish.” He huffed, letting you find your way, the flushed tip of his length beginning to penetrate you. You moaned at the intrusion, able to feel the girth of it stretch you perfectly, just as his fingers had. Cregan grunted, guiding you down until you could go no further.

Strong enough to ease you along his length with his hands alone, Cregan seized the opportunity to kiss you. You were only a few breaths taller like this, slotted within his lap, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders as you began to ride him.

Gods, he was big — enough for you to realize that soreness was an inevitability. Being flush against him, nearly chest-to-chest, was perfect, something so intimate and sensual that hot shivers rolled down your spine. Cregan guided you up and down upon his cock, ensuring that he went at a sluggish pace, more for your sake than his own.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the tent with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. Your nails sank into the muscle there, countenance one of complete and utter pleasure.

Cregan untangled his lips from yours, finding the column of your throat, greedily kissing and nipping wherever he could. Your taste was ambrosial, skin delicate and saccharine beneath his mouth. You moaned, one hand moving to tug at his chestnut tresses, bringing your hips down upon his cock again and again.

The sluggishness of the repetitive motion was agonizingly wonderful — the pace was perfect, not rough enough in the slightest, but passionate, instead. You much preferred this, the intimacy and closeness of it all, the way in which heat radiated between the both of you.

You felt incredible, every fiber of your body burning for him, arousal thick and heavy between your thighs. “Cregan,” A noisy moan escaped you, grinding yourself against him, hips flush together. It was as if you were touched by hot embers, the heat raking across your body time and time again. “Cregan!”

A deep, trembling groan tore past his mouth, one that made your belly fill with liquid fire. You shivered within his grasp, feeling his lips clamor to the underside of your jaw, nose brushing against your chin. His cock throbbed with a sense of urgency, slick with precum.

He continued to guide you, hands descending from your hips to the pliant flesh of your haunches, digits sinking into your derrière. Despite the chill of the rain and song of the storm raging around you, Cregan kept you anchored, warmth radiating from him.

Your hands deftly roamed across his musculature, coming to plant themselves against the expanse of his chest, his heart thudding beneath your palm. “That’s it.” Cregan rumbled, kissing at your jaw before he finally coaxed you in for a passionate kiss. He wanted you to come undone for him.

The intensity of your release blindsided you, crashing into you like a wave breaking upon the rock. Your nails desperately scratched at Cregan’s chest, sinking into his collarbone as you bucked forward. He continued to guide you up and down along his cock until your legs rattled like leaves in the wind.

Cregan joined you, following suit as he reached his peak, forehead bumping into yours as he sought your mouth for a tender kiss. He swallowed your sweet moans, spilling his seed into your cunt. Hot ropes of his spend filled you completely, causing the both of you to sigh, a low rumble reverberating from his throat.

You very nearly collapsed within his lap, heaving with excitable pants, basking in the aftermath of your release. In an intimate gesture, you kissed his jaw, peppering his visage in soft kisses that only made Cregan pull you closer. “Are you alright?” He murmured, running a hand along your side.

“I am,” You smiled, palm reaching to cup his cheek. Cregan’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing a kiss to the silky skin there. Thunder crackled overhead, followed by a flash of lightning, the onslaught of rain pounding overhead. “It seems you’ve no choice but to stay.”

A bemused huff left Cregan, who seemed more than content to share your tent. “Thank the Gods for the deluge, then.” He rumbled, continuing to kiss from your wrist to your hand. A shiver rolled down the length of your spine, aided by his affectionate gestures.

Removing yourself from his lap, you settled down to lay beside him on the floor of your tent, gazing up at the damp canvas. The Warden of the North descended to you, offering you a muscular arm to rest against, moving the furs around the both of you.

It was a comfortable silence, born in the aftermath of your lovemaking as you curled against Cregan, palm settling above his abdomen. “When do you ride next?” You uttered, referring to the raging war that you were both caught within. It was easy to not think much of it when you were with him.

“On the morrow,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together. He loathed the thought of leaving again, now that he had so much more to lose. His calloused digits idly traced around your shoulder, his other arm propped beneath his head. “We will fight hard, like Northerners.”

A subtle terror gripped your heart, foul tendrils sinking into every fiber of your being. You sat up just enough to gaze upon him, fingers drifting toward the slope of his jaw. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.” You uttered, stern as could be.

Cregan could not make such a promise — war was harrowing, and it was unpredictable. Instead, he reached for your face, holding you there as he met your gaze. “I will try,” A low rumble left him, gray eyes boring into you with devotion. “Should I fall prey to another arrow or sword, I will know who to seek.”

It was difficult not to smile, in spite of everything. You sighed, leaning in to kiss him, allowing gentleness and ardor to prevail. A low grunt escaped Cregan, gray hues fluttering shut as he drew you closer into the warmth of his musculature.

“I would certainly hope so.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my works onto other platforms.

[eccentricallygothic]

Husband!Robb ‘The Wolf’ Stark | Wife!You.

Warning(s): D/s dynamics, husband Robb Stark, fear kink, power imbalance, doggy style, rough sex, spanking, biting, mirror sex, mention of edging, dacryphilia. Minors do not interact.

“Is it true?” You were tinkering with some medicinal herbs when the children approached you before they crowded around you. You looked up from what you were doing, and then silently raised an eyebrow in question. “That your husband can turn into a wolf at night?” Your breath ceased for a couple moments, heat coursed through your veins and your consciousness drifted into a series of recollections. 

So many times, so many moments, so many nights. 

Different positions, various spots all over the estate and a myopic vision that you owed to the tears that would stain your face. 

And through that barely functional vision images of your parted panting mouth, bent and flush knees, pulled back head -due to the way your hair wrapped around the pale fingers of your eternal ravisher-, neck and breasts painted in purple fang marks, nipples inflamed from how they had been treated, buttocks covered in handprints and arms compliantly folded on the small of your back. Your form pushing face first into the mattress with breath stifling force before being pulled back with a limb tearing strength in such a rapid unceasing cycle that it caused for the brutish violator bent atop you to appear inhuman as he used you in his monstrous way that you could see through the body size mirror placed on the wall in front of your bed. 

Realization seeped through your brain cells. 

Man.

Man-Wolf.

Wolf-Man.

Wolf. 

The dark mop of messed up curls that graced your dear husband and cruel defiler's head was amess as the loose damp strands flew about, his nose flared to help with his panting, chiseled features stern under the dark coarse hairs of his manly beard, beastly muscles tense as he effortlessly held your submissive figure bent to his pleasure with one hand, the other holding one of your compliant legs up in the air in an obtuse angle, his skin covered in a shadowy brown vell in such a way that your opening that his cock had stretched open nearly to the size of a woman's in labor clenched around the man-creature's monstrous girth. The deafening sound of skin colliding against skin was on the verge of marring your eardrums, his piercing dark blue eyes watching you through the mirror all the while.

They watched you even now from across the room where your dear husband and Lord sat telling the stories of his recent expedition to everyone willing.

There were always hundreds if not thousands of those.

Words didn't always require a necessary exchange between the two of you.

Your cheeks threatened to bubble up from the heat compressing itself underneath them. Your fingers had ceased from crushing the herbs between the mortar and pestle long ago. A hot drop of meek arousal sizzled past your covered opening -which blinked in response- and coursed down the insides of your thighs. Your breath hitched as you laboriously swallowed and licked your lips. 

“Mhm” was all you could let out in your shy state that he had influenced with a mere stare. You looked up at the children before you proceeded to nod your head politely so as to not stir the sanctity of your Lord's presence with too harsh a gesture. The children gasped and whimpered before scurrying off, too young and afraid to say it out loud but in their naive minds extremely terrified for your wellbeing. 

The longer you felt The Wolf staring at you the more you sensed yourself sharing the sentiments of the young ones. 

You bit your lip and dared not look up from your work. 

Because you were always tortured cruelly before your taking solely for the purpose of His Lordship's amusement if the eagerness in your eyes was too visible.

And it was always embarrassingly visible.

[rhaenyrathecruell]

          Angelic

            Aegon ii Targaryen x pregnant wife! Reader  

Word count:1,108 

  Warnings: pregnancy, Aegon is his own warning, and labor, blood and mentioning of death.  

A/n: hey y'all, happy house of the dragon Sunday!  sorry for the long wait for this one shot. If you like this I made a Robb stark one shot too!  Thank you! Enjoy! 

 Screams could be heard through the red keep, servants scrambling grabbing towels. The princess had gone into labor. Aegon is drowning in his cups as usual. He groaned as he clutched his head, what was all this commotion about? He jumps up as his mother the queen slams open the door. 

 The displeasure of being interrupted and his headache did not help his mood to not be sour. “What? Must you be so loud?”  

He looked up at his mother noticing his mother’s scared expression and labored breathing. “Mother?” the prince asked now suddenly sobering up at the sight of his usually calm mother so stressed and disturbed. The queen stared at her son and said in a Shakey voice “y/n has begun her labors.” Aegon jumped up from his bed and quickly rushed out the door with Alicent following him. 

 “Where is she? In her chambers?” Alicent quickly replied “yes, she’s in her chambers with the maester and a couple midwives. She was asking for you.” Aegon may not be the most caring person to his wife but he loved her in his own way. He could feel his heart beating like it did when they got married. 

 The halls feel never-ending as they make their way to the princess’s chamber. When they finally make it to the door, they can hear cries of pain and hushed talking between the midwives and the maester. Aegon burst through the door, the hinges rattling from the force of it. 

“Y/n! My love I'm sorry it took me so long.” he cried out as he rushed to her side. Alicent closed the door and went to converse with the maester. 

“Aegon I'm scared.” y/n said, with tears in her eyes from her physical pain and from her worries. Aegon puts his palm on her cheek and wipes her tears with his thumb. He could see the pain and fear in her eyes.  

He finally finds his voice and says in a shaky voice “i won’t let anything happen to you or our child. I swear this on the old gods and the new.” He cringed internally, he sounded so unsure when he said that. He had to be strong for her, for their child. Y/n rests her head in his palm, exhausted from everything. Aegon looks over at the maester and his mother, they speak in whispers. 

 “What are you whispering about over there? My wife needs assistance maester. You are here for that not for gossiping with the queen.” he says with pure frustration in his voice.  The maester immeditally comes over and checks how much y/n is dilated. He looks slightly worried. Aegon’s heart drops in his stomach. “what? Why do you have that look on your face maester?!”  

The maester sighs, “your grace she is dilated but the babe is breached.”  

Y/n gasps “what oh god.” 

Aegon is confused, “what does breach mean maester?” he asks his heart rate going up by the minute. He squeezes his wife’s hand in silent support. They would figure this out, they had to.  

“During a normal birth the babe is facing head first. In your wife’s case the babe is coming feet first. I must go in and manually turn the babe before she starts pushing.” The maester explains, while ordering the midwives in position.  

Aegon sits there like a fish out of water for a minute before immediately turning to his wife.  As he looks at her face his chest tightens with worry and sympathy for his wife as he sees her scared expression.  

Y/n pulls aegon close to her as she is moved downwards on the birthing bed so the maester can attempt to move the babe. She gets close to aegons ear before saying “if they can’t turn the babe, they will want to cut me open like my mother. Please don’t let them aegon. Please don’t let me die.” she sounds frantic and scared.  

Aegon tightens his hold on her as her words sink in. He pulls her chin up to look at him, before he looks deep into her teary eyes and says “i would never allow them to hurt you, my love.”  

Y/n visibly relaxes at his words, the maester looks at the young couple. 

“are you ready for me to attempt this your grace?” he asks aegon. 

Aegon replies “don’t ask me, ask my wife you idiot.”  

The maester’s eyes widen in apology before looking at y/n, who nods in agreement. The maester’s hands are cold and rough from age. Y/n tenses as the maester attempts to move the babe. She clutches Aegon's hands tightly as he whispers encouragements in her ear.  

The maester’s sudden words break the silence as he exclaims “i feel the babe! I'm going to attempt the rotation now.” the maesters hands leave y/n’s body and he lets out a relived sigh.  

Aegon asks suddenly “is it done? Did you, do it?”  

The maester nods “it is done now all that is left to do is push.” 

Everyone in the room lets out a sigh of relief that the princess and the baby were out of danger for now.  

Alicent finally breaks her silence “thank the mother!” 

Aegon kisses his wife’s head as she begins to push. Y/n’s face is scrunched up in pain as she pushes. Shes sweating and grasping Aegon's hand in a iron grip. Aegon is not fazed, as he gives words of encouragement and tells her she's doing good. 

Y/n stops pushing to catch her breath before she pushes one last time with all her might with a scream.  

Finally, y/n collapses on the bed in exhaustion as the babe comes out with a shrill cry.  

The maester hands the baby over to the young couple, the babe resting in its mothers arms no doubt feeling the love in the room. The maester speaks “a boy your grace.”   

Wides smiles are on Y/n and Aegon's faces as they sit and admire their beautiful son. Aegon breaks his eyes away from his newborn son and looks at his radiant wife. In that moment he swore he would never dishonor her. She was angelic like she was sent from the gods themself. He was never more in love than in this moment.  

Y/n breaks the silence “Aemon, his name is Aemon.”   

[intoxicated-chan]

Be With Me

✿ฺ Paring ➳❥ Robb Stark x F!Reader

✿ฺ Summary ➳❥ When Robb over hears of your potential marriage, he cannot stand the idea of loosing you to some random lord.

✿ฺ (A/n) ➳❥ Inspired by “Be with Me” by Ramin Djawadi. It was heavily inspired by the cave scene with Jon and Yigrette. P.S… IM BACK!!

✿ฺ Word Count ➳❥ 1.4k

✿ฺ Content Warnings ➳❥ Female reader, sexual content, swearing, injuries, mentions of death, oral (male receiving), discussion of marriage…

(I’m saying it again! This was heavily inspired by the cave scene that involved Jon and Yigrette!!)

You walk out of the medic tent with a limp, It’s more than obvious that you were injured, and you feel the stares from other soldiers as your eyes are narrowed.

Robb caught up to you, grabbing your shoulder to make you turn around, “What was that?” Robb immediately said, “You thought it best to throw yourself into a fight?”

“A sword was coming from behind, you were too bothered to even notice.” You shake his hand off your shoulder and continue walking.

Robb grumbles a couple of words before speeding up to catch you, “I saved your life.” He piped up.

“No, I did.” You corrected him, you kept your eyes forward as you walked to your tent, “If I didn’t throw myself into the battle… You know I’d die for you.”

It makes Robb scoff rather loudly, ignoring your last words, “Let’s say you saved me. What about the other time or the other one?” Robb lifts an eyebrow, “You still owe me two more.”

“I owe you quite a lot, my lord.” You tell him, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to check the horses.”

He grabs your cloak tightly and pulls you back, nearly making you fall to the ground. You look up at him confused and angry.

He suddenly snatches your sword out of your scabbard, “I’ll take your sword as payment.” He then scurries away, you can hear him laughing.

“W-What?” You stand shocked for a moment before realizing what is happening, “Robb! Come back here, dammit!” You shout, chasing after him, “Robb fucking Stark! Give me my sword!”

You run after him, tumbling on a few rocks but don’t fall… Somehow. As much as you’re a fighter, Robb was a runner.

He ran so easily and didn’t take a second to look back and stop to give you some kind of better start.

“If you want it back, you’ll have to steal it back!” He runs from the camp and into a random cave. A random cave to you. You didn’t know the North like he did.

The cave is heated by a natural hot spring, which forms a waterfall and a pool. The rocks glistening from the humidity from the water and the light shining through.

Robb sets his sword against the rocks and begins to undo his armor. He starts with his gloves, crumbling them up and tossing them besides the sword.

Your peer your head into the cave, you rush into the cave when hear him, “Seven fucking hells, Robb-!” You loudly shout, but stop in your tracks.

“I heard from my mother that you were supposed to marry some random Lord.” He spoke with a hint of venom in his voice, he pulls off his brown leather boots, “Which means you’re a maiden.”

You choke on your words as you feel your face become warm at his bluntness.

He unties and unbuttons his armor, setting it down carefully, “I always wanted to beat the lord dead, just imagining you in his grasp made me feel so angry.”

Robb turns his back to your as his arms cross and grab the hem of his dirty shirt, he’s swift and impatient, tearing free from the constraints of fighting and riding.

His hands come to the strings of his breeches, “I wanted to be the one to marry you… To kiss you…” Until his breeches drop to the ground. He steps out of them, “To love you…”

Robb turns back to you, he is completely bare in front of you. You could see light bruises and scrapes on his body but little scars. They were faded but still there, it added to his muscular body. He was so beautiful… So perfect… So flawless…

Your eyes flicker around the cave and your eyes only set sights on him once. They move to the ground and you hear his soft steps against the wet stone.

He slowly closes the space in between you both until his face his near yours.

You feel Robb’s breath, one of his hands comes to your cheeks and cups it. But when he leans into you for a kiss, you pull back.

You swallow thickly and turn your head, “We shouldn’t, Robb.” You mumble under your breath, “We can’t be doing this.”

“Then look me in the eyes and say it. Tell me that you don’t want to go any further.” He says, and he slowly turns his head to eventually look at him, “Go on, tell me.”

You knew what was waiting for you back at home, you knew that the second you stepped foot back into your home, your life would be over, even more if your parents found out.

“Do you want to marry that lord?” Robb whispers in your ear, “Do you want a marry a man with selfish desires?” You could hear the pain in his voice, “Because my heart would not stand the idea of it… My heart is yours, it has been from the start, ever since your mother met mine, ever since you watched me train that day. Do you feel as I do?”

“I do.” You shakily answer him. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him close and then you feel his lips on yours.

As your eyes shut and kiss him, you can feel yourself crying. You don’t know but he sees it, he does his best to keep you distracted and focused on him.

But you seem to have other ideas…

Once you manage to calm down and enjoy the kiss for a few more minutes, taking a couple of seconds to catch your breath before returning… Your hands move down his body and you slowly begin to kneel, planting kisses down his chest.

Robb chuckles, “Come back up, I wanna-” A sudden moan leaves his mouth when he feels your mouth wrap around his hard cock.

He throws his head back and allows himself to moan loudly. He was confined in the cave, just with you and no one else to see or hear. He closes his eyes and his hand comes to your head to move faster.

“F-Fuck!” His voice cracks as he curses, “H-How are you so-” He grunts and hisses, watching you close as you get him off.

Moments later, Robb is lying on the warm stone ground with you by his side… His fingers graze over your skin as he listens to the water pouring, feeling the warmth coming from the hot spring beside them.

Robb looks down at you with a grin, “How did you know to do that?” He questions you with an eyebrow raised.

You shrug, “I didn't learn it from anyone, I just wanted to. You looked like you enjoyed it.” You drag your nails over his chest.

“Surely there must’ve been a man you practice with.” Robb sits up, he’s genuinely curious but still playful, “Was it Theon? Or Jon?”

You swat at his leg and he snickers in response, “I swear, Robb. There wasn’t any other man.”

“So you are a maiden or were.” Robb stands and grabs your hand to help you up, “Join me, would you?” You didn’t need to say anything, he could see the answer in your eyes.

He leads you into the hot spring, feeling the warm water make contact with your skin. You wrap your arms around his waist and lay your head on his chest.

“They may be looking for us.” You tell him, unsure what to do now as you are held in his arms.

“I know.” Robb huffs as he rubs your back, “But let’s stay for a little longer…. I don’t wish to leave.” He holds you even tighter and places a kiss on the top of your head, “I do not wish to lose you once this is all over.”

“I… I’m sure I can convince my parents somehow. My mother could easily be swayed, but my father-”

“I’ll deal with him.” Robb interrupts you, “I’ll talk to my mother about it. There’s no way I cannot lose you to that man.”

Robb then moves to cup your face, swiping his thumb over his cheek, “Let’s not leave for a little longer.” He pulls you into another kiss, adjusting you comfortably on his lap.

You shudder and shiver, feeling his cock enter once more, “Don’t let me go.” You say to him, your hands hold grab his shoulders, keeping yourself up.

Once he was sheathed inside of you, Robb finally answers, “There’s no way I’ll let you go. Even if they try to pry my dead body off you, I’ll never let you go.”

© 2023 Intoxicated-Chan, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without permission.

[dipperscavern]

personally i want to be manhandled by the stark men,, its not a want atp its a need

yeah unfortunately this is a dire need. like, a carnal need. it’s up there with water.

i’ve already mentioned this (and here i am again), but cregan would definitely just steer you around himself (courtesy of squidward anons big beautiful brain). youre atop the wall for the first time, and the twists and turns are confusing. the ground isn’t smooth either, so you’re too busy with trying not to trip over your own feet you don’t see the nights watch brother about to briskly walk into you. you only notice when cregan sneaks an arm around your waist & pulls (effectively yanks) you to him and out of the brothers way. i need it so bad.

robb would do it without thinking honestly. his mind is swamped, running a million miles an hour as he moves about his tent. you aren’t really sure what he’s even trying to do, only having walked in a few minutes ago to this. you’re standing at his table, only trying to remain out of his way until you can help — but he needs to send a raven, and you’re standing in front of his ink. he wouldn’t even say anything, just slot his hands on your hips and move you to the side, mumbling a-

“Sorry, pretty.”

and you’re just ???? cause how did he??? dick. now. LMFAO SORRY

jon would do it while he’s on autopilot. while you’re both in a dangerous situation where his priorities are 1. you & 2. living. perhaps at hardhome, where you got surprised & absolutely swamped with wights. fighting side by side, but you’re too preoccupied with the wights running towards you to notice the one approaching your side. he would absolutely just yank you towards him & out of the way, bringing down longclaw to take care of it. and you’re in a life threatening situation — that’s definitely not the only time it happens either…. just saying 🙂‍↕️

[castieltrash1]

Can I request Jon Snow x Lady!Reader. Arranged marriage that becomes real love?

this is so sweet ty for the req :')

jon snow x afab!reader; arranged marriage, slow burn, vague mentions of sex, mutual pining-ish i think

when you’re finally brought to the godswood, gaze averted and flecks of snow glinting between strands of hair, jon finds himself relieved. he’d known his duties from a young age so when the time to wed arrived -- a wife already chosen on his behalf -- he didn’t fight it. he tried not to imagine your appearance, but it proved difficult, and many late nights at winterfell were spent concocting an image of you in his head. not nearly as beautiful or rich as robb’s future wife, surely, but you’d be worthy of a stark bastard at least… right?

it’s odd. you’re different, but somehow more beautiful. jon can’t really explain it and he doesn’t try, not wanting to offend you. the first night is painfully awkward regardless, and he’s relieved when you both agree to take it slow for now. everything happens eventually, of course, but your patience pays off. jon considers himself lucky -- he could’ve been stuck with anyone for the rest of his life, but he had you; you, with your kind words and pretty face, practically handed to him on a silver platter. he kept waiting for you to act monstrous, assuming your beauty had to be compounded by something, anything, but it’s not. your marriage isn’t perfect, but jon enjoys figuring things out with you by his side. he likes being a united front with someone. he likes the warmth you leave on the other half of the bed, sheets smelling like the oil from your baths. he enjoys keeping you happy, noticeably fulfilled when he’s seen as a good husband and dutiful partner.

the more you go through together, the deeper jon’s feelings grow. he knows it’s happening, despite his initial attempts to ignore it. you have a lifetime together ahead of you - there’s no need for him to rush things. but the affection gnaws at him, and he can’t deny himself any longer. he loves you. by the old gods and the new, he really, truly, loves you. he hadn’t expected it, thinking any romantic dedication to you would take years to build -- if it ever even came to fruition -- but now it’s here and he almost isn’t sure what to do.

it’s been on the tip of his tongue all day. he’d nearly said it in bed the night before, limbs tangled in sheets as he stared down at you, but the words were caught in his throat. now, every time he speaks to you, the declaration begs for release, desperate for you to know the depth of his feelings. three more opportunities arise before midday, but he lasts until after dinner, when he finds you overlooking the courtyard below and feels his heart skip a beat. you turn to face him and, somehow, his gentle expression tells you everything.

“i love you.”

+ after he says it for the first time, it takes him a while to work up the courage again, even if you happily return the sentiment. it felt like a reward and he doesn’t want to spoil it. the words aren’t careless to him and he wants them to mean something, not be taken for granted. soon enough, you’ll hear it five times a day, gruffly murmured in every free moment alone. and, despite its newfound frequency, it only seems to be more genuine each time.

game of thrones weekend (reqs open!)

[raven-dor]

everyone adores you (at least i do)

In which robb stark and his new bride get aquainted

PAIRING: robb stark x baratheon!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, new love, slight nsfw, reader is mentioned to have black hair

WORD COUNT: 2,827

The festivities had been fun-filled, to say the least, despite Catelyn having to leave before they started. Her goodbye had been bittersweet; Robb now had no adult relatives at the reception, and Y/N felt as if she was completely alone, even though she barely knew Catelyn. 

He hadn't touched a single drop of his ale, and Y/N couldn't tell if that was a good or bad sign. The night had soon ended, and they bid goodbye to their guests. Theon was the last to leave, smirking and leaning in, whispering in Robb's ear. She rolled her eyes; she had seen this before at many receptions in Kings Landing. The groom's friend would joke about the bride's virginity, and the groom would laugh, joking back. 

Robb's face went red, and he smacked Theon's shoulder. "Watch your mouth, Greyjoy."

Y/N was pleasantly surprised, her stomach fluttering at the thought of Robb defending her, even if they had just met. Theon nodded, obviously too drunk to be embarrassed. He looked over to Y/N, bowing mockingly. "My lady." 

She smiled kindly. "Have a restful night, Theon." 

Robb held out his arm. "Shall we retire?"

This is when all of the nerves Y/N had been holding off kicked in. She nodded, but from there to their chambers, she had sworn she blacked out. He shut the door, standing awkwardly by the fire. She looked out the window, fidgeting. 

"Should we-" 

"I'm not a virgin!" She looked down at the ground. "I'm not a virgin, so I-" Robb laughed. Actually laughed. She glared at him. "I would appreciate it if you didn't laugh at me." 

"It's not you, I just..." He stared at her like she had three heads. "Do you think I care?"

"Well... yes." She nodded. "Brides are supposed to be innocent." She tried to hold back her distaste for the term, though her face certainly showed it. 

He nodded. "Yes. They are. But that doesn't matter to me. Your honor shall remain intact; do not worry." 

Y/N smiled. "I didn't think this is how the night would go." 

"Oh." He sauntered over, staring at her dangerously. "And how did you imagine this night going?"

She fluttered her eyelashes, suddenly very flustered. "Well, in every nightmare, you would call me a whore and then take me without any-" Her eyes widened. "I mean-" 

He laughed even harder. "Oh, Y/N." His hand inched around her waist. "I hope the men in Kings Landing treated you correctly." His eyes squinted. "They didn't-" 

She shook her head, looking down at her hands. "No, it was-" She blushed. "It was something we both wanted."

He nodded. "Well, in any case, we do not have to do anything tonight if you do not want to." He stepped back, taking off his cloak, boots, and shirt. She tried not to stare at his abdomen, looking anywhere else but him. 

"And how do you plan to keep my honor intact?" 

He pulled out a dagger, slicing a small cut on his palm. Y/N gasped. "Robb, that is-" 

He pulled the blanket up, putting a few drops of blood on the sheets. He admired his work like he was a painter. "See? No one shall be the wiser." 

Y/N sighed. "Come here. You're going to make a mess dripping blood everywhere." 

He sat in the chair by the fire, watching her every movement. She still had her wedding dress on, which made Robb happy. She looked like an angel. She huffed her hands on her hips as she skirted around the room, utterly lost. "Where is the bandage?"

"The cupboard, just there." 

She stood on her tiptoes, reaching up. "Ah." She walked back over, ripping some off. "I'll use some to clean it and then some ale to sterilize." 

"Sterilize? Just put the bandage on, I'll be fine-" 

"Just let me help you. It's the least I can do after you did this for me." 

"You don't have any debt, Y/N. I can do something kind for you, and you don't have to immediately repay me." 

"I know. I'm simply showing affection." She huffed. "Now, hold still, this will hurt." 

He laughed. "I believe I will be fine. It is only-" He hissed. "That stings." 

She laughed. "That is how you know it is working." He stared at her, smiling as she worked. She was beautiful in this light, he realized. She was beautiful in all lights. "There, all finished." She looked up, her breath catching. 

He smiled lightly, whispering. "Thank you."

She nodded, standing up. "Of course." She looked back out the window once more. "Should we-" A hand reached around her waist, pulling her back. 

"You are beautiful." 

"Robb-" She turned around, staring into his eyes. "We do not-" 

"If you do not want this, say the words, and I will go to bed. But I-" He gulped, staring at her lips. "I do." 

She smiled, her tense stance easing. "I do, too." 

"Thank the gods." He pulled her closer, bringing her lips to his. "You are divine." 

She laughed, melting in his arms. "Robb-" 

"I love when you say my name." He pulled at the strings on the back of her dress. "I- turn around." 

"I can undo them if you just give me a moment."

"No, I want to." She nodded, turning around. He quickly unlaced her dress, pupils dilating as her dress hit the floor. 

She turned back towards him slowly, face to the ground. He grinned, staring. "You are beautiful, have I told you?" 

"Just a few moments ago." She tilted her head, teasing. "But I wouldn't mind hearing it again." 

He grinned, pulling her closer. "You will hear it constantly; I will make sure of it." He walked her towards the bed. "Now lay back." 

The morning light peaked through the window, but neither of them stirred. Well, Y/N didn't stir; Robb had been up for hours staring at his wife, smiling gently at her still form. 

A knock came off the door, and Robb sighed, leaning his head back on the bedpost. "Come in!"

She still had not moved, not even when Maester Luwin walked in rather loudly, in Robb's opinion. "Good morning, my lord; the possible steward is here for your appointment."

He nodded, his face permanently stuck in a grimace. "Very well. I'll be down in just a moment." 

"My lord." Robb waited until Maester Luwin left to look back down at Y/N and found that she was already looking up at him. She laughed, caressing her hand over his chest. "Good morning." 

He glared playfully. "And how long have you been up?"

"Since Maester Luwin walked in with iron boots." She sat up, leaning her head on his shoulder. "He walks very loud." 

Robb nodded, smiling down at her. "He does, doesn't he?"

She stood up, walked across the room to her chest, and pulled out her dress for the day. "You have a meeting." 

He just stared, grinning much too brightly for how early it was. "Can a man not bask in his wife's presence?"

"You could," she pulled her petticoat on, " if you did not have a day full of appointments." 

He groaned. "And what will you be doing all day?"

"Giving Bran company." She laughed. "Perhaps I can entertain him into waking up." 

Robb smiled. "If anyone could, it would be you." 

She huffed, looking over her shoulder. "Can you lace my dress, please?"

He nodded, rolling out of bed. "The things I do for you." 

"Robb, we have been married for less than a day. Please do not start your complaining until-" She put a finger on her chin. "Until a week from now." 

"Very well." He laughed, pulling at the strings. "One more week of bliss." 

"Thank the gods." She smiled. 

Strolling through the halls with her books and breakfast in hand, Y/N finally felt at peace with her new life. It only took one night of- She blushed, shaking her head as if the action got rid of her thoughts. Bran's door was already open, and she’d grinned at the sight. 

"You're awake!" 

He just stared at her, not bothering to say anything. Old Nan smiled at the young woman. "My lady. I was just about to tell him a story about a crow."

Bran's voice was monotone as he spoke. "I hate your stories." 

"I know a story about a boy who hates stories." 

Y/N laughed, covering her mouth quickly. "Sorry." 

"I could tell you a story about Ser Duncan the Tall. Those were always your favorites." 

"Those weren't my favorites. My favorites were the scary ones." 

Old Nan sighed. "Oh, my sweet summer child. What do you know about fear? Fear is for the winter when the snow falls a hundred feet deep. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hide for years and children are born and live and die all in darkness. That is the time for fear, my little lord when the White Walkers move through the woods. Thousands of years ago, there came a night that lasted a generation. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the shepherds in their huts. And women smothered their babies rather than see them starve, and wept and felt the tears freeze on their cheeks. So is this the sort of story that you like?"

Bran nodded. Y/N sat beside his bed, entranced. 

Old Nan continued. "The White Walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses. Hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds-" 

The door rattled, and Bran and Y/N jumped. Robb walked through the door, smiling at his brother. He sighed, looking over to Old Nan. "What are you telling him now?"

"Only what the little lord wanted to hear." 

"Get your supper. I want some time with him." 

She nodded. "Perhaps that is enough of scary stories today." 

Robb waited until she had left to talk to his brother. "One time, she told me the sky was blue because we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant named Macomber." 

Bran just stared, no emotions evident on his face. It broke her heart to see such a young boy so melancholy. "Maybe we do." 

Rob's smile fell, and he sat down on the bed beside Bran. "How do you feel? You still don't remember anything?" He shook his head softly. "Bran, I've seen you climb a thousand times. In the wind, in the rain... a thousand times. You never fall." 

"I did, though." He knew something, something he wasn't telling anyone, and Y/N had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with her family. "It's true isn't it, what Maester Luwin says about my legs?" 

Robb nodded. 

Bran sighed, looking at the ceiling. "I'd rather be dead." 

Robb's eyes widened. "Don't ever say that." 

Bran looked down, staring at his brother. "I'd rather be dead." 

She sighed. "Perhaps we should talk about something else." She smiled down at Bran. "Would you like to hear stories about King's Landing?"

Bran nodded slowly. "Alright." 

She leaned forward. "Anything you'd like to hear about in particular?" 

"Tell me about your parents." 

She laughed. "Are you quite serious?" He nodded once more, staring at her curiously. She gulped, putting her book on the table beside her. "Well, my parents, they..." She looked to Robb for help before realizing that he, too, had no idea what they were like. 

"My mother was very young when she had to marry my father. You know that your Aunt Lyanna and my father were engaged?" Bran nodded again. "My mother could never amount to your Aunt in my father's eyes, which caused problems in their marriage. Before I was born, my mother was pregnant with a boy, and when he was just a year old, he caught a fever. He couldn't shake it, even though he fought hard." She smiled sadly. "Very hard. He was my mother's first child with beautiful black hair. And then, when he died..." She took a deep breath. "My mother was heartbroken. My father wasn't allowed to grieve, and so he- I guess he used ale, mutton, and-" She looked at Robb, blushing. "Other things to forget. Then they had me." 

Bran tilted his head. "Do you know why none of your siblings have black hair like yours?"

She didn't know why persay, but she had a gut feeling. She had seen her mother and Uncle Jamie when she was younger, closer than they should have been for siblings. "I don't. The Lannister blond won thrice. I guess that means I'm stronger than the rest of them. My father, I guess, treats me kinder because I remind him of his firstborn, his darling boy." 

Robb scoffed. "Joffrey not good enough for him?"

Y/N laughed. "Joffrey is a wicked boy. I fear the day he rules, truly." She looked down at Bran, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "That's not to say they do not enjoy each other's company. Marriage is difficult, but my mother and father make it work. They may not be in love, but they understand each other." 

Bran huffed. "Your Uncle Jamie..." 

"Yes?"

"Is he close with your siblings?"

She nodded. "Closer than with me, that is for sure. He's very protective of them, which I appreciate. Tommen and Myrcella are good children; they need protection. Joffrey, on the other hand—" She laughed, shaking her head. "There is no saving that boy." 

Y/N smiled as Bran slept, glad that his mind was otherwise occupied. She hated that he wished death upon himself; he was so young, so full of life. Summer lay beside him, standing watch. The door opened, and Theon walked through, Bran's eyes shooting open. 

Summer growled, seemingly glaring at the young Greyjoy. Y/N cooed, shaking her head. "Summer, it's alright." 

Theon bowed. "We have visitors." 

Bran huffed. "I don't want to see anyone." 

"Really? If I was cooped up all day with no one but this old bat for company, I'd go mad." 

She looked up from her book, staring expectedly. Theon smiled. "Not including you, my lady." He looked back to Bran. "Anyway, you don't have a choice. Robb's waiting." 

She stood, leaving her book on the table. "It'll be nice, the fresh air." 

Bran rolled his eyes. "There's fresh air here." 

She laughed. "You know what I meant, Bran."

"I don't want to go." 

Theon sighed. "Neither do I. But Robb's lord of Winterfell, which means I do what he says, and you do what I say." He called out. "Hodor!"

A lumbering giant of a man walked through the door, smiling. "Hodor?"

"Help Bran down the hall." 

"So it's true." 

She grinned. "Hello, Uncle Tyrion." 

Tyrion waved, staring at Bran. "Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?"

Maester Luwin spoke. "He has no memory of that day." 

She hissed. "Uncle, what a question." 

He sighed. "Curious." 

The young woman walked up to the table, sitting beside Robb. "Why are you here?"

Tyrion ignored him, addressing Bran. "Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt." 

"Kneel, Hodor." 

"Do you like to ride, Bran?"

The young boy nodded. "Yes. Well, I mean, I did like to."

Maester Luwin glared. "The boy has lost the use of his legs." 

"What of it? With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride." 

"I'm not a cripple." 

"Then I'm not a dwarf. My father will rejoice to hear it." 

Y/N sighed. "Uncle, please get to the point." 

 "I have a gift for you." He handed Bran a scroll. "Give that to your saddler; he'll provide the rest." He looked to Robb. "You must shape the horse to the rider. Start with a yearling and teach it to respond to the reins and to the boy's voice." 

"Will I really be able to ride?"

Tyrion nodded. "You will. On horseback, you'll be as tall as any of them." 

Robb glared in confusion. "Is this some kind of trick? Why do you want to help him?"

"I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things." 

This only confirmed her suspicion that her family had something to do with Bran's situation. She leaned over, resting her hand on Robb's knee. "He is merely trying to help, my dear." 

 Robb nodded, looking back down to the Lannister. "You've done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours." 

"Spare me your false courtesies, Lord Stark. There's a brothel outside your walls. There, I'll find a bed, and both of us can sleep easier." 

"Uncle, please at least stay for dinner." She smiled. "I've so longed to hear of the Wall." 

He stared, his eyes softening. "Fine. But only because you are my favorite niece." 

[agentrouka-blog]

Jon the future Father

An early hint that it's Jon and not Robb who is destined to carry on the line of House Stark is how GRRM chooses to portray them with children, especially their younger siblings.

It's Jon who advises Bran, gently guides Rickon, comforts and encourages Arya, who is shown jubilant when Bran wakes, who worries about his sisters. It's Jon who gave Bran a fish to take home, Jon who tells Tyrion to comfort Rickon with the promise of "all my things".

GRRM could have given Robb similar scenes to interlink with the way his younger siblings idealize him in his absence. But we get no such thing. He is overwhelmed with Rickon's distress, receives comfort from Bran rather than giving it, leaves Bran behind in the woods, is given zero interaction with his sisters and only mentions them to complain about Sansa's lettter, compassionlessly unable to comprehend her obvious situation. He'll go on to refuse to trade for them, remains focused on his role as Ned's avenging son, rather than as protector of his living family.

While Robb needs an "heir", it is Jon who is described to have dreamed of "children". It's not Robb who mirrors Jon in what he would name his sons, that was only ever Jeyne, the only one whose grief is shown over the lost opportunity. "He liked that, I think." She isn't even sure.

Robb is a warrior king, but GRRM utterly avoids showing him in a position that could be interpreted as fatherly. And he never gets to live long enough to become a father to the next generation of Starks. GRRM makes sure to emphasize that his enemies prevented it from ever happening. He remains the Young Wolf forever.

Jon, meanwhile, is shown in a paternal caring light in his very first appearance.

Jon likes children. He is good with children. He wants children. This matters because of the massive role parenting styles play in the books. Tywin's children are monsters because he made them that way. Ned's children are resilient because he and Catelyn raised them responsibly, lovingly, in spite of some failings.

Jon being emphasized to have the skillset to raise children well is a very important signal that he is fit to have a hand in the next generation of House Stark, that his presence and influence will be not just possible but vital. It's not his "blood and seed" that is required, it is his whole person.