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atopvisenyashill · 8 months ago

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king bran

so i’ve lined up my theory on how bran will be king in harrenhal but i was a little lax on details about king bran foreshadowing. there’s the “bran in harrenhal” stuff i’ve outlined which includes-

bran’s connection to the weirwoods & the magical connection the isle of faces has

the whent connection

bran being a metaphorical heir to robb by ruling over the lands robb was born, fought, and died in

the importance of harrenhal as a symbol of both the wasteful excess and hope for the future

but why king bran specifically? well…

ATTEMPTED SLAYING BY THE KINGSLAYER

for one thing, bran is our introduction to the entire series (barring the prologue, rip to 3 icons). he introduces us to the brutality of this world, to the themes of justice, kingship, leadership, to the Others, and to magic. that very important lesson about how the person to pass judgement must swing the sword, and must be sure that the life they're taking is one that deserves to be taken? That comes to us not through Jon, or even Arya, but Bran:

Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

That last sentence in particular is a belief that really sticks in all the kids heads as they go about their journeys, and it is through Bran that we learn it.

But in his second chapter, Bran also introduces us to jaime, cersei, and the main plot twist of the first book which kick starts the war of five kings. before he's pushed from the tower, this is all we know about Jaime-

He’s blonde, he’s named Jaime, and he killed the king.

Then the first thing he does is attempt to slay Bran.

AEGON VI AND THE PISSWATER PRINCE

What’s most interesting to me regarding King Bran foreshadowing is that the story of how Bran survives the sack of Winterfell is very similar to Varys & Illyrio’s story of the pisswater prince. Here is Tyrion’s summary of it-

"And when the pisswater prince was safely dead, the eunuch smuggled you across the narrow sea to his fat friend the cheesemonger, who hid you on a poleboat and found an exile lord willing to call himself your father. It does make for a splendid story, and the singers will make much of your escape once you take the Iron Throne…

and some reminders about Bran, helpfully color coded-

It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller's sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. "I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me… laughed at me..."

Three times he had sworn to keep the secret; once to Bran himself, once to that strange boy Jojen Reed, and last of all to Coldhands. "The world believes the boy is dead," his rescuer had said as they parted. "Let his bones lie undisturbed. We want no seekers coming after us. Swear it, Samwell of the Night's Watch. Swear it for the life you owe me."

“Hodor must stay with Bran, to be his legs," the wildling woman said briskly. "I will take Rickon with me." “We'll go with Bran," said Jojen Reed. "Aye, I thought you might," said Osha.

Another interesting thing about Bran, the Reeds, and Aegon VI here-

“He has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."

I swear it by earth and water," said the boy in green. "I swear it by bronze and iron," his sister said. "We swear it by ice and fire," they finished together.

BRAN, THE REEDS, AND THE FISHER KING

Now first of all, quick rundown with more color coding. The Fisher King is a character in Arthurian legend, involved in a story with Perceval and the Holy Grail (so you know we’re already cooking here bc Holy Grail stories are baller). The Fisher King is the last in a long line of kings tasked with guarding the Holy Grail. He is injured at some point, usually in the groin, and is rendered barren by the wound, and his land is a barren wasteland where nothing will grow because he is connected to the land. Only when a prophesied hero comes seeking him will the Fisher King be healed. Perceval, of course, comes seeking him, heals him, and gets the Holy Grail.

Now some of the beats of that story should sound familiar-

Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some said the Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she had nursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, that all the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head.

He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" "No," Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon." But he will never run beside his wolf again, he thought with a sadness too deep for words, or lie with a woman, or hold his own son in his arms.

The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.

What was he now? Only Bran the broken boy, Brandon of House Stark, prince of a lost kingdom, lord of a burned castle, heir to ruins. He had thought the three-eyed crow would be a sorcerer, a wise old wizard who could fix his legs, but that was some stupid child's dream, he realized now.

No," said the pale lord. "That is beyond my powers." Bran's eyes filled with tears. We came such a long way. The chamber echoed to the sound of the black river. "You will never walk again, Bran," the pale lips promised, "but you will fly."

Now what’s interesting is in twoiaf we learn about some ancient rulers called the Fisher Queens-

From such we know of the Fisher Queens, who ruled the lands adjoining the Silver Sea—the great inland sea at the heart of the grasslands—from a floating palace that made its way endlessly around its shores.

The Fisher Queens were wise and benevolent and favored of the gods, we are told, and kings and lords and wise men sought the floating palace for their counsel.

And what do you know look at who Bran is traveling with-

“My father taught me. We have no knights at Greywater. No master-at-arms, and no maester.” “Who keeps your ravens?” She smiled. “Ravens can’t find Greywater Watch, no more than our enemies can.” “Why not?” “Because it moves,” she told him.

Jojen Reed was thirteen, only four years older than Bran. Jojen wasn't much bigger either, no more than two inches or maybe three, but he had a solemn way of talking that made him seem older and wiser than he really was. At Winterfell, Old Nan had dubbed him "little grandfather."

When they died, they went into the wood, into leaf and limb and root, and the trees remembered. All their songs and spells, their histories and prayers, everything they knew about this world. Maesters will tell you that the weirwoods are sacred to the old gods. The singers believe they are the old gods. When singers die they become part of that godhood.

I like to say this about Theon, when he sees Bran's face in the weirwood and thinks, "The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name." that this is partially true - Theon is beloved by the gods but what he doesn't realize is that the old god he is beloved by is in fact Bran Stark. When the old gods weep for Theon and Jeyne, it is Bran weeping for them! So similarly, the way the Fisher Queens in their moving castle were thought to be beloved by the gods the Reeds in their floating castle are beloved by the gods because they are beloved by Bran. This reinforces Bran's connection to the Fisher King imo - just as the old greenseers and singers/cotf are quite literally connected to the land because they have become part of the the weirwood hivemind, Bran has this same connection to the land.

AND what’s more is that the Fisher King story is likely to trace itself back to a Welsh story, of a magical King who gives his sister's hand away, only to learn that she is being mistreated, and musters a host to go save her. During a battle, the King is mortally wounded by an injury in his foot, and as he dies he tells his men to cut off his head and take it to London so he can protect their people from invasion, and for several years after he "dies" his head continues speaking. If that also sounds familair, do you want to know what that man’s name was?

Bran the Blessed.

MELISANDRE'S VISION

Now staying in the realm of magic, we also have this very interesting passage from Melisandre, emphasis mine-

Show me Stannis, Lord, she prayed. Show me your king, your instrument. Visions danced before her, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive. She saw the eyeless faces again, staring out at her from sockets weeping blood. Then the towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths. Shadows in the shape of skulls, skulls that turned to mist, bodies locked together in lust, writhing and rolling and clawing. Through curtains of fire great winged shadows wheeled against a hard blue sky. A face took shape within the hearth. Stannis? she thought, for just a moment … but no, these were not his features. A wooden face, corpse white. Was this the enemy? A thousand red eyes floated in the rising flames. He sees me. Beside him, a boy with a wolf's face threw back his head and howled.

THE REGENCY OF AEGON III

So warning this is part parallelism and part prediction

The Dance of the Dragons was done, and the melancholy reign of King Aegon III Targaryen had begun.

As he was still but ten years of age, the new king’s first act was to name the men who would protect and defend him, and rule for him until he came of age.

This was a council of which Septon Eustace heartily approved, “six strong men and one wise woman, seven to rule us here on earth as the Seven Above rule all men from their heaven.” Mushroom was less impressed. “Seven regents were six too many,” he said. “Pity our poor king.” Despite the fool’s misgivings, most observers seemed to feel that the reign of King Aegon III had begun on a hopeful note.

So many lords, both great and small, had perished during the Dance of the Dragons that the Citadel rightly names this time the Winter of the Widows. Never before or since in the history of the Seven Kingdoms have so many women wielded so much power, ruling in the place of their slain husbands, brothers, and fathers, for sons in swaddling clothes or still on the teat.

The smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms speak of King Aegon III Targaryen as Aegon the Unlucky, Aegon the Unhappy, and (most often) the Dragonbane, when they remember him at all. All these names are apt. Grand Maester Munkun, who served him for a good part of his reign, calls him the Broken King, which fits him even better. Of all the men ever to sit the Iron Throne, he remains perhaps the most enigmatic: a shadowy monarch who said little and did less, and lived a life steeped in grief and melancholy.

There is also a big focus on the “tax policies” aspect of the story through these two child rulers. Much of Aegon’s regency centers around him butting heads with his guardians while Bran’s ACOK arc sees him as the ruling Stark in Winterfell and learning how to lead with mentors in Maester Luwin & Ser Rodrik Cassell. EYE also think it’s interesting how both Aegon & Bran get some focus on having a lil gaggle of companions around. Aegon has Gaemon, Jaehaera, Viserys, Daenaera, and Larra Rogare, while Bran has the Big Walder, Little Walder, Rickon, Jojen, and Meera. They both feel like very similar groups of kids that are thrown together & running amok with adult supervision that is more lax/not coming from their parents.

There's also just like, a lot of parallels between Baela, Rhaena, Jacaerys, and Aegon with Arya, Sansa, Jon Snow, and Bran. There are several good breakdowns of the Sansa/Arya parallels as well as the Jace/Jon Snow ones, so I won't dig into that here, but I think when you put all this together what you have between Bran and Aegon III is-

Two boy kings who will have a long regency

Both orphaned due to a brutal succession war

Both referred to as "broken" - aegon by munkin, and bran referring to himself

Younger - but not the youngest - brother coming into his seat after his older brother is killed

Both have names that are important in their families & frequently re-used - and in fact both share a name with their uncle

A very rare "winter of widows" where most of the houses are ruled by women due to all the men being dead and their heirs being babies is coming up in the main series

This anti parallel of Aegon being a very melancholy person & Bran being known to be “quick to laugh and easy to love.”

As for his relationships, we have-

His bastard born brother With Some Secret Paternity Going On, who is likely not going to be in the running for King at the end of the war (hopefully um, Jon Snow actually lives unlike poor Jacaerys)

His oldest brother dying at 16 during the war

One sister who is more adventurous and "tomboy"ish, who is associated with ships and travel

Another sister who is more ladylike, who has a largely political arc in the Vale

Both sisters are likely to take leading roles as political players in the aftermath of the war - I do suspect we will get some sort of “Hour of the Wolf” parallels here, just before or after Bran is crowned

SOME CHOICE QUOTES TO LEAVE OFF ON

Bran could perch for hours among the shapeless, rain-worn gargoyles that brooded over the First Keep, watching it all: the men drilling with wood and steel in the yard, the cooks tending their vegetables in the glass garden, restless dogs running back and forth in the kennels, the silence of the godswood, the girls gossiping beside the washing well. It made him feel like he was lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know. - Bran II, AGOT

Ahead he glimpsed a pale white trunk that could only be a weirwood, crowned with a head of dark red leaves. - Jon VII, ADWD

#valyrianscrolls #lawyering for bran #bran stark #king bran #the king in harrenhal #rani attempts meta #jaime lannister #aegon the unlucky #aegon vi targaryen #the fisher king #the fisher queens #meera reed #jojen reed #melisandre of the shadow

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m00na333 · 24 days ago

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Catelyn Stark, Jon Snow, and a particularly annoying fandom myth:

"Wow, if only Ned told Catelyn that Jon Snow is actually Brandon Stark's bastard/ Rhaegar and Lyanna's son, then she wouldn't have thought that he cheated and that he was a threat to her kids and we could have happy wholesome family times."

Guys. Lords and Peasants. My sweet summer children. Catelyn Stark's apprehension was justified.

First, please consider that Catelyn did not feel betrayed by Ned. They had spent one night together - purely for the purposes of securing the bloodline - before he went off to do a coup. She was aware of the fact that the man who she had only met once, who was not originally her betrothed, may do some light adultery. She expected that if he were to sire a bastard, that he would do the right thing, the noble thing, and ensure he was provided for.

She's furious that he brought his bastard home, with her trueborn children because - say it with me folks - Jon Snow does, in fact, pose a political threat to Cat's children.

Cat's uncle is a survivor of the war of the ninepenny kings, an off-shoot of a series of wars that stems from the time one guy decided his bastards should be legitimised actually. She's learnt of the dangers that come when succession is messy.

Also, consider that the North appears to view bastardry differently. many Mormont women are bastards, and they're still allowed to keep their last names. Roose has his bastard running errands for him.

Even Cat's own son is willing to disinherit his sister - her trueborn daughter - to make Jon heir to Winterfell.

And to top it all off, the bastard seems more accustomed to the north than she, or any of her own children do, when she still feels at an outcast at times. She feels ill-at-ease in the godswood, she often reflects on how strange the north's customs are. She often quibbles with her son's vassals and advisors, has to at one point reassert that she was Ned's wife to stop them from messy, brutal revenge.

To make matters worse; Jon beats Robb during training. He has the Stark features. His direwolf is a literal avatar of the weirwoods and the religion of the old gods.

But yeah, if ned could've gotten over his darned PTSD and trauma from the time he went to war and his family was brutalised and told the woman he was sworn to but otherwise was a complete stranger:

''oh yeah, he's not a threat to our children at all. He's actually the bastard son of my brother who was supposed to inherit Winterfell instead of me and many factions would prefer/Yeah he's the rightful heir and son of the guy who the king just brutally slaughtered and who's family was also murdered. But don't worry, we have no reason at all to worry. We're perfectly safe."

Besides, Cat is prejudiced. She's the archetypal Westerosi noble-woman. She's judgemental towards Mya Stone and Brienne of Tarth. She still genuinely puts her faith in guest right and the words of lords. She's courteous and wise.

People seem to forget that Cat and Jon are the main introductions to the political semi-feudal structure. From a doylist perspective, Cat is judgemental and vicious because the class system is brutal and unfair.

But I can't justify her actual treatment of Jon, and you shouldn't either.

#jon snow #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #text post #catelyn stark #ned stark #winterfell #westeros #on westerosi class systems #wicked stepmother hours #not a catelyn stark defender but a catelyn stark understander #yes im a cat apologist #yes im a jon apologist #we exist

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sweetaprilbutterfly · 2 months ago

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This must be Jon – Sansa has heard enough about him in the six years Robb has been at that school. She has never met him, though she knows Robb has gone over to Ireland to visit him the past few summers.

Robb is silent for a few moments as she waits expectantly for the proper introduction to his friend. Finally it comes, a hesitant, “Jon, this is my sister, Sansa.”

She watches Jon's brow furrow, his mouth turns down, his eyes go from Robb, to Arya, to Bran, before he says, “I didn't know you had another sister.”

squib by @cellsshapedlikestars

#jon x sansa fic #Jon x Sansa #Jonsa #Jon Snow #Sansa Stark #actuallyjonsa #jonsaedit #sansastarkedit #jonsnowedit #gotedit #asoiafedit #gotsansastark #gotjonsnow #GoT #Game of Thrones #ASOIAF #my edits #cellsshapedlikestars #ganymede elegy

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starry-eyer · 29 days ago

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Some of the most compelling narrative choices in the series gain new depth when seen through the lens of Snow White. Not only are the fairytale’s motifs and themes explored, but its traditional roles—especially those tied to gender, beauty, purity, and familial dynamics—are reshaped and subverted. George goes so far as to complicate the fairytale’s naming logic. Both Snow White and Jon Snow are named in ways that reflect how society perceives them, based on conditions of birth they could not control. In reworking such a familiar symbol, the narrative seems to pose a deeper question: what does it mean for birth to define you?

The opening of the Brothers Grimm’s Little Snow White features a queen seated at a window, sewing as snow falls. She pricks her finger on her needle, and then three drops of blood fall onto the snow, prompting her to wish: ‘If only I had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood in this frame.’ Soon after, Snow White is born with those exact physical traits, and the queen dies. Snow White’s life is later shaped by these traits she was born with. This introduction finds an echo in Arya’s first chapter. Though the scene is not a direct recreation, the resonance is clear. For one, two central figures of the chapter—Jon Snow and Ghost—recreate Snow White’s symbolic triad of black, white, and red. And Arya, a known Lyanna lookalike, interacts with Jon at a setting defined by its window—mirroring the queen’s position in the fairytale. The set up is too similar to brush off as coincidence. Even the needle is present through Jon and Arya’s conversation, but where the original tale links the needle to traditional gender roles, here that is a bit inverted. It is needlework/swordplay that prompts the wish, and Jon Snow who grants it, gifting Arya the sword she names Needle. This connection deepens when Arya is read as a stand-in for Lyanna—Snow White’s mother in this reimagining, and is underscored by the knowledge that Lyanna, too, would have wished to wield a sword like Needle. In this light, Jon—the ‘Snow White’—has fulfilled his mother’s wish by empowering a girl like her. This moment is deeply rooted in the fairytale’s framework, but even outside that lens, one can see how this moment rejects predetermined identity at birth. Instead, it affirms the power of choice and personal agency, even in the face of stigma.

That said, at its heart, Snow White is a tale obsessed with beauty—so I must factor this into my analysis. This should be clear, but George does not play the trope straight. Instead, he reframes the idea of who is ‘fairest’ and why that matters. Early on, Jon Snow is described as ‘dark where Robb was fair.’ This juxtaposition flips the original script, and the word fair, which traditionally connotes beauty, is stripped of that weight and is posed as a simple descriptor of Robb’s lighter coloring in comparison to Jon’s darker one. So Jon is not the fairest, and yet that is a crucial factor of Catelyn’s discontent with Jon’s presence because Jon closely resembles Ned Stark, her husband. Her rejection of Jon mirrors the Queen’s rejection of Snow White, but here the source of tension isn’t beauty—it’s resemblance that only worsens underlying fears and insecurity. These insecurities are rooted in Catelyn’s constrained role as a woman in a society that limits her agency—even within her own home. So her push to have Jon sent away (despite her husbands protests) can be read as an act of defiance against the role assigned to her at birth.

That said, Catelyn is not a reimagined evil queen—she sort of exists as a foil. This distinction is essential to understanding not only her relationship with Jon, but also how the fairytale’s landscape is reconstructed. Crucially, Jon and Catelyn barely interacted in the text. This deliberate absence severed the emotional intensity of the “stepmother”/“stepchild” dynamic and reoriented asoiaf’s moral center. Their separation reinforces the idea that their conflict is not merely personal, but symptomatic of broader structural inequality. To emphasize her role as a foil to the evil queen, consider the moment when a young girl—Sansa—will seemingly surpass Catelyn in beauty. The trope is immediately subverted. Cat was not envious of Sansa’s looks—she was proud and happy for her daughter. By invoking the Snow White framework only to immediately deconstruct it, George really highlighted how simplistic the original fairytale’s dynamic was.

This framework is further utilized through Jon’s journey to Castle Black, which shares a few similarities with Snow White’s own escape through the unnamed forest. Jon’s journey through the wolfswood sparked personal growth, just as hers did, and he ultimately found shelter (emotional shelter) with a dwarf. Tyrion very clearly fills the dwarf role and his Lannister identity furthers this connection (Lannister wealth comes from gold mining similar to the Seven Dwarfs in the tale). Interestingly, in some Snow White variants the dwarfs are replaced by bandits or robbers, which is exactly who Jon ended up surrounded by at the Night’s Watch.

In the fairytale, after Snow White fled into the unnamed forest, the Huntsman killed a young boar in her place. The Queen later ate the boars lungs and liver under the false belief that they belonged to the girl. In Disney’s version, the Queen wanted Snow White’s heart, but the Huntsman tricked her by giving her a pigs. She kept the pigs heart in a box that when latched closed resembled a sword through a heart. Disney’s version seems to have been the inspiration behind the motifs in Randyll Tarly’s threatening monologue: ‘Three men-at-arms had escorted him into a wood near Horn Hill, where his father was skinning a deer. “You are almost a man grown now, and my heir,” Lord Randyll Tarly had told his eldest son, his long knife laying bare the carcass as he spoke. “You have given me no cause to disown you, but neither will I allow you to inherit the land and title that should be Dickon’s. Heartsbane must go to a man strong enough to wield her, and you are not worthy to touch her hilt. So I have decided that you shall this day announce that you wish to take the black. You will forsake all claim to your brother’s inheritance and start north before evenfall. “If you do not, then on the morrow we shall have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you will be thrown from the saddle to die . . . or so I will tell your mother. … Nothing would please me more than to hunt you down like the pig you are.” His arms were red to the elbow as he laid the skinning knife aside. “So. There is your choice. The Night’s Watch”—he reached inside the deer, ripped out its heart, and held it in his fist, red and dripping—“or this.”’ House Tarly’s sigil—the striding huntsman—marks Randyll for the Huntsman he is, and the ancestral sword Heartsbane provides a physical manifestation of the image present in Disney’s version, and Sam himself is the metaphorical pig. In my eyes, Randyll Tarly is a gender swapped Evil Queen who is unhappy with a son whom he considered too feminine. So Sam’s punishment for ‘failing’ to perform masculinity is dehumanization; because he couldn’t become the hunter, he became the hunted—which carried over to the Night’s Watch where he was mockingly called Lady Piggy by Alliser Thorne. This shows how pervasive and normalized this sort of toxic masculinity is, and that not conforming is life threatening. Contrasting Sam, Jon is depicted as a good hunter (someone who can perform masculinity) who could’ve ignored Sam’s struggles and fall in line, but he instead openly rejected the rigid, violent masculinity embodied by Thorne and Randyll. Jon used his advantages he gained due to his birth to protect.

Taking this further, just as the pig is a stand in for Snow White in the fairytale, Sam serves as a stand in for Jon so the huntsman encounter can be present in Jon’s narrative. Notably, Jon is the only person Sam confides in about this traumatic encounter, which signifies how they share the role of Snow White. On that note, Jon’s protection of Sam could be seen as an inversion of the fairytale dynamic—Jon, the ‘Snow,’ protected the pig here, not the other way around. More importantly, Jon’s acceptance of Sam was also a form of self-acceptance. Jon only began to want the brotherhood he began to feel over his family at Winterfell after he decided that it would encompass Sam and the traits Sam embodies. If there was no place for Sam at the table, Jon no longer wished to sit there either. It’s important to note that Sam’s trauma reminded Jon of his own, which was why Catelyn came up in his memories. Sam sitting alone away from the other new recruits is no doubtfully meant to call back to Jon’s own displacement during the feast at Winterfell. But by looking at this through the lens of Snow White, this serves to link the Huntsman and “Stepmother” together to tighten the intertextuality even though Cat and Randyll had been no where near each other.

The Snow White framework is further employed when Jon found himself not only doing chores, but becoming a steward. Jon was placed in a role of (somewhat) domestic, undervalued labor—a traditionally female coded job. Jon was not happy about it. He wished to be a ranger—a male coded heroic role—but found himself doing chores for the Lord Commander, which is reminiscent of Snow White working as a maid in most variants of the fairytale. It’s important that Jon didn’t get what he wished for, and doubly so that a place of devalued labor was his pipeline to Lord Commander—it’s a clear reframing on gender roles and their importance in society. And crucially, it was because he helped Sam that it snowballed into this. The pig, a disposable figure in the fairytale, has become a symbol of overlooked value in asoiaf.

Though it’s important to admit that Jon and Sam’s experiences are clearly meant to be read as situational. Their setting and the decline of the Night’s Watch is one of the clear keys to their success. This type of malleability is not possible much elsewhere, and it’s certainly not easily achieved in King’s Landing where gender performance rules social and political interactions. Only very few exceptions seem to have been allowed, and Cersei was no exception here. Yes, Cersei—the archetypal Evil Queen. She even has the color scheme down, as the evil queen of the Grimm’s fairytale is only connected to two colors: yellow and green. And amusingly, though Cersei and Jon are separated by a great distance, she still found a way to engage with his story as his would be killers client. Very Evil Queen of her to call Catelyn a mouse for not killing Jon sooner, and while this line isn’t very important, I believe that it’s meant to once again strengthen the intertextuality as Cersei explores what she would have done in Cat’s place, which links the Evil Queen and “Stepmother” figures.

Through Cersei George does some of his best work. The Evil Queen of the fairytale can be read as simplistically vain, but some interpret her actions in the tale as an attempt to maintain her position and control within a patriarchal society that values women by how much they can be objectified. On that note, her role in Robert’s death therefore acts as a layered form of retribution. It’s justice for the socially sanctioned abuse he inflicted on her, it helps shine a feminist lens on the Evil Queen from the fairytale, and it gave the boar a fighting chance—which marks it as a sort of narrative revenge for Sam as the huntsman and pig roles are being utilized. ‘“Serve the boar at my funeral feast," Robert rasped. "Apple in its mouth, skin seared crisp. Eat the bastard. Don't care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned." "I promise." Promise me, Ned, Lyanna's voice echoed.’ This is an obvious allusion to Snow White’s death—the apple is present along with the ‘choking’ line—but also includes motifs important to Jon. This just further solidifies my idea that the pig is sharing portions of Snow White’s roles.

Now, it wouldn’t be right to explore Cersei without mentioning her prophecy or the younger girls she’s harmed. I morbidly love that the younger and more beautiful queen from Maggy’s prophecy is a horrifying figure dressed up in superficial language. All Cersei has, all Cersei loves, is tied to her beauty—tied to the impermanence of beauty. It’s chilling. It’s also an obvious feminist reframing of the Evil Queen’s dynamic with the magic mirror. On that note, I want to discuss one of the younger girls Cersei has harmed, Sansa, and how Sansa fits into this. Fairytales often exist in many variants, but in this case there are actually two unrelated Grimm tales with characters translated into English as Snow White. The more well-known tale is Schneewittchen, which we typically associate with the poisoned apple and the Evil Queen. But there’s also Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot, or Snow-White and Rose-Red, a different fairytale entirely. In that story, the two girls are opposites: one associated with a white rose, the other a red one. The symbolism of the white and red rose plays a striking role in Sansa’s narrative (this somewhat reminds me of the sun and moon line from Ned), and I interpret this as a subtle merger of the two separate tales that share the name Snow White, deepening Sansa’s connection to both while positioning her as a Rose-Red figure—equal to but not Snow White. It’s a clever and beautiful bit of wordplay. That said, two other characters that appear in Snow-White and Rose-Red are a bear who is actually a prince and a dwarf. The nature of these two characters seems to be reversed in the series, as Sansa’s prince is more so a terrible bear who she mistook for a knight—making it fitting that The Bear and the Maiden Fair was sung to cover her telling Margaery and Lady Olenna of Joffrey’s true nature. And the role of the dwarf is obviously filled by Tyrion, though this time it’s the ugly dwarf who turned out to be better than the pretty prince.

However, I think Sansa’s most important connections to Snow White actually stem from Angela Carter’s ‘The Snow Child,’ which is a gothic retelling of the fairytale and part of The Bloody Chamber collection. The horror of the tale finds a mirror in Baelish’s predatory fixation, Lysa’s jealousy, and the snowy setting of the kiss. Like the Snow Child, Sansa is a replacement for an older woman, and she eventually ends up wearing Lysa’s clothing and inheriting her role. I’d even go so far to say that ‘The Roadside Rose’ was inspired by ‘The Snow Child.’ In the story, the Snow Child died picking a rose by the roadside for the Countess—she pricked her finger, bled, and died, and then the Count assaulted her corpse. Afterwards, the Snow Child melted and all that was left of her was a feather, a bloodstain, and the rose. All components of Angela Carter’s ‘The Snow Child’ are present, so I’m fairly certain that I’m looking at this correctly. That said, Sansa even took on a bastard identity and connected Alayne Stone to Jon Snow: ‘She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again.’

I may have missed some connections, but what I’ve noticed is that what emerges from all of this isn’t a simple inversion of the old story—it’s a messy patchwork of reimagined roles drawn from not just the original fairytale, but from a myriad of connected works. And I find that to be cool lol :)

#wall of text #please be prepared for a long read #i’m sure all of this has been brought up before but. yeah. wanted to do an analysis myself #i realize i may be reading way too much into some of this but whatever #this was rly fun to do but also a huge challenge. i def got lazy in places hhejej #oh and of course jon has died and will be revived like snow white. i do think the ice cells are meant to serve as his glass coffin #snow white didn’t decay in the coffin and interestingly the color triad of white red and black is brought up in the fairytale again #it’s reminding the reader that these colors are important to her survival #i think george is running with that idea as well?#ghost has the white and red colors but another ‘red’ character is mel. and she’s the one who’ll revive him #reminds me of ‘the snow the crow and the blood’ and the red man from that fairytale reminds me of mel’s ‘the red woman’ nickname #plus that fairytale literally features a sword of light hejejej #asoiaf #jon snow #arya stark #valyrianscrolls #lyanna stark #sam tarly #cersei lannister #catelyn stark #sansa stark #robert baratheon #asoiaf meta

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pessimisticpigeonsworld · 9 months ago

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I hate those Daenerys is going to sacrifice herself/die theories so much it genuinely makes me tweak and I have never been the type of person to get upset at all over fiction or any type of media, but this irks me so bad because not only is Daenerys my absolute favorite character of all time, it’s upsetting how the female character is always the one who has to die for others sakes and never achieve anything for herself. Yes, it’s her destiny as AA to fight the Others, but that doesn’t mean that she has to die doing it. Like, seriously, after we got F&B and saw how many Targaryen women struggled with misogyny and being passed over for the throne, it feels upsetting to me if the one who is supposed to break the wheel will never have a chance to do so. I do love Bran but I do not see him fit to sit on the throne, not to mention how young he is and will be at the series end unless George does a massive timeskip, and after the whole world is in shambles after the Long Night, who is more fitting to sit on the throne and help mend things and lead the people forward? A well experienced ruler and fighter who will bring along a new age of change, or a child with no such experience? Perhaps it’s just me being salty but I just really want the best for my favorite character who I believe deserves to have her shot at having a home and being able to rule and change the world together with the other characters. Especially after the end of GoT, which no I don’t ever believe that George will go that route, but with how everything happened in the show, it looked like Westeros was a completely and utter mess and there was nobody capable left to pick up the pieces, Bran’s ascension to the throne was so random too and didn’t even feel satisfying or like a good conclusion (not that those two incapable idiots could ever produce a satisfying ending, but yeah). What are your thoughts on this? I just feel sad that fellow Dany fans are literally enthusiastically waiting for her death in the upcoming books as if there isn’t a better destiny for her :( The female character who managed to rise to power and become a ruler in her own right dying or giving that up to the men in order to “settle down” leaves such a bad taste in my mouth and doesn’t look like the subversion George has done with her character at all.

I definitely agree with you anon, Dany dying/sacrificing herself really doesn't seem to fit with her story. Yes, Dany certainly would be willing to die to save the world, but that doesn't seem to be where GRRM is writing her.

Dany's story is saturated with life; which is pretty ironic since she's been called "Daughter of Death". She's closely tied to themes of fertility (mother of dragons, helloo), rebirth (Azor Ahai, entering the pyre), and survival/endurance.

Dany's story shares very little similarities to characters who have been set up for death. For example, Robb. Dany may share some superficial similarities to Robb, but the signs of Robb's impending death are not shared at all. GRRM always sets up the deaths of his major characters from their introductions. That hasn't happened with Dany; if anything we see a set up to her surviving.

You're so right about how people are foaming at the mouth for Dany's death. Her dying after everything she's been through and everything she stands for is just...no. It feels so gross and has some really concerning undertones.

The woman who actually fought for change and made a massive upheaval in the status quo, who genuinely cares for all her people, who understands the responsibility of ruling, who demonstrates incredible wisdom, who only wants to make the world better dying for the sake of the story is just wow.

#answered asks #daenerys targaryen #pro daenerys #anti dany antis #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #asoiaf theory

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asa-do-your-thing · 1 year ago

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The rainbow trout

Robb Stark x Frey Reader 18 + MINORS DNI WC: 5,1k Warnings: forced marriage, mentions death, alcohol, dubcon, angst

You knew you weren't his first choice. You also knew what would happen, should Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, not accept your hand, so you did everything in your power to convince him to marry anyone of your female relatives. You sent him coded messages, diguised yourself and warned his pregnant lady... You did everything in your might to persuade him.

That was why it hurt you even more that when he came to the Twins and told you all to stand in a big semi circle ordered by your ages - you stood almost at the farthest end, having only just flowered - and he walked over to your aunts and older cousins, all past the ages of five and twenty. Everything within you itched to call out to him - King of the North, 'tis I who saved you!

But Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, was a man known for his honor and duty. He gave each woman a polite nod, exchanged pleasantries and, with a hint of discomfort in his eyes, moved along the line. You watched him as he went from your eldest aunt, Lady Amarei, a stout woman with greying hair and a face that had lost the battle with age long ago; to your cousin Alyx, then onto Waldene and Wylda - all older than you by several years and already mothers to their own broods, though you supposed it was pleasing for him to see their fertility.

The air in the Great Hall was thick with expectation as the Young Wolf made his way down the line of eligible Frey women. The flickering light from the hundreds of candles gave an ethereal glow to the scene, casting dancing shadows along stone walls adorned with the ancient heraldry of House Frey. The wheels of your father's great wooden chair creaked as he shifted his weight, watching his potential son-in-law examine his flock.

As Robb Stark drew closer to you, your heart pounded in your chest. Despite your best efforts to maintain decorum, your hands were clammy against the lush fabric of your dress. When he finally stood before you, his azure eyes met yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. His face was unreadable; he made no comments about your youth or offered any compliments as he had done for some of your relatives.

He nodded once before moving on to your younger sister - a girl who barely even knew how to keep her hair out of her soup bowl - and then carried on down the line. You could feel the disappointment welling up and looked up in amazement when he went back up to his previous spot. He... knew what would happen should he not accept any one of them? What was he doing?

Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, turned back to look you in the eyes. His gaze caught yours in a strange dance, akin to two foxes circling one another before withdrawing. He thanked your father, Lord Walder, for his hospitality and the introduction to his lovely daughters and nieces. His voice echoed along the stone hall, each word punctuated by silence from the gathered Freys.

"Before I proceed," he announced, raising an eyebrow as if he had just been struck by a sudden thought, "I would like to ask a question about a small rainbow trout." The hall fell silent.

Your heart leapt into your throat. The 'rainbow trout'. The code you had used so many times in your letters to him. You had used it as a symbol of danger, warning him of impending peril. And now he was using it back at you.

The question Robb asked was incredibly mundane in its nature for anyone else. Yet behind those words, there lay a hidden realm of understanding known only to Robb and yourself; its context spread across a plethora of secret letters exchanged between you two under various pseudonyms over the years. The audience stared at him blankly while your mind raced to pick up the hidden message in his query.

Just then, your innocent little sister nudged you and whispered in your ear right below a breath. "Has King Robb gone coo-coo?" You could hardly suppress the laughter that bubbled within you at her naive words. She didn’t understand what was passing between Robb and yourself and for that, you were both relieved and eternally grateful.

"No dear one," you whispered back, patting her small hand. " he's simply curious about our streams."

A hushed murmur passed through the crowd as they tried to comprehend the Young Wolf’s peculiar question. Lord Walder, from his high seat, let out a puff of irritation. "Is this a jest, Stark?" he asked gruffly.

The Young Wolf looked at him, his eyes hardening. "Not at all," he replied sternly. "In fact, it is rather important."

You noticed the subtle change in his demeanor and felt your heart flutter with anticipation. Robb turned his gaze back to you, the hardness softening once more into a look filled with intent and secret understanding.

"Your rainbow trout seems quite interesting." The Young Wolf finally spoke in his clear voice, echoing through the hall, carrying a message for you alone amongst the throng of confused onlookers. His words were enigmatic and carried an underlying layer of significance that no one but you could decipher.

The corners of your lips curled into an involuntary smile as you met his gaze and nodded subtly. You understood what he was trying to say, what he had so bravely alluded to in front of all your family members.

"And what would such a trout want?" asked Lord Walder impatiently. His sharp gaze pierced through Robb Stark who merely smirked and shrugged lightly.

"That’s for the trout to know," replied the Young Wolf cryptically. Before anyone could question further, he bowed courteously towards Lord Walder and then swept an arm towards you in an elegant gesture. "Perhaps your young lady there can provide me an answer?"

"Walderette?", your father croaked out and raised an eyebrow.

A big rumble went through the hall and you blushed up to your roots, not used to being stared at. This was pressure and you needed to handle it quickly and well - so well that your old, disgusting flea of a father would forget about this instance.

"Yes, Father?" You responded, managing to keep your voice steady, despite the thudding of your heart. Your eyes slipped towards Robb who looked at you encouragingly.

Your father huffed, "You'll entertain The Young Wolf's humor about our trout?"

"Of course, Father," you replied softly, your gaze locked with Robb's. An understanding passed between you two, an assurance that somehow he would make things right.

You then cleared your throat and addressed the hall in a voice far more confident than you felt. "Rainbow trout," you began, glancing at Robb who nodded subtly as if urging you to go on. "Is a delicacy in our rivers. It’s versatile and can thrive in different environments. It can be elusive yet it can be caught if one is patient and diligent."

The room was quiet as everyone watched you curiously. Your father squinted his eyes at you while your younger sister nervously bobbed up and down on her feet. He didn't dare suspect anything, or else your fate would be just the same - being slit open by your family.

"It is very good when smoked and lasts long, and it is easy to transport. It goes well with pickles-"

Lord Walder raised his hand and shrugged. "Yes, Wald... Walderette your name was, right? Rainbow trout is good." He looked at Robb, who gave him a relatively neutral look. "And you are sure you want... her? I have girls with prettier faces, bigger tits and that talk less nonesense."

Robb didn’t flinch under Lord Walder’s crude remarks. Instead, his gaze seemed only to harden, a touch of steel flashing in his eyes as he coolly met the old lord's gaze. "Aye," he said, holding your gaze again with a softness that contrasted sharply with the icy tone he had used for Walder.

"I'm sure." His blue eyes glittered with certainty and warmth. Your heart fluttered, nearly missing a beat at his declaration. To have him, Robb Stark, The Young Wolf, choose you in front of everyone felt as surreal as it was exciting.

Lord Walder grumbled something incoherent under his breath, shifting uncomfortably in his high seat. His gaze oscillated between you and Robb before finally settling on the young king with a grudging acceptance. He sighed heavily and grunted out a curt, “Very well.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, turning into excited whispers that echoed around the stone walls. This was unprecedented; a Frey girl chosen to be betrothed to the King in the North!

Your sisters looked at you with wide eyes, surprise and envy coloring their expressions. You could almost feel their piercing stares burrowing into your back, but you didn’t care. Robb had chosen you. And even though this was part of a grand scheme that remained secret from most, an indescribable joy surged within you at being chosen by him.

Robb then leaned slightly towards you, his voice barely audible above the hushed chatter. "I hope I picked the right trout," he murmured to you, a glint of worry in his eyes.

"There is only the one, my King," you reassured him with a small smile and breathed out once everyone went back to their seats - even the women, which gave you the greatest hope of there not being a massacre tonight. "Though if I find out anything that will hurt you or your... uh, friend, I will give you a signal and lots of likeminded trouts will help."

Robb nodded, his gaze fixed on yours. His eyes were the color of a stormy sky - deep, chilling, and deadly if challenged. Without breaking the eye contact, he whispered back, "I am looking forward to seeing what a school of like-minded trouts can do, thoug I hope I shall never feel the need to see them."

A hush fell over the room as Lord Walder straightened in his chair and clapped his hands together sharply. "Enough of these fish conversations," he barked, his voice echoing throughout the hall. "It's time to sit down for the feast. You're to be wed! My grandson shall be a King!"

As the guests began to shuffle towards their seats, you took Robb's arm and led him to the high table alongside Lord Walder and his newest wife. The woman, who was no more than a year older than you, was beautiful in a fragile kind of way. Her honey-coloured hair was bound up intricately with tiny pearls gleaming in between her locks. She shot you an encouraging smile as you both took your seats.

Throughout the feast that ensued, she would lean towards you from time to time, whispering coded words in your ear between bites of her meal or sips of her wine. "Remember," she once whispered casually as she spread some butter on her bread, "the pickles are of a dangerously spicy sort."

"Just the pickles?" You asked just as casually, keeping your gaze focused on your own plate.

She nodded subtly in response before turning her attention back to her own meal.

The night wore on with laughter and merriment filling the air beneath the vaulted ceilings of the hall. Everyone seemed at ease - even Robb appeared more relaxed now. However, underneath the surface, you were still fully ready to run. Your father was everything, but a honest man and nothing could fully guarantee your safety.

As the feast came to a close, Lord Walder rose to his feet with all the grace of a prowling cat despite his advanced years. "May I have your attention!" he bellowed, effectively silencing the chatter throughout the hall. He nodded his approval at the sudden quiet before turning his steely gaze towards you and Robb.

"It seems to me," he began, his voice carrying an uncanny edge that made the hair on your neck stand up. "That we're forgetting one important detail of this evening."

His gaze intensified as he continued, "These two lovebirds are yet to be wed!"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. You felt Robb stiffen beside you, but your father's newest wife pressed a reassuring hand on your arm. It was, after all, part of their ploy.

A frail old septon shuffled forward from among the crowd. The wrinkles on his face gathered into deep crevices as he smiled warmly at you and Robb. He held out a red silken ribbon - your symbol of unity in this farce of a marriage.

You found yourself whispering vows under his quiet instruction, your voice choked by anticipation and fear while Robb's steady and firm words only added another layer to your pounding heart.

"And now," Walder announced gleefully once you'd both spoken your vows. "Seal it with a kiss."

Robb hesitated for a moment before leaning in, his warm lips brushing against yours in a chaste but lingering kiss. The hall erupted in cheers, and for a fleeting moment, it felt real - like true love had finally found your side, yet you knew that this'd be a farce. But then again, what would a loveless marriage be against dozens of dead innocents?

"Take the lovers away! Undress them!", croaked Walder and grinned implishly as a mass of Frey girls came and picked Robb up. Silencing his prostest with the smallest of nods, you, in turn let yourself be carried by some Stark men.

The crowd of Stark men was like a sea of shadows, each figure blurred into the next by the dim candlelight. The soft murmur of their voices was punctuated by the occasional chuckle or whisper as they carried you away through a labyrinth of stone corridors. The cold, rough-hewn stones beneath your feet were a stark contrast to the warmth and merriment of the feasting hall. The ancient walls echoed with tales of grandeur and battle, each echo ringing in your ears as an ominous forewarning.

With each step, you felt your heart drumming wildly in your chest - this was unchartered territory, a dance with danger and uncertainty. You stole a glance at the jumbled mass of Frey girls disappearing with Robb into another corridor, his eyes locked onto yours for an infinitesimal second before he was swallowed by the throng.

You were ushered up a winding staircase, its spiralling steps leading you to a chamber high above the ground. The door creaked open to reveal a room bathed in soft moonlight. It wasn't chained and barred like the dungeons you'd feared, but rather adorned with silken tapestries depicting intricate hunting scenes.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you entered. The room felt strangely comforting with its high vaulted ceiling and large canopy bed draped in furs. A lone window overlooked rolling meadows bathed in silver moonlight, their serene beauty belying the uncertainty that lay ahead.

The Stark men began to undress you, their roughened hands deft yet respectful on your garments. Your heart pounded in your chest like a wild bird trapped in a cage and only stopped once Robb came into the room, dressed only in a sheet that was held up by your giggling sisters. He quickly excused his men and gave the girls the same, stern look.

"Good night, little fish!", "Have fun!" and "Make sure that you'll make a king tonight!" were their parting words as the filed out, giggling.

The heavy door shut behind them with a reverberating thud that echoed in the silence of the chamber. The echo faded, leaving only your heartbeat to fill the quiet space. You turned to face Robb, his striking blue eyes filled with an uncertainty that mirrored your own. The bronze-toned light of the hearth danced across his features and played in his hair, casting him somewhat divine in your sight.

His broad shoulders lifted and fell in a heavy sigh that seemed to shake the very air around you both. The silence hung between you two like a tangible veil as he slowly approached you.

"We needn't…" he began, his voice gravelly and low – softer than you'd ever heard it. Suddenly, all of his kingly stature seemed to melt away, leaving behind only a boy burdened by expectations.

"I know," you quickly cut in, eager to relieve him of his discomfort. "I could just…" You trailed off, suddenly aware of the crude absurdity of your plan. But you pressed on, forcing out the words as your cheeks burned with embarrassment. "... just scratch myself open…"

Robb's gaze flickered downward before snapping back up to meet yours, a horrified look crossing his face.

"I mean... people just want some proof… or else... or else there will be talk... we could pretend…” You stumbled over your words, unable to keep eye contact with him anymore.

A moment passed where only the crackling flames dared break the silence. Then Robb let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly before he met your gaze again.

"You remind me why I chose you for this alliance," he said with a warmth in his voice that took you by surprise, his hand reaching out to gently cup your face. "You're willing to hurt yourself just to protect our farce, and the people we're sworn to protect."

His thumb swept across your cheekbone, drawing a shiver from you. There was honesty in his eyes - a rarity in this world of duplicity and deceit - and it was startling.

"You don't need to do that," Robb continued, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small smile. "We'll find another way. A better way." He let his hand drop, but the warmth lingered on your skin, spreading like wildfire through your body.

"Robb…" You began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

"No need for formalities," he said with a small grin, trying to lighten the mood. "We're married now, remember?"

He was attempting light-hearted banter – an attempt to alleviate the tension hanging thick between you two, and it was surprisingly endearing. Still though, unease crept back into your heart. After all, what other way could there be?

"But they will expect…" You started again.

"We'll be careful," he interrupted once more. "And we'll be smart. Let them think what they will."

A knock resounded at the door then – a single, harsh rap that echoed in the chamber and made both of you jump.

"Shall I pour the wine?" A thin voice floated in through the heavy oak door, belonging to an old servant woman probably sent by Lord Walder himself to see their progress.

"Yes," Robb called back after sharing an understanding glance with you.

The Lady came in and hobbled her way towards a small table, filling two cups with a cheap red wine, one that smelled more like a tincture than a lovely Dornish Red. To add to that, she set down a small dish of pickles. "If you do not manage to do your duties tonight, your Lady sends this dish to bring you back to your senses.

You began to panic slightly and nodded at her, doing your best to mime an innocent. Walking over to the small table, you dismissed her and quickly gave Robb his glass. As soon as the Lady went away again, you stripped and gulped down the beastly drink, positioning yourself on the bed like a bitch in heat.

Robb, for his part, wore a look of sheer surprise as he followed your unceremonious actions with wide eyes. He took a deep breath, setting his own glass down on the table beside him before he turned back to you. His cheeks were flushed a delicate pink - a stark contrast to his usual pale complexion - and he looked almost boyish under the soft candlelight.

"Please," he started, his voice rough in the quiet of the room, "You don't need to do this. Not like this." His gaze was steady and honest as it met yours, and his words tugged at your heartstrings.

But your mind was filled with vivid images of Lady Catelyn's tear-stained face and Rob's pregnant girlfriend - their lives hanging by the thinnest of threads because of you. You swallowed hard, pushing away the comforting warmth of his words. "We can't risk it Robb," you insisted. Your voice wavered despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his mop of auburn hair. But he made no move to stop you from lying back against the bed – your back cold against the rough fabric beneath you. He looked at you then – really looked at you – taking in your determined expression and your trembling hands.

For a moment, all was silent in the room - save for the crackling flames.

Then, without another word, he began to disrobe himself with an air of solemnity that felt too heavy for the occasion. He moved carefully, meticulously even, stopping momentarily to kick away his modesty sheet before he joined you on the bed.

"Lie on your back, Walderette. I needn't take you like an animal," he whispered solemnly as he made sure to keep his eyes on your face.

His voice was low and gentle, a tender lullaby whispered in the quiet of the night. It was an unexpected sweetness that only made your heart hurt with more force, your guilt gnawing away at you like a starved beast. But you nodded, complying with his request and shifting position, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum.

A silence descended upon the room as he settled down beside you, his broad form dwarfing yours. His muscled arms propped him up as he leaned over you, his gaze never wavering from your face. You closed your eyes, your breath hitching as you felt the cool touch of his hands against the bare skin of your sides.

He stayed silent as his hands began to wander, their slow and deliberate movements adding an excruciating tension to the silence. He explored without hurry; his fingers ghosting over every rise and fall of your body as if committing it to memory.

You could feel the heat radiating off him – a feverish warmth that made goosebumps rise on your skin. Any other night, under any other circumstances, the feeling would've sent pleasing shivers down your spine.

"I…" you choked out, opening your eyes to find Robb hovering over you. His body pressed against yours in an almost comforting manner but it did nothing to dampen the guilt-ridden fear gnawing at your insides. "I… don't know what I'm doing," you admitted softly.

Robb's eyes darkened slightly at your confession but he gave you a small smile nonetheless. "It's alright," he whispered back reassuringly. "Neither do I, really. I've never... had to... take someone."

You blushed and gave him a shy smile. "I am not completely against it. Just... do whatever needs to be done and if we will not manage to create an heir, I am sure we will be able to do this... everything, under better circumtances."

“Are you sure about this?” he asked again, his voice barely more than a whisper. His eyes met yours, the steady gaze filled with an equal measure of fear and determination.

"Yes," you answered just as softly, your heart pounding in your chest. Despite your fear and uncertainty, you knew there was no other option. The lives of those you cared for were at stake. This was a small price to pay for their safety.

Robb nodded, his face a solemn mask. His eyes held yours, a lingering connection in the quiet room. He moved closer, laying his body against yours in a slow, deliberate manner. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the rapid beats of his heart echoing your own.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, and you complied without question. His lips found yours then, a tender kiss that tasted of wine and apprehension. His lips moved against yours gently, coaxing you into a rhythm that was as haunting as it was comforting.

His hands moved up your sides, skimming past the sensitive skin of your torso to rest at the sides of your face. He pulled back slightly from the kiss, his breath warm against your cheek as he began to whisper words meant only for you. They were soft promises of safety and care; sweet nothings that melted your worries away like morning fog under the sun's rays.

In spite of the circumstances, the tension in the room dissipated at his gentle ministrations. Your body relaxed under his touch, fear and uncertainty replaced with a sense of security.

Then he was moving again, inch by agonizing inch. The heat of him was all-encompassing now; a comforting weight pressing down on you with each passing moment. You let out a gasp when he finally pushed forward – a soft sound drowned out by the crackling fire and rustle of fabric.

It was not painful nor pleasurable - merely an odd discomfort that became more bearable as Robb began to move with slow rhythm, whispering soothing words into your ear. His hands never left your body – one rested on the small of your back, the other cradling your face. His thumb stroked your cheekbone in small circles, drawing out a soothing pattern that almost lulled you into a trance.

The room had become warmer, or maybe it was just the heat radiating from Robb — every inch of his bare skin touching yours, filling your senses with his presence. You clung to him, hands clenched on his broad shoulders, fingers digging into his flesh as he moved with quiet determination. You kept your eyes closed, taking in every sensation, every small sound he made as time stretched thin between each heartbeat.

He smelled of wood smoke and winter air. A hint of the strong drink you both had shared still lingered on his breath mixed with the warm scent of his skin. Each breath he drew was a low sigh against your ear, a soft symphony playing under the rustle of linen and crackle of fire.

His movements remained slow and deliberate — no rush, no urgency. He was careful with you, maintaining a rhythm that was mindful and tender. His touch was gentle but firm, holding you close yet giving you space to breathe. His lips found your forehead once more, pressing a soft kiss there.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly once again, pulling back slightly to look at you. His voice was barely audible over the slow rhythm of his body and your combined breaths.

You opened your eyes to meet his gaze. His eyes held an intense mixture of concern and uncertainty, but also a strange form of peace, as if in this moment he had found some sense of purpose.

"I... am," you answered truthfully – Your body was tingling from the strange experience but there was no pain or discomfort anymore - only an odd sense of warmth... and maybe even something akin to contentment.

His gaze held yours, his expression softening at your words. A sigh of relief escaped him as he lowered his lips to meet yours again. His kiss was languid, unhurried, a complete contradiction to the rapid beating of your hearts.

He whispered your name between soft kisses and gentle touches, turning it into a sweet lullaby that danced with the crackling flames in the hearth.

Gradually, your world shrunk until it was made up of Robb alone—the rhythm of his breaths matching your own, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, and his whispered words filling the silence. Time seemed to stretch on endlessly; seconds turning into minutes and minutes into hours as you lost yourself in him.

When he finally pulled back after depositing his hot spend in you, it was slow and deliberate. You felt a pang of loss as the warmth of his body disappeared only to be replaced by the cool air of the room. His fingers lingered on your skin for a moment longer before he moved them away too. He didn’t look at you as he rolled onto his side, putting some distance between you two.

It was understandable, you thought to yourself. His true love was outside, in th tents, worrying about her lover, the father of her babe.

For a long while, there was only silence in the room. You could still hear the faint sounds of Robb's steady breathing and feel his warmth beside you, but there was a sense of melancholy in the air that you couldn’t ignore.

The embers from the fire were slowly dying out and you knew that dawn was approaching; still, neither of you made any attempt to speak or move.

Eventually, Robb broke the silence, "I'm sorry..." His voice was barely audible over the dying embers. He turned towards you again, worry etched on his face, quickly wrapping the towel around himself.

"I don't know why I did that... I shouldn't have..."

His words hung in the air, heavy with regret. You turned your gaze to him, seeing the anguish painted across his face. The light from the dying fire cast a soft glow on his features, emphasizing the shadows of guilt etched deep within his eyes.

"It's okay..." you whispered, laying a hand gently on his arm. "It was necessary."

But even as the words left your lips, you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. You were both trapped in a situation neither of you wanted to be in. Each decision made out of obligation, not desire. It was a cruel reality, one that seemed determined to tear you both apart.

He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours for any sign of resentment or pain. When he found none, he let out a sigh, heavy with relief.

"I wish things were different," he said after a long silence, his voice barely audible over the crackling embers. "I wish we could choose our own paths."

You chewed your lower lip, contemplating his words. You knew what he meant. Your lives were dictated by forces beyond your control-- duty, responsibility and a looming war that threatened everything you held dear.

"We can't change what's already happened," you said quietly, meeting his gaze. "All we can do is move forward and make the best of what we have."

He nodded at your words although his expression remained pained. He reached out to take your hand into his own larger one and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"Thank you," he murmured softly, getting up and handing you your dress.

"No, thank you, my King," you said with a small smile. "Let us leave this horrid place."

#asas fics #robb stark #robb stark angst #robb stark smut #robb stark fanfiction #fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfiction

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dipperscavern · 11 months ago

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hey dip… ( voice trembling and fearful )

while I wither away working on this jon n robb competition thing, ill give you a little something ( just the introduction + it’ll be worth the wait I SWEAR ) to chew on. idk why this is taking me so long to complete … apologies m’lord 🙁

its literally just the introduction but I feel SO BAD FOR TAKING THIS LONGGGHHHH ( rips my shirt in half and howls )

GIVR IT TO ME NEOWWW PLSPKPSKSPLSPLSPLSPSLPSLSPELPSLSPEPELSPPLEPSLS

#dippys asks #useralba #useralba the talented #PLEADE #PLEADE I NEED IT #I WILL BE APPEARING IN YOUR INBOX ABOUT THID #game of thrones #jon snow #jon snow x reader #robb stark #robb stark x reader #PLEASE #PLEASE I NEEEEED IT

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bookwormlover10 · 1 year ago

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You know if Terry McGinnis ever get introduced in Wayne family adventures. I want him to be introduced like this

Tim is at a store getting what ever.... Then he gets robbed by robbers. You know THE robbers that kidnapped him and tried to robb him at a store.. except red hood saving Tim it's our other red bat boy who likes to wear leather jackets. A civilian ( enough) Terry then fights the robber ( do they have names seriously) off of Tim. Terry then have a chat with the robbers

Let's just say after having a chat with Terry the robber are crying and decided to stop crime.

Tim is bewilders by this and thanks Terry and ask him for his name and he replied " Terry. Terry mcginnis"

( I like the idea of Terry introduction being a mystery at first)

#terry mcginnis #batfamily #batman #batman beyond #tim drake #wayne family adventures #if Terry does get into Wayne family adventures ill dies happy

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smokingmercury · 23 days ago

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You reached back for your braid, pulling it over your shoulder and fiddling with the elastic. It was a warm autumn day in Westeros, and it was even warmer inside the library at King’s High School where you sat, waiting.

Any other day, you would already be at home, having a shower, or curled up at your desk, but not today. Today, you were stuck in the library, waiting alone for the boy you were supposed to tutor. One of the boys on the football team, who was failing English.

You rolled your eyes just thinking about it. You failed to see how that was your problem, but you’d hesitantly agreed. Now, you sat alone in the thick, warm ambiance of the library. The boy, whoever he was, was over twenty minutes late.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Another five minutes, then you would go home. Surely Mr Lannister would understand if you just explained. At that moment, the door swung open.

A boy strutted in, blue eyes scanning the room, his lips curled in a smile radiating with confidence. His dark auburn curls were damp, light stains of water on the dark blue hoodie he was wearing, and his bag was slung over one shoulder. Robb Stark.

As his eyes landed on you, he lit up with recognition and winked. You stared at him, unimpressed, as he approached.

“You’re Y/N?”

“Uh…”

“The tutor, right? I’m Robb.”

He reached out his hand and you nearly scoffed in disbelief. Like you didn’t know that?! Like any girl in a ten-kilometre radius didn’t know that.

“You’re late.” You raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Coach B had us stay extra long today. I tried to tell him, but… you know.”

“Your hair is wet.”

“You’re very observant,” he teased. “And pretty.”

Your stomach turned, and you cleared your throat.

“Stop messing with me, and sit down.”

His smile dropped.

“I’m not—” he paused and pulled out the chair next to you. “What are we doing?”

You stared at him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Didn’t Mr Lannister tell you I was failing?”

You swallowed. You really couldn’t stand the football boys. They were thick as tree trunks, every one of them, but you had made a promise. 'Tutor him until Christmas.' That was the agreement.

“We’re writing essays. On overcoming adversity. Have you started yours?”

“No.”

“Alright, eh…” You felt yourself tense up with frustration. You hadn’t ever tutored before. You were used to getting instructions, used to following them, not giving them. You tried to stop your voice from shaking as Robb’s blue eyes traced over your face.

“Come up with a topic and meet me here tomorrow. Then can work on your introduction together. Just don’t be late…” You mumbled the last part.

“What about your essay?”

“I finished it last week.”

“Impressive.” You smiled, bashful. Robb grinned and grabbed his bag from the table, getting up from his seat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N!”

“Yeah…” you mumbled as he walked away. Suddenly, you had a feeling these four months would be the longest of your life.

#ggcb #robb stark #game of thrones #robb stark x reader

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justanoasisimagines · 9 months ago

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Who falls first and who falls harder! Set A

Hey my lovelies, back with another Preference. If you would like to see set B let me know. Also my requests are open for everything except fics at this time! You can find my request guidlines are pinned to the top of the page! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

Requested by Anon

Robb Stark; He falls first and harder From the moment Robb lays his eyes on you, Robb's smiten. Then he gets to know you through various conversations and time and it solidifies his inital feelings.

Eddison Tollet; You fall first and he falls harder Eddison had closed himself off to the idea of a relationship. he never believed he would have the opportunity to fall in love. So you fall first. However, Eddison falls harder when he realises he can have you.

Jaime Lannister; He falls first and he falls harder Jaime could have his pick of women. He's atractive, comes from a noble family. However, when he meets you for the first time, he feels emotions he's never experienced. From then it's shared glances, longing and a lengthy courting process. Through out this Jaime falls harder for you.

Loras Tyrell; He falls first and you fall harder. Loras is attracted to you once your first introductions are made. However, as you get to know him, the harder you fall. His personality, his loyalty to his family. It's hard not to fall for his natural charm.

Theon Greyjoy; He falls first and he falls harder Theon's been fasinated by you from the moment you walk through the courtyard. He wants to know you; who are you? What ar you doing here? He begins to follow you around trying to talk to you. He asks about you. The more he finds out about you, the harder he falls.

Bronn; You fall first and he falls harder. Bronn's charming in his own rugged way. Naturally you fall for him. He's not like anyone you've met before. However, as you two navigate your relationship. He finds himself falling harder for you. Your smile, your personality, your heart.

Jory Cassel; He falls first and he falls harder. When Jory found out he was to marry you, he didn't know what to think. He didn't expct a lovefilled marriage, however, overtime he falls for you after the inital shock at how beautiful you are.

Eddard "Ned" Stark; He falls first and he falls harder. Ned is frozen in place as he's taken back by you. He's misses when you introduce yourself for the first time. As the courting and the wedding process goes on Ned falls harder and harder for you.

Oberyn Martell; You fall first and he falls harder Oberyn is smooth. He's handsome and kind. Its no surprise you've fallen first. On the otherhand, Oberyn falls harder for you. His feelings develop for you over several moons and so on. Oberyn feelings for you develop over time.

Viserys Targaryen; You fall first and you fall harder Viserys isn't bothered by anything or anyone. His mind is focused on taking back to Iron Throne. So while you've focused on him, falling harder for him as time goes on in hopes one day he'll return your affections.

Thoros of Myr; You fall first and he falls harder. In the beginning, you were taken back by Thoros. Thoros's dedication to keep Beric alive. His loyalty to the Brotherhood without Banners. Howeve, in the end, Thoros falls harder for you because he sees how willing you are to give your life up for him. Travelling on the road, adapting to his way of life. He definitely falls harder.

Dickon Tarly; You fall first and he falls harder. In the beginning, Dickon is dismissive of you. He marriage to you is nothing but a marriage of convience. Dickon's consumed by duty rather than finding love. However, when he notices you, he falls hard and fast.

Khal Drago; He falls first and he falls harder. Khal knows there is something about you, a sparklights in his heart. it only grows as time passes. He learns more about you. He gets the quality timw, Khal spends falls harder in love with you.

Podrick Payne; He falls first and you falls harder Podrick is smitten with you. When he first lays eye on you, he's smitten. However, it's you who falls harder. You fall for Podrick's bravery, courage and heart. It's hard not to love everything about Podrick.

Edmure Tully; He falls first and he falls harder. It takes a glance for Edmure to fall in love with you. It's when your eyes meet. Edmure finds himself falling deeper in love with you. Edmure knows his love grows for you every day.

Renly Baratheon; You fall first and he falls harder. It's easy to fall for Renly. He's find and respectful. and a good King to his subjects. Naturally, you fall for him first. However, as you two draw closer together, Renly draws closer towards you and he falls hard.

Petyr "Little finger" Baelish; He falls first and he falls harder. Petyr becomes obsessed with you from the moment he sees you. He then sends people out to find every piece of information he can. He's slowly falling in love with you as he learns more. By the time he makes his introductions he's head over heels for you.

Jaqen H'ghar; He falls first and you fall harder Jaqen believes your beautiful when you first meet. Jaqen falls for you but it's you who falls harder. Jaqen is myserious and a puzzle you're constantly attempting to work out. The more you find out the harder you fall.

Tywin Lannister; You fall first and you fall harder Tywin doesn't have time to play foolish games. He doesn't have time for love or romance as he deserately tries to maintain his status. Marrying you is one of convience. However, while you fall first and harder for him. Tywin does learn to love in his way. However, it will never compared to how you feel.

Tormund Giantsbane; He falls first and he falls harder Tormund is transfixed the moment he sees you. Tormund is in love with you at first sight. Tormund gets to know you, he's in awe as he finds out how remarkable you are. he's going to fall in love with every fact he finds. The good and the bad.

#Game of thrones imagines #Game of thrones imagine #Game of thrones one shot #Game of throne oneshot #Game of thrones preference #got preference #got imagines #got one shot #got oneshot #Preference #Game of thrones x Reader #Requested by Anon

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thetinksessays · 2 months ago

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The Laws Of Succession…Again

Introduction

A while back, I wrote an essay on the laws of succession and how it applied to House Targaryen leading up to the Dance. (Find it here). I had multiple replies insisting that the laws are murky, don’t apply to the ruling House, kings can do whatever they want etc etc.

Let’s debunk these weak excuses.

Claim 1: The Laws Are Murky

This is partially true, however it does ignore the one part of the laws of succession that could only be made clearer if a character outright said it. Sons come before daughters. That is well established, even by the time of the Dance, and is followed by everyone in Westeros, including the Northmen and possibly the Ironborn, excluding Dorne. (I have some thoughts on that and the idea that this is an Andal law, but that’s for a different post.).

There are many, many examples of this throughout ASOIAF. Cersei is passed over in favour of Jaime and Tyrion, despite being Tywin’s eldest child. Bran is Robb’s heir, not Sansa or Arya. Edmure is the heir to Riverrun, not either of his older sisters. Mace Tyrell inherited Highgarden, not his older sister. Theon’s situation is a little murkier but he certainly at least believes that he’s the heir, not Asha. In terms of Targaryens, Aenys’ son Aegon was his heir, not his firstborn child Rhaena. None of Borros Baratheon’s four daughters inherited, his son Royce did despite being much younger.

So it is very clear that sons inherit before daughters, which is the only law of succession that’s actually relevant to the Dance. Aegon is the lawful heir, not Rhaenyra. Her claim has no basis in law and is solely because Viserys said so.

Claim 2: The Laws Of Succession Don’t Apply To House Targaryen

This is entirely untrue. As mentioned above, Aenys’ son was his heir, not his older daughter, as the laws dictate. This isn’t the only time House Targaryen followed this law. Jaehaerys’ eldest surviving child, for a time, was his daughter Daenerys, but she was never his heir. His eldest son Aemon was.

If Viserys wanted Rhaenyra to actually be his heir, he should have changed the law, not ignored it completely. But he didn’t, and the Targaryens don’t get to flout the laws that everybody else follows.

Claim 3: Kings Can Do Whatever They Want

Untrue, to an extent. Whilst, yes, obviously kings can do things that others can’t, that only goes so far and doesn’t apply to the laws of succession. If the King could name whoever he wanted and ignore the law, there would have been no need for Jaehaerys to call the Great Council. He would have just named Viserys.

It also doesn’t apply to other laws of Westeros either. Aerys did whatever he wanted and he got kicked off the throne and killed for it. It’s even heavily implied that his own son was going to depose him for his blatantly awful behaviour.

Claim 4: Viserys Naming Rhaenyra His Heir Supersedes The Laws

No. As said above, Targaryens have to follow the law of succession and kings don’t get to do whatever they want. If Viserys truly wanted Rhaenyra to be his heir, he should have changed the laws. Or just not had four more children.

Also, Viserys’ words and wants stopped mattering the moment he died. A dead king is no more important than any other dead man. As soon as he died, Rhaenyra lost any claim that rested on ‘my daddy said so!’.

Claim 5: The Widow’s Law Means Rhaenyra Is Heir

No. I wrote an entire post on that. You can find it here.

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asongoficeandthrones · 6 months ago

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A Clash of Kings First Read - Chapter 21

(POV: Bran III.)

Setting: Winterfell.

Favorite character: Bran! He was so adorable in this chapter. And there was almost none of the rage I felt in his previous chapters (of this book anyway), so I liked this return to innocent, cute Bran.

MVP: I honestly don't know. Maybe the Reeds, if they are finally coming back to join the fight on Robb's side?

Things I loved/liked:

The feast, and the joy and laughter and dancing etc., because we need some of that, what with the previous chapters.

The wolf dream when Bran is asleep. Because once again, very well done. I love how Summer thinks of Shaggydog as his brother, almost as if they were human, and that his thoughts are so... human too. But I could not for the life of me find out if the ending was referring to Bran or Summer. Also, Jojen and Meera Reed are really intriguing, especially Jojen. He's so unafraid of the wolves! And can he predict the future? ("He won't hurt me. This is not the day I die.")

Meera and Jojen Reed's introduction, and their scene at the feast, because Bran is so cute when he blushes because Meera smiles at him. (Also, Meera looks kind of badass with her knife and spear and shield. I have a feeling she's the warrior of the two, not her brother.)

Bran wolf dreams when he is awake? Wow.

He sent sweets to Hodor and Old Nan as well, for no reason but he loved them. Ser Rodrik reminded him to send something to his foster brothers, so he sent Little Walder some boiled beets and Big Walder the buttered turnips. Because aw, Bran is adorable, and then lol (they do kinda deserve the buttered turnips though).

Bran saying "She never will, [...] not Arya," about her marrying one of the Freys. He knows his sister well.

Things I disliked/hated:

It's kind of contradictory, but the feast, or rather the food they're given? Isn't it... too much? I mean, with all the dishes served, I bet some of it will go to waste, and since winter is coming, isn't that a bit... idiotic?

Someone should teach the Walders manners.

Bran missing everyone... And now they are all gone. It was as if some cruel god had reached down with a great hand and swept them all away, the girls to captivity, Jon to the Wall, Robb and Mother to war, King Robert and Father to their graves, and perhaps Uncle Benjen as well... and, He liked Hayhead and Poxy Tym and Skittrick and the other new men well enough, but he missed his old friends. Way to make me sad...

Quotes: The one about the Starks quoted just above, just because it really moved me and I miss them being together too.

Thoughts overall: Lovely to read, a lot happier than the previous chapters.

#spoilers #asoiaf #acok #a clash of kings bran iii #a song of ice and fire #bran stark #review

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daughter-of-winterfell · 1 year ago

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My Own Dancing Body

- for the Jonsa Valentine's Day Event 2024 ❤️

“Let me make you some tea,” Jon entreats her, matching her half step. The suggestion is a perfect one and Sansa’s eyes, of their own accord, dart to his. Sincerity lies in wait there with the warmth of banked coals, and hides whatever else he must think, finding her in this bedraggled way. - Sansa returns to East 61st Street close to tears and is met by her cousin Jon. There, he makes her lemon tea and they talk gently with one another.

This is written with great haste/love for @jonsa-valentine, and is the first fanfic I have really written in years! I have posted it 41 minutes past midnight but emotionally, I did this on the 13th ❤️

The types of love in this fic are: Philia (deep friendship) and Storge (familial love).

In this, (as is custom it seems), only the younger Starks are alive and only Sansa travelled to New York to stay with her Aunt Lyanna and Cousin Jon for a season.

To read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53760841

I am the angel who sweep air in and out my own dancing body.

- Angela Jackson, Angel

The hem of her day dress – which her mother had once so painstakingly let down and secured – is dripping and unsalvageable. Sansa could cry, the tears already clawing up her throat and pricking at her insides. The puddle in the foyer only grows as it seems the entirety of the brief shower has been dragged inside on her ragged hem, and the pale pink has been left a murky grey.

Sansa sniffs dismally. She is alone, blessedly so after that, and so wipes her nose with her soaked gloves.

It must be a portent. That on the very first day she no longer wears her clutching, tight-laced mourning dresses, Mr Hardyng decides to propose and the heavens open. Her hands shiver, where they are pressed against her roiling stomach.

And she’d so longed to wear pink again. How girlish and unseemly, but black is not her colour – it drains her features when they’d been drained enough. All life had been scraped from her in the past year. Black lace only meant that all the twittering aunts and ladies could easily spy it for themselves.

Lyanna had said, “Oh, my dear,” when Sansa had arrived in her black cloistered dress, sweating and breathless, on the steps of her East 61st Street home. Her pity was piercing and bright when she rubbed the back of Sansa’s glove.

They had not been able to make it to the funeral, but Lyanna still wore a black pin above her heart for her brother and his family, and her own husband, lost at sea.

The melancholy sweeps through her then with a tidal ebb. An ever-deep sorrow for her mother, Father, Robb. For Bran, travelling far from them with so few letters returned. The dear ache of missing Arya and Rickon, safely ensconced in Riverrun.

Undeniably, a spare ounce of it is for her ruined dress and sodden gloves.

She is not crying but her face is tight and disgustingly, humiliating damp.

“Miss Stark?”

Hastily, she sniffs in a shockingly unladylike manner and dips her neck, tipping the brim of her hat to somewhat shield herself. Embarrassment coils itself about her ankles and Sansa can only shuffle in the lake she is procuring for herself in Mrs Snow’s pristine hallway.

It couldn’t be Bannister who found her, or Jeyne. It had to be –

“Sansa, my dear-”

Jon cleaves his words in two, his footsteps halting an eternity away. She can’t look at him with her burning eyes and pink cheeks, in her poor, piteous state. Sansa hates herself then. What other state has Jon seen her in, since their introduction this season? Piteous and poor and weeping. On their doorstep that first day, when being snubbed by his haughty Targaryen aunt and uncle.

Yet, who else could see her in such a way? Could be allowed to? Whatever is in his eyes – which she assiduously avoids meeting now – there has never, not once, been pity.

He had been the first to wrap his arms around her in months. To dare not murmur any condolences at all.

The first she wishes to reach for, at each luncheon and ball and dinner.

Though she does not now. But the brim of her hat is no match for the hand he extends, bearing a white handkerchief. Sansa takes it from his fingers and dabs at the stinging corners of her eyes.

“Such terrible weather” – Sansa sighs in a manner suited to the stage, determined to seem somewhat unaffected - “I remember you saying I would not need my parasol today.”

His chuckle is a whiskey shot that steals her living breath.

“You would not listen to my counsel, dear cousin.”

The softening of his vowels, the tapping of his shoes – her affectations are whisps of smoke he merely blows apart. He has caught her. Thawing in the hall, in her favourite dress, almost in tears. The dance of custom would be to retreat once the white flag had been offered and accepted and reasoned away.

Jon crosses an inch of the wooden floor.

“I shall dry off and escape this chill,” Sansa declares, taking half a step to the right, towards the solitude offered by the Snow’s guest bedroom.

“Let me make you some tea,” Jon entreats her, matching her half step, “as you do so.”

The suggestion is a perfect one and Sansa’s eyes, of their own accord, dart to his. Sincerity lies in wait there with the warmth of banked coals, and hides whatever else he must think, finding her in this bedraggled way.

She inclines her head, agreeing to the tea, and endeavours not to scuttle away like some anxious creature as Jon remains at the foot of the stairs, one hand outstretched on the banister.

“If I asked,” Jon asks, cradling a cup of tea in his steady hands, perched opposite her cross-legged, straight-spined position at the dining room table, “would you tell me?”

Tell me of what happened to bring you to such a poor and piteous state, in my hallway.

Or more likely, as it is her Jon asking, tell me what made you cry.

“The rain brings out the dreariness in me,” she blusters, half afraid of what may fall from her mouth, “Please, do not worry.”

The crease between his brows tells her his thoughts like a worn book; he worries about me, regardless of what I say.

Her news will not ease that burden for him, yet it spills from her in a heaving rush. How Mr Hardyng had invited her with such grace to his opening of the new rose garden and how she had – foolishly – shed her mourning clothes with a great sigh to attend as the man’s acquaintance. How it was an orchestrated ambush and he had gripped her hands between his and declared her his fiancée when met with her astonished silence.

How no one had spoken a word when she broke that silence and torn her hands from his and the rain poetically chose to drench the entire gaping party. And her pink dress, the one her mother had always loved, was now speckled with mud and puddle-water.

“He should not have taken your hands in that way.”

Jon’s gruff disapproval of the matter of Hardyng overstepping her bodily comforts does not grate as it ought. He shakes his head, dislodging an inky curl from its manicured hold. Likely thinking of how he could have removed Hardyng’s hands from her with a degree of force, as he had done at too many of the balls they had attended at one another’s side this season.

“It is no serious matter.”

He says her name, feather-soft.

“If that was the entirety of it, perhaps it would be, but Jon -” Sansa’s breath hitches and she releases her teacup with a clatter. Oh god.

Without seeming to listen, Jon is consumed, swirling his lemon tea. It is his turn to avoid her gaze.

“He should not have asked at all,” he mutters darkly.

She has just left the black behind so it is not seemly to pounce upon her so, but Jon seems to frown more fiercely than Hardyng’s faux pas deserves.

Swallowing the dismay of her own recollections, she ignores his scowls and continues, chin high and trembling. “Jon, I turned him down, vehemently. What other man will forget that?”

He stills.

Her hands shake against the dining room table as Jon, purposely and with the expression of a man pierced through and through, meets her eyes. Covers her hand with no weight at all.

“I do not need to forget. If – I asked…”

Courage deserts him with a fell swoop and Sansa turns her hand over in careful inches. Soon lacing their tea-warmed hands into one. And she is free, miraculously, of the prickling, shaking, nausea that poisoned her in the hall. It is just her, and her Jon.

“We’re family,” Jon manages, the embers in his gaze alight again and like a looking glass, Sansa knows him, knows his meaning. We could be a family.

They could be. They could dance with one another that inch closer and share lemon tea as dusk falls and they dream of spring.

Her heartbeat swells, a symphony, and lulls into a new pleasant calmness.

“More tea, my dearest Jon?”

He does not release her hands and her laughing offer is not accepted. Rather, the hearth of his heart opens and the teacups are forgotten as their foreheads touch, gentle across the scant table cloth that rudely divides them.

Lemon tea and dancing can come later. For now, Sansa is held and is warm.

#jon x sansa #jonsa #Jonsa Valentine #Jonsa Valentine 2024 #hardly edited as i am now going to have less than five and a half hours sleep before work #but worth it!#i'd like to write something else for this event but it will certainly be a late entry!

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